After the breakup of the Billets Doux Mary was not seen for a while. When Dion did begin running into her again it was always quite by accident, the sort of random occurrence that complicated her reality.
Then, after a couple of months she began to regulate their meetings in a strangely ritualistic and uncharacteristically methodical manner. If one of them had any money, they’d meet at Rudyard’s or Zimm’s (where she never ordered anything; she said she was waiting for the prices to go down). When they were broke they’d meet downtown and walk in some pre-arranged pattern among the crowds of people at noon, each one pretending that his or her life was less complicated and more meaningful.
Mary would invent stories about people that they passed, detailing their public virtues and private vices, telling Dion where they’d been and where they thought they were going. Almost as an afterthought she would always give these little stories happy endings.
Her impersonations of a clever eleven-year old were quite good and somewhat unnerving. They also put him in a bad position, that of a pedophile predator stung by conscience, who must retract his claws before the unsuspecting defenselessness of his tender prey.
On this particular day, which was to be filled with several lasting regrets, Dion was seated at the counter of the downtown Woolworth’s. He was whiling away the minutes until Mary’s arrival by playing a game with the latest issue of Der G. After selecting appropriate symbols he was codifying the music calendar, dividing the local bands into 3 categories: those he had never seen; those he had not seen but intended to; and those he had not seen and under no circumstance could imagine himself seeing. The names tumbled down, bearing stripes of paradise or perdition. The Occlusive Dynamos, Three Day Stubble, The Paul Harlow Band, Lethal Injection, Baby Speck, The Zealots, The Camiknickers, The Romantic Agonies, Band Of Slaves, The Ticks, Harry and the Amazons.
When Mary arrived, she was in a tizzy.
-Cecilia’s gone, she said, sitting down beside him at the counter, he went out yesterday morning and I haven’t seen him since.
-He’ll be back. You know how cats are.
-I guess, she sighed, unconvinced, unconsoled.
They walked around downtown for over an hour, the absence of the tomcat padding behind them in the shade of the awnings, from Lufthansa to City Hall, from the old Cotton Exchange Building to Benihana’s. They caught the Hiram Clark 15 bus and rode down Main, getting off on the corner directly opposite Isabella Street. Mary waited until he had finished lighting a cigarette and then did a surprising thing. She took his hand in hers.
-Well, I guess I’ll go hang out at Der Gessel for a bit. So long, Dionysius, I hope you find your Ariadne, I already seem to have found my Holy Ghost.
-What’s this all about? he asked.
-Oh, nothing to worry about, she laughed, just the usual anarcho-nihilist-situationist bullshit.
He stood on the corner until she had crossed the street. She vanished into a shower of sunlight and was gone.
On the way home he went into Pasternak’s on Alabama and bought a packet of 100 sachets of tea, a can of sardines, and two bottles of Gato Negro. When he got home he put a record of Faure harp music on while he put away his groceries. The trembling of the individual notes hung in the air, particles of dust in a shaft of light. The shimmering faded and Dion knew something terrible had happened.