The Traveler's Companion

by Chater, Christopher John

  “I don’t know. That’s been bothering me. I’m not sure why. Not yet.”

  “Maybe because they’re not human, Iverson. They’re fooling you. They’re like Angela. They just make you think they’re real.”

  “More study is needed. I can’t draw any conclusions without the necessary equipment.”

  “There’s no time for that. Our primary objective is to locate that laboratory. If we can gain control of it, our problems are solved,” Gibbons said.

  “Tonight’s the night. Mister Go has invited Beth and me to his manifestation of Paris.”

  “You think Angela will be able to work her magic on him tonight?”

  “I’m going to put her on her highest setting,” Iverson said. “It’s my sincere belief that this will all be over in a couple of hours.”

  CHAPTER 13

  “How do I look?” Beth asked, twirling.

  She was wearing a royal blue ankle-length evening dress. Her hair was up in a bun and curled strands were let out to cascade down the sides of her face like golden springs.

  Iverson reminded himself this was a mission, not a date. He smiled reluctantly and asked, “Shall we go?” He had manifested a traditional black tuxedo for himself, and, if necessary, he planned to periodically re-manifest it so he wouldn’t be caught with his pants down.

  “Two hours at the spa and three hours at the salon and that’s all you have to say?” she asked.

  “I don’t want to be late.”

  “Fine. Let me get my purse.”

  As she crossed the room, Iverson said to her, “Before we leave, I should say something. You may want to sit down.”

  She sat in the beige club chair. “I thought you didn’t want to be late?” she said as patiently as she could.

  “Tonight may be our last night together. If Angela has found a way to locate Go’s lab, I’m going to have to return to reality. I just wanted you to know that.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes. Tonight.”

  “I just fixed my makeup and now you’re going to make me cry.”

  “I don’t want you to cry. I just wanted to clear up any confusion.”

  “Very kind of you,” she said with a sarcastic sigh. “But don’t you think you’d be better off staying? When Mister Go introduces the Zone to the public, you can come and go as you please.”

  “By then it’ll be too late. If this gets in the hands of the public, there will be total chaos. It wouldn’t be right for me to abandon my duties as deputy director in a time of crisis.”

  “So you’re an emotional kamikaze for the CIA. Very nice. You created me and now you’re just going to leave me here?”

  He was momentarily taken aback by her comment. He actually hadn’t considered the idea that he was abandoning her. He hadn’t thought she would last this long.

  “You thought I’d just dissolve, didn’t you? Obviously, there are things about the Zone you don’t understand.”

  “Such as?”

  She shrugged and turned her attention to her purse, pretending to look for something inside it.

  He was tempted to feel sorry for her, but he resisted. He wasn’t even sure if she was real. She could be a figment of his imagination. Or like a painting that could talk. Or like Angela.

  After a moment, he said, “We should leave. Mister Go will be waiting for us.”

  He took her hand and in a matter of seconds they were in the dark matter, racing through nothingness. They arrived at a street corner. The first thing that caught Iverson’s attention was a giant red windmill on the roof of a building. It was unmistakably the Bal du Moulin Rouge, which meant that they were in the Montmartre district in Paris. Much of the modern flair, however, had been stripped away. The department stores, the gift shops, and the trendy restaurants were all gone. There were no traffic lights, street signs, or painted curbs. The streets were paved with fresh tar, but without lines or crosswalks. This was a time in France’s past. The European architecture was too eclectic to help determine the era, but the gas street lamps lead him to believe this was the mid-eighteen hundreds.

  C.C. Go and Angela came out from a candy store on the other side of the Boulevard de Clichy. Go was dressed in a white tuxedo. Angela was wearing a frosty peach-colored evening gown, a color she had chosen intentionally because she knew men associated it with a need to be rescued.

  “Welcome!” Go said, crossing the street. “You look stunning,” he said to Beth.

  Iverson forced a smile. Socializing was the last thing he felt like doing, though he was trying with all his strength to find the energy for it. He knew it was important for Mr. Go to play the role of Zone concierge. Secretly, Iverson clung to the hope that Angela had found the source of the remote device; he just wanted the whole thing to be over.

  Beth took Mr. Go’s hand and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re too kind.” She then extended both hands to Angela. “Hello, Angela.” They embraced affectionately.

  “I think we could all use a drink,” Go said.

  “I second that,” Iverson said.

  Go led them to a triangular-shaped building with a sidewalk café on its first floor. They sat there under a full moon and admired Go’s work. Iverson realized he had forgotten the moon in his own city. He had actually forgotten the moon.

  Go whispered to them, “Anyone want to try some absinthe with me?”

  “Is this how it will work in the Zone?” Iverson asked. “Instead of buying a drink, someone offers to manifest one for you?”

  “Why not? Mental energy is as good as money, isn’t it? As far as I’m concerned, it’s more valuable,” Go said.

  “The city looks beautiful,” Beth said.

  “I’m guessing it’s sometime in the mid-eighteen hundreds,” Iverson said.

  “Good guess, Doctor,” Go said. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to inhabit a Pissarro painting. Stage coaches, gentlemen in top hats, coquettes under parasols. The eighteen hundreds were Paris’ Belle Epoque—and not just for the arts, but for the sciences as well. I used to fantasize about traveling back in time just so I could wander the streets. Now I can. Thanks to the works of painters like Pissarro, Cassatt, and Toulouse Lautrec, I was able to create the Paris I’ve always dreamed of seeing.” Go manifested glasses of champagne for everyone and held up his to toast. “To immortal works.”

  They raised their glasses.

  “Will it just be us in the city tonight?” Beth asked, sipping champagne.

  “For now,” Go said. “I wanted the four of us to enjoy the city before bringing in other people.”

  “Have you had any trouble with manifested people?” Iverson asked.

  “Trouble?”

  “I have a city full of criminals and morons. My people scare me.”

  “Really? I’m sorry to hear that. But remember what I told you, all manifestations are somewhat autobiographical.”

  “Ha ha. Very funny.”

  Angela laughed.

  “The other night I was mugged.”

  “Really? We’re you hurt?” Go asked.

  “No. But luckily ephemera dissolve. I wanted to kill the bastard,” Iverson said, but wished he hadn’t. Fearing he had inadvertently hurt Beth’s feelings, he put an arm around her and pulled her close to him.

  “Are you counting the days?” Beth asked him, playfully wriggling free from his attempt to console her. “How many days has it been so far? Two . . . three? I’ve lost count. Maybe I’ll never dissolve.”

  Go smiled at her, but was a bit confused by her comment. He finally asked, “Did you say two or three days?”

  “Yes. I’ve been here for two full days and three nights and I don’t plan on going anywhere,” Beth said, proudly.

  Go turned to Iverson, slack-jawed. “Corporeal for more than forty-eight hours?”

  “I can’t confirm that time frame,” Iverson said. He felt exposed, but didn’t know why.

  “That’s right. Ryan is incredible,” Beth said. “His wedding ring has
lasted longer than that. Tell him, Ryan.”

  Go’s eyes went wide despite an obvious attempt to contain his surprise.

  “I thought tonight was supposed to be work free,” Iverson said.

  “You’re exactly right, Doctor. I apologize,” Go said. But it was obvious to Iverson he didn’t want to leave it alone. He studied Beth surreptitiously. Glances lingered longer than necessary. He was hanging on to her every word. What made her tick was a question burning behind his probing eyes.

  “What’s on the agenda for tonight?” Beth asked.

  “It’s a surprise,” Go said, grinning.

  When they left the café, their destination appeared to be the Bal du Moulin Rouge, but Go had manifested hundreds of Victorian tourists to be in their way. As they threaded their way through them, Iverson couldn’t help but to admire their authenticity. When he brushed up against the flounces of a woman’s domed skirt, he begged her pardon while she blushed and bowed her head modestly.

  “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Go asked in front of the girl, clearly embarrassing her. “I doubt she’ll last two days!”

  She obviously had no idea what Go was talking about, but Iverson glared at him. His chivalry only caused Go to laugh at him, and then he gave the doctor a playful swat on back, which irritated him more.

  Much to Iverson’s surprise, instead of going in the main entrance of the cabaret, they went to the side of the building and down a narrow alleyway. They descended a steep flight of stairs and entered the lobby of an old theater. Once inside, they found themselves at a black tie event. An attractive girl in a nineteenth-century emerald green bustle gown was offering champagne to dignitaries and celebrities, many of whom would be easily recognizable in their native countries. Iverson guessed they were all ephemera.

  In the confusion of the room, Iverson took Angela aside and asked her, “Does Go have the remote on him?”

  “No. I haven’t seen it in all the time we’ve been together.”

  “He must have it hidden somewhere. We need to find that thing, damn it.”

  “I have something I need to tell you,” Angela said.

  The lights in the lobby flickered. People began to file into the theater.

  “It’ll have to wait,” Iverson said.

  Go emerged from the crowd and offered an arm to escort Angela. While merging into the flow of traffic, Go said to them, “You’re gonna love this.”

  A hundred red velvet seats faced an old wooden stage partially veiled by red felt curtains. They took their seats. After a few minutes the lights dimmed and the curtain went up. On stage, a row of five unlit candles were perched on cast iron stands about three feet high. The audience was on the edge of their seats. A spotlight found stage left.

  A svelte man with a handlebar mustache took the stage. The audience erupted with applause, crying out, “Le Petomane! Le Petomane!”

  “Make no mistake, this man’s a professional,” Go said, applauding.

  Le Petomane wore a red cape over a gray tuxedo, a white silk cravat with a pearl pendant in the center, and a pair of white gloves. He removed the cape with a graceful swinging motion and handed it to an attractive female assistant. She folded it over her arm and left the stage with it. Le Petomane retrieved matches from his pocket and lit one of the candles. The audience was silent. Le Petomane then turned his back to the candle, lifted the tail of his tuxedo jacket, bent over at the waist with his knees locked, and proceeded to pass gas—one solid burst of controlled flatulence whose winds caused the candle to extinguish without so much as a flicker. A line of white smoke streamed up from the wick. He bowed. The audience responded with quick applause, knowing much more was to come.

  Go’s face was beet red from trying to contain himself. A suppressed squeak of laughter snuck out.

  Le Petomane lit two of the candles. His flatulence easily extinguished both of the flames. The applause grew!

  Le Petomane went on to extinguish a row of three candles! By the time he got to four candles, C.C. Go was laughing out loud, tears coming out of his eyes. Angela joined him, and so did Iverson. The couple next to him began to laugh. It spread like wildfire and soon everyone in the theater was laughing.

  But Le Petomane’s denouement demanded their full attention, so he waited until the laughter subsided. An impossible row of five lit candles was before him. With his hands on his hips, he turned his back to the flames. The power and control of his flatulence soon extinguished the first three candles, but for a moment it appeared that it wouldn’t carry over to the last two. It was then that he summoned an unknown reserve that redoubled his efforts. All the flames were extinguished, the stage went to black, and the audience jumped to their feet applauding.

  The spotlight returned for Le Petomane’s bow and then he left the stage.

  But they hadn’t had enough of him. “Le Petomane! Le Petomane!” they shouted.

  His encore was a flatulent version of the French national anthem for which he received a five-minute standing ovation.

  When the show was over, they left the theater and joined the crowd in the lobby. Drinks were being served. The sophisticated group Mr. Go had manifested flocked to him, showering him with praise. He was revered for bringing back vaudeville’s greatest hero. Go was the man of the hour.

  “Le Petomane was one of the most famous vaudevillians in French history,” Go said to his group of sycophants. “Joseph Pujol, the original fartiste, was the highest paid act of his time. He was a man who had found his niche. Because of the Montmartre district, there was a venue for his rare talent. We now live in a closed-minded world where only so called real artists prosper—actors, writers, painters. The Zone couldn’t have been discovered at a better time. Humanity will once again be able to tap into the plethora of artists who don’t have such mainstream talents. I’ve always felt like an artist without an art. Hell, I’ve tried painting, poetry, photography. Good at everything, master of nothing. The Zone is the perfect place for people like me. In the Zone, I’m an imaginist. I’m not limited by classical artistic expression. I don’t have to worry about marketability. The art and life we enjoy shouldn’t have to suffer because of the Zone. They should be augmented by it. I do sometimes wonder if, in the not so far future, mankind will decide to do away with reality altogether. Our children may talk of it as if it were eight track cassettes. Reality may have been just a step in the evolution of our consciousness. Then again, we may need to remember what Woody Allen said: ‘Reality is the only place to get a good steak.’”

  Everyone laughed.

  Iverson raised a glass of champagne to toast. “To Mister Go!”

  Go’s dark skin tinted with a blush as everyone in the room raised their glass in his honor. He seemed overwhelmed by the attention.

  While Go basked in the admiration, Iverson took Angela aside. “What did you want to tell me?”

  “Director Gibbons is here,” she said.

  “He is? Where?”

  “He was sitting in the balcony section with a woman who looked like me.”

  “Damn it,” Iverson said. “Do you know where he is now?”

  “I haven’t seen him.”

  “Try to keep him away from Mister Go.”

  “I understand.”

  Iverson searched the crowd. A short man with a tall beautiful woman should stick out like a sore thumb, but it took him a while before he saw Gibbons standing on the outer rim of Mr. Go’s galaxy of admirers. A version of Angela in a red dress clung to his arm. Luckily the sycophantic satellites eclipsed the director and his date from Go’s view.

  Iverson rushed over and grabbed the manifested Angela by the arm and forcefully dragged her into a hallway.

  “What the hell are you doing, Iverson?” Gibbons demanded, giving chase.

  “What are you doing here?” Iverson asked.

  “I was invited!” Gibbons said.

  “And you brought Angela?”

  Iverson escorted the ersatz Angela through the bathroom door a few feet aw
ay. “Don’t come out,” he said, pushing her inside.

  “I brought her as a joke, you fool,” Gibbons said. “I wanted to introduce Go to my new girlfriend. We’d have ourselves a matching pair.”

  “That’s not funny. If he thinks you have feelings for Angela, he might stay away from her. Two Angelas will confuse him.”

  “You don’t understand male psychology very well, Ryan. Men have been competing for women’s affection since the beginning of time. Anyway, it’s just a prank. I was going to get rid of her after we had a good laugh.”

  “You could have jeopardized the mission, Mark. What were you thinking?”

  “Fine,” Gibbons said, putting his hands up in surrender. “I’ll get rid of her. I’ll go stag tonight.”

  “You’ve got to promise me you’ll stop manifesting Angelas. Conjure up anyone but her.”

  “Yes, sir,” Gibbons said with violent sarcasm. “Are you in charge now? Funny thing. I thought I was the DNI.”

  Iverson didn’t bother with a reply.

  Gibbons stormed back into the lobby. On his way into Go’s circle of friends, he pulled a glass of champagne off the server’s tray.

  Iverson opened the women’s bathroom door and looked inside, peeking under the stall doors. There was no one there. The other Angela was gone.

  Iverson found the real Angela back in the lobby.

  “I want you to keep your eye on Director Gibbons, Angela. He’s been acting strange lately.”

  “May I speak freely?”

  “Quickly.”

  “Director Gibbons’s brain scans have shown some anomalies.”

  “How so?”

  “I’ve scanned some tissue loss and lesions in the parietal part of his brain.”

  Iverson reeled from shock. Schizophrenics showed gray matter deterioration in that region.

  “It’s not life threatening, but it is alarming,” Angela said.

  “Could it be from radiation exposure?” Iverson asked himself. “Whatever it is, it’s one more reason we shouldn’t be here. We need to find Go’s lab and shut this place down. Tell me about Go’s brain scans.”

  “Mister Go’s brain scans have been normal, but he still hasn’t shown any activity in his caudate body. He doesn’t like me, Doctor.”