The track samples three songs, “So Get Up” by Underground Sound of Lisbon, “Jones the Rhythm” by Grace Jones, and “Zombie” by The Cranberries, but it was the first and third of these which provided the real inspiration for the story, which came to be called “When Death Walks The Field of Battle.”
The first set of lyrics, from “So Get Up,” gave me the setting, a post-apocalyptic scene of war and devastation, and the element of madness and insanity. The lyrics from “Zombie” then provided the depth, inspiring me to write about a man torn between his duty to kill the enemy and his own humanity towards his fellow man. With the addition of a supernatural element, and the thought-provoking 100-year anniversary of the outbreak of World War I in mind, I was ready to write.
1. Coalesce
Mom and Dad are walking me to the gate, and I can’t help but think of Jaz. After all these years, what would he think?
“I can’t wait to learn what the project is,” Dad says.
“I probably won’t ever be able to tell you,” I say.
“I know. I’m just so proud they’re flying my girl, the scientist, to Zurich,” Dad says a bit too loud.
“She’s a grown woman. Don’t embarrass her, dear,” Mom says.
“Particle physicist, Dad. Say it. Par-ti-cal.”
“You may be a VP and a PhD, but you’ll always be my little VIP,” Dad says.
Jaz would be critical. Of Dad’s corny jokes. Of me. Of everything. Like he was before I left him. He’d have a reason why this assignment is a waste of my talents. I can almost hear him going on about why my education was beneath me. As was my grant. My research. Even the project at the neutrino collector.
I sigh and blow my bangs out of my eyes. This was where we said goodbye. Where I saw him off to Europe. That moment is so far away, and I hate that it still haunts me. I feel the weight of the years, of the silence, of the…nothing. He and I are just nothing. Like two electrons without covalent bonds, hurtling through this world, never to share orbits again. Even if we weren’t meant to be together, we could have at least been more than that.
Mom and Dad are bickering. Something or another about me. As usual. I slip my earbuds in. With the sound of School of Seven Bells I come alive. Everything is a black-and-white movie, and I’m a streak of color moving through the frames. Ethereal harmonies wash over me. Beautiful, but not quite on. Imperfect. Just like our fractured universe and everything in it.
A photo appears on my phone. Pria and I at my send-off party. My finger is pointing down my throat to show what I thought of the music my students had playing.
Pria doesn’t see music as a way to transcend. To her, it’s just to reinforce the shiny, happy place she lives in. I love her anyway.
Bon Voyage, she texts.
I’m so excited, I text back. I’m thinking of dying my hair pink.
But what would the Aeon-Hartlin board think?
I know, I text.
Plus, Dad would die. My degrees still hang in my old room with my grade-school science fair ribbons. To him I’ll always be a little girl. I’m some kind of outsider to everyone else. Here I am thinking of Jaz like I don’t want to be, but even at the end, with all the bad, when I was with him I always felt like a woman.
Mom’s voice intrudes, out of time from the beat.
“…I know, but I still think we should tell her, dear.”
“Quiet, she’ll hear. No good can come of it,” Dad says.
“Tell me what?” I ask.
“See, now you’ve done it,” Dad says.
“Out with it,” I say. “My plane leaves in less than an hour. Then I’m going to be busy with the project for who knows how long, so now or never.”
“I hate it that they won’t tell you what you’re working on,” Mom says. “It’s probably dangerous.”
“Don’t change the subject, Mom”
She sighs.
“It’s Jaz, honey,” she says.
“What?!”
“He called while you were in the shower this morning,” she says.
“Jaz? How come you didn’t—”
“He didn’t sound...right, dear. I didn’t want to upset you.”
“Mother. Tell.”
“Now you’ve done it,” Dad says.
“He had a message for you,” Mom says. “Told you not to come.”
“No,” Dad says. “You’re confused. He said the message was to come.”
“Dear, I distinctly heard him say not to come.”
“Jaz. I can’t believe it,” I say. “All these years. Figures he picks today to send me a message.”
“Thing is he said the message wasn’t from him,” Mom says. “He said the message was from you.”
“From me?”
“That part’s right,” Dad says. “He said you told him to tell you.”
“That’s impossible,” I say. “I haven’t seen him in, what, nine years? I’ve never even been to Zurich, if that’s where he still is.”
“Apparently so,” Mom says.
“I told you this would only upset her,” Dad says.
“I’m not upset. I don’t care. He’s nuts.”
I hear myself say the words, but I don’t believe them. He was brilliant. At least once upon a time he was.
“See? I told you it wouldn’t be a problem,” Mom says.
“Good. Come on then,” Dad says. “There’s just enough time to have a coffee with my favorite particle physicist.”
* * *
I ease back into the first-class seat Aeon provided. The plane takes to the air and I slip my earbuds in, even though devices aren't permitted yet. The stale cabin atmosphere is replaced by the Seven Bells’ electronic beats. Lush, open guitar chords join in one at a time. With each layer the song swells. It is more than a song. It is an emotional reality. A story. A truth. The passion is so real I feel that the woman in the song who lost her heart could be me.
The plane hits cruising altitude and the seatbelt sign turns off. I’m thinking about the death of the guitar player and falling asleep to their refrains.
In my dreams I hear Seven Bells songs I have never heard before. They are strange and wonderful and I hope I remember them when I wake.
“Wake up. Stop dreaming,” says a familiar voice.
I open my eyes. Someone is right there, standing over me. The plane lurches. The lights go out. Dim emergency lights flicker on. The person is gone. A flight attendant rushes through the aisle to the coach cabin. I look around for who woke me and realize I don’t recognize the song that is playing. My player lists five Seven Bells albums, but they made only three. I don’t recognize the song titles. My phone dies. An uneasy murmur fills the plane. I wonder if I am still asleep, but it doesn’t feel like it. The canned air and the harsh perfume of the woman next to me are too real. Static replaces the murmur and my phone powers back up. The strange albums and songs are gone. Did I dream them? No. Coffee has made my breath stale in the most un-dreamlike way.
The cabin lights return.
“Wow, bumpy ride,” says the man sitting across the aisle.
As I hit PLAY to start the song again, two flight attendants and a woman enter from coach.
“Yeah, that’s her,” the woman says.
“Ma’am, I can confirm this woman has been here in her seat the entire time,” says the flight attendant nearest me. His name, Oliver, is spelled out in cursive orange letters on his jacket. His face is kind. I like the dapper way he has put himself together.
“No. That’s her,” the woman says.
“Ma’am, you’ll have to take your seat,” the other attendant says and leads the woman away.
“I’m sorry,” Oliver says to me. “We had an unruly passenger after we hit that turbulence. That woman said she saw you while boarding and was convinced the unruly passenger was you. On behalf of the airline I’d like to apologize.”
Was the unruly passenger in here? I try to recall her but she was only a shape in the dark.
The man across
the aisle is chatting at me, but I’m not listening. I’m too drained to tell him to stop. From what few words I do say, he thinks I’m traveling to do some sort of engineering work on the CERN particle collider in Geneva.
He drones on. The woman’s voice was so familiar but I can’t place it. It eludes me like the name of a song on the tip of my tongue.
2. Converge
Luggage circulates on the carousel. As I watch for my bag, I try to remember the songs I heard during the disturbance. Someone taps me on the shoulder. It’s Oliver.
“This is for you,” he says, and he hands me a crumpled piece of paper.
“What?” I fumble to unfold the paper.
“No. Not here. Shhhh…” he whispers. “It’s from you. You said you’d know. Or you would know.”
What’s with everyone? I only want to get to the hotel, close the door and leave this day outside.
He attempts to act nonchalant by checking his phone and pretending to watch the carousel while furtively glancing at me. After a moment, he nods to me then walks away. I unfold the paper. On it are hand drawn sketches of machine parts. Long strings of numbers. Formulas.
I crumple the paper and look for a trashcan. As my bag arrives, I stick the paper in my pocket.
* * *
My hotel is in a beautiful square in Old Town, near the river. The cobblestone street does not permit vehicles, so my escort from Aeon carries my bags from the carpark. There is a music store with violins in the window. A liquor shop displays bottles of spirits I have never heard of. People are drinking coffee at tables outside cafés. There is a world of rooftop gardens atop the four- and five-story buildings flanking the narrow road. This is everything I imagined Europe to be. At the hotel, my escort gestures for the bellboy to take my bags.
“Ms. Hartlin wishes to see you right away,” he says.
* * *
Aeon-Hartlin is headquartered outside the city in a low-rise building of metal and glass centered on sprawling, manicured grounds. Pines and large gray stones and rugged mountains in the distance are reflected in the polished surfaces. With all the angles and curves, and the glare of the afternoon sun, it is hard to discern the building’s exact shape.
The receptionist takes my photo as I sign in. My face is on the printed paper pass he directs me to wear. Floor-to-ceiling octagonal windows span the large lobby. We exit through double doors opposite the entrance and emerge into a giant office. The dozens of people at desks and phone banks barely give us notice. My escort punches a code into a keypad at another set of doors and we enter a production area. Conveyor belts transport metal parts while automated mechanical arms work on them.
We pass sterile booths, spray coating areas and more guarded check points. I know it is a show. Finally we enter a large conference room where dozens of my colleagues and rivals are seated at a big, polished metal table. I’m seated next to Wendy Mikaela, a chemist I used to know. I last heard she was working for a Pfizer subsidiary. Wendy lifts her glass to me in greeting. My escort asks me if I want anything and then joins the other attendants waiting along the perimeter of the room. A minute later, Rudolph Cellantino, a metallurgist whose work I recently read about, is escorted to the last empty space at the table next to me. The attendants exit, leaving the door near the head of the table open.
Ilsa Hartlin walks in. She’s much taller than I pictured. I know her only as a photograph and a reproduced signature on my pay bonuses. Her thin, gray hair is neatly pulled back.
“I want to thank you all for coming,” she says. “Before our work begins, I must tell you the reason you are here is not what we told you. I apologize to those who were told nothing. We did what we had to do to bring you here. Look around. This is the greatest gathering of minds we could assemble. The task before us holds great challenges, challenges worthy of you. But it will force us into an area of moral uncertainty. I regret I can tell you no more at the moment. Yet, with this, you must decide whether to proceed. If you wish to leave we hope you will remain in Zurich as our guest until you return home. You will be generously compensated for your time.”
A woman I'm pretty sure is Shaenna Vanderhousen, an aeronautical engineer working for Japan’s private sector, stands up. Her shoes echo on the white marble floor as she exits. Wendy Mikaela finishes her drink and looks to me and Rudolph with an innocent grin.
“I’m in. Are you?” she asks.
“I’m certainly intrigued,” Rudolph says.
I’m intrigued too. The entrance door opens and the black-clad attendants wheel in serving carts, and the aroma of hot chocolate fills the space. Steaming mugs and simple white plates with small octagons of chocolate are served to us. Ilsa Hartlin looks angry, then confused. She whispers something to an attendant, then smiles.
“Aeon-Hartlin wants you to stay," she says. "All of you. Before we can proceed we require your solemn pledge of secrecy. The required documents are coming shortly. Please rest and enjoy yourselves tonight. Tomorrow we need the best you have."
I stand with the group and find myself walking with Wendy and Rudolph.
“We’re all going out for authentic Swiss food and then drinks,” Wendy says. “God help me if I know what that is, but you want to come?”
I do. Even though I’m dead tired.
* * *
Zurich at night is beautiful. The stone streets. The river. The sounds of gathered people chases away the silence of age and night. Wendy, Rudolph, and a half dozen others from the room stroll through the streets of the square near my hotel. Shopkeepers are closing their doors. Restaurants are lighting candles and preparing outdoor tables. Rudolph and Wendy choose a restaurant on crowded Niederdorf Strausse. I eat steak tartar. And things I don’t recognize. I drink the wine Wendy pours. There is chocolate. And laughter. Nobody talks about inane music or American TV. These people are brilliant, and it feels like being in school before I met Jaz.
After dinner, we wander through the streets and across the footbridge leading out of Old Town.
“I didn’t know there was a Red-Light district.” Wendy says. “What fun.”
She’s had too much to drink. So have I.
Not all of the girls in the windows have sad eyes. Some are just strange, some are just empty. Rudolph and Wendy and the others are loving it and discussing which brothel bar we will go to, as if they are picking dinner. For a moment, I think I am okay with it. But I’m not. I go back to the bridge, back to the square to find my hotel. The square is crowded with people drinking and singing. The whole mob is singing a theme song from some popular cartoon. Jaz would know. He would mock them. I smile.
Jasper Rodrigo Van Houton. Son of a geologist from Mexico City and a Dutch archaeologist. Named after his parents’ favorite stone. The bright-eyed young man I met in a man-made underground lake designed to capture proof of the elusive particles left over from the moment of creation. My neutrino collector project.
This is perfect water, he had said. Perfect like you. You’re like a neutrino. Unnoticed, hell even undetectable by most everyone. The indifference and cruelty of people doesn’t stop you. They are unable to grasp the perfection that is you even when you're right under their noses. He meant it. And he hadn’t been drunk like the fools tonight. He hadn’t cared how he sounded or that he didn’t quite make sense. It was the nicest thing anyone had said to me, ever. The memory makes all the awful things he said later hurt that much more.
I didn’t love him for saying that. I loved him for singing to me. The first song was about the universe and a cosmic star-crossed love. Another was about everything being in its perfect place and time. Learning there was more to him than his scientist’s mind was like finding an undiscovered property of one of my favorite elements.
The songs were pieces of him. Cherished, fragile secret pieces of him, and he found me worthy of them. Through them he exposed his authentic self to me. Giving them to me, he gave himself to me. I didn’t care about his scarred lip. Or his funny eye, or his hair that wouldn’t stay combed, or
his spindly arms and legs. The way he looked at me and the way he treated me, back then, was beautiful. When I was with him the world didn’t feel broken.
Finding him on social media is easier than I expected. I call.
"Anina Washington," he says. “Thank goodness.”
“You’re not the type to keep an online profile,” I say.
“I know,” he says. “I put the account up for you.”
He gives me directions. His flat is in Old Town, above a clock shop. I don't recognize him when he greets me at the building’s door. His hair is long and in a ponytail. His face is lined and shows the wear of years of drinking.
“You called my parents," I say. "Don’t ever do that again.”
“I won’t,” he says. “You’re unlisted. Your office wouldn’t put my calls through. Will you come in?”
"No. I don't want to."
"Then how about we go to the garden?"
I follow him up four flights of stairs to the roof. Potted plants fill almost every inch of space. There is a little iron table and two small chairs. Absinthe and beer bottles are neatly lined around the pots, each an untold story, each a relic of a night since I last saw him.
"What's so important?" I ask.
"You tell me," he says. “Why contact me after all these years?”
“I did no such thing.”
"You did. Last week, at my parents’ anniversary in Barcelona."
"No, I didn't."
“You were older and grayer but you were you,” he says.
He looks at me like I am an unsolved equation.
“Yes. It was you. And you told me to call you yesterday with the message.”
Savage Beasts Page 10