Star Sailors

by James McNaughton

  The changing room contracts and expands. The old woman blurs into three and four, and refocusses. It’s me. Karen understands—the old woman is her. The height and hair are identical. It’s the woman she will become in the future. A visitation. A time leak. It’s me. Her breath snags. Her heart wallops in her chest so heavily that she places a hand against the lockers for support as she rounds the robes and moves closer.

  ‘Karen?’ she whispers.

  No reply.

  The woman’s flesh is heavy with age, the face doughy and stretched and filled almost beyond recognition, but it is her, Karen. The blindly staring dark brown eyes are sunk in plastic pits but they are hers. Her aura is standard super-elderly: cold-blooded, reptilian and entitled. Super-rich and effectively immortal, she can never be wrong about anything.

  Like a snake digesting a baby, she thinks, and only my hunger will wake me.

  My face? She holds a finger above the skin, frightened to touch it. No written record of my life, she thinks; no confession, no hint of revelation, no sign of the world I’ve seen. It’s just an advertisement. I have a lot of stuff. I am served. I belong to an exclusive club.

  The old face briefly wrinkles.

  Karen whispers, ‘Can you see me?’

  The lips curve down at the corners a little, only a little, but distinctly sourly, and the chin dimples oddly, puckers where it shouldn’t. The dark eyes continue to stare.

  Karen gasps and steps back. ‘You’re not me.’ It’s someone else. A real person.

  She washes her face vigorously with cold water at a vanity unit. Get a grip, she tells herself. In the mirror’s reflection the super-elderly woman reclines. Possibly my great-great-grandmother, she thinks, but actually me?

  The old woman’s mouth twists down further; tendons stand out on her neck. Her living memory is clearly vivid and very awful. It could be the hundredth time she’s had it. God, Karen thinks, I hope I get some good ones.

  Jeremiah will be growing more frantic by the second. It’s time to go.

  The woman’s bag is wide open and her purse clearly visible. But the thick, frilled one-piece swimsuit Karen spies under the bench at the old woman’s feet, is the temptation.

  It’s clearly a comfort model, one from the Modesty line, with skin-coloured arms and legs, form-concealing ruffles and a skirt concealing the padded waterproof bottom. Karen wonders if she could swap it for the ultralight. It would be the lesser of two evils.

  No, she thinks, it’s better than that. A better vehicle to make a statement about appearances. And for all they know, she thinks, I might have a medical problem. What could they say? I could have fun with it. I’ll make a memorable impression on Trix Stanaway, if nothing else. Get noticed. She must be besieged by models looking for work.

  An odd smell is gathering. The old woman’s breath, Karen realises. It’s awful, like rotten meat, as if her insides are decomposing. Her skin crawls.

  A swap, not theft, Karen tells herself as she approaches the old woman again, ready this time with a compliment should she come to: Nice hair!

  The woman stares on, neck tendons like cables, trapped in a repeating nightmare, fouling the air around her with each breath. Karen drops the ultralight on the bench next to her. A gift! Nothing happens. Standing at the old woman’s knee, leaning back to stay out of her line of sight, Karen hooks the comfort suit with her big toe and draws it towards her. It slips easily across the glossy, flickering tiles. Not a sound.

  The Modesty suit is heavy and stiff. Brand new. She snaps the label off and climbs into it as quickly and quietly as possible. Face flaming and heart thudding, she lets her breath out and risks a quick look in the mirror as she zips up.

  It’s off-white, with black interconnecting circles on the tier of ruffles at the midriff and on the pleated knee-length skirt. The old woman is heavier—the skin-coloured sleeves and leggings are wrinkly and baggy at Karen’s knees and elbows. She stifles a laugh. It’s ridiculous, clown-like. Perfect. Way too good to hide under a bathrobe.

  Karen flits through the old woman’s stare on the way out. She doesn’t stir. No alarm goes off. No door clangs shut.

  The Black Caps have defeated an injury-depleted Australian side by three wickets in the inaugural 72-hour continuous day and night winter test at the Melbourne Cricket Ground. ‘Wow,’ says the Australian captain, ‘that really put the test into test cricket.’ The new type of artificial grass, Green Top, is warmly praised by players and officials of both sides.

  Jeremiah inhales sharply at the sight of his wife. He stares, unwilling to believe what is walking towards him. It can’t be true. But it is. She’s wearing an incontinence suit. Impossible, and not only that, it’s too big for her. He stares, willing her to be an illusion. Are other people seeing what he’s seeing? They are. Kids are staring. A skinny ten-year-old girl in a fluro cotton wetsuit giggles. Karen stops three metres in front of Jeremiah and curtseys.

  ‘Ta daaa,’ she says, with a big smile. ‘There must have been a mix-up at the shop. They gave me the wrong box or something. Hilarious, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, you’re a laughing stock. I’ll sue them.’

  ‘It’s actually very comfortable. And that’s the most important thing when it comes to fashion. Feeling comfortable.’

  ‘But you look like you have to wear a nappy, like you’re simple, or you’ve sustained head injuries.’

  ‘I’ll talk nicely to Mr What’s-his-face, use big words like “misunderstanding” and explain the mix-up.’

  Jeremiah lifts his forearm and reads the time from his screen. There is no time to purchase another suit. Lateness is not an option with Venture Group senior management. To come this far, he thinks, through sleeplessness and worry, cat shit, shopping and a demonstration, to fall at the final hurdle? ‘But Karen,’ he says, ‘this is ridiculous.’

  ‘You just bleated.’

  He expels air. ‘I did nothing of the kind.’

  ‘You did. You bleated.’

  ‘Karen.’ He has the sensation of being watched. Indeed, they are encircled by fascinated onlookers. He takes Karen’s hand and leads her away.

  ‘It’ll fly,’ she tells him. ‘Trust me.’

  A mix-up, he thinks. Hilarious. As they follow the path through a grove of palm trees, the top of the Platinum Pagoda appears and disappears from view. It’s the tallest structure in the dome, taller even than the mega-slide in Silver. The Pagoda’s platinum-plated tiered roofs, with their broad eaves sharply curved up at the corners, gleam against the blue sky. Mr Peters has reserved them a table there. Luxury awaits.

  Jeremiah raises his face to the heat lights high above and breathes the oxygen-rich air. Karen’s appearance, he tells himself, is not necessarily the end of the world. Photography is not permitted in the dome, for one thing. And Peters is from a different department, Communications; a weird bunch, so anything he reports will be regarded as hearsay in Legal. And maybe the mix-up is hilarious, as Karen suggested. He takes her hand.

  Anyway, the thing to do now is to control the things I can, Jeremiah tells himself. Be polite, listen properly—not just for keywords—and demonstrate my competence without over-reaching, or over-laughing.

  All feel possible, regardless of Karen’s clownish appearance, in the delightful summery warmth of Platinum—yes, Platinum—making for the Pagoda, where so few ever get to dine. A happy connection occurs in his synapses and the House & Garden telescope of last night’s dream comes to him, pointing skyward from the roof of his golden house in the Golden Gate, like a magic key to the future. He makes himself a promise: I’ll save up and buy that telescope.

  Karen’s enjoying Jeremiah’s eye-closing and deep-breathing, his attempts to centre himself. The Modesty suit is proving to be the best revenge she could have possibly cooked up. ‘The suit’s really saggy around the bum,’ she informs him.

  ‘It’s watertight,’ he replies through gritted teeth, ‘with space for an incontinence diaper, to preserve the bio-integrity of the water.’r />
  Karen deals with the curious and sympathetic looks she’s attracting from other Beachgoers by ignoring them. She focusses on the stretch of Platinum Beach visible up ahead through the corridor of palms. It’s marvellously well done. The horizon looks endless and the sugar-white sand lined with palms is like a little cove in an old photo of a Pacific island.

  She imagines a blue metallic tunic, crenellated at the bottom, powered by the walker’s movement to slide up and down over a sand-coloured skirt, like waves. Beachwear. She smiles. She’s phasing out. It will be easy to talk fashion with Trix. Jeremiah will be on his best behaviour. The lights are so warm and the air so still, she could almost sleep. It’s a dream world, made more dreamlike by two happy pills. Walking is nice; she feels lazy and content, as if she could walk for miles. Sleepwalk.

  He’s flung his towel over his shoulder so he can gesticulate with his free hand. ‘Due to the high grain-to-meat transfer ratio in beef production and the demand that places on first-tier agriculture, Mr Peters is opposed to cattle farming. So for the purposes of today’s meeting I’ll stay away from meat. Don’t be surprised if I take a pescetarian option. I repeat, don’t be surprised if I…’

  She tunes out. People strolling the little warren of tracks in the palms, featuring stalls and takeaway shacks, turn and look at him. Although clad only in board shorts, Jeremiah’s loud incomprehensibility and powerful build clearly mark him out as an important young man. And then they look at her, or vice versa. There is a question in their glances. Some seem to detect tragedy. She holds a man’s glance a little longer than she could if Jeremiah were paying attention to her, and gives her seductive smoulder, the one she honed for swimwear catalogues at Flux. He breaks contact, flustered.

  Jeremiah blathers on as they arrive at Platinum Beach, a 60-metre arc of pristine icing-sugar sand carved into crescent-shaped coves and dotted with sunbathing, paddling or swimming Inners. Safe in his loud and large physical presence, she fires off a couple more seductive looks which frighten the recipients. The Modesty suit rocks. She’s never felt so free in public in swimwear before. There really could be something in this for Trix.

  In the second Platinum cove, which is more like a lagoon, a crowd has formed in the shallows, intent on two young Mäori men in a simple outrigger canoe. The fishers’ naked backs flex and from their outstretched hands is flung a rustic net. It briefly patches the glassy water. Normally the crowd would hold their screens at arm’s length, silently framing the experience, but the screen ban makes them seem almost involved in the traditional sustainable fishing practice they’re witnessing. As if they might light fires on the platinum sand and feast on the catch together.

  She’s wondering if there are actual fish in the water when Jeremiah’s silence attracts her attention. The sonorous legalese has come to an end and she must gather a comment. For a second she’s tempted to ask, ‘Sorry, did you say something?’ She rummages. ‘You’ll get work from a Comms manager?’

  ‘Business is based on contracts,’ he says sharply.

  ‘No, it isn’t.’

  He drops her hand and makes fists before his face as he speaks. ‘All big business is based on contracts. Comms business, hospital business, aid business. Without contracts there is no big business.’

  Convincing himself of his importance, she thinks. How sad. ‘He needs you to do contracts, of course.’

  ‘Like I told you, I’m looking to help Mr Peters out in his retirement, because he’ll almost certainly continue to work in some capacity. It could open up a whole new area for me. For us.’

  ‘How did you get to know him?’

  ‘I told you. I don’t know him. He had a reservation here but everyone in Comms was busy. It came up late at that drinks thing I told you about, over a wine we both liked.’

  She doesn’t care. What matters urgently now is something she realises she’s already forgotten. ‘I forgot about the personal screen ban in here and to get a temporary.’ In fact she was so flustered at the handover station, thinking she’d been busted for theft of the Modesty suit, that she’d handed over her screen and not waited for a temporary replacement. ‘Can you check in with Plearn?’

  Jeremiah touches his forearm and scrolls the raised virtual screen. ‘They haven’t contacted us.’ The screen subsides. ‘They can take care of things for a couple of hours, Karen. I don’t want any interruptions. This lunch is very important for all of us.’

  ‘Okay.’ It’s easier to agree. She knows he’ll get over himself five minutes into the lunch and want to know how Mandela’s doing. ‘Can I have that screen?’

  He grits his jaw. ‘I can take the call.’

  ‘I’d feel happier if I had it.’

  ‘I don’t feel comfortable without a screen either, Karen. You should have got one. And worn something normal. I’m quite capable of taking a call from Plearn, if it comes.’

  He is, of course, but a surge of resentment runs against the slow-tide of chemical contentment.

  There is a little tap on the grass beside the path, under a palm tree, one for washing sand from feet. She pulls him to it.

  ‘What?’

  She holds one of her bare feet under the little tap. ‘Clean it,’ she commands.

  He puffs through his nose. You’re joking, his eyes say.

  ‘Now. Or I drool and fart through lunch.’

  ‘You wouldn’t.’

  ‘I would. Blinky’s our cat. You should have let her out when she was crying.’

  ‘We don’t have time for this.’

  ‘We do.’

  The forced march of time towards lunch brings about his capitulation. He kneels before her and, as he takes her foot and washes it with cool water, she forgives him for the cat poo incident. As he begins to run his thumb down the instep in deep stokes the way she likes, the little balding spot on the top of his head, which he can’t see and doesn’t know about— despite all his selfies—becomes endearing; it epitomises his essential vulnerability. She leans against the tree and, for a long moment, forgives him everything.

  2

  The Platinum Pagoda, revealed in all its shining glory, is breathtaking. Known to most Outers only by photo, it has for them become a despised symbol of privilege, an encapsulation of the vastly superior world that Inners enjoy behind their walls and beneath their domes—and a popular tattoo for Inners for that very reason. Set on the icing-sugar sand and overlooking a calm and sparkling sea, the bright octagonal tower is even more fantastic than Karen had imagined. And soon they will enter it! She’s thrilled by the excesses of the multiple heavy-tiled roofs, by their contradictory bulk and elegance. Wind makes designs like this impossible in the real world—the building would take flight.

  They step over flagstones set in the sand (to think it once just sat inertly in deserts and on beaches!) inked by the shade of the great overhanging eaves. The Pagoda’s octagonal bottom level, the largest and highest room, opens directly onto the beach. Diners on the outer tables eat right on the verge of the sand, choosing from a menu rated the best and most expensive in Wellington, with all kinds of rare delicacies like lobster and snapper available. She almost regrets the pills, which have ruined her appetite.

  The linen-suited maître d’ at his little lectern nods. Conversation behind him bubbles like boiling mud. She smells privilege and single-mindedness. The Brodericks are expected and Karen’s comfort suit not quite noticed by the maître d’, but the predominantly elderly diners notice it. Conversation slows. Bubbles of mud thicken and pop reluctantly, and settle into a pre-eruption silence as she and Jeremiah are led across the floor. A loaded fork freezes halfway to mouth. It’s the last detail Karen sees among the diners before she adopts the studied boredom of a catwalk model. The persona transforms her into a vacant entity indifferent to opinion regarding the Modesty suit, which is the designer’s vision, not hers, and very soon to be discarded for another. Her raised eyes take in the lazily circling retro fans overhead and the curves of the central spiral staircase leading
up to exclusive bars on higher levels.

  A woman laughs. It’s not convincing. They’re fascinated, she senses, rather than amused.

  A woman’s voice, dry and flat: ‘Try Silver, darling. You look a bit lost.’

  Silence.

  Crocodile hunger.

  Mr Peters and Trix Stanaway stand to greet them, smiling and waving with refreshing animation from a little Premium table at the edge of the sand, as far from the main entrance as is possible. Beyond them lies a small and intimate stretch of sand abutting the dense belt of jungle that separates the end of Platinum Beach from Gold and its barn-like buffet-style eatery. The water sparkles only 15 metres away. Little waves lap and plosh. It’s magical.

  Mr Peters is taller than Jeremiah and has the kind of white hair that exclaims from a distance. Being retirement age, he wears a T-shirt and board shorts. Trix is younger, about 60, and is in tremendous natural-looking shape, just like in the photos. The ash-blonde hair falling to her shoulders is her own. Lines appear around her expressive grey eyes as she smiles. The diaphanous blue and green robe over her black one-piece is stylish and sexy. Perfect. In Karen’s opinion, Trix is a great artist, and she’s thrilled to meet her. And as her cheeks are kissed, Karen is impressed by the ease with which the older couple have accepted her oversized comfort suit as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. They truly don’t even seem to have noticed it, nor the entrance she made in it. Jeremiah’s law crowd would harrumph and cough and seek to distance themselves from her. Yes, something would immediately ‘come up’; screens would begin to beep with the demands of wives and children for ‘guidance’ on some issue, or much-promised family time; and lunch would be ‘pushed back’ as the lawyers took flight like a flock of startled birds.

  Mr Peters looks natural; a man in a primary relationship with a living person rather than a company and its hierarchy. For the law crowd—all male at Venture Group, in keeping with the Resilient Families policy—colleagues exist only negligibly outside of how they look, what they can do at work, where they sit on the ladder, and how much expensive stuff they have—wives are a component of this category. It’s clear to Karen that Mr Peters doesn’t play that game. His white hair and craggy face indicate he’s secure in himself and a natural full seven-pointer, like she is herself, which inspires a warm feeling of something like family kinship. Of all the choices and courses available to the elite, they have both chosen to keep fit (machine-rowing for herself) and take the minimum prescribed courses for each category, meaning they go in for standard six-monthly regeneration and enhancement treatments, with no extra additives or treatments other than superficials (in her case, happy pills).