We, Robots
Page 76
Alfredo did and she went to dinner in the Caribe on his arm. He looked so strong and dignified the other women in the room looked at him, then away. Jean felt a thrill go through her. Over dinner she murmured instructions which he executed flawlessly. She felt quite fond of him.
Over coffee, the waiter brought them a message from a Lydia Conklin and friend, inviting them for cocktails.
She read it. Alfredo did not—yet—read and stared away toward the open doorway of the bar.
“What are you looking at?” she asked.
He turned to her. “Nothing.”
“Look around the room regularly like a normal person.”
He did not answer but instead watched the room as if bored or waiting for the check.
Jean read the note again.
She shrugged and signed the check. The two of them went to the bar for a drink.
“Excuse me.” A woman stood up in front of them. “I am Lydia Conklin.”
Jean looked first at her, then at Alfredo. “I’m Jean Summat. I got your note—”
“I was dying for American speech.” As she spoke she only glanced at Jean. Her eyes were full of Alfredo. “You don’t know what it’s like.” Now, she turned to Jean. “Or perhaps you do.”
“I’ve been here a few weeks.”
“Señora Summat.”
That voice Jean knew. Behind and to her left was Hector. “Good evening, Hector.”
“You know Hector too?” Lydia said idly. “How wonderful.”
“Sit with us, Señora. Please.” Hector pulled out a chair for her. Jean looked at Alfredo. Alfredo paused a moment, watched her closely, then sat across from her at the table.
Hector sat next to Jean. He leaned toward Lydia. “Señora Summat, Alfredo and myself were business partners.”
“‘Were?” Lydia raised her eyebrows.
“The business is accomplished. It is of no matter.”
Jean interrupted. “Are you down for a vacation, Lydia?”
Lydia shrugged. “In a way. I’m down for my health. This last year I went mad.”
Hector laughed. Jean smiled uneasily. Lydia shrugged again.
“Señora Conklin makes a good joke.”
“It was, I suppose.” Lydia sipped her drink. “I came down here two years ago and fell in love with a Mayan. I’m back to see if lightning can strike twice.”
Something in her face was hard to look at for more than a moment. Jean looked away. “What was the Mayan’s name?”
“Alberto. Hector is helping me find another.”
Hector seemed nervous. He turned to Jean. “I introduce Señora Conklin to eligible men—”
“He pimps for me.” Lydia lit a cigarette. “Your Mayan reminds me of Alberto.”
“Alfredo. His name is Alfredo.” Jean looked at Alfredo. His face was impassive.
“The names are almost the same.” Lydia blew smoke in the air above the table.
“Did Alberto care for you?”
“He”—Lydia paused a moment—”he adored me. He was my slave.”
“Señoras? Would you care for more drinks?” Hector was perspiring now.
Jean and Lydia stared at one another.
Jean turned to Alfredo. “What do you think of this?”
Alfredo did not speak for a long minute, watching the two women. Then he smiled at Jean. “A Mayan is no woman’s slave.” And he laughed.
Lydia stared at him with an open mouth. Hector frowned.
Jean looked at them both in triumph. “I suspect that may be the definitive Mayan answer. Alfredo, would you take me to my room?”
Alfredo stood quickly and led her away.
Jean was thinking: What is in him? What is in there?
*
It was June now and the island was somewhat hotter and much more humid. The frigate birds flew low over the buildings as if the wet air could not support them. The Mexican fishermen brought in great nets of snapper and bonita. The American sport fishermen disappeared in search of marlin and sailfish.
Lydia Conklin stayed. She always seemed to be watching Alfredo. Hector seemed to leave the island regularly but he always returned. Jean fancied she could tell when either was around just by the feeling of eyes on Alfredo.
Often Lydia would invite them to dinner, or cards, or for drinks. Usually Jean turned her down. Sometimes, though, they would go and Jean never could figure out why. There was a dance here, a dangerous ballet that attracted her.
One evening, they were drinking in Lydia’s apartment in the Presidente.
“You know,” Lydia began, swirling tequila in a brandy snifter. “I’ve been seeing you both for a couple of months now. I don’t know what Alfredo does. What do you do, Alfredo?”
Alfredo sat back in his chair and looked at Jean, then back to Lydia. “Do?”
“How do you support yourself?”
For a moment, Alfredo did not seem to understand. “I do contract work.”
Jean glanced at him over the rim of her glass. Good God. What have I got here?
“Contract work?” Lydia came over to him. “Did you build these great strong arms at a desk job?”
Alfredo shook his head. “I do nothing with a desk. I work with bricklayers. Tilers. Those who build walls and houses.”
“Ah!” Lydia leaned back. “You are a contractor.”
“That’s what I said.”
“This is how you support her? This is what she left her husband for?” Lydia stiffened and swayed, looked down at him. “Christ, you have sunk low.”
Jean didn’t know which of them Lydia was speaking to. Alfredo looked at Jean and suddenly there was pleading in his eyes.
“I think it’s time we left, Lydia.” Jean carefully put down her drink. “Thanks and all.”
Lydia threw her glass against the wall shattering it. “I’m sick of this! I owned him before you—then, I left him. Hector sold him to me first! Do you understand? To me!” She knelt before him. “Alberto. Tell me you remember me. Tell me I didn’t come back for nothing.”
Jean couldn’t move.
Alfredo put out his hand and touched her cheek. He traced the line of her jaw, then held her head in both hands. He tilted her face toward his. Her tears were clearly visible now, hot and pouring. He looked at her closely, staring, searching her face with his eyes.
“I don’t know you,” he said softly and let her go.
She fell at his feet and started sobbing.
Alfredo took Jean’s arm and led her out. “It’s been a lovely evening,” Jean said as they left.
*
Later: in bed.
It took her a long time to catch her breath afterward. She was covered in a light sheen of sweat that made her cold in the air-conditioning. “What are you?” she asked quietly.
He did not answer. She drew the tip of her finger down his chest. “Answer me. What are you?”
He looked at her in the dark and she could see a glow in his eyes.
“I don’t know.”
*
You could not call it consciousness, for consciousness determines its own needs and he could not do that. He was predetermined. He was programmed. Neither could you call him a person, for a person has a complex assortment of drives that come from many sources. His drives were simple and their source was singular.
He was a tool: intelligent, willful, resourceful. A tool aimed at a specific purpose.
*
Jean followed him to Cancún.
She sat in the far back section of the crowded ferry, away from him. There had been a storm the day before and though the air was clear, the resulting seas kept the big automobile ferry at dock. But the little ferry that carried only people plowed through the sea. It was close and hot aboard the boat and it stank of animals, sweat, rotten fish, diesel fumes. The sea pitched them back and forth until Jean was sure she was about to be sick. A large rip in the fabric covering the deck rails showed the bobbing horizon and she stared at it until she had the nausea under control.
When the boat docked he hailed one of the cabs and left. Jean was barely able to hail one in time to follow him.
His cab stopped just outside the Plaza Hidalgo next to the site of a new library. Alfredo stepped out of the cab and Jean didn’t recognize him at first. He’d changed in the cab. His workman’s dungarees and loose shirt were gone. Now, he was wearing a tie and short-sleeved white shirt and slacks. He walked over to the contractor’s office, never noticing her following him. She saw him talking with the architect in rapid-fire Spanish. He seemed to be in charge of the construction. She withdrew before he could see her.
As Jean left the construction site she saw a woman sitting on the park bench across the street from the office. The woman smoked a cigarette and watched Alfredo through the office window. It was Lydia Conklin.
Jean moved into the shade behind her to watch.
After an hour or so, Alfredo came out with a soda and sat down with the foreman to discuss some detail of the construction. Lydia put out the cigarette and crossed the street to him. He stood to meet her. They spoke for several minutes. Suddenly, Lydia raked his face with her nails—Jean could see the blood—and left him, walking hurriedly.
Jean left hurriedly, too. She had no desire to see Lydia. Jean returned to the ferry and stood on the open deck this time, smiling, watching nothing but the open sea and the frigate birds flying in the wind.
She checked her bank account in Isla Mujeres. There were several thousand dollars more than there should have been. Alfredo must have been in this position for some time. It made her laugh softly.
He is mine, Lydia. He is mine to touch, make, and mold.
*
The storm in him gradually calmed. The needs that drove him called out other needs, other traits. A sluggish thought blew through him, an inarticulate gale across the continents of what should have been a mind. It shook him. It broke the back of the incoherent storm that raged in him and let in the light. He stood blind and trembling in that light, trying to speak.
*
Jean awoke and he was not there.
She sat up suddenly and looked around the room. He stood, nude, on the balcony staring at the sea. The sliding door was open. She could smell the ocean through the air-conditioning.
“Alfredo?”
He croaked something unintelligible.
She followed him out into the air. “Alfredo?” He was dripping with sweat. The moonlight made him glow. “Did you have a nightmare?” Ridiculous. Why would he have nightmares?
He turned to her and his face was wet with tears, the long scabs from Lydia’s fingernails dark on his silver face. He shook his head, buried his face in his hands.
“What’s going on?” She started toward him.
He looked at her in such pain she stepped back. “1 am...”
Suddenly, Jean did not want to know. She left him and reentered the apartment. Alfredo followed her, reached out to her. She backed away. He was huge. He filled the room—she remembered the night in Hector’s house, how strong he was. He was dark in the shadows of the room, looming over her.
“I am…,” he repeated. “I am a man.” He reached for her again.
Jean dodged him and ran to the other edge of the table. “Stay there.”
“Jean… I have become a man for you.”
“Stay there! That’s an order!”
He followed her. They circled the table. Jean grabbed the scissors from the table and held them in front of her. “Stay away from me.”
“Jean. I love you.”
The moonlight struck his face and it was all shadows and silver. His eyes glowed for her, his face was transfigured by some secret knowledge. He leaped the table toward her and she fell back and he took her shoulders. She screamed and drove the scissors deep into his chest.
His hands fell away from her and she stumbled against the wall, staring at him.
Alfredo touched the handles of the scissors, looked at her and began to sway, caught himself, fell down to his knees. He looked at her again and full realization of what had happened seemed to touch him. He fell on his back, twitched twice, and was still.
Jean crumpled into a chair and watched the body. Finally, she pulled the scissors from his chest and washed them in the bathroom until they were clean. She drew her finger down the blades. Not sharp. Not sharp at all. But sharp enough. She smiled. She felt filled somehow. Satisfied.
Jean packed carefully and when she was done, she kissed Alfredo good-bye on his cold lips and walked down to the ferry dock. She reached the Cancún airport in time for the early morning flight to New Orleans. From there, she took a flight to Boston.
As she lay back in her seat watching the clouds move beneath her, she thought about Marc: if he had waited for her, if he had divorced her. She would like to start again with him if she could, but she would survive if she couldn’t. She felt alive with possibility.
Jean fell asleep and dreamed of frigate birds circling endlessly above her.
*
Hector found him an hour after dawn. “Mierda,” he said when he saw the blood. “That she could…” He shook his head as he opened the suitcase he had with him. With tools he had brought with him, he cut open Alfredo’s chest and sewed the heart and lungs back together, then closed the chest cavity. From the suitcase he brought two broad plates connected to thick electrical cables and attached them to either side of Alfredo’s chest. Alfredo convulsed as Hector adjusted the controls inside the suitcase. Alfredo moaned and opened his eyes.
“Good,” said Hector. He detached the plates and returned them to the suitcase.
“Hector…” Alfredo shook his head from side to side. “She hurt me.”
Hector watched him carefully but did not listen. He flicked two switches and watched the meters.
Alfredo sat up. “I am a man, Hector.”
Hector nodded absently and adjusted his controls. “Certainly, she thought you were. Or she would never have tried to kill you. Stand, por favor.”
Alfredo stood. “I am still a man.”
Hector shrugged. “For the moment.”
“You can’t take something like that away.” Alfredo clutched his hands together and looked out the window. “I must follow her.”
“She doesn’t want you. She’s gotten what she needed.”
Alfredo turned and noticed the suitcase. He watched Hector adjusting the controls. Alfredo pleaded with him. “I love her. She needs me. You can’t take something like that away.”
“No?” Two needles appeared on either side of one dial. Carefully, Hector brought them together.
“Hector! Don’t. Please.” Alfredo’s hands clutched the air and his face twisted. “Please,” he whispered. “You can’t—”
Hector flicked a switch and Alfredo stiffened. A blank look descended on Alfredo’s face.
“Of course I can,” said Hector and stood up himself. “Señora Conklin? He is ready.”
Lydia entered the room. “He is? Wonderful.” She turned to the Mayan. “Alberto.” The blank eyes turned toward the sound of her voice. “I am so glad to see you again.”
(2003)
THAT LAUGH
Patrick O’Leary
Patrick O’Leary was born September 13, 1952 in Saginaw, Michigan. He drifted from journalism into advertising, and became a copy intern at one of the major Detroit agencies, working on the Chevrolet account – work that has seen him through his entire professional career. His first novel, Door Number Three, appeared in 1995. His latest novel is The Impossible Bird (2002). A collection of stories, The Black Heart, was published in 2009. O’Leary told Locus magazine, “I try to write books that are indescribable. If you try to describe them, they sort of crumble.” “That Laugh” was inspired by a visit with some colleagues to La Brea Tar Pits in California. “When we returned to my rental car, we discovered it had been broken into. We lost briefcases, passports, laptops, etc. I lost so
me fifty handwritten pages of a novel. Which sucked. But at least, now, I can say I have managed to retrieve something useful from the experience.”
Twenty years ago, in the summer of 2002, I was hired to make an examination at the La Brea Tar Pits Museum in Los Angeles. At that time I had been in the field of forensic psychology for some thirty years. It was a lucrative contract, as all government contracts are, and for my trouble I was required to submit an oral and written report, take my check, and disappear. All contact with me was entirely routine and formal and conveyed no hint of urgency, but at no time was I given any clues whatsoever about the subject’s identity. Thus I knew it was no ordinary interview. This was confirmed by the security clearances involved—for example: I took two flights across the country to arrive at the museum, which I assume was some sort of elaborate subterfuge.
During my stay I enjoyed the hospitality of a Santa Monica beachfront hotel. I was allowed three days to transcribe the interview, type my report, and record my oral top-line summary. Met a lovely woman on the pier the first night, and after a late meal of margaritas and white fish we enjoyed a pleasant sexual romp. At three o’clock in the morning I was woken by the roar of the ocean. I saw her standing naked at the threshold of the balcony, the pale diaphanous white curtains blowing back into the room, the scent of the surf, and her dark caramel skin black in the half light, and I thought for a few seconds I was dreaming. She must have sensed I was watching her, admiring her lithe form, for she turned to me and said, “Shouldn’t you be working on your report? They expect it day after tomorrow.”
Then she laughed.
In the morning she was gone and I had to convince myself that the whole episode was real. The littlest things about that night bothered me like a pebble in my shoe. Why didn’t she use the word “the”? Why didn’t she say “The day after tomorrow?” How come she never said what country she was from? Her accent was curious, but I couldn’t place it. To this day, I’m frankly not sure how much of this actually happened. And, given all that followed this encounter, I remain in an uncomfortable quantum state of unknowable alternatives.