INCOGNOLIO Page 11

  What if, I wonder, I’m not the only person who has been visited by Incognolio? Could it be that I am meant to get in touch with this other person or persons? It seems worth a try. So I place a notice in the personals section of Craigslist and the local newspaper, asking anyone who has heard of Incognolio to contact me.

  In the first few days, all I get are a couple of crank calls from morons who saw my phone number in the paper. Undeterred, I post the notice every day for an entire month. Still no luck.

  I’m ready to give up when, on a hunch, I decide to keep running the ad with the word Mazazel substituted for Incognolio. And on the seventeenth day, I receive an email that reads:

  Dear Dr. Slodkin,

  I am responding to your post, and am intrigued to hear from someone who has knowledge of Mazazel. If you are serious about this inquiry, please meet me tonight at The Drunken Duck, at ten o’clock sharp. I shall be wearing a black beret.

  Sincerely,

  Laszlo Skuntch

  I am elated, certain that I’m now on the right track. I reply to the email, confirming our meeting, and head out that evening feeling hopeful, eager to meet the man in the black beret. At precisely 10:00 PM I arrive at The Drunken Duck, just a short walk from my apartment. When I enter, I spot Laszlo Skuntch almost immediately, sitting at a booth with his back toward me.

  I walk over and sit down across from him and am about to introduce myself when my jaw drops open.

  Laszlo appears equally bewildered. Once he recovers himself, he says, “Misha Slodkin, I presume?”

  “Yes!” I say. “B-B-Brother?”

  “It would appear that way.”

  Except for the beret, a pencil-line mustache, and a malevolent gleam in his eyes, it’s as if I’m looking in the mirror.

  It turns out that both of us knew that we’d been adopted at birth, but neither had ever been told about having a biological sibling, let alone an identical twin.

  “I’m stunned,” I say. “But perhaps on some level I knew all along. That would help explain why the novel I’m writing is crawling with twins.”

  “I’m working on a novel as well,” Laszlo replies. “That’s why I responded to your notice. You see, my novel is titled Mazazel.”

  “No kidding! Mine is titled Incognolio, but one of my characters almost titles her novel Mazazel.”

  “Astonishing.”

  A waitress stops by and we both order Jack Daniels on the rocks, which she swiftly delivers. I tell Laszlo about how I lost Angelica and the twins, and then heard the word Incognolio when I was on the verge of drowning.

  Laszlo conveys his condolences. But when I ask him how he came up with the title of his novel, he abruptly changes the subject. This only whets my curiosity, however, and I repeatedly press him until he relents.

  “Fine.” His voice is now hushed. “But you must promise never to repeat this story to anyone. Is that clear?”

  “I promise, I promise. Word of honor.”

  Laszlo scrutinizes me and then says, “Very well.” He tosses off his whiskey and signals the waitress for another round.

  “Like many couples who adopt their first child, my parents—who had given up all hope of having a child of their own—conceived my brother within months of my arrival. Kurt was just a year younger than me, and I despised the little prick from the moment I laid eyes on him.

  “My parents did nothing to hide the fact that they loved Kurt more than me, that they regarded him as their true son, whereas I was simply an intruder. Kurt’s birthdays were grand celebrations, while mine were barely acknowledged. Kurt’s Christmas presents were extravagant, while mine were chintzy at best. Kurt was enrolled at the finest private academies, while I languished in our town’s woefully underfunded public school system.”

  The waitress brings our drinks, and Laszlo tells her to keep them coming.

  “Do you know what it’s like to be treated as a second-class citizen? As an interloper?” he asks me.

  “No,” I reply. “I grew up without siblings.”

  “Well, it was hell, let me tell you. I repeatedly ran away but was always dragged back home, where my father, who never missed an opportunity to beat the stuffing out of me, welcomed me with a thorough thrashing.

  “Anyhow, Kurt—the golden child—went on to graduate from Princeton and Harvard Medical School, tuition paid in full by my parents, who gave not one penny toward my college degree. Kurt became a pediatric surgeon, the best in his field, whereas I became an entrepreneur, starting up a series of businesses that unfailingly failed, leaving me nearly penniless. Kurt married his childhood sweetheart and had three adorable children and a golden retriever, while I lived friendless and alone.

  “Last year I received an invitation from Kurt to join him and his family on Christmas day. This came as somewhat of a surprise, given that we had been largely out of touch since the demise of our parents. Nevertheless, I accepted the invitation.

  “From the moment I arrived, I was suffused with envy. In stark contrast to my hovel in town, Kurt’s suburban mansion was opulent. Kurt’s wife was gracious and gorgeous, and his children were charming and full of life, laughing and joking as they opened their presents. Always thoughtful and considerate to a fault, Kurt had left an expensive gift for me under the tree. But that only fueled my resentment, reminding me of the gross disparity in the Christmas presents we’d received as kids.

  “By the time we finished supper, I was seething with anger and bitterness. Kurt had all the advantages growing up, and now he possessed everything I longed for, while I had nothing.

  “While my sister-in-law cleaned up and the kids played with their new toys, Kurt invited me to share some fine Cognac out on the back porch. We stood at the railing, looking out on his enormous wooded yard, which was covered with more than a foot of glistening snow. Huge icicles hung from the eaves, slowly melting in the bright December sun.

  “Sipping his Courvoisier, Kurt waxed poetic about the beauty and wonder of life. He rhapsodized about how fulfilling his work was, describing his recent trip to Zimbabwe, where he helped set up medical clinics in some of the most destitute regions of that impoverished nation. When he returned home he realized more than ever how fortunate he was to have such a rewarding life, and such a loving wife and family.

  “As my brother droned on, I gulped down the Cognac and worked myself into a frenzy of mounting fury. Each and every day he saved the lives of children, for Christ’s sake, whereas I offered nothing to society, caring only for myself. Had he no idea how smug and superior he sounded? Had he no inkling of how agonizingly envious and resentful I felt?

  “I wanted to scream at Kurt, to strangle him. A dark force welled up within me that I could no longer contain. Placing my empty snifter upon the railing, I was on the verge of attacking my brother when my eye caught the sparkle of the largest of the icicles looming above us. In a flash, I jumped up and snapped it off. Cupping the back of Kurt’s head with one hand, I used the other to jam the pointed end of my weapon into his eye and deep into his brain, just as I heard a voice within me—sinister and vicious—shout out: Mazazel!”

  Laszlo sees the horror in my eyes and can’t quite manage to keep his lips from curling into a grin.

  “Did Kurt die?” I ask.

  “Instantly. I told his wife that we’d been looking up and admiring the icicles when one of them broke loose and pierced his eye. Of course, there were no fingerprints, and by the time the police arrived the murder weapon was nothing but a pool of water. Why, I couldn’t have devised a more devious means of killing him if I’d planned it for months in advance!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  PRESIDENT DORK

  “I can see that my story has made quite an impression on you,” says Laszlo, who now smiles broadly. “Well, before you get up and run out of here, I suppose I should inform you that none of it is true.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “I made the whole thing up just now! That’s what I do, Misha. I’m a
crime novelist.”

  “So you didn’t kill Kurt?”

  “Kurt doesn’t exist. Like you, I grew up as an only child.”

  Feeling rattled, I take a drink of whiskey. On the one hand, I’m relieved that my twin brother isn’t a maniacal murderer. On the other, I now mistrust him and wonder why he would play such morbid mind games.

  “You’re a strange man, Laszlo,” I say. “And you still haven’t told me how you came up with the title of your novel.”

  “The truth of the matter is that the real story is so bizarre that you’ll never believe it.”

  “Try me,” I say.

  “I was scheduled to have a cavity filled this morning, so I went to Dr. Horniak’s office in the Medical Arts building. I entered the elevator and pressed the button for the sixth floor. When the doors opened, I thought I was on the wrong floor, since the carpet in the hallway was blue instead of beige. So I pressed the button for six again, but the elevator didn’t budge. Figuring they had replaced the carpet, I walked down the hallway, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Upon entering suite 639, there was a secretary at the desk whom I didn’t recognize. When I told her that I had a two-thirty appointment, she burst out laughing.”

  “How come?” I ask Laszlo.

  “She said it was a gynecology practice! Scratching my head, I pointed out that Grunyon Horniak’s name was still on the office door, and she replied that Dr. Horniak was the gynecologist. I said I was certain that he was a dentist, but the secretary insisted that she had been working in that same office for several years.

  “I took the elevator back to the lobby and left the building. Feeling distraught, I went around the corner to get a whiskey at Dirty Nelly’s, but the pub was gone and there was a post office in its place!”

  As he traced one side of his mustache with the tip of a finger, Laszlo searched my eyes, probably wondering whether I’d guessed where this was headed.

  “Well, I needed stamps to pay my bills, so I went in to buy some. While I was paying for the stamps, I noticed a framed photo of the host of You’re Fired! on the wall. I asked the woman who was assisting me why there was a picture of that asswipe—Donald J. Dork—in a U.S. post office, and when she said he was the president, it finally dawned on me that I’d entered an alternate universe.”

  “Okay, Laszlo,” I say. “I’ve had enough of this. If you don’t want to tell me how you came up with your title that’s fine, but spare me your idiot tales.”

  “See, I told you you’d never believe me. But I swear to God it’s the truth!”

  “Right.” I study him for tells and find none, which convinces me that, at the very least, he believes what he’s saying. I heave a sigh and settle back into my chair. “So finish the damn story.”

  “I like to think I’m the adventurous type, Misha. But I really couldn’t stomach a reality in which Dork was the leader of the free world. So I headed back to what was now labeled the Medical Arts & Crafts building, figuring that the elevator had to be the portal between universes. I took the elevator up to the sixth floor, hoping to get back home, but the carpet was still blue. I rode up and down repeatedly, but no luck.

  “I walked down the street and bought a paper at a newsstand to at least see what was going on in this world, and then hailed a cab, directing the cabby to what I hoped was still my apartment. En route, I came across a photo of myself in the newspaper. The accompanying article said that there was a rumor circulating the Internet that the famous crime novelist, Laszlo Skuntch, was a serial killer. Someone had apparently gone through a list of the unsolved murder cases in the city over the past fifteen years, and discovered a pattern. According to the rumor, for each novel I published, I conducted ‘research’ by murdering someone in the exact same way that the killer knocks off his victim in my book!

  “Needless to say, I found this disturbing, although not altogether surprising, given that in my home universe I’m a professional hit man.”

  “Say what?” I say.

  “I’m a freelance hit man, Misha. Folks pay me to terminate someone they want dead. Anyhow, I got home and everything seemed to be the same as usual, except that my pit bull, Boudreaux, was missing and for some reason I owned an African Grey parrot who kept calling me fuckface.

  “I immediately went to my computer to check my email and get oriented. There I discovered a message from someone named Floreska, who is apparently my literary agent. She indicated that she didn’t believe the allegations that I was the Mystery Murderer, but that even if they were true, the publicity would be a boon for book sales. Floreska also asked whether I’d finished Mazazel, the novel I’d just started writing in my home universe.

  “I accessed my files, opened one called Mazazel, and skimmed the manuscript, which in fact is not finished. Then I returned to my emails and discovered one from you, confirming our ten o’clock meeting at the Drunken Duck. Well, as the protagonist in Mazazel, I have an important meeting at the Drunken Duck, so I figured that I’d better go. I had dinner, fed the goddamn parrot, threw on a black beret, and here I am.”

  I am silent for some time, wondering what to make of this outlandish account.

  Finally, I say, “So you’re suggesting that I exist in the alternate universe you’ve stumbled into?”

  “Precisely,” Laszlo replies. “And you’re also a character in the book I’m writing. As soon as I saw your face it all made sense.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You see, Mazazel is another crime novel.” Laszlo smiles, his eyes radiating pure evil. “The story is about a man who murders his long-lost twin brother.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  LUNARIA

  “You’re not seriously planning to kill me, are you?” I ask Laszlo, not knowing what to believe at this point.

  “It all depends on how I decide to murder you in my novel,” he replies. “As a hit man, I’ve used just about every lethal method that’s been devised. But if I happen to come up with something new…well, let’s just say you’d better watch your back.”

  “But why is it necessary to try out a method before you write about it? It’s just a book, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Authenticity, my dear brother.” Laszlo grins. “Since I appear to be trapped in this universe, I’ve decided to pick up where the other Laszlo left off, and my readers demand no less than complete believability.”

  I roll my eyes and then get up to leave. Laszlo tosses some bills on the table to cover the drinks and accompanies me to the door.

  “By the way,” he says, “how the hell did Dork manage to make it to the White House?”

  “Motherfucker assembled a massively-armed Tea-Party militia,” I reply. “Staged a military coup.”

  “Jesus,” says Laszlo. He bids me farewell and I start walking back to my apartment, vowing never to place another damn ad in Craigslist.

  The more I think about him, the more I despise Laszlo. In general, I’m an amicable fellow who hardly ever feels ill will toward anyone. As a psychotherapist, I treated some mighty disturbed folks, but always managed to find something to like about them. With Laszlo, though, I am filled with unadulterated loathing and revulsion, and can find no redeeming trait whatsoever.

  As I walk, I’m aware of how disorienting it feels to regard myself as dwelling in someone else’s alternate universe. I like to think that my universe is the real universe, and any others that might be out there exist as alternates, and are thus subordinate in status. But now I see that this view is irrational, a symptom of universe-centric thinking, and that my home universe is no better or more central than any other.

  As I ponder how many alternate universes may contain some version of me, a familiar voice calls out, “Dr. Slodkin!”

  “Lunaria!” I reply, feeling both excitement and trepidation.

  Lunaria, an exceedingly beautiful and neurotic woman in her thirties, is one of my former patients. I know it would be best to just greet her and continue on my way, but she stands
directly in my path, arms crossed, defying me to avoid a conversation with her.

  “What are you doing out so late?” she asks.

  “Had a drink with someone,” I respond. “And yourself?”

  “I’m attending a Wakan at a nearby loft. You should come along.”

  Wakans, spiritual gatherings that begin at midnight and last until dawn, have recently become all the rage. Akin to the Native American peyote ceremony, the Wakan was designed to allow participants to commune with the spirit world.

  “Are you sure that would be good for you?”

  “Are you whacked?” Lunaria replies. “Attending Wakans has been a life saver for me! Especially since you fucking dumped me.”

  Four years ago, when she first entered treatment, I knew Lunaria was going to be a handful. She was flirtatious, demanding, and manipulative, and she rapidly developed a powerful transference that alternated between adoring me and treating me like shit.

  I had dealt with similar patient-therapist dynamics in the past and managed to use them to promote the therapeutic process, but this time it was different. I first noticed it in small things, like my paying more attention to how I dressed on the days that I was scheduled to see Lunaria. I bent the rules, allowing her to continue talking for several minutes after sessions had ended, and letting her owe her co-payments month after month without addressing the issue.

  Soon I became aware that I was thinking about Lunaria between sessions to an inordinate degree. I had become infatuated with her. Normally I refrained from discussing my work with Angelica, to whom I was engaged at the time, but in this instance, I felt compelled to reveal what was going on, almost as if I felt guilty of infidelity. This only made matters worse, since Angelica became jealous of my feelings toward Lunaria. She asked me to transfer her to another therapist, which I refused to do, insisting that it would be too traumatic for my patient. Instead, partly in an effort to assuage Angelica’s jealousy, I set a date for our wedding.