Zero History

“Do they have a beer?”
“I’m sure they do.” With some difficulty he located a paneled-in refrigerator, its door
covered in red mahogany. “What would you like?”
She peered into the cold matte-silver interior. “I don’t know any of those.”
“A Beck’s,” suggested his robot. “Not the one they have in America.”
“And yourself?”
“I don’t drink alcohol,” he said, passing her a bottle of Beck’s and choosing a canned
soft drink at random. She opened it, using something sterling, with a thick haft of deer
antler for a handle, and took a swig directly from the bottle.
“Why did you take my picture?” Milgrim asked, unexpectedly bypassing his robot voice
and sounding like a completely different person, the one you automatically and
immediately arrest.
“I’m obsessive,” she said.
Milgrim blinked, shuddered.
“Basically,” she said, “I collect things. In accordion files, mostly. Pieces of paper.
Photographs. Sometimes I put them on the wall, in my office. I have a booking shot of
you, from a narcotics arrest in New York, 1997.”
“I wasn’t charged,” Milgrim said.
“No,” she agreed, “you weren’t.” She took a sip of Beck’s. “And I have a copy of your
passport photograph, which of course is much more recent. But this morning, following
you, I decided I’d be talking to you this afternoon. So I wanted to get a picture of you
before I did. In situ, sort of. Actually, though, I really am obsessive about pictures. I’m
not sure now whether I decided I’d talk to you this afternoon, first, or whether I just
decided to take your picture, which would mean I’d be talking to you this afternoon.” She
smiled. “Don’t you want your drink?”
Milgrim looked down at the small can, popped the top, and poured something
yellowish and carbonated into a highball glass.
“Let’s sit down,” she said, and settled into a leather club chair. Milgrim took the one
opposite her.
“What have I done?”
“I’m not psychic,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“Well,” she said, “you haven’t filed income tax for about a decade. But maybe you
haven’t been earning enough to need to file.”
“I don’t think I have,” Milgrim said.
“But you’re employed now?”
“On a sort of honorarium basis,” Milgrim said, apologetically. “Plus expenses.”
“Some serious expenses,” she said, looking around the honor bar. “By this ad agency,
Blue Ant?”
“Not formally, no,” said Milgrim, not liking the way that sounded. “I work for the