Zero History

23. MEREDITH
Maybe Milgrim was the one who was hallucinating here, she thought, as she climbed the
Scandinavian stairway again, a tall paper cup of quadruple-shot Americain held gingerly
in either hand. The coffee was steaming hot; if Milgrim’s possibly imaginary stalker
suddenly manifested, she thought, she could hurl the contents of both cups.
Whatever that had been, down in the deserted blue-lit disco, if it had been anything at
all, it now seemed like some random frame-splice from someone else’s movie: Milgrim’s,
Bigend’s, anyone but hers. But she’d avoid that elevator, just in case, and she were still on
the lookout for vaguely Nazi caps.
Milgrim had issues, clearly. Was in fact deeply peculiar. She scarcely knew him. He
might well be seeing things. He looked, pretty much constantly, as though he were seeing
things.
She carefully kept the blow-up of the Corbijn portrait out of her field of vision as she
reached the second floor and the Salon du Vintage. Keeping her mind off the basement as
well, she wondered exactly when coffee had gone walkabout in France. When she’d first
been here, drinking coffee hadn’t been a pedestrian activity. One either sat to do it, in
cafés or restaurants, or stood, at bars or on railway platforms, and drank from sturdy
vessels, china or glass, themselves made in France. Had Starbucks brought the takeaway
cup? she wondered. She doubted it. They hadn’t really had the time. More likely
McDonald’s.
Her antique denim dealer, intense and ponytailed, was busy with a customer, laying out
a pair of ancient dungarees that seemed to have more holes than fabric. He looked as
though he should have supplemental lenses hinged to the edges of his rimless rectangular
spectacles. He didn’t see her pass.
And here, past the inflatable orange furniture, came a funeral, and Olduvai George
marching jauntily along beside it, smiling.
Four Japanese men in dark suits, unsmiling, a black coffin or body bag slung between
them.
They passed her, but not George. Delighted, he took one of the coffees. “Thank you
very much.”
“Sugar?”
“No, thank you.” He sipped hungrily.
“Who were they?” Looking over her shoulder as the four bore their somber burden out
of sight, down the stairs.
He lowered the cup, wiped his mouth with the back of his startlingly furred hand.
“Mere’s buyer’s minders. The Chanel’s in that bag, all of it, packed with archival tissue.
And there’s Mere,” he added, “with the buyer.”