Oliver Benjamin
She nods, shuffles and pours as I add, “Thanks, matey.” She
laughs uncomfortably and I inform her, “Galateawas also Cervantes’
first book. Some say it carried the seed of the modern novel. That it
set the stage for Don Quixote.”
She stares at me blankly and I shrug. I was going to mention
Salvador Dalí’s famous muse as well but think the better of it.
“Thanks,” she says brightly, “Next!”
I walk back out into the sunshine, passing by a large picture of
Joe Thompson, the new C.E.O. He looks pleased as punch. An
organic, all-natural kind of punch. I am happy for him and for his
customers. I am happy in general. What a wonderful, wonderful
word, happy. I am that. There is also a large cobalt letter “A” hanging
in the window, an exemplary grade from the Department of Health
and Human Services. There is no illness here.
On the way to the station I pass the proposed site of Leona’s
monument. They are still undecided. Abstract or realistic? Personal
or general? It is important not to rush these things. But a lesser,
unrelated monument has been erected nearby with little forethought.
I mistake it for some strange modern art installation until I look
closer and there is a plaque on it with a photograph of an old lady and
a name I don’t recognize. Her smile is sweet, broken. It is affixed to
the front of a shopping cart filled with all sorts of sacks and scraps of
refuse, the entire thing encased in an impermeable bronze coating
and set on a concrete base. It hits me suddenly: The woman is the bag
lady whom we sent to the hospital that day Izzy came into our lives.
This is her life’s work, her baggage become art. Somebody loved her.
Too bad she can’t see this, the effect she had, the love that remains.
Poor old little rolling Rembrandt.
At the Venice Police Department I am ushered into an office I’ve
come to know rather well. Spada’s replacement, an obese, moon-
faced sweetheart of a guy welcomes me and offers me an éclair. I
accept and he says, “Thanks for coming, Jack. Let’s get down to
beeswax.”
So Detective Chin and I descend waxward. “Just a few
questions,” he says. “I don’t suppose you know if Leona had any
cavities or fake teeth?” I shrug helplessly. “Dental records have been
of no use because she never had any work done. They’re perfect. We
do know that the height is correct and that the thickness of the bones
match her body structure. There is one other thing, however.”
379
 |
 |
 |
 |