When the Nines Roll Over by David Benioff Page B

the British troops in North Africa and later moved to Rhodesia, where my father was born. For my grandfather, the only story worth reading was the holy one, King James Version. My father rejected the God of the book in favor of empirical truth. He never understood my obsession with fictions, the barbarians, starships, detectives, and cowboys that filled the shelves of my childhood room. He purged his mind of fantasy only to watch his lone child slip back into the muck.
    This story starts on Tuesday. I was twenty years old. On bad afternoons I sometimes found myself where I had not meant to go: lying on the dead grass in Bryant Park with a bottle of celery soda balanced on my chest; inside a Chinese herb store breathing exotic dust; riding the subway to the end of the line, Far Rockaway, and back. The bad days came like Churchill’s black dogs; they paced the corridor outside my bedroom, raking the carpet with their claws. The bad days chewed the corners. When my corners got too chewed for walking, I took a taxi to the Frick Museum, stood in front of Bellini’s Saint Francis, and waited for the right angles to return.
    On this bad Tuesday I stared at Saint Francis and Saint Francis stared into the sky, hands open by his side, head tilted back, lips parted, receiving the full favor of the Lord. Bellini shows the man at the moment of his stigmatization, the spots of blood sprouting from his palms. I don’t think I’m being vulgar or inaccurate when I say that the saint’s expression is orgasmic—the Rapture of divine penetration. The animals are waiting for him, the wild ass, the rabbit, the skinny-legged heron—they want to have a word with him, they see that Francis is in ecstasy and they’re concerned. From the animal perspective, I think, nothing that makes you bleed is a good thing. The rabbit, especially, watches the proceedings with extreme skepticism.
    After an hour things inside my brain sorted themselves out, the thoughts began to flow with relative order, my bladder swelled painfully. In the restroom, I locked myself in the toilet stall, did my business, closed the seat, and sat down for a smoke.
    The stall walls were covered with names and dates, a worldly graffiti: Rajiv from London, Thiago from São Paulo, Sikorsky from Brooklyn.
    Someone rapped on the door. “Occupied,” I said.
    â€œYou’ll have to put out the cigarette, sir. No smoking in the museum.”
    I took a final long drag, stood, lifted the toilet seat, and flushed the butt. When I opened the stall door the guard was still standing there, a tired-looking kid about my age, batwing-eared, narrow-shouldered, his maroon blazer two sizes too large. He stared at me sadly, hands in his pockets.
    â€œYou smoke Lucky Strikes,” he said. “I could smell them from the hallway. They used to be my brand.” He spoke with a forlorn air, as if the real meaning of his words were, You slept with Cindy. She used to be my girlfriend . “Hey,” he added, smiling, “the Saint Francis man.”
    I squinted at him and he nodded happily.
    â€œYou’re the guy who always comes and stands by that Saint Francis painting. What’s the matter, you don’t like the other stuff?”
    â€œI like The Polish Rider .”
    I was spending too much time in this place. The Frick made for a cheap afternoon with my student discount—I had dropped out of NYU after a term but kept my ID. I hated the idea that people were watching me. Perhaps I had grown too dependent on Saint Francis. I walked over to the sink to wash my hands.
    â€œMe too, I like that one. Well, listen, sorry about busting you. It’s pretty high school. Detention! But I’ve only been working here a couple weeks and, you know.”
    He held the door open for me and I thanked him, exited the bathroom, drying my hands on the seat of my corduroys. The guard followed me, walking with a bowlegged strut as though he had six-guns