Catch 26: A Novel. Carol Prisant

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СКАЧАТЬ hope you’re not angry.”

      No response.

      “And although you may actually work for this … Mrs. Antos, was it?”

      “Andros.”

      “Who might be a devil, the Devil, even – I don’t think I’ll end up in Hell because, well … there isn’t one. And this thing that seems to be happening now probably isn’t real.”

      She took a deep, liberating, breath, quite surprised at herself, although also a little bit proud of her newly hatched point of view. Not to mention this unfamiliar and, evidently, opinionated side of herself. She’d been kind of … leaking … the strangest things all day.

      The voice beside her, friendly still, sounded darker, somehow, older.

      “You don’t believe in Hell, Frannie? After Man – magnificent Man – has spent all these centuries inventing it, creating it, fleshing it out, so to speak?” Randi grinned, obviously amused by herself.

      “Painting it in loving, sadomasochistic detail?” she went on. “Gleefully, gothically, enlarging upon its seductive torments? Sermonizing from altars and in the media about its imminence? Relishing it. Practically rolling in it. Selling the hell out of it.” Randi barked a laugh. “And Frannie Turner – Frannie-sad-little-housewife-Turner – isn’t convinced? Where’s your imagination? Your sense of sin?”

      It’s real, Frannie decided.

      “I don’t seem to have either, I suppose. Well, okay, sin, yes. I’ve sinned now and then. But not really, um … sinned, I don’t think. Not in your sense of the word.”

      Lighting another cigarette from the first, Randi turned conversational.

      “To tell you the truth, I understand your reservations. Our old Hell and those old sins haven’t actually been altogether satisfactory for the last few thousand years. We know that. After all, it’s an overheated concept, don’t you think? Not to mention all that inflammatory art!” She snorted delicately. “No. The thing is, we came to realize that people need to completely taste the reality of Hell, to feel its unbearable pain. That’s why Mrs. A has recently started offering these new, call them ‘designer’ Hells. Each one custom-tailored to the individual soul. She’s been tinkering with the idea for the last couple of centuries.”

      “What do you mean? Custom-tailored?” Frannie asked, curious despite herself.

      “Oh, you know. Take one, rather obvious, example. Your Facebook addicts. More than a thousand ‘friends’ and we condemn them to eternal solitude. And then there are all your lying politicians and on-the-spectrum engineers. They’ve both got to relive emotionally painful childhood events in perpetuity. A sort of reverse-PTSD. For English speakers under thirty, every ‘fuck’ has to be replaced by a three-syllable word, and right-wing newscasters have to interview gay soldiers and transsexuals for Eternity. (We’d teach them how first, of course. On-the-job training, as it were.) And then, of course, there are the super-rich.”

      Randi’s eyes were jade now, greenly aglow in the shadows and smoke. Her body gave off a palpable heat (and an odor?). She was genuinely loving this.

      “The super-rich are punished by a significant tax on each utterance of ‘my, me, or mine.’ And on every single reference to money. Don’t you love that? Or how about this? Pretentious film critics get strapped down in screening rooms where people text continuously and never turn off their phones. They’re also forced to view The Story of Mankind in endless loops. The screams! The shrieks! Such fun for Mrs. A.!”

      Randi folded her hands on the tabletop and grinned. “Although none of this applies to you, really, does it?

      She became serious.

      “So what do you say, Frannie Turner. Want to make a deal?”

      Frannie’s thoughts ricocheted from Stanley in his chair to her cozy house to her friends and to Arlene before racing on to the books she’d read, the movies she’d seen, all the men she’d loved to have loved. Her thoughts paused for a moment at Power, dollops of dissolute power. Elizabeth Taylor floated through her thoughts for a millisecond. So did Monty Hall. She considered the Hell that she didn’t believe in and her eternal soul, if she actually had one. It was a very big thing, evidently, but hers was unbearably empty just now.

      “What’s the deal?” She heard her own voice come from low in her throat.

      Randi hugged her. And it burned. “Great!”

      “But I’ll admit I’m surprised about that Hell thing you mentioned. I was sure you’d be a believer. But, hey, I’m only human.” She opened Frannie’s pocketbook, rummaged through it and pulled out a handkerchief with an elegant monogrammed

.

      “Is it roasting in here or is it me?”

      Pinching one fine nostril at a time, Randi daintily blew her nose into the handkerchief and returned it to Frannie’s purse.

      “But if you don’t mind a badly disguised sales pitch and a little more advice, well … here’s the real deal. What I’m offering you is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. So just don’t do with me what you did with Stanley, Mrs. T.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “Well, shop a little this time. You shouldn’t decide before you’ve explored your options.”

      Those cherry lips. Those chiclet teeth. They knew where Frannie lived.

      “Options?” Frannie almost choked on the word.

      “For example, I’ve been empowered to offer you youth and beauty if you want them. Those come standard. But there are extras, as well. Things like a government position, say? Secretary of State? The vice-presidency? I’m afraid I can’t offer you the presidency yet: might be a tad too soon for that. But if those don’t tempt you, or seem a little much, maybe a simple MD and a cure for one of the lesser cancers? Non-Hodgkins lymphoma, maybe? Thyroid?” She fixed her avid eyes on Frannie’s own and laid a scorching hand on her shoulder. Frannie made a concentrated effort not to squirm. “I suspect you don’t have the stomach for the occasional death, though. Am I right?”

      Frannie sat, spellbound. Her mouth felt painfully dry.

      “Okay, so I’m right. So then there’s ophthalmology and macular degeneration, possibly. Or what about a doctorate in physics? How do you feel about String Theory? Or money. Do you want money? Not really you, I suspect. Although we’re offering really big sums here. Racing-stables money. Gulfstream money.”

      Randi hiked up her skirt. There were scars all over her thighs.

      “You could decide to be a man, of course. Though I can’t say I’d care for that myself. Wait, wait, I know! Monets? Rembrandts?” Interlacing her fingers, she winked at her mesmerized prey. “I’m getting warmer now, aren’t I?”

      With one thumb, Frannie traced the veining in the marble tabletop. She had to force herself to look at the hairdresser/gatekeeper/fiend.

      “Okay, now we’ve hit paydirt – art,” Randi said. “You could own bibelots like rhinoceros-horn cups. They’re СКАЧАТЬ