Page 4 of Over My Dead Boss
“Bell-who?”
“Famous art forger. Forged the old masters, got super rich and then inevitably caught.”
“Maybe you didn’t hear, but my plan didnotinclude the part about getting caught. However, I see your point. Does that manuscript actually exist though?” Sienna finishes half of her curry, leans back against our bed and loosens the cord on her pajama pants.
“Isabella says so. She used to work with him quite closely, so she must know. I spent half the day gathering all the information I could find about him.”
“Couldn’t have taken that long,” Sienna interrupts, “since you already know everything there is to know about him.”
“I know everything about his books. There’s a difference. I don’t even know what he looks like.”
“Wait, what? Isn’t that him?” She points at the framed picture standing next to Phoenix’s books on my bookshelf.
“Oh, no. That picture was in there already when I bought it on the flea market. I just liked the frame and kept the picture as a placeholder until I could add an actual portrait of him.”
Sienna hums lightly. “Right, and you still maintain you’re not a crazy person. Actually, it’s a relief. I was worried your taste in men was… well, whatever that is,” she says, nodding toward the portrait.
“Hey, now. He’s cute in his own sort of way. Besides,Ihave a weird taste in men? Says the woman who, not once, but twice, decided to give her cheating ex another chance?”
“Fair enough. Maybe I should start fixating over fictional characters, too. Less heartbreak that way. Unless they die, of course.”
“You’d be sorely mistaken if you think that’s less heartbreak, but I encourage it anyway. Feel free to read all of these.” I motion towards the vast collection of books that take up more space than they probably should. “Also, he’s not fictional and I am going to find him. Now hand me my scrapbook,” I say and pull the obituary from my bag.
After I finish arts and crafts and the rest of Sienna’s dinner, we open our fortune cookies, as is tradition. A tradition we started when we first moved in here and couldn’t afford to buy actual dessert.
“A closed mouth gathers no feet,” Sienna mutters and frowns, but before she can complain, I press my finger to her lips. Her side-stare speaks volumes instead.
I open mine and read out loud as well, “You will die alone… and poorly dressed.”
My roommate breaks out into a laughing fit that causes the chairman to hide behind our big Swiss cheese plant in the corner.
“I was really hoping for something a lot more poetic and custom-tailored to my current emotional need.” I crumble the piece of paper up and put it in my pocket.
After a solid minute of laughter, Sienna manages to answer, “Boy, I sure hope that ain’t custom-made for you. Did Mr. Menon buy sassy fortune cookies to mess with us? This is all your fault, you know.”
“I refuse to sell myself out for better fortune cookies.”
“Fortune cookies aaaand free food.” Sienna nods decidedly as she eats the little treat. “Besides, his son is quite cute.”
“I know. Still no. I’ll have time to date once I’m old and wrinkly. Now help me get this cleaned up,” I say and stagger to my feet, gathering our trash to take it right out in order to keep our bedroom from smelling like a restaurant for the rest of the night. Afterwards, Sienna keeps detailing what kind of island I am supposed to buy her (with a waterfall and two food replicators, not one) until she falls asleep. I, on the other hand, can’t even dream of sleeping. Energy, created by the prospect of finding Phoenix Cyrus, rushes through my veins and the exhaustion from earlier is like blown away when I imagine holding my very own book in my very own hands.
Imagine, daydream, hallucinate.
I google, bing and even duckduckgo his name, his family members, books, and every single thing I can think of, but come up with almost nothing. Somehow he has managed to have zero usable pictures, or anything other than the most basic information of himself, online. An impressive feat, considering the fact that he is the heir to a giant conglomerate, a professor emeritus, and the winner of several literary awards (all of which he did not accept, apparently). Sienna suddenly begins to move next to me and I notice that the sun is up already.
She yawns and stretches her limbs all over me. “Already awake?” her tired voice asks.
“Still,” I answer and struggle to get up from our bed, my extremities thoroughly asleep, unlike me. After limbering up a bit, I make my way into the adjacent bathroom to brush my teeth and take a quick shower. When I get back, coffee is already waiting. “Thank you.”
“You will,” Sienna says. “You can thank me by giving me my ownSiennaland?” She pours a little milk into my cup. “Definitelynooilherelandso I won’t get invaded?”
“You keep thinking about your island’s name. In the meantime, I have work to do.” I grab my phone and dial the NYT ads department. After two rings, an older lady, who introduces herself as Rosalinde, but whom I am supposed to call Rosa, answers the phone.
I put on my best Scottish accent. “Hello there, Rosa. So good to talk to you. Listen, I’m not sure if we’ve had the pleasure before, but I need your help. See, our company, CY Publishing, we have placed that ad… well, obituary with you guys and—”
Before I can finish the lines that I spent half the night memorizing, Rosa interrupts me with a loudOhhhhmygoshhoney.
She continues, “I was… we all were so, so sorry to hear of his passing. It’s been the talk of the office ever since. I wasthebiggest fan. I remember devouring each book of his Memorandum series right here at work when they came out. Nothing got done those days. It pains me that I will never be able to find out what Noël was writing in those notebooks of his.”
