Q: A Novel by Evan Mandery

Author:Evan Mandery
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins

Chapter Fourteen

Getting a table at Jean-Georges is challenging. Getting a table at Nobu on a Friday night is nearly impossible. Once more, I call on the services of my great friend Ard Koffman, and again he delivers. I am even spared interacting with a reservationist.

I arrive at the restaurant on time. My older self is seated already, at a corner table near the waterfall, just behind one of the indoor bamboo trees. This version of me is younger than the last one. He looks to be in his mid-fifties. The years have been easier on him than they were on I-60. I-60 had canals under his sad eyes and flaky skin. He moved stiffly, as if grief burdened his every movement; even the simple extension of an arm seemed to be a cause of pain. This me is more supple. He is plumper and appears well oiled. When he rises to greet me, the movement of his arm is lithe and easy. His face is unwrinkled, almost preternaturally so, and I wonder for a moment, with horror, whether I have had some work. I take his hand, shake, and sit down, with substantial trepidation.

“Hey,” says the old me.

“Hey,” I repeat gingerly. The word isn’t ordinarily part of my lexicon.

“I suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing here.”

“The thought occurred to me,” I say. “How old are you?”

“Fifty-five,” he says. “How much time has passed from your perspective since you were last visited?”

“Six months,” I say.

I-55 shakes his head. “I’ll never forget that day in Rhinebeck,” he says wistfully.

“Me neither.”

“Do you wish you had made a different decision?”

“Every day, but what choice did I really have? What about you?”

I-55 thinks for a moment then shakes his head. “No, I don’t think I had any choice either.”

“So you have no regrets?”

“I wouldn’t say that exactly.”

The waiter arrives. I order the sushi dinner and a Diet Coke with lemon. I-55 orders the Kumamoto oysters with Maui onion salsa, the sashimi tacos, a bottle of hot sake, a Diet Coke with lime, and finally, two skewers of squid kushiyaki.

“Two drinks?”

“I’m thirsty.”

“Two appetizers?”

“What could be more appealing than an appetizer?” I-55 asks rhetorically. “It’s inherent in the name. Two appetizers means that you enjoy the dinner twice as much. Besides,” he says, “I haven’t eaten here in ages. If I have learned one thing over the years, it is to live life for the moment. I plan on enjoying this meal to the fullest.”

“I thought time travel was bad for the appetite.”

“Whoever told you that?”

“You did.”

“Surely you have me mistaken for someone else.”

“Impossible. You told me that during our dinner at Jean-Georges. Don’t you remember?”

I-55 guffaws—a hearty laugh that I do not recognize as my own. It emanates from deep in his belly, which he holds with both his hands as he rollicks in his chair. The laugh belongs to a man twice his size and possesses an intangible but real pretension—that only he can appreciate the full hilarity of what you, the ignoramus, have said. It belongs to a pompous man whom I do not recognize as an extension of myself.

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