12. [Chapter Twelve: Jack]
I will still go see Lawrence.
I found all of Sartre's identification documents in the closet in his bedroom; from now on, I am "Jack Sartre." Tomorrow after nine o'clock, everyone at the newspaper will think Sartre went to New York, and since I didn't go to work, it will be considered an automatic resignation. No one will care about my disappearance. This society is cold.
It took me quite a while to find everything. This lazybones obviously never organizes his things; his driver's license was stuffed in the pocket of a pair of faded jeans, and his passport was mixed in with his socks. Luckily, I was still wearing my plastic gloves—I hadn't taken them off since cleaning up the bloodstains—so I could touch the clothes, which reeked of mildew, sweat, alcohol, and body odor, without worry. By the way, his floor was filthy too; I found several dented beer cans under the sofa, all covered in green mold. His house had probably never been this clean before.
I chopped his body into small pieces and flushed it down the toilet. It was quite a hassle; by the time I finished, it was already eight o'clock. I quickly hailed a taxi to the airport. I've already taken two taxis today, both long distances. I've never been this extravagant before, but I think it's a kind of celebration. Sometimes spending money can be quite enjoyable; I'm starting to understand why Sarah loves shopping so much.
When boarding, the staff only checked if the personal information on my passport and ticket matched; they didn't even look up at me. If they had, they would have noticed that the passport photo and my face didn't match at all, but they didn't look at me. It was late at night, and they were too exhausted to even lift their heads.
"Welcome aboard..." The flight attendant, forcing back a yawn and with a tired smile, took my boarding pass, glanced at it, and handed it back to me. "Welcome aboard, Mr. Jack Sutter. Your seat is in the back row, please move over."
I took off at 10:35 PM Pacific Time and arrived at 9:30 AM Eastern Time. The flight was eight hours long, and with the three-hour time difference, I still had eleven hours to go before reaching New York. It was my first time flying, and the ringing in my ears during takeoff made me uncomfortable. My window seat made me feel anxious looking down. Only then did I begin to feel the dread of what I had just done. I had killed someone for a minuscule possibility. Sartre and Rodin were different; Rodin was a stranger, but I had known Sartre for two years. The feeling was different; the former was adrenaline, the latter was premeditated. I felt a crack in my soul.
I quickly picked up the book, skimmed a few pages, and finally regained my composure. Strangely, though every description was incredibly bloody and gruesome, I felt a profound peace, like a husband returning home to the aroma of his wife's cooking. Actually, I had never witnessed such a heartwarming scene. From as far back as I can remember, my parents were constantly arguing and fighting over money. Until I was eleven, they finally lay together peacefully—without heartbeats, without breaths—becoming an unsolved mystery, and I went to an orphanage.
Einstein was right; time is relative, and its passage depends on the observer's perspective. It was so slow; eleven hours had passed, and I felt eleven years older. Every second felt like an eternity. After getting off the plane, I walked incredibly fast, as if trying to catch up with time. When I saw the person holding the sign that read "Mr. Jack Sutter" at the arrivals gate, I felt like I had finally grasped what I had lost.
The man introduced himself as Saul, from the publishing house. He compared my face to the photo on my work ID. The photo, which Sartre had cherished and handled countless times, was blurry; he was smiling exaggeratedly in it, so I had to smile like that too. I forced my lips upward, my facial muscles straining and cramping, but I seemed to be addicted, my smile growing more and more exaggerated. In the end, Saul's expression changed from surprise to horror. He quickly returned my work ID, gripped my hand tightly, and said, "Nice to meet you, Mr. Sartre!"
We got into the car to the hotel. The street scenes of Manhattan had appeared countless times in the movies I'd seen—bustling traffic, dazzling extravagance. But it wasn't until I was in this concrete jungle, looking up, that I realized the sky here was rectangular. The people on the sidewalks were smartly dressed, hurrying along, but their expressions were weary and ashen, as if what was framed by the rooftops wasn't the sky, but the people themselves. I pressed my face against the window, searching for Lawrence, but I quickly realized I wouldn't find him here. He wouldn't associate with those who had lost their souls, never.
Saul assumed I was some naive country bumpkin, hence the dazed look on my face as I peered through the window. His smile was dismissive, but he didn't bother with a joke. The hotel was in Queens. I kept asking Saul when I could see Warner Essack, but he said he was busy with other reporters. "The press conference starts at ten tomorrow morning. A car will pick you up at eight. I'll go tell your newspaper you've arrived. Go back to your room and rest, get ready."
But I don't want to waste time like this. The publishers might discover I'm not Jack Sartre at any moment. Sartre's family might be waiting for his call to let them know I'm safe. Perhaps Sartre's landlord will knock on his apartment door to collect rent, and if no one answers, he'll unlock it, walk into my crime scene, find some clues, and immediately call the police. My paranoia is acting up again; I keep feeling like there's still blood under that sofa that hasn't been wiped clean. I even want to turn back and wipe it again. I think I've developed obsessive-compulsive disorder. My colleague—now a former colleague—will tell everyone about yesterday's office argument, letting the whole world know that Sartre and I have a terrible relationship. It'll spread like wildfire, eventually reaching the ears of some policeman, and then…
"Mr. Sartre... Mr. Sartre!"
"Huh?" I jolted awake from my endless reverie. The waiter stood in the doorway, staring blankly at my dazed expression. He had already brought my suitcase up and was holding out his right hand, waiting for my tip. I fumbled for a few coins in my pocket and gave them to him—the change I got from buying Sartre a Coke yesterday. I kept looking into his palm, as if those coins were stained with blood. He took the money and left without looking back. This was New York, after all; all sorts of people were out there. He must have seen strangers than me.
I stuffed my suitcase into the closet, locked the door, and left the hotel. I knew where the publishing house was, and I knew where the press conference venue was tomorrow. Saul wouldn't take me, so I could find it myself. New York is as vast as an ocean, and finding Lawrence is like finding a needle in a haystack. The only thread I had was the invisible chain on my collar. It was like Ariadne's tangled thread, and I was following its guidance in a huge labyrinth to find the Minotaur. That analogy doesn't seem quite right. Lawrence isn't that half-bull, half-man monster. He's my Theseus.
I went everywhere I could. Publishers, conference venues, even the New York Times office—they told me Mr. Essack wasn't there, and then asked who I was. I was nobody; I was impersonating someone else, and perhaps even to Lawrence, I was nobody. We were the closest of strangers; I knew so little about him.
I suddenly realized that the address on the collar meant nothing. It wasn't my name or Lawrence's name; it couldn't prove our relationship. It was just a vague mailing address, located in the Nevada desert, where the road could be buried by sandstorms at any moment. Anyone could have passed by that highway. The only proof that we met there was ourselves. If he said "nice to meet you," I would be helpless. I shouldn't have disposed of that gun. Perhaps I should have begged Lawrence to sign the envelope, or at least write the sender's address, so that if the address was invalid, the envelope could be returned. Otherwise, I would have been lost forever in the vast sea of people.
I had one last glimmer of hope. I had frantically searched for information about Warner Essack and learned that he was a member of the Whistleblower Club. Many writers dedicated to exposing political corruption and social injustice joined that club, and Essack was probably recruited because he had written so much about the darker side of humanity, but he didn't actually go there often. I could only try my luck. I thought that "meeting Lawrence" and "killing Sartre" had used up all my luck, but when I arrived, the receptionist told me that Mr. Essack was there, and the last reporter who had interviewed him had just left.
I stood there, frozen, like a pillar of salt. It felt like a thousand years had passed before I finally managed to say, "Take me there. Please."
The kind lady called to confirm that Mr. Essack was available to see me, and I gratefully followed her. The corridor was lined with antique vases and Impressionist paintings, perfectly suited to the aesthetic tastes of intellectuals—quaint and understatedly luxurious. But to me, it was a gaudy, overly extravagant avenue, bustling to the point of being vulgar. We wandered through the maze of corridors until we reached the Gates of Heaven. She opened them for me with an angelic smile, and I knew I would never kill a woman again. In that moment, I knew that there was still light in humanity, and that Pandora's box contained not only despair but also hope.
A man stood in the room, holding a glass of sherry. The young lady said, "Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Essack. This is Mr. Sartre, who has come to interview you."
But I didn't recognize that figure. I would never forget Lawrence's back in my entire life. It wasn't Lawrence. The man turned around, and he wasn't handsome at all. He definitely wasn't Lawrence.
I felt as if all the blood had been drained from my body, as if a bucket of cold water had been poured over me. Then I remembered. The story was about Pandora curiously opening her box, releasing all the evils of the world—greed, hypocrisy, slander, jealousy, pain, disease, and calamity—and the world began to tremble. Pandora quickly closed the box, but only hope remained trapped inside, locked away forever. For the next thousand years, humanity suffered endlessly, and no matter how many setbacks they encountered, hope never appeared.
I killed someone for a baseless possibility. Yet, I feel not a single trace of remorse. I just don't know where to look for Lawrence anymore. I don't know if the police will find me first, or I will find Lawrence first, or I will find Death first, or Death will find me first. It doesn't matter. I will still look for Lawrence. I will look for him somewhere else.
The man stepped forward and shook my hand. I was dazed and confused, muttering, "Nice to meet you, Mr. Essack..."
He chuckled and patted my shoulder. "What are you talking about, Sartre! Don't you remember my voice?"
I was stunned.
The young lady panicked and immediately apologized, "I'm so sorry, so sorry! I mistook you for someone else. Mr. Essack doesn't come here very often, I don't remember what he looks like!"
"And who is this...?"
“You have a terrible memory, Sartre!” The man shrugged helplessly. “I’m Hylar Duren, Essack’s editor. I called you before!”
A long, slender hand rested on my shoulder, and I turned sharply to look. A pair of deep blue eyes were brimming with laughter. Lawrence leaned close to my ear—a distance that seemed incredibly impolite for someone meeting for the first time—but we had been much closer before; he had even entered my body. Many times.
“Hello,” he said, “Jack.”
A note from the author:
Theseus (Greek: Θησε; Latin: Theseus), the legendary king of Athens. His major achievements include: eliminating many notorious bandits; solving the Minoan labyrinth and defeating the Minotaur; marrying Hippolyta; abducting Helen; and attempting to abduct Persephone, wife of Hades—for which he was imprisoned in the Underworld, but later rescued by Hercules. It is said that he implemented reforms during his reign, primarily accomplishing two things: First, uniting the four Attica tribes into a single Attica state, building the Acropolis, establishing the only public council chamber, and naming the country Athens. Second, dividing the population into three classes: nobles, farmers, and artisans. In short, Rayleigh's point is that Lawrence is his king and hero.
A whistleblower is someone who exposes illegal, dishonest, or improper conduct within an organization (whether private or public). The word "Warner" is ironically derived from "warn," meaning warning.
Ray's smile when facing Thor probably looked like this (still from the movie "Pearl"):
I believe you can understand what the name "Jack" means.
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