Chapter 31: Wednesday, Dec. 13

"I want to know who, in the Long Pig Society, your Sociiti Cochon Long, funded Corny's trip to the Upper Orinoco."

He did something of a double take. He had the expression of one suddenly thinking quite deeply about something. "Well, that's privileged information."

"I understand. And these are privileged premises. And as you know, I have very good relations with the Seaboard Police Department. I'm quite sure I could arrange to keep your crews from getting anywhere near the place."

He sighed. "If I do tell you, it's strictly, strictly confidential."

"Of course."

"I want to be able to use the Skull Collection."

"Okay."

"And the Oceana Gallery."

"With restrictions."

"Understood. And outside shots, doors, and one or two window shots."

"Within a period of no more than..."

"Say three weeks."

"Two and a half."

"Done. You'll get a call from Mr. Castor."

"Yes. I've spoken to him before. And now..."

"Yes. You know this is in absolute confidence."

"Understood."

"For your protection as much as anyone else's."

"I understand."

"Most of the funding came from Freddie Bain."

"Freddie Bain, the restaurateur?" I said.

"Yes. Among other things, the proprietor of the Green Sherpa."

"Yes, of course. He makes quite an impression. When did he join the club?"

"Not long after the Cannibal Murders trial. He's quite a man about town, if you didn't know."

"I didn't. Are his interests in matters anthropophagic purely scholarly?"

"I'm not sure. He's the kind of person who talks but doesn't say much."

We left it at that. I felt I had learned something valuable, but I wasn't sure what. I also remained under the distinct impression that Raul Brauer was holding something back. What else did he know about Freddie Bain and what he was up to? How did he get the kind of throw-away wealth to fund an expedition like Corny's? Not from running a restaurant, surely? What, if anything, were his connections with Celeste Tangent? Why is the FBI interested in him?

As I suspected would happen, I've had several groveling phone calls from Professor Athol and one from Maria Cowe herself. Good old Felix must have written a powerful letter. I told both of them I will be satisfied with nothing less than a notarized written apology and a notarized memo listing the names and detailing their roles in the matter.

Not that it matters. Not that anything matters anymore. I continue this weird, bifurcated existence. I fill my life with this stuff only to find it still empty at the end of the day. I suppose the only thing to do in these situations is to invent another life for yourself. But I don't want another life. I want what I had and what now exists only in the sunshine of memory.

But oh, what memories! Into little more than two years we packed a lifetime. We had the most marvelous little wedding at the Miranda Hotel overflowing with friends and champagne. We honeymooned for three glorious weeks in France. (Izzy has remarked that people in relationships go to therapists; people in love go to Paris.) Elsbeth, I have come to realize, was like a magnifying lens, shaping, brightening and intensifying my life.

Now it's like the old days again. I think I'll make my way over to the Club. There are people there. Someone might ask me to join their table. If nothing else, the waiters talk to you, they smile, they bring you things.

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