by Nick Lake
there are rows & rows of seats placed in the central open area in front of the lake, & on a stage at the foot of the building, an orchestra is seated, dressed in white shirts & black jackets & trousers, holding their instruments, & playing.
some of the seats at the back are empty, & Grandpa leads us to a row where he & Libra & i can sit, & Orion can park in the center aisle. an old lady, wrapped in furs, turns & tuts as we rasp into our seats, then looks aghast when she sees the walker, the crutches, the wheelchair. “sorry,” she whispers, & turns back to face the orchestra.
i look around. trees & shrubs are planted artfully, & the scent of pine rides the waves of music, from a stand of trees nearby. or maple, maybe. does maple have a smell? i don’t know. i don’t know trees, for obvious reasons. Libra would know, but i can’t ask her.
to either side, the park flows out into the darkness, & we are in an island of light, the audience & the plants illuminated by a million points of brightness, little LED bulbs strung in every direction in a kind of web above us.
& everywhere, the music.
it swells, it grows, it builds.
sharp cymbals & timpani, the vibration of the strings, the hum of the woodwinds, & the metallic sheen of the brass flow around & thru me, & they sound like the stars might sound if u could hear them, all of them, all the billions & billions of them, singing their song, & if this is how it makes me feel i don’t know what Orion is thinking.
what i do know, apparently, is what the different instruments are, & that’s all thanks to Orion, & i look over at him & smile as i realize how much i’ve inadvertently picked up from living with him.
still, i have never really appreciated Mozart properly, just pretended to care about it when Orion would play us vids of famous performances. but what amazes me now as i listen to the symphony in real air & in real time is that i hear feelings in it, i hear thoughts, which appear deliberate—it seems to be music about longing, about anticipation, & it is leading to something, to some great revelation, to some event, & my heart seems to inflate in my chest, as if it might burst.
i look over at Orion, & c the tears running down his cheeks.
he makes no attempt to brush them away.
& the music builds.
& it builds.
it is almost as if the music is alive, as if it possesses some kind of intelligence, & maybe that’s why it sounds like the song of the stars to me, like the heavenly bodies joining in a chorus, because it seems almost that there is a voice there, saying something, if only i could understand.
but whenever i think i understand, it slides from my grasp, quick, like water.
the violins are getting faster, & the percussion drops, & now the music is rain, falling on us, & i feel the cold & the wet of it, & how is it that u can feel music?
i didn’t know. i didn’t know about this.
but Orion knew. he always knew what it would be like, he could imagine its contours, even as he’d never heard it, & i c the smile on his face as he cries, as he cries.
the rain falls but there is no rain. it is a clean & crisp & cold night. i clutch my blanket to me.
the music swells, & swells, & the meaning of it is just there, just almost in reach—& then the melody comes, gently, to an end.
the audience erupts into applause.
i am dizzy, i am breathless, i am floating in the air. i am weightless, & yet i’m tied to my chair, gravity is holding me down.
i turn to Orion.
i smile.
he smiles.
he closes his eyes. i can almost c his eyeballs thru his eyelids: they are translucent, like something made by a wasp from chewed-up wood.
he’s d—
starts a voice inside me.
i clamp down on it, make it stop.
“ok,” says Grandpa. “we need to move. i don’t want to stay in 1 place for too long.” people are glancing back at us. others are getting up, starting to leave, squeezing past Orion’s chair. “we’re very recognizable,” he adds.
he stands, & goes to Orion’s wheelchair, & takes the handles at the back.
“no,” says Orion. he has pushed his blanket away & it lies puddled in front of the wheelchair, like something collapsed, like something dead.
i get up, hold on to the back of my chair. i take Libra’s hand & help her stand too & back out of the row, till she can catch hold of her walker. Orion is still sitting there in his wheelchair, & Grandpa is looking down at him, puzzled.
“what do u mean, no?” i say to him.
Orion looks up at me. his eyes are half-closed, his skin is paper thin, is lit from within, like the moon. the mask is dangling, hanging on his ribs, which i can c even thru his loose gray Company sweater. he lifts the mask & takes a halfhearted pull of oxygen & then holds it loosely by his mouth.
“this is the end of the road for me,” he says.
“no,” i say. i look at Libra & i c that she is crying, that she has already understood, maybe a long time ago, maybe back in the dome even. but it’s a wave, that understanding, & i don’t want it to break over me yet, i don’t want it to break me yet.
“yes,” he says. his chest is rising & falling rapidly, his hands are so small, his fingers are so slim, he has the bones of birds in them. “u knew that,” he says. “u must have known.”
Grandpa lets out a long, low sigh; the music it makes, the sound of a soul whistling thru a person’s mouth.
people keep moving past us, endless people, some in jeans & parkas & some in suits & ties & long evening coats, & they barge past, a river of them, & some of them look at us curiously but no one stops, no one asks, they just keep on leaving, & soon it will be just us, all alone here, under the million little lights, with the echoes of the symphony dying around us, & the scrapes as the musicians clear away their instruments.
& i did know, i knew it like i knew my mother did not sail thru preflight medical checks with a fetus already inside her; i knew it when Orion laid out that ridiculous scheme about screens & calling Boutros on them & what kind of an idea was that anyway, what kind of fairy tale was that?
i knew it in the music.
i heard it in the tingling anticipation of the strings, in the crescendo as it rose & rose & rose.
it is what the music was trying to tell me.
“i want to talk to Libra…for a moment,” says Orion. he has abandoned any pretense of putting his mask back on; it hangs down on his chest, shiny in the artificial light, some kind of sea creature, a squid maybe.
Grandpa & i back away. what else can we do? Libra remains by his side, sinking into a chair next to him so they can lean together, so he can speak. they whisper, he & Libra, for a long time, their heads together. then she stands, & comes over to where i wait, her cheeks wet with tears.
“he wants to talk to u,” she says.
gravity is pulling me even more than usual, my feet are leaden on the ground. i move slowly.
i look down at him.
he is so very pale now, under the many-pointed light. everything else has fallen away; we’re on our own asteroid, floating thru space.
“in the back pocket,” he says. “of my chair. get it.”
i go to the chair & take out what’s in there. It’s the book of e. e. cummings poetry, the 1 i gave him.
“for u,” he says. “take it back up there.”
“really?”
“cummings belongs in space, i think,” he says.
i feel myself starting to cry. i stop myself. this isn’t about me.
“i’m sorry,” he says. “& i’m sorry for…u know. for who i am. for who u are. i always knew, u know? but i could never…i could never have been what u wanted me to be.”
“i know,” i say. his eyes are filled with distance. galaxies, eons. blackness stretching to infinity. he’s slipping.
he closes them.
“no,” i say. & that’s when i do start to cry, the hot tears spilling out of me like they will never stop. i had no idea there was so muc
h liquid in my body, & it’s churning, making waves inside me, & i might never make myself solid again. i try to speak & choke & then try again. “no, i don’t want u to go. i just want u to stay, just please stay, that’s all i want.”
his eyelids flutter. “sorry,” he says again.
my tears are falling on him, on his skin. i barely thought about him when i was on the ranch, not much—how could i not have thought about him? i should have been talking to him all the time, all the time i should have been on the screen to him, seeing him. & now i’m hating the Company for blocking the screens & everything i c is blurred; i don’t even c him now, when i need to.
“don’t,” i say. “don’t go please don’t go. come on.” i’m pleading now, babbling, almost delirious. “u can’t go anyway u can’t,” i’m shaking him, “u can’t because i always thought my first kiss would be with u i always dreamed of it anyway & u can’t go because i haven’t had my first kiss so u can’t go u can’t go u can’t go.”
silence.
then a whisper, silken on the air between us, so faint & smooth, so quiet. i don’t hear what he said.
“what?” i say.
a breeze, passing between his lips, no more. i can’t understand.
i lean closer. “what are u saying?”
& he lifts his head just for a moment & puts his hand on mine & kisses me, on the cheek, & his lips are dry as parchment, & it’s not at all how i imagined, how i dreamed, but at the same time the world stops just for an instant & the moon too, because it’s all held together by love—the moon is tied to the earth by love.
he lowers his head again.
“there,” he says.
“thank u,” i say.
the shadow of a smile on his lips. “i imagined u were ur mother,” he says.
i laugh, & then i feel bad that i laughed.
“very beautiful woman, u know, ur mother,” he says. then he smiles. “thank u, Leo,” he says. “for most this amazing day.”
he’s unraveling, even his words are not in the right order.
& he doesn’t speak anymore.
i am bearing witness, & i don’t close my eyes.
i keep looking into his.
galaxies, black foreverness, all the everywhere depth of yes.
yes.
& then he dies.
i feel it happen. i c his chest stop rising & falling, c a slackness fall over his face, his features, & he’s gone.
“no,” i say. “no no no no no.”
& Libra comes back.
& we hold each other.
& we don’t let go.
because we’re held together by love.
Libra lowers herself into the seat next to Orion’s wheelchair. she pulls her blanket over herself, then holds out her hand, as if for us to give her something.
“what?” i say.
“give me a screen,” she says.
“what?”
“a screen. so i can call Boutros. like Orion planned.”
“but Orion’s dead,” i say. the words sound surreal coming out of my mouth. like they can’t be true. but they are.
“exactly,” she says. “& u’re not. which means u need to go & u don’t need me getting in the way, & anyway i don’t want to go with u. i want to go to my garden. so give me a screen. then leave. i’ll wait for 15 minutes before i call.”
“& if they ask where we’ve gone?” says Grandpa.
“i’ll say i don’t know,” she says.
“they might…pressure u,” he says.
she indicates the walker nearby, the oxygen tank strapped to it. “what can they do to me that they haven’t already done?” she says.
i hesitate for a moment.
“please,” says Libra. “go. vid me when u get up there.”
“she’s right,” says Grandpa. “we need to get moving.”
“ok ok,” i say. i lean down & give Libra a kiss on the cheek—her skin is softer than Orion’s, warmer. “i love u,” i say.
“i love u too,” she says. “i hope…i hope u get there.” she hugs me, deft & quick, & then lets go, & wraps herself more tightly in the blanket. then she lifts a hand. “wait.” she adjusts the blanket, puts her hand down inside her gown & lifts out the locket with the thimbleful of earth in it, the 1 her mother gave her. she passes the silver chain over her head & holds out the necklace.
“for me?” i say, dumbfounded.
“yes.” she lowers it; the chain pools in my cupped palm like cool water. “a piece of earth,” she says. “wear it & remember us. wear it for luck.”
i nod, gravely. i slip it over my head, feel its coldness against my skin, then push it down under my sweater, under my t-shirt. “always,” i say.
she lifts her hand, shows me her finger with the ring on it, the 1 i gave her with the sunflower seed inside. she smiles.
i touch the bump of the locket, under the fabric of my shirt. i smile too.
i remember when she wanted to take that plant down, to have something from up there down here, & i think how i’ll be doing the opposite, taking this piece of earth from her, taking it with me up in the sky, & i get it now.
i get why u would want to mingle the 2.
“ok,” she says, after clearing her throat. “now fuck off back to space.”
i laugh, shocked, & she turns away, laughing too, but crying now also, i c.
“do it for me,” i say. “graduate high school. become a botanist. have kids. all of it.”
“u know i’ll try,” she says.
& yes, i do.
“let’s go,” says Grandpa. but not unsoftly.
& so we go.
we:
–walk back to the car.
–drive thru the streets of Vancouver, lights swishing past stores, sidewalks.
–reach the security gate where a big sign reads PEARSON FIELD—LINDAIR FLIGHT CREW & EMPLOYEES ONLY.
–drive into the airfield, as the gate rolls open on little wheels.
–pull up to a sleek private jet that is sitting on the runway in a dark lake of its own shadow, the silhouette of 2 pilots at the front, wearing hats, the stairs already down & waiting for us.
“this is ur ride,” says the driver. he reaches a hand thru the partition, shakes ours. “good luck,” he adds.
“thanks,” we say.
then we climb the steps, Grandpa assisting me, air rushing thru our hair, floodlights banishing the darkness, little colored dots marking the geometrical shapes on the ground of runways & access routes & paths to the terminals.
there’s no crew, so we just take a seat in 1 of the plush leather chairs, & buckle up. “welcome aboard,” comes a voice over the intercom. “i’m Captain Angelos & my copilot is Flight Lieutenant Lanlokun, & we’ll be flying u to Baikonur tonight. cruising altitude will be 35,000 ft. we’ll be stopping for fuel & not arriving at our destination until well into tomorrow, so make urselves comfortable. there’s a fridge back there with snacks & drinks—unfortunately we couldn’t provide any air crew on such short notice. but we hope u have a pleasant journey.”
click. the intercom goes off.
a man in a uniform, presumably Flight Lieutenant Lanlokun, comes back & closes the door.
then:
we taxi to the runway.
we accelerate, & lift up into the sky.
& all the while i’m thinking of Libra, sitting there on her own next to her dead brother, wrapped in her blanket, & all the while i’m squeezing the locket in my grip, her gift to me, squeezing it tight, holding on to the earth with that hand & that 1 hand only, as the rest of me rises into the sky.
we fly for hours & hours. it’s like being home: black sky lightening slowly as the sunrise chases us.
we land somewhere on the far eastern end of the Russian landmass, i guess—an anonymous airfield where unseen people refuel the plane. then we take off again, as the sun peels away from the horizon behind us, lofts up into lightening blue.
i must sleep a little, then, because when i w
ake we’re descending again, my ears popping, & soon we’re touching down on a scrub-lined runway, the sun high in the sky, desert stretching away in every direction, a few low buildings the only evidence of any kind of airport or infrastructure.
the intercom crackles.
“Baikonur,” says the pilot. “air temp is 30 Fahrenheit, according to my instruments. i hope u brought warm clothes.”
click.
Flight Lieutenant Lanlokun comes aft & nods at us, then waits by the door. for steps of some kind, i imagine. eventually he cranks it open & light tunnels in, tubular, framing him, making his edges glow fuzzily.
we get up & go over to the door. Lanlokun is a middle-aged guy with a very short haircut, his hair gray & his skin dark. “i’m not asking any questions,” he says. “but i’ll be watching the news.”
Grandpa smiles. “we’ll try to make sure it’s not unpleasant viewing.”
Lanlokun nods, & shakes our hands before we leave the plane. “say thank u again to Jonas for us,” says Grandpa.
Lanlokun salutes. “will do.”
then we’re out in the blink-making brightness. Grandpa ferries my crutches down before coming back up for me, & then helps me down the steps. i look around. we’re in the middle of nowhere, just a few hangars & what looks like 1 administrative building. low, flat land, mostly scrub & sand & red earth, surrounds the airport. the air ices my skin, & i shiver in my sweater & jacket.
“Kazakhstan,” says Grandpa. “it’s a bit of a shithole, to be honest. now where’s Yuri?”
as he says it i c an old military jeep driving toward us, battered, its green paint faded. the car pulls to a stop just short of us on the runway, & a barrel-shaped man descends from it, beaming from ear to ear. his mustache quivers in the wind. “Freeman!” he shouts. “Freeman!”
he sort of waddles over, still smiling, & pulls my grandpa into a huge bear hug, lifting him off his feet. “hello, Yuri,” says Grandpa.
Yuri puts him down, then bends a little to look at me—he’s tall, maybe 6'5". inconveniently tall for an astronaut; a lot of his career would have involved crouching, stooping, i realize.