Read All the Old Knives for Free Online Page B

fired up about something.”
    The pink cheeks deepen their hue. I’ve embarrassed her, which is a kind of victory.
    Then she shakes her head. “You had questions, I mean.”
    â€œSure, I’ve got questions, but that’s not why I came here, Cee. I came to see you. Find out what’s going on. The other questions can wait for later.”
    â€œAnd what’s your judgment?”
    â€œI’ve got no judgment,” I lie, then add a bit of truth. “I’m still collecting intel.”
    Another sip, and her glass is empty. A hand moves across the linen tablecloth, and with the pared nail of her index finger she lightly scratches the back of my hand.
    I can’t help it: For a moment I’m back in time, at the Restaurant Bauer, and even in the midst of the hell that was the Flughafen she looked so good, so put-together. I said, You want to move in? And she said, In? as a way to stall for time. As a way to maintain control. I had it all mapped out, a new stage in our lives, a way to live a little more like the people you see on the streets. A way to be human.
    With her touch, my attention has slipped back down my own anatomy. I have to pee, but I don’t want to lose her touch. I’ll stay here until I explode.
    She says, “A lack of intel never hindered your ability to judge, Henry. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
    Stay or go? As the pressure in my bladder escalates, this is precisely what I’m thinking. Fight or flight. I turn my hand around, catching hers, and with a smile lift her knuckles to my mouth. One kiss, two. “I’ll tell you everything, my dear. Just as soon as I’ve dealt with more pressing matters.”
    Which is the most elegant way I can think of to escape.

 
    10
    Urinals the world over are part of a fraternity, joined by a masculine insistence on standing while relieving oneself. Is this evolutionary? A way to remain always on guard? Or is it simple laziness? We modern humans are so disconnected from our instincts, and so connected to our leisure, that I suspect the latter as I gaze at the yellow stream noisily leaving me, last seen over Carson City.
    In contrast to the spare functionality of most public bathrooms, this one has been decorated with framed photos of Greek villages, white clay structures rambling down to blue water. In one I recognize Santorini, where I vacationed disastrously with Matty, one of our last conjoined excursions. The monologues never quit, not on the shopping avenues, the beach, or the rocks we climbed, not at the table, and sadly enough not even in bed. Relaxing in the aridly beautiful Santorini landscape, touched hard by the Mediterranean sun, I found myself dreaming of Celia—Celia, who knew the limits of words, and was content to set them aside.
    The rush of water is quieter than I’m used to, for this is a low-flow urinal, built to accommodate Californian water rationing—another sign of the coming apocalypse. A sign in English and Spanish tells employees precisely how to wash their hands. I read, just to be sure I’ve got it right, then look at myself in the dim mirror, finally seeing what she sees. It’s not encouraging. Not drunk, but tired—heavy lids, bloodshot eyes, and on my chin a smear of … what? Oil? From where? I rub at it with some cream soap until it disappears, leaving a red blossom.
    Why didn’t she tell me?
    When I turn to the hand-blower, something in my pocket knocks against the sink, and that’s all it takes for everything to come back.
    Why I am here.
    Okay, maybe I’m a little buzzed as I dry my hands under the whine of the hot-air fan and then fumble with the Siemens, remembering to turn on the recorder. A red-yellow-green meter shows me the levels. “Hello,” I say to it, watching the meter. “Testing.” I pocket it and, gathering resolve as if I’m collecting stray rice off the floor, step back into the restaurant,