Grey

by Jon Armstrong

  At the top, two workers stepped aside from the huge front doors. I had forgotten how intricate and demonic they were. Made out of black marble, they had been carved with hundreds of animals, but like a zoo gone sexually mad, tigers kissed hogs, ducks groped gophers, boa constrictors fellated elephants, and bison mounted giraffes.

  Gold Visor took hold of one of the massive handles and pulled. It creaked open with a low, painful note, and we entered. Before my eyes adjusted, I couldn't see anything, but heard sounds all around. Straight ahead, metal banged against metal. From the right, I heard a high-pitched grinding. Several amplified voices wove together into a mishmash of feedback and reverb. Curiously, the air still smelled like it had years ago: a blend of sweat, sex, and desperation, like a pungent curry.

  In the foyer, while Gold Visor and Xavid conferred with another satin, I peered toward the main dance hall. As my eyes became accustomed to the darkness I saw a hundred workers polishing the floors, cleaning the walls, washing the ceilings, the carvings, the mosaics, and the bronzes. All of them wore ugly blue and orange leotards and they reminded me of the velvety maroon thing I had worn when Joelene and I had descended the cooling system in the MonoBeat. And I felt nostalgic—not for that dreadful experience—but for all the times we shared. I knew she wasn't a traitor, and her profanity before, even her grumpiness was because she was hard at work on what sounded like our exit strategy. How I longed for exactly that.

  The PartyHaus was laid out in the shape of a giant X. In the center were the circular dance floor and the balconies that surrounded it. In the four arms of the X were bars, restaurants, shops, and the guest rooms. When the rages were happening every night, thousands crowded every floor and every inch of the building. These days, Father said it housed ten times as many rats.

  "This way," said Gold Visor. Xavid and I followed.

  We headed across the old dance floor. When I did my routines, it had been covered with a springy black material. Today. It looked like they had put down uranium tiles. On the other side, a stage had been erected. At the back a forklift was placing a jet engine into some sort of pipe organ. Above the stage hung a fifteen-story screen. On it glowed a vivid test pattern of horizontal stripes. At stage-front were three actors and father's silver-haired director who had also worked the promo-date with Elle.

  "You go to that side. That side," he said to a man who wore a sign that read Super Distinguished RiverGroup ceo. The other man wore a sign that said Michael. The girl's read Interest. "Yes," he continued, "and now the girl will come down the middle. She's the center. She's bringing not just the two families together, but this family as well." He spotted me and waved. "Oh, hello! Michael. How you doing? Look here, this is the wedding blocking! We're mapping out the big wedding!"

  "I see."

  "It starts out minimal then gets maximal. You know? Flow. Change. Difference." Smiling and combing back his chrome locks, he added, "You know, you can't have loud without quiet. You can't have big without small. So at first, it'll just be you and your dad, and then we'll add the girl. Then we've got the triangle. Next the square and then the pentagon. Shape follows meaning."

  I nodded, if only to indicate that I'd heard, as we continued across the dance floor.

  At the far side, we came to the stairs that led into the building's bowels. Most of the entrance was in the process of being covered over with a wall of vending machines. When I danced, streams of people were always going in and out but I had never set foot below. It was where the real freaks: the Wets, the Kate Wools, and the Bügs went. I'd heard rumors of the surgically and pharmaceutically enhanced who sometimes killed themselves for pleasure or fantastic dance moves. Supposedly, one woman hadn't come up for two years and lived on nothing but sweat and semen.

  The farther down we went, the cool and heavier was the air. The odor was of mildew and rotting meat. And as the cacophony of construction from above dimmed, odd sounds, like the pings of electronics and the squelches of bats, began to echo and ricochet around us. Orange sodium bulbs had been placed here and there on stands as a few workers mopped the floor and patched, what I decided were, hundreds of rat holes.

  "Where is she?" I asked.

  "Lower level," said Gold Visor. His deep voice reverberated into the recesses.

  We continued for several minutes then came to another set of stairs. The satin held out his arm for support as these stairs were wet and slippery. The light was dimmer here and I was afraid that if I lost my footing, I would tumble to the center of the Earth.

  Gold Visor produced a flashlight. The walls looked wet, and all around water dripped from tiny stalactites that covered the ceiling. I saw a large black salamander with yellow eyes hold for a second, then dash off, its tail zigzagging in the liquid.

  We reached the end of the stairs and continued forward. As the satin shone his light back and forth, I decided that the walls weren't as wet as I thought, but made of glass. Ten feet ahead, we came to a forest of sculptures like the carvings on the front doors only huge and more repulsive. A twelve-foot-tall teddy bear had an enormous, veined phallus so big, it rose five feet above its head.

  After we had wound our way around a dozen ever more cartoony and debauched turtles, hamsters, and bunnies, we came to a clear area. Another orange satin, with long white hair, sat at a table covered with half a dozen screens. He stood and bowed.

  Beyond him, on the black floor, lay Joelene, in nothing but her green bra and underwear. I crouched beside her. Her skin was mottled with a hundred small bruises, as if she'd been peppered with pool balls. Father had beaten her and left her to die.

  Xavid stepped above us. He kicked at the thick metal cuff on her left wrist. Then he toed the chain that connected it to the floor. "Good," he said, peering down at her.

  "Get away," I told him. After he sneered at me and stepped away, I knelt closer to her. "Joelene, can you hear me?" She didn't speak or move. I had been hoping she could help me with Nora's message, but clearly, I was the one who would be helping her. Touching her cheek, I found it warm and worried she had a fever. "It's me. Michael," I said. She moaned like she was dreaming. "I'm going to help you." Her eyes finally opened, and I was never happier to see those amethyst irises.

  "Pain," she whispered, her dry lips sticking together. "Get me . . . " Her voice faded and her eyes closed.

  "Get you what?"

  Farther back, I heard Gold Visor say, "This prisoner's dead."

  Beside the satin, I saw Ken Goh ten feet away. His mouth was wide open as if he had died screaming.

  Xavid stepped over him. "Corporate selection," he said. "Only the smart survive."

  I wanted him to shut up and go away and was about to tell him so, when Joelene mumbled something. Putting my ear close, I asked her to repeat it, but she just moaned. "Don't worry," I said, stroking her forehead, "I'm going to get you out of here."

  "Are you . . . " she began.

  "Am I what?" I asked. She didn't reply. "Am I marrying Elle? No! I'm not. I'm not going to."

  "Are you . . . " she repeated.

  "No, I'm not!"

  "That's it!" said Xavid. "Your minute's up. Let's go."

  "I'm staying here with her."

  Xavid rolled his eyes far up in his glasses. "It's been more than a minute." Pointing a thumb at the satin, he said, "He will be happy to drag you back to your apartment."

  "I want more time."

  He stepped closer. "I used to watch you dance on the channels. I thought you were just wonderful. But now that I've gotten to know you, you're as selfish and stupid, as your father says." I could have hated him—I probably already did—but wasting more energy on him seemed futile.

  Behind, I heard Joelene say, "Are you . . . " again. An instant later, I understood.

  Twelve

  As I hurried through the long spiral to Mr. Cedar's showroom, I again remembered the times when I had stopped to admire his displays, contemplate the exhibits, and learn from his interactive experiments. Today, I even passed what look
ed like a fascinating exhibit on the history of pockets, but I had too much to accomplish before midnight. As I neared his sugar maple and hammered-palladium doors, though, I felt compelled to act civilized for at least one moment and stopped before a wood and glass display.

  Inside was a large swatch of charcoal fabric held vertical and flat by several robotic arms. When I pushed the single red button on the front of the experiment, a mannequin's hand, representing the wearer, rose on the right side of the fabric and a metal rod lowered on the left. A fierce spark jumped from the rod toward the hand, but as indicated on a series of meters, the fabric's electronic network reflected the lethal shock.

  I stood before the experiment for several beats as I thought of the Miniature city flickers quote and the woman in the alpaca-silk and platinum dress who was covered with a thin, vaporous layer of flame, the necktie from Mr. Cedar I had thrown at the floor that burned, and the wedding blocking I had just seen at the PartyHaus, where Father and I were to stand alone on the stage.

  "Michael," said Mr. Cedar, his voice startling me, "do come in."

  Last time I'd visited, the gallery was filled with posing mannequins. This time it was empty except for his sketching board and a large sports screen, tuned to the AppleBoard Shirt Ironing Invitational. I couldn't believe that I had forgotten about one of my favorite events. Last year, my tailor and I had attended in person.

  "It's the last round," said Mr. Cedar. "Fanjor versus Isé–B again."

  Competitive ironing was the oldest and most prestigious sport played among the fashionable. In my dressing room at my apartment, I had my own speed and sleeve boards and several competitive irons, but of course, I was nothing compared to the people who made it their life. For the past several years, one man, Fanjor, dominated the tournaments. In the beginning, I had admired his ironing, but gradually, as he kept winning, and got more and more arrogant, I got sick of him.

  Now my favorite was Isé–B. He was a handsome, wiry man with short-cropped, dark hair, stern russet eyes, and always had a five-o'clock shadow. Unlike the rest of the ironers, who used modern, souped-up, Intel-Sunbeams, Greikos, or Jaun-Tees, he preferred a coal-powered Schiaparelli-Firemaster 77, with duel chimneys, and a customized Steam-Jet 188. It was incredible to watch him work that thirty-two pound-hunk of polished iron over crisp white shirts, as it spat clouds of steam and belched black smoke. And while he was truly a brilliant ironer who regularly won the smoothest-in-show and wrinkle creativity awards, he had yet to beat Fanjor head to head.

  The channel was showing a replay from Masters Trophy last year, where Isé–B had lost by a twentieth of a second. After being awarded the coveted Golden Cuff, Fanjor, dressed in his signature yellow, pranced about the stage, chanting his own name.

  "How's Isé–B doing today?" I asked, as Fanjor, now in slow motion, leapt into the crowd where his fans began licking him as though he were a lemon candy.

  "He's two hundredths of a second behind."

  That wasn't good. In this last speed round, Isé–B needed a lead to have a chance.

  "So," said Mr. Cedar, turning his attention to me. "Another suit?"

  "I suspect my last." He raised an eyebrow as if concerned I might be changing styles or tailors. "I have an idea," I began. "You see, yesterday, that neck tie you made for me, Love Alone . . . burned."

  "The stolen silk was juxtaposed with a small amount of nitrocellulose." With a grimace, he eyed my neck and asked, "You weren't injured, were you?"

  "Not at all," I said, contrite that I had thrown it at the floor in a fit.

  "You need it replaced?" he guessed.

  "Not that." After an exhale, I looked him in the eye and said, "Since Nora and I can't be together, we'll have to be apart." I swallowed and asked, "Can you make me a whole suit of nitrocellulose?"

  He stopped twisting his beard. His eyes fell to his sketching board, and his expression turned somber. While I knew my request was extreme, now I feared I had overstepped the bounds of our relationship. How could I have asked my tailor, of all people, to help me kill my father and myself? Frantic, I tried to think of some plausible way to claim I was joking.

  He asked, "Your situation is that dire?" and I saw the calm gravity I had been hoping for.

  "It's worse," I answered, thinking of Father's freeboot.

  He began rolling his beard hair again. "Yesterday . . . I saw something new by Pentagon-Straus in The Official Fabric Guide." After he manipulated something on his table, he nodded toward the screen. "It's quite dangerous and curiously comes in a single color—a luminescent orange licensed from the famous suits in the Bäng epic, Adjoining Tissue."

  During a commercial for a vacuum-pressing table, he ran highlights from the Tissue movie, which I hadn't seen in years. It opened in an eerie moonlight garden filled with long walkways, beautiful marble fountains, and dozens of perfectly trimmed geometric bushes. One by one, the forty band members of HammørHêds enter, sing, and begin having sex (simulated sex, I suppose) with the shrubs. As the drums fire and the organ plays, they sing of loneliness and desperation. Then the garden is lit on fire and the blue is burned away so that it becomes daytime. Now, wearing big, bright orange suits, they are happy, they punch each other and scream about the band's glorious future. In the last sequence, each member cuts off the ends of their pinkies. Doctors stitch all forty together—pinky stump to pinky stump. The epic ends as the camera spins above and they have become one big, human volvox.

  "My old anthem," I said. The song I associated with my first death would also be connected to my second. "Perfect."

  He switched off the video. The screen returned to the ironing competition and a buzzer sounded—the ironers were to report to their boards. I watched Isé–B step onto the stage. He added several more embers into his iron, primed it, rolled his shoulders and neck, and then stared at the heated vacuum table. What I loved about him was that he existed in his own perfect world, concerned with nothing but cotton, heat, and steam. I longed for such a purity, such a singularity of mind.

  "He doesn't have a chance, does he?" I asked, trying to be lighthearted as if that might temper yet another second-place finish.

  My tailor was busy at his drawing screen and had finished half a dozen quick sketches. The drawings disturbed me. And the way the material shimmered and smoldered made it look like fire. Worse, the silhouette was large, bold, and muscular like something a satin would wear.

  Before I had time to figure out how to express my displeasure without insulting him, the commentator said, "They're off! This is the final heat for the gold!"

  Fanjor and Isé–B stood beside two parallel ironing boards arranging their white cotton shirts. Fanjor started on the cuffs, Isé–B, the back.

  "Fanjor is off to another fast start," said the announcer.

  "He's been in a zone all week," enthused the color man.

  "Go Isé," said Mr. Cedar.

  "Isé–B has finished the back," said the commentator. "But Fanjor and his incredible quickness are already in evidence!"

  Isé–B got out his sleeve board and began the left. Fanjor didn't bother and just crushed the material flat, leaving two creases on the sleeve.

  "Why isn't he penalized for that?" I asked. "That's not right!"

  "Indeed," agreed Mr. Cedar.

  "He just guts it out with that speed," added Color, as if he'd heard my complaint. "Fanjor wills his victories. They're not subtle or graceful, but they're fast."

  "They're brutal!" I complained. "And they're ugly!"

  "Isé–B is close," said Mr. Cedar. "He's got a chance."

  "I just want him to beat Fanjor!"

  A close-up showed Fanjor leaning in as he started the collar. While picking up his iron, he hit the steam and a blast filled the air. His goggles fogged so badly, he had to stop, and wipe them off.

  "Uh oh!" cried the announcer. "That could be a costly error!"

  "Yes!" I screamed. "Go! Isé–B. Go!"

  "Three years ago, a steam-up just like that cost
Fanjor the Northern Invitational," explained Color. "That was the last major won by the veteran Matús before he retired, leaving Fanjor to dominate. Today of course, Fanjor is the veteran, and Isé–B, the upstart."

  I couldn't believe it, but I was about to see Isé–B finally beat him! "Go!" I shouted, as Isé–B ran his Schiaparelli across the shoulder yoke. Then he flipped his shirt around and worked the collar.

  "Faster! Come on! Hurry!"

  "It's neck and neck!" said the announcer.

  "I'd say it's completely up for grabs!" added Color.

  "No!" I screamed. "Isé–B's ahead! He's winning!"

  As Isé–B finished the collar; Fanjor flew his Intel across the front. In another flash, he grabbed a hanger and slapped it onto the finishing rod. The horn sounded. An instant later Isé–B, hung his.