bottle of spring water into the middle of her face.
Ingram did an echocardiogram. Eric was on his back, with a skewed view of the monitor, and wasn't sure whether he was watching a computerized mapping of his heart or a picture of the thing itself. It throbbed forcefully on-screen. The image was only a foot away but the heart assumed another context, one of distance and immensity, beating in the blood plum raptures of a galaxy in formation.
What mystery he glimpsed in this functional muscle. He felt the passion of the body, its adaptive drive over geologic time, the poetry and chemistry of its origins in the dust of old exploding stars. How dwarfed he felt by his own heart. There it was and it awed him, to see his life beneath his breastbone in image-forming units, hammering on outside him.
He said nothing to Ingram. He didn't want to talk to the associate. He talked to Nevius now and then. Nevius had definition. He was white-haired, tall and stalwart, with a trace of Middle Europe in his voice. Ingram spoke in mutters of instruction. Breathe deep. Turn left. It was hard for him to say something he hadn't already said, words arranged in the same tedious sequence, a thousand times before.
Melman said, "So you do what. Same routine every day.
"Varies, depending."
"So he comes to your house, nice, on weekends."
"We die, Jane, on weekends. People. It happens."
"You're right. I didn't think of that."
"We die because it's the weekend."
He was still on his back. She sat facing the top of his head, speaking to a point slightly above it.
"I thought we were moving. But we're not anymore." "The president's in town."
"You're right. I forgot. I thought I saw him when I ran out of the park. There was an entourage of 19/91
Don DeLillo
Cosmopolis
limousines going down Fifth, with a motorcycle escort. I thought all these limos for the president I can understand. But it was somebody famous's funeral."
"We die every day," he told her.
He sat on the table now and Ingram looked for swollen lymph nodes under his arms. Eric pointed out a plug of sebum and cell debris on his lower abdomen, a blackhead, slightly sinister.
"What do we do about this?"
"Let it express itself."
"What. Do nothing."
"Let it express itself," Ingram said.
Eric liked the sound of that. It was not unevocative. He tried to notice the associate. He had a mustache, for example. Eric hadn't seen it until now He expected to see glasses as well. But the man did not wear glasses although he seemed to be someone who should, based on facial typology and general demeanor, a man who'd worn glasses since early boyhood, looking overprotected and marginalized, persecuted by the other kids. He was a man you'd swear wore glasses.
He asked Eric to stand. He adjusted the examining table to half length. Then he asked him to drop his pants and shorts and to bend over the near end of the table, legs apart.
He did this and was facing his chief of finance.
She said, "So look. We have two rumors working in our favor. First there's bankruptcies for six straight months. More each month. More on the way. Large Japanese corporations. This is good."
"The yen has to drop."
"This is loss of faith. It will force the yen to drop."
"The dollar will settle up."
"The yen will drop," she said.
He heard a slidy rustle of latex. Then the Ingram finger entered.
"Where is Chin?" she said.
"Working on visual patterns."
"This thing doesn't chart."
"It charts."
"It doesn't chart the way you chart technology stocks. You can find real patterns there. Locate predictable components. This is different."
"We are teaching him to see."
"You should do the seeing. You're the seer. What is he? A kid. He has the streak in the hair. He has the earring."
"He doesn't have the earring."
"If he was any more dreamy, we'd have to put him on life support."
He said, "What's the second rumor?"
Ingram examined the prostate for signs. He palpated, the finger slyly prodding the surface of the gland
Ingram did an echocardiogram. Eric was on his back, with a skewed view of the monitor, and wasn't sure whether he was watching a computerized mapping of his heart or a picture of the thing itself. It throbbed forcefully on-screen. The image was only a foot away but the heart assumed another context, one of distance and immensity, beating in the blood plum raptures of a galaxy in formation.
What mystery he glimpsed in this functional muscle. He felt the passion of the body, its adaptive drive over geologic time, the poetry and chemistry of its origins in the dust of old exploding stars. How dwarfed he felt by his own heart. There it was and it awed him, to see his life beneath his breastbone in image-forming units, hammering on outside him.
He said nothing to Ingram. He didn't want to talk to the associate. He talked to Nevius now and then. Nevius had definition. He was white-haired, tall and stalwart, with a trace of Middle Europe in his voice. Ingram spoke in mutters of instruction. Breathe deep. Turn left. It was hard for him to say something he hadn't already said, words arranged in the same tedious sequence, a thousand times before.
Melman said, "So you do what. Same routine every day.
"Varies, depending."
"So he comes to your house, nice, on weekends."
"We die, Jane, on weekends. People. It happens."
"You're right. I didn't think of that."
"We die because it's the weekend."
He was still on his back. She sat facing the top of his head, speaking to a point slightly above it.
"I thought we were moving. But we're not anymore." "The president's in town."
"You're right. I forgot. I thought I saw him when I ran out of the park. There was an entourage of 19/91
Don DeLillo
Cosmopolis
limousines going down Fifth, with a motorcycle escort. I thought all these limos for the president I can understand. But it was somebody famous's funeral."
"We die every day," he told her.
He sat on the table now and Ingram looked for swollen lymph nodes under his arms. Eric pointed out a plug of sebum and cell debris on his lower abdomen, a blackhead, slightly sinister.
"What do we do about this?"
"Let it express itself."
"What. Do nothing."
"Let it express itself," Ingram said.
Eric liked the sound of that. It was not unevocative. He tried to notice the associate. He had a mustache, for example. Eric hadn't seen it until now He expected to see glasses as well. But the man did not wear glasses although he seemed to be someone who should, based on facial typology and general demeanor, a man who'd worn glasses since early boyhood, looking overprotected and marginalized, persecuted by the other kids. He was a man you'd swear wore glasses.
He asked Eric to stand. He adjusted the examining table to half length. Then he asked him to drop his pants and shorts and to bend over the near end of the table, legs apart.
He did this and was facing his chief of finance.
She said, "So look. We have two rumors working in our favor. First there's bankruptcies for six straight months. More each month. More on the way. Large Japanese corporations. This is good."
"The yen has to drop."
"This is loss of faith. It will force the yen to drop."
"The dollar will settle up."
"The yen will drop," she said.
He heard a slidy rustle of latex. Then the Ingram finger entered.
"Where is Chin?" she said.
"Working on visual patterns."
"This thing doesn't chart."
"It charts."
"It doesn't chart the way you chart technology stocks. You can find real patterns there. Locate predictable components. This is different."
"We are teaching him to see."
"You should do the seeing. You're the seer. What is he? A kid. He has the streak in the hair. He has the earring."
"He doesn't have the earring."
"If he was any more dreamy, we'd have to put him on life support."
He said, "What's the second rumor?"
Ingram examined the prostate for signs. He palpated, the finger slyly prodding the surface of the gland
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