The Matriarch Matrix

by Maxime Trencavel

  Mei comes and takes Peter’s hand. The F word seeps from his forehead into his brain. But the F is rapidly displaced by Mei’s light fragrance. Lotus blossom. When did she put that on? And he follows the whiffs of olfactory paradise down the hallway and into the elevator, all the way to the videoconference suite.

  Suite is a misnomer, Peter finds as he looks at this enormous chamber with neck-craning high screens in 360 degrees around the perimeter. The room is stark and empty. No chairs or anything. So he stands. Mei centers him in the room, straightens out his tie and takes off his cap. She flattens his collar, feeling around the entire perimeter, then pats down his shirt, tucking it deeply into his pants with her fingers.

  To his dismay, she runs her fingers inside the entire waistband, tickling Peter in the process. She straightens his pants by patting them down to their full length, including what feels like minutes in his crotch area. Peter jokes that the TSA normally feels his “junk” with the backs of their hands. She gives her disarming smile and says she prefers a prolonged touch with her fingers. Peter just shivers at this comment.

  After discreetly tapping something on her MoxWrap, she waves her hand and Alexander Murometz appears on the far screens. Peter can see him more clearly than on the MoxWrap last night. He has a long face and long ears, with dark eyes that appear very observant, even piercing at moments. He’s wearing a black Mandarin-collar shirt with an open neck trimmed in coral, and a simple but elegant gold chain with some sort of pendant Peter cannot clearly discern. A bull’s cranium? Looks more like a uterus, yells his cheeky gene.

  “Mr. Peter Gollinger, so glad you made it to the interview. I apologize for not being there in person. But accept my good intentions. I sent my closest personal representative, Mei, who flew on my jet all night to be there at eight thirty to greet you personally. I trust you find her acceptable.”

  Peter glances at Mei, standing only a foot and a half to his left. She, of course, gives him another one of her disarming smiles. Peter replies, “She is superb. Simply superb.”

  “Excellent. She will serve you well, as you will know well shortly. How did you find Mr. Chapwell? Utterly charming, no? He makes Mei look stilted,” he says with a laugh. Mei gives a demure snicker as well. “As I said last night, don’t worry about those tests. I flunked them too. So if he tells you later that you did, rest assured, you are in good company.” He laughs again.

  “Peter—may I call you Peter?”

  “Of course, Mr. Murometz.”

  “And, Peter, you may call me Alexander.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Muro—Alexander. I’m so honored by the privilege.”

  “Peter, I’m going to ask you a few very candid and personal questions. For the two of us to succeed, you will need to be candid, frank, and direct with me. Can you do that for me, for us, Peter?”

  “Why, of course, Alexander. My strengths are truth and doing what is right,” Peter replies, using his rehearsed interview answers.

  “So I heard, Peter,” Alexander says. “Peter, how did you sleep last night? How did you feel when you awoke? Did you dream about anything special?”

  Peter’s brain freezes. His hands shiver. How did he know? Peter’s fear overcomes him as he replies, “Great. Never better. Fabulous dream about… about…about world peace.” Gone was the cheeky monkey; only a scared overgrown adolescent remained. The scared, shaking separation-anxiety-suffering child calmed only by clinging onto his mother’s perspiring hand as they watched his father leave this Earth. Forever.

  In a conciliatory tone, Alexander confesses, “Peter, I awoke this morning with a profound inkling that I dreamt something of great importance. Something that could change the world. My bed was ruined by my tossing and turning throughout the night, and I agonized as I could not remember what was so important. These lines on my face reflect a lifetime of mornings no different from this one.”

  He pauses, letting his eyes pierce into Peter’s eyes as best as a video conference can allow, and then asks, “And how was your morning, Peter?”

  Peter is astonished at this revelation, feeling as if he has stepped into an episode of the latest X-Files revival. He is speechless. To his side, Mei moves next to him. She takes his hand into her soft palm and strokes it ever so lovingly with her other hand. A sensation arises. One very different from than any he felt from Sarah, as a calm descends on Peter, enough for him to think about thinking about speaking.

  Finally, he blurts out, “Lots of crying. Lots of crying and something so heinous. I don’t know. I don’t quite remember. It hurts so much.” And his eyes well up as he thinks about it.

  A fleeting feminine face and form taunt his amnesiac afflicted neurons as he senses love—the love between two souls saved from something terribly heinous. He glances at the dark-haired Mei as he becomes more and more convinced she might be the good woman his mother and Pappy prognosticated, which would explain why he suddenly has these vague dream inklings. Unclear inklings, but still clearer than he has ever had before.

  As if she were in his mind, he feels Mei lift her soft, delicate hand and clear his tears from his cheek. She places his arm between hers and her warm body. His nostrils flare, wanting to imbibe as much of her essence as his sinuses could hold.

  “Good response,” Alexander praises him. “Courage, my boy. Be courageous and tell me about your grandfather. What about his nights and mornings?”

  Peter is astonished again, unsure of what to say. “My grandfather. His grandfather. My mother’s uncle. His grandfather. For as many generations back as any of them can remember, all have these dreams of torment,” he murmurs, only comforted by Mei’s seemingly loving caresses of his arm.

  “Good, Peter. You’re doing well. Exceptionally well. Peter, listen to me carefully and be candid. What did your grandfather ask you to memorize?”

  Fear now overcomes Peter. He stiffens. He squirms. Not even Mei’s comforting gestures can calm him. With no sense at all, he blurts, “The stars, the stars are your friends. The winds are their friends. And water will flood all unless it is dry. Only the dove will bring peace once the reindeer are fed. Stand on the tallest mountain and whisper to the sun. And forgiveness will shine down on us once again.”

  Disappointment clearly shows on Alexander’s face. “Peter, you dishonor me. I am being candid with you. I had hoped we had established the deepest level of trust where you could be equally candid with me.”

  Peter realizes Alexander is reading his body language in 360 degrees. But he is so overwhelmed he cannot think straight, much less remember his family’s oral tradition. To his continued surprise, Mei, as if one with Peter’s brain, leans down to his ear, nibbles on his lobe, licks around the ear, and then whispers, “You are courageous and brave. You are so strong. Breathe through your nose slowly. Smell my fragrance you so loved earlier. Smell me. Sense me.”

  Losing all control, Peter leans into her and smells her. The fragrances sweep into his nostrils and fill his sinuses and lungs. He feels as if they flow into his body, creating the warmest, most wondrous sense of peace. An inner calm and clarity that no woman’s scent, save that of his mother, has ever instilled in him. With his momentarily clear mind, he recites the family tradition, word for word, just as his grandfather corrected yesterday morning.

  Alexander is pleased, smiling first at Mei, nodding his approval, then at Peter. “Peter, my boy, your recital was perfect. Perfect. You did well. I am proud of you. Finding the object is of the utmost importance for the two of us.”

  He pauses while Peter regains his senses. Peter glances at Mei, who gives him a smile of approval and hugs his arm tighter, as Alexander asks, “And is there anything more that either side of the family has passed on to you?”

  Another wave of reluctance sweeps through Peter’s brain, not knowing what the parchment means, nor what Alexander is doing. Mei peers into Peter’s eyes, kisses his forehead, and strokes his cheek. Nothing. She looks at Alexander with eyes that say, “Nothing.”

  Sensing he ne
eds more motivation, Alexander says, “Peter. Rest assured, my interests are your interests. I want to solve the story of the stars, the object, our path to resolution. I want to finally sleep in peace as much as you do.”

  Alexander follows Peter’s body movements and adds, “Peter, think about it. How many generations have wasted how many years, searching for what you and I want to search for? With my resources, the global power and knowledge of MoxWorld, and your special insights, we together have the best chance of anyone ever in history of solving this mystery.”

  Peter purses his lips. Mei gazes into his eyes, nibbling her lips ever so subtly with sublime intimate tones. But no response. Peter is close, but not quite ready to bite on Alexander’s proposition.

  To Peter’s surprise, Alexander offers, “Aliens. They brought the object to Earth. It is their way of communicating to us. Think about it. We find the object together, and on behalf of mankind, we will talk with them.”

  Peter is now alive and chomping to engage. “A parchment. A parchment in an airtight tube. A four-thousand-year-old parchment.”

  “Good, Peter. And what is on this parchment, my boy?”

  “Aliens, Alexander. Aliens pointing the way to the object. And obscure dialectic Akkadian writing.”

  Alexander appears pleased as he says, “Peter, that is perfect. I am proud of you. We will find our aliens and the object and talk with them about anything they want to talk about.” He smiles at Peter.

  But the white-haired man pauses to look at something off screen. His face emanates annoyance, or is that angst? But only for a moment, and then he smiles again at Peter.

  “My boy. My dear boy, I want to hire you. Mei will bring you back to Mr. Chapwell, who has drawn up an employment contract for you to sign.”

  Peter’s dreams have come true, even the ones he can’t remember. Though he has to ask, “Getting a job with you is the greatest honor I could ever have. However, may I ask, what job am I getting? The editorial one?”

  “Peter, better than an editor. You will get the most important job any human has had in the last twelve thousand years. One of my planes is scheduled to take you to meet me in person within the hour. Mei will get you prepared for the flight and brief you en route.”

  “Now? Right now?” cries a panicked Peter.

  Simply smiling at his new hire, Alexander signs off.

  After glancing at her MoxWrap, Mei takes Peter’s hand, which she softly fondles as she leads him to the back of the videoconferencing suite, where Mr. Chapwell waits. The screens around the room now show MoxMedia’s breaking coverage of the AC’s invasion of southern Turkey. But Peter is too distracted to process the importance of this event to their destiny as he lightly squeezes Mei’s hand back. Something about her grasp, her touch, her warmth is so familiar, so comforting and calming.

  He looks at Mr. Chapwell’s dour face. Has he been there the entire time? Did Peter so definitively and clearly fail the tests that he didn’t have to grade them? Chapwell hands Peter a MoxPad with digital contracts to sign—with his finger and not in blood, as Michaela had warned.

  Shaking his head, Harlan is disheartened as he mutters, “In all my years. Why am I here if any old hack off the street can get a prime job with Mr. Murometz? Banana slugs indeed!”

  “Peter, we must hurry. We have a car waiting for us, and the plane is on the tarmac, ready for our departure,” Mei informs Peter.

  “But what about my passport, luggage, my clothes? Can we stop by my place first?” Peter blurts.

  Mei gives another one of her mesmerizing smiles, takes both his hands softly in hers, and says in a most sensual voice, “You won’t need clothes where we’re going.”

  Chapter 8

  A person is not just their facial expression, as a small mind cannot fathom a great mind. Study the middle finger to tell fortunes by physiognomy. You cannot only look at the look. What is more important, one must inspect the personal character conduct, namely heart and morals.

  —Mai Youlang, exclusive courtesan

  From the Ming dynasty novel, Awaken the Common Saying

  6:00 p.m. GMT−6, May 14, 2021

  Over the Continental United States

  “Who are you, Peter Gollinger?” she said back to him.

  “Dunno,” Peter mumbles with his mouth full of simply delicious Umbrian strangozzi and black truffle. He is famished as he has not eaten since breakfast.

  Mei laughs at him, taking her napkin to wipe an errant piece of truffle escaping down his chin. They sit face-to-face across a table in the front galley, one of five in this custom-built jet.

  Between his first limo ride to the airport, his first private jet flight, and the best food, Italy’s best, Peter soaks in all the finest of living the life on the other side of the tracks. In this case, the other side of the world.

  Sipping some twenty-year-old Amarone della Valpolicella, Peter washes down those simply delectable strands of paradise and responds, “When I had asked you that same question, I only meant it rhetorically, to say you are someone other than what you project. Or what Alexander wants you to project.”

  A turn of her head to glance at him shyly, with a seductive smile, and she bounces her leg to rub her foot along his calf, slipping off her lace-and-suede sling-back. “Do you not like what you see? What you feel right now?”

  Eyes wide open. Not the lust-ridden type of open, but deer-in-the-headlights open. Peter gulps the swish of Amarone he was trying to sip elegantly, pretending he belonged in a plane like this. “Mei, please believe me. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever met.”

  She retracts her foot. Only a little as she slips off the other shoe. “Then we agree who I am.”

  Wiping his mouth with the fanciest lace napkin he has ever felt, he replies, “No. That’s not what I meant. I’m trying to figure you out. Clearly you want me to respond to your beauty, but nothing more. Like how you introduced yourself…simply beautiful.”

  “But that is what my name means. My parents chose wisely.”

  “I’m sure they did. But there’s a different kind of beauty behind the image you project. I can’t put my finger on it. Like the beauty surrounding a certain kind of genius.”

  Pursing her lips, she gazes down at her bare feet, soft, smooth and exquisitely pedicured, her toes bouncing up and down as she ponders his words. She then leans into him, eye to eye. “Then tell me who you think I am.”

  Nostrils flared again, his breath quickens. “Mei, your fragrance. I can’t think. It’s killing me. I can only…only.” And then his eyes close.

  Breathing through his nose, rapidly at first, then slower and slower, and then more calmly, he finally opens his eyes, directly into hers. “You are very valuable to Alexander. Not just because he built this jet for you. Not because you two have some unspoken dialogue. But you know the things he needs. And he trusts you.”

  She bites her lip. “And what would you say if you knew that what he entrusts me to do is drag you by your nose, or something else lower down, back to my bedroom to seduce you into total submission to my will, and his?”

  Eyes widened again. But not deer in the headlights, but affrontedness. “But that would be so demeaning to you. How could he expect that? I mean, any man would have to be crazy not to want to be with you that way. You’re very attractive. But you’re so much more than what you just said.”

  And a smile emerges again, but not that of a sultry Asian femme noire. But in a manner much different, much softer, much more sublime than any she has shown yet. She gets up to take the empty plates in front of them away, but Peter gets up and insists on helping. She smiles in that sublime way again and slips into a rear cabin while he cleans up.

  On the cabin screen, Rhonda describes how, earlier this morning, while the AC crossed the Turkish border near the Euphrates River, the Russians bombed three of Turkey’s airbases—Akıncı, Eskişehir, and Merzifon—in retaliation for the recent downing of their fighter jets over New Kurdistan. Russia has also mobilized multipl
e squadrons of their most advanced stealth fighters, the Sukhoi T-50, which outclass, outfly, and outshoot the Turk F-16s, to be based in the Crimea. Only moments ago, Turkey condemned the Russian retaliation, claiming they had every right to hunt the Turkish separatist Kurds hiding in the bordering mountains in New Kurdistan. They called for immediate NATO support, but the weakened EU members of NATO are unwilling to back Turkey and risk a war with Russia without the full commitment of Washington and London.

  A tap on his shoulder, and he turns around to see huge round glasses. Bigger than his.

  “Do you like?” she asks with a laugh. “These are my ugly glasses, when I need time to myself to read, reflect, refresh,” she says as she tries to put on a model’s pose.

  She leans down to get her shoes and takes his hand. “Come with me.”

  But the now-stiffened Peter is like dragging in a dead fish in her hand. “Peter, come on. We’re going to my video galley. What did you think? My bedroom? That will come only when you ask me politely,” she says with a giggle and a wink.

  They pass through a storage area, with the luggage of the two pilots and three wardrobe racks, and into another lounge. Mei points around and says, “This is our onboard entertainment lounge, with an L-shaped divan on this side and a relaxation divan on the other. It doubles as my briefing lounge.

  “Please take a seat on the L-shaped divan and make yourself at home. If you would excuse me for a few minutes, I would like to change into something much more, how you say, much more comfortable.”

  Still failing to understand his hostess and her intentions, Peter sits and frets that “more comfortable” means she’s going to be coming out shortly in a see-through something. What was that “who am I?” game about if not a revealing of their innermost selves? Then who is she?