Anyway, still sucking in reasonably fresh air, I left the park, crossed Avenue B, and let myself into his building. I took the stairs two at a time, started to knock, and discovered the door was open. I went in. It didn’t take long to realize that Mr. Kindt’s mist or whatever was gnawing away at him, because when I said, hey, buddy (he was sitting, hatless, heart monitor in his lap, in a black rocker by the window), how about some herring? he started to scream.

Mr. Kindt, hey, I said.

I could barely hear myself say this. His hands were gripping the arms of the rocker like he wanted to splinter them.

Hey, I said, starting to move toward him.

His eyes widened and he began rocking violently back and forth and stomping his legs on the floor.

All right, I said, moving away. I’ll come back later.

I left. I walked around the park. I did not feel good. Not awful, but not good.

About an hour later I went back. Before I had a chance to say anything, Mr. Kindt smiled, and said, I know, my dear boy, I’m sorry, and I may start screaming again at any moment, but what came in the door speaking about herring wasn’t you, although for the first time in a very long while I was me.

I looked at him.

I suppose that’s not going to be very easy to understand, is it? he said.

He definitely seemed calmer. He had put his hat on and left the rocker, which was lying on its side in a tangle with the heart monitor.

You were screaming pretty loud there, I said.

I know, Henry, it came over me, and as I say it may well come over me again. Incidentally, you know, I very much like it when you call me buddy. Even in the state I was in I found that very calming.

Well sure, buddy, I’m glad you do.

Yes, I like it very much, he said.

I’ll call you that whenever you like. I’ll spread the word.

Call me buddy now.

O.K., buddy, I said.

I called him buddy a couple more times, then he said that that was enough for the time being and I agreed and changed the subject.

What did you mean a minute ago when you said “I was me?”

Well, it might be too hard to explain that just at the moment, Henry.

Can you try?

No, I don’t think I can. I think it might precipitate another, you know, my boy, screaming episode.

From the mist?

Yes, he said. I suppose it is.

While we were talking, he had opened a plastic container, one of several spread across the coffee table, and had begun putting generous amounts of creamed herring and onion onto crackers.

The herring you mentioned, he said. It was a lovely idea.

I’m glad, I said, taking a cracker and putting it in my mouth. Delicious. A little warm maybe, but good.

Listen, I said, I’d like to ask you something.

Mr. Kindt put a cracker in his mouth and looked at me.

Well, Henry, as I say, I may not be able to answer or talk about certain questions.

O.K., how about I ask the question and you decide whether or not you want to answer?

That sounds reasonable.

All right, buddy, what I’m wondering, and what I asked Cornelius and he wouldn’t answer …

Mr. Kindt raised a finger. Perhaps no more buddy now in this context, he said.

Fine, no problem, I said. Anyway, what I asked Cornelius was whether or not this whole murder gig thing I’ve been doing was just a lead-up to this — to, you know, bumping you off. If, you know, the whole thing was to prepare me, to lend authenticity, as you put it, to the big job, which was you.

Mr. Kindt put another cracker in his mouth.

Why do you want to know this, Henry? he said after he had swallowed.

I’m feeling kind of uncomfortable with the whole thing, I said.

I’m sorry to hear that.

I had kind of an ultimately pretty sour meeting with a guy called Mel the Hat.

Now there is a name.

He said you were tough. And tricky.

Oh well, I suppose I am. Or was.

He said he knew about you from the old days. Said you had a reputation. That you took care of people, had even taken care of someone recently. I was wondering if, maybe, you know, you were planning on taking care of or tricking me in some way.

Mr. Kindt picked up the last cracker and handed it to me.

That’s for you, buddy, he said, smiling.

I took it, told myself that that was his way of answering, smiled back, and pushed the conversation off in another direction.

Tulip and I got together, I said. Two nights ago.

Oh, did you really? he said.

Yes.

And? Was it lovely?

It was.

Excellent.

Yes, excellent. Absolutely. But …

Yes?

What I’m wondering is, what I can’t stop asking myself is, why did Tulip sleep with me?

I would have thought she or Cornelius would have told you. It’s part of your motivation. She has now, to paraphrase the script, seduced you and told you that there is a portfolio of valuable documents under the floorboard along that wall.

Cornelius told me.

Good. The board is loose. When you leave, after the job has been completed, take the portfolio with you. Then go and see Tulip.

Right, I said. But, I mean, she really did sleep with me. Not fake. Not, you know, mock. Not part of the scenario. We, ahem, tussled.

Oh well, said Mr. Kindt, I have always entertained hopes that the two of you would become better acquainted. If the fulfillment of my little scenario has helped move you in that direction, that is wonderful, that is really just fine. All my blessings, as it were.

Really?

Mr. Kindt said, yes, my boy, really, then suggested that it was time for me to take my leave.

I’ll be going then, I said.

Yes, until tomorrow night, he said.

So, I’m going to murder you.

I’m counting the seconds.

It’s not going to be pretty.

I certainly hope not.

Beautiful maybe, but not pretty.

That sounds perfect, Henry.

I’m going to hit you hard.

Oh yes, good. Don’t hold back. It must both look and feel authentic. The feeling is what is essential. The feeling is what I am after. I woke up last week and thought, I just have to be killed. That will do it. It won’t undo it, of course. But it will help.

Help what?

Never mind, Henry. I’m just thinking aloud.

Do you want to run through it now?

No, I don’t think that will be necessary. You know where everything is? The ashtray? The bag of my blood to splatter around?

I nodded. He smiled. We stood there looking at each other.

As I walked down the stairs, out the door, and over to the park, I thought of him, screaming and rocking and stuffing crackers in his mouth and calling me dear boy and limping slightly and paying my way into museums. As these images played before me, and as I registered how very differently I felt now than I had after leaving Stingy Lulu’s and walking across the park earlier, my mind turned simultaneously to the aforementioned films my old girlfriend and I had once taken in at the Pioneer, next to Two Boots. They had consisted almost entirely of light playing off water, and water playing off people, as they themselves played at running through bars of light. Children had run past the camera and thrown shadows onto attic walls, or swung sticks back and forth through blue-tinted air, and we had left the theater with the sensation that projector light was gushing out of our eyes. For a moment, this remembered light poured onto Mr. Kindt, the one my mind held out before me, making him almost completely translucent, a kind of ghost of photons and dust motes and bands of fine shadow. It was just as this image was about to dissolve into glittering nothingness that Mr. Kindt himself, ever full of surprises, came up beside me, said, hello again, buddy, wiped a little oil from the corner of his mouth, and took my arm.