by Greg Bear
He needed a second opinion though he feared going to the wine ranch or the Pacific Arts Lit Parlor was the same as killing his manuscript once and for all. + Little sympathy or understanding either place. All I deserve.
He knew he had been a prize fool. A monk emerging from cloisters after many years of celibacy embarking on a new love clumsy sausage-fingered brute writing away at an insolvable theme daring to attempt to imagine Emanuel Goldsmith’s inner thoughts during that greatest of mysteries—a man when he is evil.
He held up the clumped disarrayed papers and considered throwing them to the bus floor and forgetting them, brushed his finger along a few leaves spread them read again found here and there a gleam of success in the mud of ineptitude.
+ Not a total loss. Salvage some and cut. Can’t hope to get it all right first draft. Foolish. I need advice and not just clumsy condemnation.
Looking through the window he shook his head and smiled. Nothing like the writer’s mind. Ever foolish ever optimistic. The lit parlor folks might actually be better than Madame’s group. Jacob Welsh in particular; an odd man but concise in his criticism never cruel; leaving that to antimatter Yermak. Perhaps Yermak would not be there, though they seldom came separately.
The bus stopped a block beyond the wine ranch and lit parlor and he stood under the cool fringe curtain sky, watching a golden line of reflected sunlight cross the boulevard. He blinked at the wall of the combs and the single mirror slab sunbright in that wall, pointing directly at him, specked suddenly a self image as a spotlighted rabbit condemned to the warrens. So lost and ignorant of the forces that moved him, silky only in the drunk of his blindness; sobriety bringing somber awareness and pain. He itched to record that but shook his head again and grinned at the solid seating of this fresh urge to write.
Lit parlor folks could not unbalance him. He would be prepared this time as he had not been at Madame de Roche’s; he would fit his cogs to the available machine.
The wine ranch was closed, reason not given in the terse electric stat sign pasted to the old glass door. Dont be roughed, it blinked. We’re gone to be people today. Come later; when? He recognized the cadence of Goldsmith; had Goldsmith written it for them, years back? Or was he obsessively finding Emanuel everywhere?
Race is like acid in a tight metal groove; we etch. Hope? That had been Goldsmith ten years ago, shuddered by life. They had gone to the wine ranch the day he had written that, Richard and Emanuel, drinking sad conviviality with the wine, Richard enjoying the poet’s low energy camaraderie. A misplaced love affair or some casual rejection by the world of publishing Richard could not recall which bringing Goldsmith down to a peaceful sad calm and a need to lean on Fettle. The distance of fame and achievement had narrowed to practically nothing between them; Richard had felt sympathy, human instinct to help a down fellow. Goldsmith had written that poem on a statkin after shaking the separated foodcrumbs to the floor. Thirty lines of dismay at the river flush of humanity’s ignorance of its selves.
Fettle watched the sign blinking, moving.
They had ceremoniously paid the waiter twenty cents for the statkin and taken it back to Goldsmith’s apartment. Goldsmith had lived on Vermont Ave in the shade then, not the rising combs. He had mounted the statkin in a picture frame and recorded it before the ink flaked off. For years he had kept the blank statkin framed and called it “a quantum criticism, God bushing all our weak expressions.”
Richard walked the short distance to the Pacific Arts Lit Parlor, saw through the long apricot glass window a small crowd of patrons and members. No sign of Yermak; but there was Welsh. He entered and paid his admission to an arbeiter dressed to resemble Samuel Johnson, took a vacant stool at the long oak bar now tended by compassionate Miriel, a partial transform with minkfur instead of hair on her crown and a stud of gleaming scales on each cheek. Daughter of the proprietor Mr. Pacifico, known by no other name.
“Miriel,” he said confidentially, revealing the manuscript and slate. “I’ve had a hitch of invention after a long desuetude. I’m out of a rut but I need critique.”
“We’re not doing litcrit or readings this hour,” Miriel said, but she sympathied his sad eagle and touched his arm with goldcapped fingers. “Even so, when the urge is on, who can deny? I’ll call a circle. You’re writing? How wonderful! That’s breaking the block of years, isn’t it, Mr. Fettle?”
“Many years,” he said. “Since.”
She watched him with large warm brown eyes minkfur wrinkling his way. Despite her sympathy he saw her more as a large rat than mink. Miriel leaned over the bar and addressed the others, particularly Welsh.
“Patrons, patrons,” she said. “We have here a friend out of a rut, new work in hand. Mr. Welsh, can we get a circle together, special?”
Jacob Welsh turned to eye Fettle, surprised. Smiled. Glanced at the five other patrons for their approval; Fettle knew none of them. They all agreed, literary charity.
Yermak entered the door just as Richard began reading his manuscript. He joined the circle without a word but his expression said all and did not change as Richard read through the beginning to the middle, voice sonorous and steady.
the hours of simply being not who I am but what I am. Postures
assumed every day even when there are no visitors. It creeps into
my poetry as well; a dullness like a poorly soldered joint. That’s
it; I cannot connect with the proper influx of current, for I am
badly joined to this life, and the join is crumbling every day.
“Poetry as current,” Yermak said under his breath. “Good, good.”
Richard could not tell whether he was being sarcastic; with Yermak it hardly mattered. What he liked he despised for being likable. Welsh raised an eyebrow at the youth and Yermak returned an acquiescing smile. Richard read to the end, lowered the slate and pages, mumbled something about not quite having it right and needing suggestions. Looked around the circle with his wounded eagle eyes. Yermak stared at him with a shocked expression but said nothing.
“This is truly you,” Welsh said.
“It’s very odd,” Miriel said from behind the bar. “What are you going to do with it?”
“What I mean to say is this must be you, it’s certainly not Goldsmith,” Welsh continued.
“I’m—” Richard stopped himself. + Work must stand alone.
“It’s good,” Yermak said. Richard felt a rush of warmth toward the youth; perhaps there was something in him worthwhile after all. “It clicks and slims as fable. I’d wrap it in a longer work, a litbio.” Yermak raised his hands to paint a scene, staring up at his spread fingers with reverence. “Bio of a nonwriter, struggling violently to understand.”
Richard saw the blow coming but could not withdraw fast enough. Yermak turned to him and said, “You’ve given me great insight. Now I scope. I know how your type thinks, R Fettle.”
“Patrons—” Miriel said.
“You’re a lobe sod at heart. You’ve hidden too long in the shadow of his wings,” Yermak said.
“Please be kind,” Welsh instructed without conviction.
“Goldsmith’s wings are dusty and lice ridden, but they still fly. You have never flown. Look at yourself—writing on paper! An ostentation, an affectation. You can’t afford sufficient paper to write anything significant, but you write on it anyway—knowing you’ll never write much. No soaring.”
“He’s right there,” Welsh said. The others did not participate; this was dogfight not litcrit and they found it amusing but repellent.
“When Goldsmith falls to Earth, you have to stand outside his shadow, see the sun for the first time, and it dazzles you.” Yermak’s tone was almost sympathetic. “I scope you, R Fettle. Dammit, I scope us all through you. What an affected and ignorant posse of lobe sods we all are. Thank you for this insight. But I ask you, in all sincerity—do you insee Goldsmith as slaughtering to improve his poetry?”
Richard looked away from him. +Back home. Lie down
and rest.
“I can almost believe that,” Yermak concluded, badger faced. “Goldsmith might be that cranked.”
“Why did you bring this for us to hear?” Welsh asked softly, touching Fettle’s arm solicitously. “Are you truly that roughed?”
Miriel must have prodded some warning button, for now Mr. Pacifico himself came down the rear stairs, saw Yermak and Welsh. Frowned. Looked further and saw Fettle.
“What’s he doing here?” Mr. Pacifico inquired, pointing to Yermak. “I told you he wasn’t welcome here anymore.”
Miriel squirmed. “He came in while Mr. Fettle was reading. I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“You’re bad for business, Yermak,” Mr. Pacifico said. “Did you bring him with you, Richard?”
Fettle did not reply, stunned.
“He still with you, Welsh?”
“He goes where he wills,” Welsh said.
“Balls. All three of you, out.”
“Mr. Fettle—” Miriel began.
“He’s a born victim. Look at him. God damn it, he attracted Yermak in here like a wasp to bad flesh. Out out out.”
Fettle picked up the papers and slate, inclined around the circle with as much dignity as he could manage and walked to the door to return to the street. Miriel said good bye; the others watched with silent pity. Welsh and Yermak followed and parted ways with him at the door saying not another word, smiling grim satisfaction.
+ They are right. Too right.
He discarded the papers and the slate into a gutter on the corner and waited for a bus at a whim stop, the cool wind blowing his gray hair into his eyes. “Gina,” he said. “Dear Gina.”
Someone touched his elbow. He turned with a nervous leap and saw Nadine dressed in long green coat and turban wrapped wool scarf. “I thought you might come here,” she said. “Richard, I thought I was the crazy one. What are you doing? Did you show them?”
“Yes,” he said. +To kill the self. That’s why Emanuel did it. To be rid of someone he did not like; himself. If I have not the courage to kill my body, I could kill others and condemn the self just as surely.
Nadine took his arm. “Let’s go home. Your home,” she said. “Honestly, Richard, you’re making me look positively therapied.”
“The Countrie-men called the Hand of Hispaniola, Ayti and Quisqueya, which signifyeth Roughnesse, and a great Countrie…”—Antonio de Herrera, quoted in Pure has his Pilgrimes
38
Hispaniola required two international airports and had three, the third reflecting an early overestimation of tourism by Colonel Sir John Yardley—or the requirements of his mercenary army. There was an oceanport in Golfe de la Gonave, five kilometers of floating liftways; a smaller oceanport ten kilometers offshore from Puerto Plata on the northeast, and a massive land terminal HIS in the southeast at Santo Domingo. HIS took most scramjet traffic.
Mary Choy came awake at dusk and saw a lovely sunset making rich golden orange the rugged hills of the Cordillera Orientale. The scramjet descended smoothly to a few hundred meters above the dark purple Antilles Sea, gave up its whisper quiet to a roar of vertical lift, pushed in over white sand beaches and cliffs and then bare hectares of concrete, dropped gently, landed with no discernible impact. The seatback screen showed the scramjet’s intimate parts beneath the fuselage—thick white pillars ending in arrays of gray-black wheels, spectral gray paving luminous in the shade. Doors in the concrete opened and elevator shafts rose from the underground serviceways.
In the lower righthand corner of the screen, outside temperature was shown to be 25 degrees Celsius, local time 17:21. “Welcome to Hispaniola,” the cabin speakers announced. “You have arrived at Estimé International Airport on lift circle 4A. You will travel by underground train to the Santo Domingo traffic hub. All your luggage is now being removed from the airliner and will accompany you automatically to the hub or to your pre-chosen final destination. There are no customs regulations for inbound travelers, nothing to delay your pleasure. Enjoy your stay in bountiful Hispaniola.”
She stood, gathered up her personals and followed three tired looking longsuited men. About two hundred passengers filed slowly to the rear elevator.
Within a few minutes she disembarked from the flower patterned interior of the airport train into the Santo Domingo central city hub. All was bedecked in tropical flowers. Huge black vases filled with unlikely jungles of rainbow variety lined the hub travelways. Waterfalls emptied into ponds filled with beautiful fish from Antilles sea gardens—most natural, some products of the recombiner’s art. Shifting curtains of prochine sculpture hung from the dome of the atrium at hub center, spilling light and perfume down onto Hispaniola’s new guests. Hispaniola had little nano industry—these were early art pieces imported from the USA, quite useless for other than their intended purpose.
Projected guides in splendid uniforms addressed curious travelers in a dozen open theaters around the peristyle. Deadsound guided the flow of noise precisely, leaving a pleasant low hum gently surmounted by native music.
Picked out of the crowd of arriving passengers by a sharp eyed coffee brown woman liveried in green and white, Mary was directed to a VIP reception lounge. Walled off from the rest of the atrium by walls of glass, the lounge was empty but for a tall man dressed in antique diplomatic coat and tails and two brasstone arbeiters of uncertain utility.
The tall man extended his hand, bowing slightly, and Mary shook it. “May I welcome you to the Republic of Hispaniola, Inspector Mary Choy?” His dazzling smile sported two front incisors the color of red coral. “I have been appointed your avocat and general guide. My name is Henri Soulavier.”
Mary inclined and smiled pleasantly. “Merci.”
“Do you speak French, Spanish, or perhaps Creole, Mademoiselle Choy?”
“I’m sorry, only California Spanish.”
Soulavier spread his hands. “That is not a problem. Everybody speaks English on Hispaniola. It is our Colonel Sir’s native tongue. And it is all the world’s second language, if not the first, no? But I will also act as translator. I have been told your time is limited and that you wish to consult with our police immediately.”
“I could have something to eat first,” she said, smiling again. Someone had chosen Soulavier well; his manner was direct and charming. She had read that often about Hispaniola; forgetting the sad history and the present dubious economic arrangements, here were the friendliest people on Earth.
“Of course. There will be dinner in your quarters. We will be there within the hour. At any rate, those with whom you would speak are now getting off work, and the offices are closing. Tomorrow will be very good for meeting them. Besides, we are told your colleagues will be arriving in…” He checked his watch. “Two more hours. I will greet them here; no need for you to trouble yourself. With your permission, I will accompany you to your rooms in the quartiers diplomatiques in Port-au-Prince. Then the evening is your own. You may work or relax as you wish.”
“Dinner in my quarters will be fine,” she said.
“As you doubtless know, all official travelers in Hispaniola are isoles, to avoid the distractions of our tourist industry, which might not suit their necessities, no?”
The lefthand arbeiter moved forward on three wheels and extended an arm to take her personals. She declined with a smile, deciding it would be best to keep her slate away from possible debriefing.
Soulavier seemed amused by her caution. “This way, please. We will use behind the scenes corridors. Much easier.”
The train to Port-au-Prince was empty but for them. Black velvet seat cushions bore the arms of Colonel Sir: rhinoceros and oak beneath star speckled heavens.
They pulled out of the Santo Domingo hub and quickly emerged on aboveground suspended tracks to cross broad open plains and hills greened by recent rains. Evening had settled quickly over the island, casting everything in a magical sapphire twilight. The great spine of the Cordillera Centrale dominated the north, its peaks still fiery with
sunset, glooming foothills covered with black bands of new forest and the lights of terraced farm resorts.
Mary had been led by her sources to expect beauty—she did not expect anything quite so breathtakingly idyllic. How could such a place have such a history? But then Hispaniola had not been so beautiful before Colonel Sir. His government had united the island in an almost bloodless series of coups, dispatching democratically elected leaders and tyrants alike to exile in Paris and China. He had overwhelmed all competing internal interests, nationalized all foreign industry, discovered and developed the southern offshore petroleum reserves with the help of the Brazilian underworld and used this seed money to set up a unique economy—selling the services of mercenaries and terrorists to select customers worldwide.
The industrialized nations of the world had discovered in the early twenty first century that some of the more brutal aspects of statecraft did not suit the tastes of their citizens. Colonel Sir had leaped into this vacuum with enthusiasm. His successes in fielding highly trained armies of Hispaniolan youths had brought in the finest currencies of the world to brace the almost valueless Haitian gourde and the failing Dominican peso.
Ten years into his rule he had begun replanting the long-ago denuded forests of Hispaniola, importing the best recombiners and agricultural experts to return the island to at least a semblance of its preColumbian youth.
Small well lighted whitewashed towns passed by on either side, details blurred by speed. She could only make out hints of wooden buildings and concrete apartment complexes for Hispaniolans; these were towns not generally open to tourists, towns where soldiers were raised and returned to live and bring more sons and daughters into the world to be soldiers.
Hispaniola’s armies, according to what she had read, numbered some one hundred and fifty thousand men. At several hours’ notice scramjets or suborbital transports could lift tens of thousands from one or another of the international airfields—temporarily closed to incoming flights—and send them anywhere in the world.