I was still under the influence of the Chinaman's drug, I can tell you, because as I stepped into the apartment with the little girl, I had the distinct impression of being back in my parents' old house in Glenwood, where Zelda and I were born. There was the cow-spotted couch; there were the yellow curtains, the parquet floor, the antique knickknacks, and the framed daguerreotype of my father's great-uncle Louis Barbès (a minor French poet) on the wall; there was that smell coming from the kitchen, of cauliflower, and the hum of the fridge motor running, and my mother whistling "I Got the World on a String," out of tune, and Zelda in her room, crying. I said, "Zelda, why are you crying?"
She said, "Who's Zelda?"
I said, "You're Zelda."
She said, "No I'm not. And I'm not crying." She snatched the wig from my hand and ran out of the room.
In this house, where we resided till I was sixteen, Zelda had what is possibly the longest tantrum in history, three days without interruption. My parents had just bought a new house, and Zelda was not happy. That the new house was much nicer and had a bigger backyard with swings and a little pool meant nothing to my little sister, who swore that she and Baker would die rather than relocate. My father promised her a puppy, a kitten, a pony, anything if she would only shut up. She kept screaming and banging on the floor, till suddenly she stopped and there was complete silence, and the next day I found Baker's foot in the toilet. Zelda had cut up her dearest doll in little pieces and scattered them throughout the house.
She came back, grinning from ear to ear, and showed me her doll with the wig on.
I said, "That's not Baker."
She said, "This is Booboo. Booboo's got her hair."
I said, "Why'd you do that to Baker? She was the doll you liked the most in the world."
She said, "Who's Baker?"
I said, "You liked her."
She said, "Mister, you're a weirdo." She sat down on the floor and began to braid her doll's hair, and as she did this she told it a story about a rabbit called Larry who went into the forest to find carrots, and there he met a little wolf called Lenny and they became best friends, and then Lenny grew up and ate Larry for lunch.
I was getting tired again. I settled into the cow-spotted couch, only it wasn't cow-spotted anymore. I looked at the window and the yellow curtains were gone, and the framed picture of my great-great-uncle was also gone. I looked at the little girl, and I knew who she was, Didi. The drug was wearing off and I was entering a state of panic, complete panic, as when you wake up from a long afternoon nap, and you don't know who the hell you are, or where you are, or what the hell is going on. Utter chaos. You try to cling to something, something concrete, the couch, the wall, your thigh, and you still don't know shit; then you start getting a grasp of things, little by little, but the things are an utter horror, a jumble of cruel eyes looking at you, teeth hissing, lips purring, asses farting, a nightmare, a madness, nothing fits, your head is a badly tuned radio boom box, things poke and sting and stink. My sister was dead, or if she wasn't, what was I doing in this apartment and what was this couch and where were the yellow curtains and the humming, the weeping, the whistling, and what was that little girl doing here? Where was I? Why was I? Zelda was gone. Zelda was dead. Where was her letter? What I had done with it? Where was that list? Where was Bob? Where was Dan? Where was his beautiful ugly sister?
I felt unbearably tired again. I told myself not to fall asleep, because Didi's parents might come home, and what would I tell them? How to explain who I was and what I was doing in their house with their daughter? To stay awake, and to stay calm, I recited some lines from the Tao Te Ching.
Without going out of my room
I know the entire world.
Without looking out my window
I can see the sky.
The farther I go
The less I know.
The sage attains his destination
Without going anywhere
And names the things around him
Without seeing them.
Doing nothing
He accomplishes great things.
I fell asleep. I dreamed I was in San Francisco, walking up a steep, steep street, steep and long, interminable, and I was holding on to someone's hand, only I couldn't tell who it was. I imagined the hand belonged to Dan's sister, that ugly beautiful creature, though this was a dark hand and she was pale. We walked like that, up the hill, for what seemed like days, and it felt so good I didn't want it to end. The hand was soft, warm, its fingers slim, intertwining with mine, a hand in which I felt completely at home, like an infant marsupial.
I woke up in a start. It was dark, and Didi was sleeping, curled up in my lap like a kitten. I heard a noise. I couldn't tell where it was coming from. Someone was tapping on glass. Then I turned and saw two figures, two faces squashed against the window pane. They looked like grinning toads. I started, and nearly woke the girl up. They unstuck their faces form the pane and began to tap again. Then I noticed who it was: Bob and Dan. They were making signs for me to open the window, but I was too stunned, still, to get up. Also, I didn't want to wake up the girl. They managed to open the window on their own, and they broke in, making a huge racket. They were laughing their asses off. What exactly about I did not know. I put my finger to my lips to get them to be quiet. They noticed Didi and toned down their giggles.
I got up gently and carried the girl to her room and tucked her in. As I did, she mumbled, "Booboo, I want Booboo, bring Booboo." She had left her doll behind. I said I would, in a minute. I returned to the other room to get the doll. I couldn't see it. It was dark, and I was looking for the light switch when--crash!--I stepped on something. I stepped on the doll's head and smashed it to bits. It was a porcelain doll.
Bob went, "Uh-oh."
I found the switch and turned on the lights. I looked at the broken doll. I felt awful, as if I had squashed the head of an actual human being. I cried, "What am I going to do? Where will I find another doll?"
I looked at Dan, who was laying down lines of coke, right on the coffee table. He giggled and Bob giggled with him.
"This isn't funny," I said.
"Come," said Dan, "try some of this."
I said I didn't want to, didn't do drugs.
"It will make you feel better," he said.
"No it won't," I said.
"Yes, it will," said Bob. He said it with such confidence, and with that philosopher's head of his, that I didn't know how to refuse.
Dan handed me a rolled up bill and said, "Here, my brother, do me a line."
So I did. I took the rolled up bill and stuck it in my nostril and bent forward to sniff up the powder, figuring that nothing could make me feel more horrible than I already felt.
