by Max Barry
“Shut up,” said Tom. “I’m not talking to you.”
“You came and got me. You must want me for something.”
“It’s not conversation.”
“Then what?”
Tom was silent.
“Why did he call her a poet? Your friend said, ‘I nailed a poet.’”
Tom dug the cell phone out of his pocket. He thumbed a number and stuck the phone under one ear. “It’s me. Where are you?” Wil watched the dashboard figurine bobble. “I’m clear. Brecht didn’t make it.” There was silence. “Because Wolf. Because Wolf fucking turned up five seconds after we made contact.” Wil heard a tinny voice squawk from the phone, male but unfamiliar. “Well, fuck! Whose fucking fault is that? Just tell me where you can meet. I want to get off the road.” He exhaled. “Fine. We’ll be there.” He dropped the phone into his pocket.
“Who’s Wolf?” said Wil.
“A bad person,” said Tom. “A bad, bad person.”
“Like Rain?”
“Yes.”
“Is Wolf a poet, too?”
“Yup,” said Tom, overtaking.
“And when you say poet,” Wil said, since Tom seemed to be answering questions, “is that like the name of their organization, or do you mean—”
“I mean she’s good with words,” Tom said. “Now shut up.”
“I’m just trying to understand.”
“You don’t need to understand. You need to sit there and not do anything stupid while I take care of you. That’s what you need. Look, I get that it’s been a confusing night. And now you’re all, But how is that possible, and, Why did he do that. But I’m not going to answer those questions, Wil, because you don’t have the framework to comprehend the answers. You’re like a kid asking how I can see him even though he’s closed his eyes. Just accept that this is happening.”
“Can you give me the framework?”
“No,” said Tom. “Shut up.”
He was silent. “Why did you shoot that girl?”
“I had to.”
“She was just lying there,” Wil said. “She was already half-dead.”
“She was dangerous, lying there, half-dead.”
Wil said nothing.
“Okay,” Tom said. “You hear about that bad nightclub fire in Rome a couple months back? Bunch of people died? That was Rain. And she did it because she thought one of those people might be you.”
“Rain wanted to kill me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because eighteen months ago you survived something you shouldn’t have.”
“In Broken Hill?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“No.”
“What was it?”
“What?”
“The thing that should have killed me.”
“Something bad,” Tom said. “Which shouldn’t have got out.”
“You mean chemicals? People died in a chemical spill in Broken Hill eighteen months ago.”
“Sure. Chemicals.”
“So why do you care?”
“Because it’s out again.”
“And I can stop it?”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“That’s because it’s not really chemicals,” Tom said.
“Is it a word?”
Tom looked at him.
“Earlier, in the snow, you were interested in something I said about words. And you said Wolf and Rain are poets because they’re good with words.”
Tom was silent. “Okay. It’s a word.”
“Which should have killed me.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand how it can be a word.”
“That’s because you don’t know what words are.”
“They’re sounds.”
“No, they’re not. You and I are not grunting at each other. We’re transferring meaning. Neurochemical changes are occurring in your brain at this very moment, because of my words.”
Wil was silent.
“Like I said,” Tom said, “no framework.”
He felt lost. “No one lives in Broken Hill anymore. Not since the spill.”
“No.”
“Why did Cecilia try to kill me?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Was she a poet?”
“No.”
“Then . . . why?”
“Rain made her.”
“The rain made her?”
“Not . . . not rain. Kathleen Raine, with an E. Wrote poems about nature. Lived in England from 1908 to 2003.”
“And . . . she . . . came back?”
Tom glanced at him. “Are you serious?”
“What?”
“They use the names. The names of famous poets.”
“Oh,” said Wil.
“They’re not zombies.”
“Okay. I thought . . .”
The drove in silence.
“Is Wolf—”
“Virginia Woolf,” Tom said.
“Virginia Woolf is trying to kill me?”
“Among others. But Woolf is the one to worry about.”
“Why did your friend shoot himself? Because of words?”
“We’re done talking,” said Tom, with finality.
Wil shut his mouth. The road unraveled out of the dark and they went into it.
ITALIAN “INFERNO” CLUB FLOUTED FIRE CODE
ROME: Overcrowding contributed to the deaths of 24 people in a popular Italian nightclub, early reports suggest.
The fire, believed to have been caused by faulty wiring, tore through the Paradiso Club at around 10 P.M. last Saturday night, when the building was at its most packed.
Reports in Italian media said a crush developed at exits to one of the club’s dance floors, with patrons unable to escape and becoming overcome by smoke. All two dozen people in this area are believed to have perished.
Mariastella Gallioni, 18, who escaped the adjoining Musica section, described seeing a doorway filled with people. “There were two men [trying to get out] but they didn’t move. They were blocking the doorway. No one could get past.”
The Paradiso recently completed a major renovation, during which it was granted fire certification. Italy’s government inspectors are notoriously corrupt.
Police have promised a full investigation.
[FOUR]
Emily kept waiting for someone to pull her aside, ask what she thought she was doing, trying to sneak on board with the first-class passengers. But when she reached the gate and handed over her boarding pass, the attendant smiled. “Have a nice flight, Ms. Ruff.”
“Thanks.” She adjusted the strap of her bag, self-conscious. The other first-class passengers were in sleek suits and expensive blouses, and Emily was wearing jeans a guy had peed on the day before. She hadn’t realized everyone would be so bright and clean.
“Ms. Ruff!” said the attendant on the plane, like he’d been waiting to meet her. “My information tells me this is the first time you’ve graced our airline. That cannot be true.” He beckoned, leading her past banks of leather thrones. “I am going to take extra special care of you.” He leaned close and whispered, stage-loud, “We need more beautiful young customers.”
She thought he was making fun. But he wasn’t. First class was strange.
“Make yourself comfortable,” said the attendant, “while I rustle you up the best chocolate cookie you’ve ever tasted.”
“Okay,” she said. She went to stow her bag and the attendant looked horrified and took it from her. She slid into her seat. She had slept in smaller places than this. To her right, a woman in big sunglasses had a tall glass in one hand and a magazine in the other. She smiled at Emily, and Emily smiled back. The woman returned to her magazine. This was okay, she thought. This was okay.
• • •
She heard a tinkling and reached for her bag. The flight attendant whispered, “I’m so sorry.” He set a glass of water onto t
he armrest. The tinkling was ice cubes. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
She stared at the glass. When she’d first heard that sound, she’d thought someone was peeing.
• • •
She deplaned. That was what they called it: deplaning. She had never heard that word before. She unbuckled and felt sad. She wanted to stay in her little first-class kingdom.
She’d left a note for a friend to pass to Benny. Had he read it yet? Was he upset? Missing her? She didn’t care about this as much as she’d thought. She had realized this while gazing out at the hidden world of sunlight that lay above the clouds: She was leaving Benny behind. And this was a good thing. She felt like she had two years before, when she’d walked away from a falling-down house with her Pikachu bag on her back, her mom’s threats and prophecies bouncing off her back, and the more she walked the better she felt. Benny hadn’t been good. Not really. She was getting a sense of that, now that people were taking her bags and bringing her drinks while she slept. She was seeing that without Benny, she could be so much more.
The attendant touched her arm at the exit. “Thank you so much.”
“Thank you so much,” she said.
• • •
In Arrivals stood a driver, complete with hat and uniform, holding a printed sign reading EMILY RUFF. “I’m Emily,” she said.
He reached for her bag. She hesitated, but let him take it; she needed to get used to that. “I’m very pleased to meet you, miss. I have a car out front. Was your flight bearable?”
“Yes.” She fell into step. She felt kind of stupid about the Pokémon bag. It looked ridiculous on this guy’s trolley. But he didn’t seem to mind. People glanced at her, this dirty girl with a uniformed driver, and she tried not to smile, so as not to ruin it.
He held open a door for her. Outside was bright and cold. A long, liquid black limousine lay spread along the curb. The driver opened the rear door and she climbed inside like it was nothing.
Did she want a drink? To watch TV? Because she could do that. There was enough room to lie down. She could live here.
The driver entered. The locks thunked. “No rain expected. You come to us on a good day.”
“I thought it was a good day,” she said. “I felt that.”
They drove for forty minutes and stopped at a set of high steel gates. Through the limo’s dark glass, she saw grass and gigantic trees. The driver spoke to someone in a guardhouse; the gates parted. As they moved up the hill, a building appeared.
“It’s an old convent,” said the driver. “There were nuns here for a hundred years.” The car pulled around the front of the building, its tires crunching gravel. A man came down steps toward them. A porter. That was what he was. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“They’ll take you from here.” He turned in his seat to face her. She liked that: the way people were turning to talk to her. “Best of luck with your examinations, miss.”
• • •
The porter led her to a room with high ceilings and wood-paneled walls and ten thousand books. A sitting room, she guessed. Because she had heard of those, and couldn’t think what else this room was for. Maybe nothing. Maybe after a certain size, a building had more rooms than uses. She squeezed her bag between her ankles and tried to relax. Occasionally she heard a door close—thonk—and murmurs of conversation, and laughter that floated up a corridor somewhere. She kind of needed to pee.
A woman’s heels rapped outside. The door clacked open. For a second, Emily thought it was a nun, but it was just a woman in a dark blue suit. She had nuns on the brain. The woman was slim, maybe thirty-five, with dark hair and delicate glasses. She came toward Emily with her hand extended and her fingers down. A lady handshake. Emily got off the chair to take it. “Hello, Emily. Thank you so much for joining us. I’m Charlotte.”
“Hi,” she said.
Charlotte settled into a chair. Emily returned to hers. They seemed a long way apart. A rug lay between them like a map of some undiscovered world. “In a moment, I’ll show you to your room,” Charlotte said. “But first, I’m sure you must have questions.”
She did. Like, What was with that Lee guy, and Why me, and These examinations, what are they, exactly. But she didn’t ask them. The thing was, if these questions had bad answers, it was going to be really disappointing.
“We have six of you this week,” said Charlotte, deciding to answer questions Emily hadn’t asked. “Six applicants, that is. You each have your own room, of course. Yours overlooks the East Wood; I think you’ll enjoy it. There’s a central dining room, where you’ll be served meals, and you’ll find a recreation room at the end of the hall, and a reading room beside that. Between examinations, please do feel free to explore the grounds. It’s a wonderful space. It was once a convent.”
“I heard.”
“If you leave the New Wing, you may bump into some of our current students going about their lessons. They are under instruction not to speak to you, so please don’t interpret this as rudeness.” She smiled.
“Okay,” she said.
“I must ask that you observe two rules for the duration of the examinations. You are not to leave the grounds, nor use the phones. These rules are quite important. Do you find them acceptable?”
“Yes.”
“Good!” She patted her lap, like she wanted a cat to sit there. “Well, then. For the rest of the day, you may simply settle in. Meet your fellow applicants, enjoy the facilities. The examinations will begin in the morning.”
“I do have a question,” Emily said. “What’s the catch?”
Charlotte’s eyebrows rose. She had good eyebrows. Like whips. “I beg your pardon?”
“Well . . .” She gestured at the room. “This is kind of unbelievably good. I mean, I appreciate it, but if you’re going to ask me to shave my head or take my clothes off or something, I’d like to know.”
Charlotte suppressed a smile. “We’re not a cult, I promise. We’re a school. We bring the best and the brightest here to help them reach their potential.”
“Right,” Emily said.
“You seem unconvinced.”
“It doesn’t look like a school.”
“Actually, it looks very much like a school. You may think otherwise because your experience has been limited to government-run child farms.” She leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “To me, those do not look very much like schools.” Emily wasn’t sure how to respond. Charlotte rose to her feet. “Well! Let me show you your room.”
She picked up her bag. “I still think there’s a catch.”
Charlotte pursed her lips. “If there must be a catch, we do only admit those who pass the examinations. Which are difficult.”
“I’ll pass.”
Charlotte smiled. “Well, then,” she said. “There’s no catch.”
• • •
She followed Charlotte through wood-paneled corridors and halls with far-off ceilings. She had never seen so many arches. Charlotte tapped a door with her fingernail. “My office.” A copper nameplate was engraved C. BRONTË. “Come to me with any questions or concerns, day or night.” There were more corridors. Through tall, slitted windows, she glimpsed kids in dark blue uniforms with hats and blazers. Maybe it did look like a school.
Charlotte stopped outside a heavy wooden door. “Your room.”
There was a small bed. A high, arched window. One old desk with a high-backed chair. The walls were stone, patches worn smooth by the palms of restless nuns.
“A few of the others are about,” said Charlotte. “But I’ll let you find them in your own time.” She smiled, one hand draped on the door handle. “Dinner will be called at six.” The door closed.
Emily let her bag drop. She went to the window and studied the mechanism until she figured out how to swing open the glass in two panels. She leaned out. A breeze tugged her hair. Woods was right. The trees were like pillars. You could get lost in there. Find a gingerbread house. Mee
t a witch.
She needed the bathroom. She would have to find some of the other kids, check out the competition. But she stood awhile and watched the trees, because even if this whole deal turned out to be a scam, this moment here was really nice.
• • •
She peed and washed her hands and studied herself in the mirror. Her hair was like straw. She was wearing an outfit that looked worse the fancier her environment became and didn’t smell terrific, either. But aside from this, she did not seem completely out of place. She could possibly believe she was a person who regularly peed in bathrooms with twenty-foot ceilings. And then went out on her horse. “Relax,” she told the mirror, because her eyes were tense.
She followed sounds of a television to a small room with sofas and cushions and a boy spread across them. He sat up as she entered. His hair was very curly. His clothes were new and bright and his collar was turned up. If they had something in common, she couldn’t see it.
His eyes moved over her. He was probably thinking the same thing. “Hey,” he said.
“Hi. Who are you?”
“A guy. On a sofa.” He smiled. She hated him already. “You’re here for the tests?”
“Yeah.”
“Just arrived?”
“Yeah.”
“From where?”
“San Francisco.”
“Right,” he said. “And, uh, where in San Francisco?” He smiled again. That upturned collar, what was that?
“Street.” He looked blank. “The,” she said. “The street. You know. The street.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Yeah, I see that.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to offend. I mean, what is it you, uh, do?” He twirled a finger, indicating the room. “They don’t bring you here for no reason.”
“I’m a magician. I entertain.”
“Really?” he said. “You don’t strike me as the entertaining type.”
“You don’t strike me as someone who knows jack about shit,” she said, because she was starting to get a little intimidated by his wording. “Why are you here?”
He grinned. His teeth were really something. “New England Schools Debating Conference. Finals.” He waited for a response. “I’m good.”