Kings of Infinite Space: A Novel (10 page)

He weaved between the intervening tables and stood across the table from the pulled-out chair; the book was facing the other way. It was an enormous volume, the pages Bible thin and packed with tiny print. He glanced back at the doorway, then turned the book around. He lifted the cover and saw, to his astonishment, that it was
The Norton Anthology of English Literature
, volume 1. He stooped over the open pages and read a couple of lines of crowded print:

VOLPONE
. [
springing up
] Excellent Mosca!
        Come hither, let me kiss thee.
MOSCA
.                                  Keep you still, sir.
        Here is Corbaccio.

“That’s mine,” said Callie, nearly in his ear. Paul jumped back, and Callie reached past him and snatched the book off the table with both hands, slamming it shut and pressing it to
her chest. She was wearing a sweater now over her t-shirt, somebody’s huge old cardigan with a little woven belt dangling untied at her hips.

“You just lost your place,” Paul said.

“That’s okay.” Callie clutched the book with one hand and waved her other hand as if to ward him off. She would not meet his eye.

Paul gestured at the table. “I’m sorry. I thought somebody had left it.”

“I just went to get a sweater.” Callie reached past him again for the bottle of Coke. “They keep the AC so fuckin’ high in here.” She started to turn away.

“It was open to Ben Jonson,” Paul said. “Act one of
Volpone.”

Callie hesitated, not quite looking at Paul. “What did you say?”

“Act one of
Volpone
. Ben Jonson.”

“That’s not what I . . .” She waved the plastic bottle; flat Coke sloshed within. “I mean, how did you say it, just now? The name.”

“Ben Jonson.”

She gave a little gasp of exasperation and turned away.

“Vol-
po
-nee,” Paul said. “It’s Italian. It means—”

“ ‘Fox.’ ” She was blushing bright red. “I know what it means. I can read.”

“I’m sorry.” He shifted his own book under his arm. “I was trying to be cute.”

“Didn’t work.” Her eyes flashed.

Paul shrugged. “Story of my life.”

“How’d you know that?” Her eyes burned a little less hot, but there was still a very attractive blush over her cheeks, making her freckles stand out. “How to say ‘Vol-
po
-nee’ ”—she enunciated slowly, as if testing each syllable before she put her full weight on it—“instead of ‘Vol-
pone
’?” Here she exaggerated her own accent; Paul wished he could place it.

Paul laughed nervously. How could he tell her without sounding . . . pompous? Arrogant? Bitter? “You wouldn’t know
it from my present circumstances,” he said, “but I have a Ph.D. in literature.”

She narrowed her gaze. “What do you mean, your ‘present circumstances’?”

He gestured through the ceiling at the weight of the Texas state agency above them. “I never thought Ben Jonson would come up in the dining room of the Texas Department of General Services.”

Callie’s eyes brightened again, but more with bemusement than anger. “Came up today, didn’t it?”

“I guess it did.”

“What are
you
reading?” Callie had been balanced on the balls of her feet, ready to flee, but Paul noticed that she had shifted her weight onto one heel. He pulled his book out from under his arm and held the cover out for her to see.

She leveled her gaze at him again. “You need a Ph.D. in English literature to read
that?”

Paul stuck the book back under his arm. “No. That’s why I like it.”

Callie nodded. Her cheeks had faded to freckles against pale skin. She started to turn away and hesitated again.

“Vol-
po
-nee,” she said again.

“You got it.” He smiled—charmingly, he thought. “My head’s full of useless crap like that.”

Her eyes blazed at him again, but she checked it. He could tell she wanted to say something sharp, but instead she asked him, “What’s your name?”

“Paul,” he said, then he added, “Trilby.” He lifted his eyes to the ceiling again. “I work up in—”

“I know where you work.” She was walking away now, the book still clutched to her chest with one hand, the Coke dangling at her hip. Paul watched her go, then he found his seat in the corner and took a moment to settle in—one chair to sit in, another to prop his feet on. He opened his book to the first pages of
The Island of Dr. Moreau
. He sat for half an hour with the volume open on his lap and didn’t read a word.

W
HEN PAUL LEFT HIS CUBE FOR THE FOUR O’CLOCK
meeting, he passed Rick in the main aisle going the other way.

“Head on down and grab a seat,” Rick said as he sailed by. “I’m getting our guest a cup of coffee.”

What guest? Paul wondered. To his surprise, he saw Olivia Haddock hovering just outside the door of Rick’s office, while Nolene typed something and scowled at her computer screen. Through the office door he saw the Colonel and J.J. and Bob Wier seated around the little table in the corner, leaning forward and listening to someone out of sight.

“He’s got some nerve showing up here,” Nolene muttered, as she hammered at her keyboard, refusing to look at Olivia. “Some people just don’t know when they’re not wanted.”

“Well, he did work here for thirty years, Nolene.” Olivia clutched her elbows and lifted herself on tiptoe, craning to see through the door. “When I first got here, he was a
legend.”

“What I’d like to know is, who authorized his visitor’s badge?” Nolene lifted her angry gaze and it landed on Paul,
who stopped in his tracks. “What part of ‘You’re fired’ dun’t he understand?”

Before Paul could think of anything to say, a gust of male laughter erupted through the doorway. Olivia flinched back, as if afraid of being seen.

“Don’t you have some work to do,
hon?”
Nolene placed a heavy emphasis on the last word, crushing any endearment out of it. She leveled her gaze at Olivia who, without a word, pushed off from the side of the door and marched away, her arms swinging, her cheerleader’s backside twitching.

“Hey, Professor, step on in here,” said the Colonel from inside the office. Nolene returned to her computer screen, and Paul moved into the doorway. The faces of the RFP team swung towards him, smiling. A stranger was sitting behind Rick’s desk, an older man in a jacket and tie. He had a high, pale forehead and bright eyes, and his sparse white hair was combed straight back in perfect striations. He seemed a little lost in the jacket; the lapels ballooned out from his shirt, and the cuffs came down to his knuckles. The man’s shoulders barely rose above the backrest of Rick’s chair, but his pale fingers were unusually long, clutching the armrests.

“Professor, meet Stanley Tulendij,” said the Colonel, “the man who made the TxDoGS fleet what it is today.”

The old man swiveled slowly towards Paul, an unexpectedly chilling sight, since Paul doubted that the man’s feet reached the floor. How did he do that? Stanley Tulendij had a prominent jaw and a wide, lipless mouth, and he pointed his chin and his sparkling eyes at Paul and said in a hollow voice, “Is this the young fella?”

“Paul is our tech writer on the outsourcing project,” said Bob Wier, his voice trembling. “Paul, Stanley was TxDoGS’s fleet manager for twenty-five years.”

“The original TexDog,” said the Colonel.

“This man’s a fucking legend,” said J.J., looking uncharacteristically reverent.

“Now son,” whispered Stanley Tulendij, “that kinda language—”

“I’m sorry!” gasped J.J. To Paul’s astonishment, J.J. actually blushed, and his eyes burned as if he might start to cry. “God, I’m such a fucking idiot.”

“No harm done.” The man behind the desk made a benedictory gesture, and he swiveled his bright gaze at Paul again. “Come shake my hand, young man.” His hand, skeletal and pale, levitated out of his roomy cuff as if on the end of a broomstick. The other men nodded at Paul, urging him on, and he reached across the desk. Who is this guy? he thought. Why is he sitting in Rick’s chair?

Stanley Tulendij had a loose grip; his hand was very cool and dry, all papery skin and knobbly knuckles. His fingers reached nearly all the way around Paul’s hand. He may be the palest person I’ve ever seen, thought Paul. In direct sunlight, I’ll bet you could see the outline of the old guy’s bones. Why, he’s as pale as that homeless guy yesterday.

“Stanley Tulendij,” said the old man. “A privilege.”

“Paul Trilby.” He gave a wince of a smile. “All mine.”

Paul tried to let go, but the old man leaned forward in the seat and grasped Paul’s wrist with his other hand. The light in his eyes brightened, and he looked past Paul to the men around the table. “Oh, he’s
good,”
said Stanley Tulendij. “I
like
this young fella.”

“Might could be he’s one of us,” said the Colonel, behind Paul. “Don’t you think so, boys?”

“Absolutely!” declared Bob Wier. “Praise Jesus!” He smiled broadly, but his eyes were anxious. He looked as if he were about to break into a sweat.

“I suppose,” said J.J., glowering at Paul.

Paul tugged his hand free. The old man winked at Paul, and Paul felt the temperature drop in the room, the way it sometimes did when Charlotte was present.

“Hey!” chirped Rick, coming in with a Styrofoam cup of coffee. “I see y’all have made your own introductions.” He leaned past Paul and gingerly set the cup in front of Stanley Tulendij. Then he clapped Paul on the shoulder, putting Paul between him and the man behind the desk. “This man is a titan
in fleet management, Paul,” he said. “I’m honored just to be in his presence.”

“Pah!” Stanley Tulendij flapped his pale hand. “Just did my job is all.” He put his hands on the armrests and pushed himself up out of the chair in a smooth, swift motion—so swift, in fact, that Paul took a step back, afraid that the old man was going to float right over the desk at him.

“You’re not leaving?” said Rick, sounding relieved. “I thought you might sit in.” The Colonel, J.J., and Bob Wier all glanced at each other, Paul noted, while Rick maneuvered to keep Paul between himself and the old man. Stanley Tulendij was taller than he’d looked sitting down; he had long legs and a short torso, like a man walking on stilts. This disproportion, and his preternatural paleness, gave him a rather spiderish look as he glided around the end of Rick’s desk. As he passed, his jacket gave off a strong whiff of thrift store disinfectant—an odor Paul knew well—and beneath it was something both sharp and sour, like the smell of excrement. Stanley Tulendij paused in the doorway to take his leave. One at a time, Bob Wier, J.J., and the Colonel rose from their seats, shook his hand, and sat down again. Stanley Tulendij gave a puppetish wave, his bony hand wobbling as if on a ball socket.

“I’ll be seeing you,” he said, looking at Paul, and Paul felt the chill again. He watched the old man’s strange, arachnid gait as he walked out the door and down the aisle.

Somebody clapped his hands once, and Paul turned to see the Colonel sitting erect in his chair, grinding his palms together. His eyes were aglow. “Well!” he said. “It seems giants still walk among us.”

“Yessir,” said Rick, rather distantly. He had moved behind his desk, and he was staring warily down at his chair. He shoved the backrest with the tips of his fingers, setting the chair spinning slowly in place. “I tell you what,” he said, “let’s put the meeting off till tomorrow. No sense crossing our bridges until they’re burned.” He looked up. “Y’all check your schedules and let me know what’s good for y’all.” He waved his hand, dismissing the team. Paul waited for the others to file out ahead
of him. Bob Wier’s smile was drawn painfully tight, his eyes so sad he looked as though he might cry, and he gave Paul a thumbs-up as he passed. J.J. looked him sourly up and down, and the Colonel winked at him. Paul started after them, but Rick called him back.

“Get rid of this, willya?” Rick held out the still steaming cup of coffee.

Paul hesitated—toss it yourself, Rick, I’m a tech writer, not a busboy—until he saw the look on Rick’s face. He held the cup as if it were full of acid about to eat through the Styrofoam.

“Please,” said Rick, and Paul leaned across the desk and took the cup. As he left, Rick was still watching his spinning chair, as if counting the revolutions.

Paul ditched the coffee in the trash by the fax machine, then he went around Nolene’s cube to the side away from Rick’s door and rapped on the metal strip on top of the partition. From Rick’s doorway, he heard the tentative creak of a chair.

“So, Nolene,” he whispered, when he finally got her attention, “did you ever work with Stanley Tulendij?”

Nolene slowly lifted her gaze to Paul and regarded him coldly. Paul was on the verge of retreating when she lowered her eyes, visibly banked her anger, and looked up at him again. “Hit’s no secret. No reason you shouldn’t know.” She lowered her voice. “Most of the folks here are new in the five years since Stanley . . .” She snapped her fingers. “But I worked under him for six months.” She closed her eyes and mastered herself again. “Let’s just say that Stanley was
old school
about women in the workplace? ‘My wife don’t let me tell her how to make biscuits, and I don’t let her tell me how to buy parts for a backhoe.’ ”

“So what does
this
mean?” Paul snapped his fingers. “Did he retire?”

Nolene put her finger to her lips. “They yanked him,” she whispered. She glanced around her and syllable by syllable mouthed the words,
“Sex-u-al har-ass-ment
.”

“Really!” Paul lowered his voice further. “Who did he harass?”

She turned abruptly back to her computer screen, and an instant later Rick sailed out of his office and up the aisle. She watched him go, then looked at Paul and slowly shook her head. She wouldn’t talk about it.

“At least tell me, did the Colonel and J.J. and Bob work for him?”

“Oh no! That’s the funny thing.” She glanced up the aisle. “They never did. They all come here since.” She kept her voice low, hissing at Paul across the partition. “And yet he comes around to see them every few months or so. In’t that the darnedest thing?”