Zero History

“You told her that?”
“And she stopped being interested in you,” repeated Milgrim.
There was a silence. “I see what you mean,” said Bigend.
“I wasn’t volunteering information. I was responding to specific questions. I didn’t
know what else to do.”
Jun returned, his arms full of clothing, which he put down on the desk, pushing the
fabric samples aside. There was a pair of very new, very bright brown shoes. “Stand,
please.” Milgrim stood. “Remove jacket.” Milgrim unzipped the Sonny and took it off.
Jun helped him on with something made of fragrant tweed, immediately removed it, tried
another, equally fragrant, walked around, buttoned the jacket, nodded.
“But why didn’t you tell me this at the time?” asked Bigend.
“Remove trousers, please,” said Jun, “and shirt.”
“I was too anxious,” said Milgrim. “I have an anxiety disorder.” He sat down on the
horrible stool and began to remove his shoes. Taking them off, he stood and began
removing his pants, grateful to have something to do. “I didn’t make her follow me. You
sent me to Myrtle Beach.”
“You may have an anxiety disorder,” Bigend said, “but you’re definitely changing.”
“Remove shirt, please,” said Jun.
Milgrim did. He stood there in black socks and underpants from Galeries Lafayette,
with a peculiar awareness of something just having shifted, though he wasn’t clear what.
Jun had been busy unbuttoning and unfolding a tattersall shirt, which he now helped
Milgrim into. It had a spread collar, Milgrim saw, and as he was buttoning the front he
discovered that the barrel cuffs extended nearly to his elbows, with a great many pearl
buttons.
“Have you been to Florence?” asked Bigend as Milgrim was fastening those very
peculiar cuffs.
“Florence?” Jun had just handed him a pair of whipcord trousers.
“Tuscany,” said Bigend, “is lovely. Better this time of year. The rain. More subtle light.”
“You’re sending me to Italy?”
“Along with Hollis. I want you both out of here. Someone is angry with you. I’ll
generate deep Blue Ant traffic, to the effect that you’re both in Los Angeles. Perhaps that
will convince Oliver.”
Milgrim heard that scream, outside of Bank Station, took a breath, but found that no
words came. He zipped up his new pants. Which were oddly narrow in the ankles, and
cuffed.
“Sit, please,” said Jun, who was loosening the laces of the brown shoes. They were
wing-tip brogues, but with a narrower toe than was traditional, and thick, cleated-looking
soles. Milgrim sat. Jun knelt, helped Milgrim on with the shoes, then tightened the laces
and tied them. Milgrim stood, shifting his weight. They fit, he decided, but were stiff,
heavy. Jun handed him a narrow, heavy leather belt of a similar shade, with a polished