Pattern Recognition

"Hundreds. Brand-new, sequentially numbered. Probably five thousand of them."

"Why?"

"They like round numbers."

"I mean why is it here?"

"It's for you."

"I don't like it."

"We can put it on eBay. Somebody in Miami might want it."

"What are you talking about?"

"The briefcase. It's not your style."

"I don't know what to do with it."

"Let's talk about it in the morning. You need to get some sleep."

"This is absurd."

"It's Russia." He grins at her. "Who gives a shit? We found the maker."

She looks at him. "We did, didn't we?"

He leaves her the water.

She uses one fingertip to gingerly close the case, then drapes it with its beige dustcover. Carries the water into the bathroom to rinse with after she's brushed her teeth.

Sitting on the bed, she removes the slippers, seeing that her left foot has bled slightly, through its bandages. Her ankles look swollen. She takes off the cardigan, rolls Skirt Thing over her head, and tosses them both over the attache and its obscene tray of cash.

She turns down the bed, turns off the light, and limps back, crawling in and pulling the orange spread and the coarse sheets up to her chin. They smell the way sheets can smell at the start of cabin season, if they haven't been aired.

She lies there, staring up into the dark, hearing the distant drone of a plane.

"They never got you, did they? I know you're gone, though."

His very missingness becoming, somehow, him.

Her mother had once said that when the second plane hit, Win's chagrin, his personal and professional mortification at this having happened, at the perimeter having been so easily, so terribly breached, would have been such that he might simply have ceased, in protest, to exist. She doesn't believe it, but now she finds it makes her smile.

"Good night," she says to the dark.

43. MAIL

My brother, up to his knees in dirty old pipe in Prion's gallery, sends loud and most amazed thanks. I told him you said it had been given to you by Russian gangsters and you didn't want to keep it, and he just stared at me, mouth open. (Then he becomes worried that it is not real, but Ngemi often accepts cash from American collectors and helped him with that.) But really it's absurdly good of you, because it looked as if he would have to give up his "studio" (ugh) and move in with me, in order to pay for it, the scaffolding, and he is filthy, a pig, leaving hairs. Of course it is much more than cost of the scaffolding but he is using the rest to rent a huge plasma display for the show. We are locking down date of opening with Prion now and you absolutely must come. Prion now has some connection with a Russian yogurt drink that is about to launch here, purchased I think by the Japanese. I know because it is part of my briefing for work now, this drink. Also because he has it in a cooler at the gallery—revolting! I think he will try to serve it at the opening but absolutely NO! So mystery Internet movie is out, yogurt drink is in, also some Russian oil magnate: how surprisingly cultured he is, "alternative," a sort of Saatchi-like patron figure, nothing nouveau riche or mafia or otherwise foul. This is what they are paying me to spread now in the clubs. 0 well. In the day I still make hats. Enjoy Paris! Magda

REALLY, dear, I'm sure it's illegal to do that. It says so right on the side of the FedEx box, that you mustn't enclose cash. But it did come through, thank you very much. And very timely, too, as the lawyers say that we can now prove Win's presence there at the time of the attack, and the declaration of legal death will be automatic, which means no more problems over the insurance or the pension. But it may take a month, so I'm very glad to have this in the meantime. They said that every last thing you told them proved absolutely correct, and they were very curious about how you'd found all that out, after the police and the detective agency hadn't been able to. I explained our work here at Rose of the World to them. Obviously you must have had help from your father, in order to obtain such a detailed account of his final hour, but I will honor your need, whatever it may be, to not share that with me, though I would hope that you will, eventually. Your loving mother, Cynthia

Hello, Cayce Pollard! Sorry we never had a chance to meet when you were here, but I'm writing to thank you for bringing Judy Tsuzuki to our attention. She met with us today, at HB's suggestion after hearing from you, and of course we'll be able to find something for her. Her enthusiasm for the city (and her boyfriend!) is completely engaging, and I'm sure she'll bring a real freshness to whatever it is she'll be doing for us. Regards, Jennifer Brossard, Blue Ant Tokyo (cc to HB)