sensed there was something she wanted to say, so I was not surprised this morning when she woke with my alarm. Now, while I stand beside the toaster, Iâm waiting for her to speak.
Sheâs been brooding at the kitchen table, her face still pale from sleep, her blond hair frazzled into an aureole. When I turn my back to her I can still feel her watching me, and soâto have something to do with my handsâI prematurely pop the toaster. I busy myself with the butter knife, frowning down at the soft slices, barely warm. When I glance back up, she is indeed still watching me. Even her pajamas are watching me: the polka-dot pants; the white tank top, semé with cartoon owls. They ocellate her body, multiplying her watching a hundredfold. Finally she clears her throat: âWhatââ she begins. âWhat if you do find Mr. Mazoch?â
Ah. So that is what she woke so early to ask. I should have guessed. Itâs not a question that I have posed, in so many words, to Matt. But itâs the very first question that Rachel posed to me, back when I initially broached the search with her. âHe doesnât want to kill him, does he?â she asked. When I didnât respond right away, she brought her hands to her cheeks: âOh my God. He wants to kill him.â
At the time, I told her that I had no idea what Mattâs plans were. We hadnât discussed them, I said, and anyway, the search was more emotionally complicated than that, for Matt. He himself probably didnât know deep down what he was doing. Nor was it something I felt comfortable putting him on the spot about. She was making it sound as if I were knowingly abetting Mattâs Ahabism, manning the oars while he sharpened the harpoons, in some monomaniacal manhunt. When in fact the situation was much grayer, I told her.
This was all strictly speaking true. I really didnât know what Matt was planning. We really hadnât discussed it. And because we havenât discussed it since, Iâve been able to continue the search in good faith. Rachelâs been able to condone it as well, so long as we both operate under the tacit assumption that it is a rescue mission: that Matt intends to commit Mr. Mazoch to a quarantine. On most days of the search, this interpretation seems viable. But then there are daysâsuch as yesterday, at Highland Road Parkâwhen I harbor my suspicions. Although Iâve never admitted as much to Rachel, it does seem at times as if Matt might entertain the prospect of euthanasia: that he might be driven to put Mr. Mazoch out of his misery. While I personally would advocate strongly against this (itâs illegal, for one thing; and for another, we canât be sure that what the undead are experiencing is misery), 23 I also recognize that I can go only so far in dissuading Matt. Itâs ultimately his decision to make.
I have never admitted this to Rachel. Thankfully, over the past few weeks, I havenât had to. As it began to seem less and
less likely to her that we would ever actually find Mr. Mazoch, Mattâs motives ceased to be an issue. With Mr. Mazoch out of mind, Rachel has been free to conceive of the search as a purely ritual activity. When she imagines Matt and me driving around the city, it is as if we are circling an empty center, like two monks raking sand. The search is aimless, autotelic, without object. It serves its own purposes. For Matt, she imagines, it must be a ritual of mourning and memorial: he is visiting the sites of his father, so that he can reflect on the man and remember. Whereas for me, it must be a ritual of routine: it is a structured excuse for me to get out of the apartment each day, as well as a safe way of encountering the undead (to conquer my fear of them, on the one hand; and to come to understand them, on the other). We will simply perform these rituals until Friday, she imagines, and then we will be finished.
Sheâs not