chapter thirty-eight

Napoleon

Napoleon sat with his back against a wall of the studio, watching the floor breathe in and out with the rapid, heartbreaking vulnerability of a sleeping baby.

This happened last time, he reminded himself. It was just an optical illusion. Walls and floors did not breathe. And so what if they did breathe? What was so bad about that?

The walls of that seedy smoky club had breathed too, and he’d become convinced he was trapped within an amoeba hurtling through space. It had made perfect sense at the time. The amoeba had swallowed him whole like the whale swallowed Jonah and he was stuck in that amoeba for a thousand years.

Twenty years old and he was so sure his brain had been fried, and he took such pride in his brain, and the only way to comfort himself in the bleak days that followed was by chanting: Never again, never again, never again.

And yet here he was, trapped once more.

I’m not in an amoeba, he told himself. I’m at a health resort. They have given me drugs without my permission and I’m just going to have to wait this out.

At least he was in this very pleasant, nice-smelling, candlelit studio, not that packed bar with all those looming faces.

He held hands with his girls. Heather’s hand in his left. Zoe’s in his right. Napoleon had refused to lie down on one of those stretchers or put on the mask and headphones. He knew the only way to keep a good firm grip of his mind was to sit upright with his eyes open.

Masha pretended she was fine with that, but Napoleon knew she was annoyed that they weren’t following the correct procedure for ‘optimum results’.

Napoleon recognised the moment she made the decision not to push the issue. It was like he could read her mind. Pick your battles, she thought. Napoleon had to pick his battles with his students. He was good at picking his battles. He used to do the same with the kids.

‘Pick your battles,’ he said softly. ‘Pick them carefully.’

‘I know which battle I’m picking – I will not rest until that woman is behind bars,’ said Heather. She was watching Masha move about the room, chatting to her guests, placing the back of her hand against their foreheads.

‘Look at her, sashaying about as if she’s fucking Florence Nightingale,’ said Heather. ‘Psychedelic therapy, my foot.’

Napoleon wondered if there was some sort of professional jealousy going on here.

‘Can you see the walls breathing?’ he asked, to take her mind off things.

‘It’s just the effects of the drugs,’ said Heather.

‘Well, I know that, darling,’ said Napoleon. ‘I just wondered if you were experiencing the same effects.’

‘I can see the walls breathing, Dad,’ said Zoe. ‘They look like fish. It’s awesome. Are you seeing the colours?’ She glided her hands back and forth as if through water.

‘I am!’ marvelled Napoleon. ‘It’s like phosphorescence.’

‘Great. A nice druggy dad-and-daughter bonding experience,’ said Heather.

Napoleon noted that she was in a very bad mood.

‘Zach would think this was hilarious,’ said Zoe. ‘All of us getting high together.’

‘He’s here actually,’ said Napoleon. ‘Hi, Zach.’

‘Hey, Dad.’ It didn’t even seem that remarkable that Zach was sitting right in front of him, wearing shorts and no shirt. The kid never wore a shirt. It just felt like everything was right again, the way it used to feel, the four of them hanging out together, taking each other’s existences for granted, just being a family, a run-of-the-mill family.

‘Do you see him?’ said Napoleon.

‘Yes,’ said Zoe.

‘I see him too,’ said Heather, her voice full of tears.

‘Your turn to take out the recycling, Zach,’ said Zoe.

Tags: Liane Moriarty Mystery
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