Reed just barely smiled, already annoyed. He never could stand being around that man for more than thirty seconds at a time. If there’s someone who ought to feel awkward, it’s you, who still walks around in that outfit. Pathetic. A guy in his sixties with pointy ears and sagging pectorals, a guy who has a TV show where he talks to the audience from inside an enormous aquarium, swimming around with schools of coloured fish.
“I can’t stand this caterwauling,” Namor said, referring to the musical performance, probably irritated that he had no one around him, no audience to regale with his typical stories. The kingdom of the undersea depths and the rest of his repertoire. No one had ever been able to ascertain Namor’s true origins, but he’d been spouting those stories for decades. Namor took another swig, and then with an allusive glance he shot out a question: “And how is your lovely ex-wife?”
“She’s fine,” Reed replied, without grasping the reason for that glance and that conspiratorial tone.
They ran through a few more conversational gambits. They talked about people they both knew, what had ever become of Captain America and other old colleagues, what they’d heard about Superman, who was now an elderly and sick man, and other things, but they never exchanged more than a couple of sentences about any given topic.
At last, as the performance was coming to an end and a round of applause was swelling from the crowd, Reed broke away from the other man with relief. He circulated through the room, greeting a number of acquaintances. He didn’t feel uncomfortable, exactly, but even if he’d successfully avoided entering the room while everyone was looking, he continued to sense something. A feeling. Something around him. It was there, something rough, under the ceremonious smiles, under the conversation as soft and smooth as velvet. Then someone grabbed his arm, and even before turning around he realised that he’d been taken prisoner—as he knew had to happen—by Mrs. Glasseye. “There you are,” she said, kissing him on both cheeks as ostentatiously as she could. She was wearing a dress with a plunging neckline, and she must have done something to her hair: blond, or no, maybe darker. Anyway, different. Mrs. Glasseye went on gripping his arm in a confidential manner: “It’s been a lifetime since I’ve had news from you,” she said. “But don’t worry, I have my sources.”
“Such as?” asked Reed with a hint of anxiety, carefully avoiding her glance.
“Such as,” said Mrs. Glasseye as she moved a little closer, “I know that you were asked to sit on that committee. In Washington.”
Reed heaved a brief sigh. “Oh, that. I haven’t really had time yet to look into it.”
Mrs. Glasseye wasn’t about to let go of his arm. She sent a greeting to someone across the room, waving with a bright smile. Then, moving her lips slowly, in a way that somehow struck Reed as almost obscene, she said: “I assume you’ll say you can’t do it.”
Reed turned his eyes away from those lips, still uncertain where to look instead, letting his gaze roam the room until it settled on the Christmas tree. A thousand little eyes looked back at him. “Say I can’t join the committee?” he asked in confusion. “Um… Is that what you think I should do?”
Mrs. Glasseye let go of his arm. The mask of a perky impertinent fifty-year-old woman seemed to slip for an instant, and she said in a heartfelt tone: “Reed, of course that’s what you should do.”
He gave her the barest hint of a smile. He had no idea what this was all about, but he didn’t feel like admitting that. He didn’t want to confess that he hadn’t been paying much attention to his work recently, didn’t want to tell her that he had a somewhat—how to put this?—nebulous idea of his coming commitments. Washington? What the devil was going to happen in Washington?! He continued to let his gaze wander, hoping that someone would come over and interrupt their conversation, or that he could change the subject. “How about him?” he asked, gesturing in the direction of Namor, who was preening himself at the far end of the room with a couple of women who looked more or less like retired porn stars.
Mrs. Glasseye followed his gaze. “Old Namor? He keeps himself busy,” she said.
“He’s just pathetic,” Reed replied, glad for an opportunity to take it out on someone else.
Mrs. Glasseye went on looking at Namor, raptly, in the manner of a zoologist studying the behaviour of a very rare species of monkey. “You just say that because you’re afraid of the competition,” she said without smiling, without resuming her usual languid tone.
“Competition? What would I have to fear from that man? Unlike him, I’ve chosen to maintain my dignity. I stopped wearing my skintight costume twenty years ago, and I don’t spend my time seducing forty-year-old bombshells like those two. What are those people even doing here?!” He drained his glass, satisfied with his own indignant outburst.
Mrs. Glasseye shook her head, though she kept looking off into the distance. She seemed worried about something. Or maybe, Reed realised with a little shock, she’s trying not to look at me. Maybe I make her uncomfortable. Perhaps, for the first time in their acquaintance, the roles were reversed. Now, it was she who was avoiding his glance. Reed took a deep breath, upset, suddenly guessing what was about to happen.
“Oh Reed,” she said, with something bordering on sadness. “Don’t worry, we all know you have no interest in women in their forties.” She looked at him, and for a brief instant their eyes met, his eyes locked on her eyes, on the real eye and the fake eye, producing a sort of dazzling spark. “We all know,” she concluded, “that you’ve found something better.”
Reed was petrified. He felt like asking her to repeat what she’d said, even though there was no mistaking her words. We all know that you’ve found something better.
The music started up again.
Reed didn’t dare to move and stood there, overcome, furious, conscious of the thousand eyes all around him. Now he understood. Now he knew. He knew they were all focused on him, eyes of flesh and eyes of glass, the eyes of Mrs. Glasseye, the eyes dangling from the branches of the Christmas tree, and the eyes of Namor the goddamned lord of the depths, Prince of Atlantis my ass: that’s what that allusive tone had been all about, that idiot smile of his! The eyes of the two women standing with Namor, with their tits pumped up in some clinic in Mexico, and the eyes of that roomful of people. Their sidelong glances, the glances he had felt on his back that whole evening, without knowing how to read them, the glances he’d caught in the past few days, at every damned Christmas party he’d attended. Those looks. Those half-smiles. Everyone knew, the news had travelled.
The singer’s androgynous voice rose again, romantic and stirring, and the scene seemed to freeze in place, as if by magic. The guests all stood listening. Reed slipped away quietly, taking advantage of the interlude, even though he was well aware that, no matter what he did, there was no hope of going unnoticed. Even if they don’t look at me, they know about me. They know I’m running away. He couldn’t fool them any more. Everyone knew that he was involved in an inappropriate affair. Everyone knew, Reed felt certain, that he’d become another person, unrecognisable, neglecting his work, and everyone thought—of this he also felt certain—that it wasn’t moral to fall in love the way he had. At his age, in his position. The world’s falling apart, there are wars and environmental catastrophes, pandemic menaces, terror attacks, oil is running out, civilisation is on the verge of collapse, and he wastes his time mooning over a young girl. A man as stylish as him. As dignified.
He made it to the door, this time the main entrance, and rushed outside onto the muddy lawn, without even stopping to get his coat. Air, he needed to get some air. He heard the singer from inside, still intoning his song of love, a melancholy song Reed had never heard before. Reed stumbled in the mud, in the chilly night, shaken by a succession of shivers. Fine, he thought. I don’t care if they know. I don’t care if they look at me, or if they’re appalled. I don’t care, he went on saying, astonished to discover that he meant it, and that he wasn’t ashamed, that he felt no embarrassment at being unmasked
. He was too tired to worry about them. Fuck style, fuck dignity. You can’t fall in love and keep your dignity intact. To love, Reed realised, you have to be willing to accept some humiliation.
*
A couple of weeks later, he caught a plane to Washington. The sky had a silver sheen as he climbed the steps to the plane. He had in his bag a memorandum that they’d faxed him about the work the committee was about to undertake, and he’d promised himself he’d take a look at it during the flight. After taking his seat, he smiled at the hostess who brought him some coffee. The plane was half-empty. The few faces present seemed sleepy. There was that touch of desolation in the air that seems typical of early January, after the holidays are finished and all that remains is a long, barren winter. There’s something bleak about the passage of time, thought Reed as he fastened his seat belt and the plane taxied out onto the runway. There’s even something vulgar about it.
The plane accelerated and lifted off. Reed looked out of the window at the city down below. His city. He caught a fleeting glimpse of the East River, grey and powerful, and the FDR Drive with its already heavy traffic. Then everything vanished into a whitish mist. The plane had climbed into low-hanging cloud cover. It went on climbing and then stopped, suspended for an instant in an air pocket. Reed closed his eyes. He wished he could just push a button and stay there, hanging, forever, at seven thirty on a Monday morning.
All things considered, he’d had a couple of enjoyable weeks. Sad, yet enjoyable. On Christmas Day he’d talked on the phone to Franklin, who had called him from some obscure African country and had promised he’d be back in New York soon. Reed had also talked to his ex-wife, who as always was polite and remote, as well as with his old friend Ben. For lunch, he’d gone to a charity banquet, despite the risk of sly looks, despite his dislike of handshakes, despite his desire just to stay at home and read a book in peace, something he hadn’t been able to do for years. He’d gone so that he wouldn’t look like a freak in Elaine’s eyes; she was spending the day with her family. In fact, he didn’t want to look like a freak to anyone. Dining alone on Christmas Day was not accepted. It’s not a good thing to look too solitary. People are afraid of lonely people.
In the end, the banquet wasn’t all that bad, and Reed had even managed to have a couple of interesting conversations. That didn’t happen often. At his age, he considered it to be a treat. Having a conversational exchange worth engaging in at a social event now constituted a precious occasion.
The following days had been half vacation, because Annabel had taken a week off, with the official excuse of going to Florida for New Year, but more likely to check into a clinic for anorexics.
So now it was the last day of the year. Around sunset an unnatural silence had already settled over the city, almost in expectation of some inconceivable detonation. Reed waited for Elaine, who had agreed to spend the night with him, and together they’d strolled down Broadway, hand in hand, as all around them fireworks crackled and people shouted. Passing strangers had hugged them, and they’d received and returned a thousand Happy New Years, and laughed when they slipped on the wet sidewalk. They managed to find a taxi and headed south, all the way to Battery Park, and had looked out over the parapet at the water of the harbour as it reflected the blurry sparkles of distant fireworks.
They stood, arms wrapped around each other. They stood there, on that point at the far end of the island, where the city narrowed with a rounded curve, spraying its breath out towards the ocean, towards Ellis Island, down towards the statue with the torch and the enigmatic face, towards the ferry boats cruising the harbour, towards Staten Island with its secrets, with its giant dump that housed the debris of fallen towers and the city’s grief and pain. “I come here every year,” Reed told her, and Elaine had nodded, wordlessly, her hair tossing in the wind.
Later, they’d undressed, in Reed’s bedroom, as the chaotic din outside began to subside. Elaine’s flesh had the white gleam of the inside of a seashell. Reed had turned her over and lain down on her, admiring her back, feeling her breathe. Feeling her vibrate. Reed understood that he would desire that woman forever, and not because she was good or bad, not because she was skilful at keeping him on tenterhooks, nor because she was beautiful and had a lovely starry back. He would desire her because something vibrated within her, something that Reed found familiar, as if the two of them were ancient radio sources meeting again, after an era, to exchange an arcane message. He would go on wanting her because her skin glowed, and in the low light of his bedroom her body seemed to lose its outlines, becoming something close to a shimmer, a wave, a vibration of restless energy. “I love you,” he whispered, resting his swollen penis on her white skin.
“Oh Reed,” she sighed. “You know the way I feel about…”
“Hush,” he said as he slipped between her legs.
But she went on: “You’re not in love with me, Reed. You’re obsessed with me, and that’s something else.”
“Hush,” he said again. He extended his arms to take her prisoner. “Hush,” he whispered again, stretching out a section of flesh until it reached her mouth, so that she could suck on it. “Hush,” he went on as he began fucking her, and could feel her heart beating beneath him, a pulse so powerful that it frightened him.
Even now, Elaine was able to speak. She told him to get ready.
“Get ready for what?” Reed moaned, on the verge of coming.
“Oh Reed,” she replied, moaning in turn. Her heart was pounding harder.
That was when Reed felt her heartbeat stop, suddenly, and emit a sinister click. He barely had time to guess. Then there was a flash of light. Reed felt an explosive burst of heat, and a shattering shockwave blew everything to pieces. He felt his own body dissolve in that surge of light and heat, and his own flesh spatter into shreds. The roar was immense and liberating. The bomb had wiped the room out of existence. Reed had felt it all with surprise, as well as an odd sense of satisfaction, as if part of him had foreseen all this, as if he’d somehow been expecting it.
He must be dead by now, or so he assumed, and yet he continued to see the scene. He saw it from above, now, from higher in the air, until it came to resemble an aerial camera shot. He saw the building smoking after the explosion, down there, a solitary smokestack in the middle of the city. He saw the column of smoke rise, bend, assuming the shape of a giant question mark. He saw the crews of firemen come tearing down the street, and the crowd of rubberneckers cautiously edging closer. He hovered there, watching the fire, floating in mid-air, until he noticed that someone was touching his shoulder, and then at last he opened his eyes.
The stewardess smiled. “We’re landing, sir.”
Reed looked around in confusion. He was in a passenger plane. The New York-Washington shuttle. “Of course,” he replied automatically, checking to make sure his seat belt was fastened.
He glanced out of the window. Beneath them the Washington suburbs were streaming past. Reed watched the landscape, blinking his eyes, struggling to separate reality from the sensations of his dream. He had no idea when he’d fallen asleep, when his memories of the last night of the year had mutated into that strange incomprehensible dream.
The captain announced that they were landing. Reed tried to relax. In his mouth, he could taste the flavour of Elaine, of her kisses. His heart went on beating as the plane set down: his body seemed unable to resign itself to the idea that none of it was true, that Elaine wasn’t there, she’d never been there.
*
NASA headquarters was a long, rigidly squared-off steel-and-glass parallelepiped. The car that had picked Reed up at the airport deposited him at the front door of the massive building, where he was greeted by a flock of assistants. “Mr. Richards, happy to see you again,” the head of security said. He escorted Reed through the main lobby to the elevator bank. Reed had no time to look around. Upstairs, other assistants accompanied him down a hallway, until they reached a hardwood door where the assistants scattered, all at once, lik
e so many nocturnal apparitions at the dawn of day. Reed found himself inside, in the luminous meeting room, his respiration slightly heavier.
A profound calm reigned over the room, a muffled, protected atmosphere. Everything’s slower. Everything’s denser. The control room, where decisions are made.
A man he knew well came towards him, smiling, striding across the gleaming floor.
Reed gripped his hand. “It’s a pleasure to see you, Michael.”
The head of NASA had a candid gaze and a surprisingly boyish smile. He shook Reed’s hand and held it for a moment in a friendly way, looking him in the eye: “The pleasure’s all mine, Reed. Glad to have you with us. We’re on a very tight schedule, the place is a madhouse. We need a clear mind like yours.”
“That’s fine,” Reed replied, not sure what else to say.
Four men were sitting at the table. Three space agency executives and an outside consultant. Reed knew them all. One last person, a renowned professor of psychology who consulted for a number of government agencies, showed up a minute later. Reed knew her too. Now the group was complete. A silent assistant served coffee before moving quietly out of the conference room, while the last two arrivals took their seats at the table.
The master of the house began his address. “Thank you all for being here today, and I especially want to thank our guests who travelled to Washington to attend this meeting. I hope at least that our coffee is better than they served you on the plane.” A few polite smiles flashed in response to the humorous barb. “I imagine you’ve noticed that this committee was put together in something of a hurry. In this project, the usual protocols have been to some extent shunted aside. That’s not something I’m especially happy about, but let me just assure you that we had no other choice.” He paused, to allow a moment for anyone wishing to comment, then nodded towards one of the NASA executives: “Jonathan will be chairing your session today, as a voting member.”
Erotic Lives of the Superheroes Page 9