by Rick Boling
Early in my career I had possessed a musical memory that was the envy of my peers. In fact, at one point in time I had over five hundred songs stored in my head, and I could fake a couple of hundred more simply because I’d happened to hear them on the radio or a jukebox or on the B-side of some obscure album. But those days were long gone. Now I had to carry around a ream of cheat sheets and sit behind a music stand.
The frightening thing was, I had no intention of giving up alcohol, which seemed to suggest I had a death wish. And all indications were that I would soon be fulfilling that wish. What, then, did I have to lose by taking Heyoka up on his offer? Even if it turned out to be a load of crap, there wasn’t much more damage I could inflict on myself than I already had.
Still, something nagged at the back of my mind. For one thing, I didn’t like feeling trapped here, fattened up on booze and food like an animal being prepared for slaughter, or a guinea pig in a cage awaiting a bizarre scientific experiment. As futile and hopeless as my life had become, I wasn’t quite ready to trade it in for some unknown, mystical alternative.
I was doodling on the synthesizer keyboard, deep in thought, when Heyoka returned. “So, what do you think?” he said, pulling the leather chair over and sitting down. “About the equipment, I mean.”
“State of the art,” I said. “Impressive library of samples. Given a little time I could probably assemble an entire philharmonic orchestra, not to mention a fair imitation of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.”
“I’m sure you could, and I’d love to hear you try. But for now let’s get back to our earlier discussion.”
“We can do that,” I said. “But first I’d like you to answer one simple question. Why me? Out of all the billions of people in the world, why would you seek out an aging, alcoholic, has-been to play your little games with?”
“Legitimate question,” he said. “And I promise to answer it. However, before we go any further you need to understand that this is no game. Everything I’ve told you so far is absolutely true, from the story of my first vision quest to my latest experiments and calculations. I admit that the stage-three process has yet to be tested, but there is no reason to believe it won’t be successful. Even in the unlikely event that something goes wrong, the risk to you is minuscule.”
Finally, we were getting to the crux of the matter, and I didn’t like it. Before answering, I adjusted the keyboard input to imitate a pipe organ and started improvising an old horror-movie soundtrack from the ‘50s. “Sorry,” I said over the music, “but I’m having a vision of my own, and it’s not a good one. In fact, it brings to mind the writings of Mary Shelley. Victor Frankenstein was, after all, born and raised not far from here. And it’s now obvious that I’ve been conned by a mad scientist who lives in a castle—wooden though it may be—ominously perched on a promontory in the mountains. A castle that contains an underground laboratory, no less. Not only that, but this mad scientist now wants me to participate in some mysterious experiment.”
“I see your point,” he said. “But there’s one thing you haven’t taken into consideration, and that is that you are free to leave at any time. Just say the word, and I’ll have you back at the Hotel Orientale in less than an hour. I’ll even take care of the bill for the duration of your stay. Believe me, Rix, you are not a prisoner here. In fact, I’ll prove it to you.”
The moment those words left his lips, Fred appeared. “Fred,” he said, “pull the Citroen around front and leave the keys in it.” Then, motioning for me to follow, he strolled across the room and out the door.
I caught up with him at the elevator, and we rode down together without speaking. By the time we reached the front entrance, the Citroen was idling in the driveway. “I want you to get in the car and drive out of here,” he said. “There’s a GPS that will guide you. Go as far as you feel is necessary in order to convince yourself that I’m not going to stop you. If you’re not back within the hour, I promise I’ll have your things, along with a case of Jack Daniel’s, sent to the hotel and taken to your room, which will already be paid for.”
I’d played my share of poker over the years, but for the life of me I couldn’t read this guy’s tells. Either that or there were no tells to read. If this was a bluff, it would be easy enough to find out: just get in the car and try to drive back to Lyon. And, after considering things for a moment, I decided to do precisely that.
I climbed into the cramped driver’s seat and was putting the car in gear, when Heyoka stepped to the open passenger-side window and leaned in. “You know,” he said, “in case you decide to return, the next thing I want to do is take you back to 1965 and give you a glimpse of your late father.”
As I pulled away, his final words echoed in my head, bringing back memories of a song I’d written for my dad many years after he died. It was another of those songs that had come to me in a dream, this one so vivid and detailed it seemed supernatural, as if the lyrics were delivered to me by my dead father. Of course, I was doing a lot of drugs back then, so I eventually chalked the whole thing up to my chemically altered state of mind. Now, however, after hearing Heyoka’s story, I wasn’t so sure. And remembering all his talk about probabilities, I wondered how probable it was that the lyrics I’d written decades before would reflect some of the theories he’d expounded on, theories I’d heard for the first time today.
The song had appeared on the last album I recorded, and one of the lines that popped into my head was: As yesterday weaves itself into tomorrow, long-finished stories are yet to be told. But what really screwed with my mind were the words that seemed to foreshadow the experiment he wanted to conduct, the two words that made up the title: Beginning Again.
I passed through the open gate and was about half a mile down the winding road, when I jammed on the brakes, pulled off on the narrow shoulder, and turned around. Then I headed back up the hill to Heyoka’s wooden castle.
Aurélie
Twilight was settling in as I pulled up to the entrance, where Fred sat waiting on the front steps. After I rolled to a stop we switched places, and he drove the car down the driveway and out of view. I entered the cathedral-like main room and was about to turn into the hall when the scene outside the windows stopped me. The sun had dipped behind the mountain tops, scattering brilliant red and gold ribbons on a lacy bank of clouds. I stood mesmerized by the spectacle until a female voice broke through the silence.
“Heyoka asked me to bring you this,” said Aurélie, who, like the night before at the restaurant, seemed to have materialized out of thin air. She handed me a tall glass of whiskey, which I accepted with a shaky hand and drank half of before the oddness of her presence at the villa registered. I thought about asking what she was doing here, but I was even more curious about her Midwestern accent. She hadn’t spoken while serving as our waitress, and despite her name and facial features, it was clear she had not been raised in France.
“You don’t sound French,” I said.
“Nope,” she answered. “Born in Canada, grew up mostly in South Dakota. My given name was … well, let’s just say it was problematical. So as soon as I reached the age of consent, I changed it.”
“But you look—”
“My father was Inuit, my mother French Canadian. I got my brains from him and my looks from her.”
“She must have been a pretty lady,” I said. “So what was this problematical name you were given?”
“That’s a rather personal question, but since I know you changed Richard Voniossi to Rix Vaughn, and that you hated your middle name, Llewellyn, I guess I can tell you mine. The Inuit did not have surnames, that is until the government started requiring them for various legal reasons. My family chose Kunayak, and my full name at birth was A'akuluujjusi Kunayak, so I’m sure you can understand why I wanted to change it. I took the name from Aurélie Claudel, a French model and descendant of the famous sculptress Camille Claudel. Today, I go by the single name Aurélie.”
“Fascinating,” I said. “Lovely name
. Anything else I should know about you?”
“Me? Not really. Except maybe that I’m not as young as I look,” she said with a wink and a smile.
I’d paid little attention to her the night before, but here, with the firelight flickering like a halo of lightning bugs behind her hair, I was struck by the familiarity of her simple, almost peasant-like beauty. She was petite and slender, with auburn hair cropped in a short afro that framed a heart-shaped face. Her azure eyes, shadowed by long lashes, looked down on a delicate nose and a wide, generous mouth. Gone was the velvet beret that had held her hair in check, and the black-and-white waitress uniform had been replaced by stone-washed jeans and a loose-fitting t-shirt featuring a photograph of Jeff Bridges as “The Dude” Lebowski.
I must have been staring because she did a little pirouette, then struck a hip-cocked pose and bowed her head in a mock finale. “Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t mean to stare. I was a little surprised to see you here is all. Don’t you have to work tonight?”
“I work for Heyoka,” she said, relaxing the pose. When she saw my confusion, she added, “Let me guess, you didn’t know he owns LeMusique.”
“Seems like there’s a lot I don’t know about Heyoka,” I said, obeying her come-hither signal to follow her into the hallway. Though the jeans weren’t tight, I could tell she had a well-proportioned body by the way her hips and thighs brushed against the soft denim. And when she glanced back over her shoulder, the familiarity I’d sensed before hit home. In the subdued light of the hallway, with her profile illuminated by the subtle glow of a wall lamp, she could have passed for my third wife’s twin sister.
“You shouldn’t blame him for that,” she said, pointing to the open elevator door. “He’s a brainy guy, but a little absentminded at times. He’s also one of the most honest men I’ve ever known, and I can assure you he’s not trying to hide anything. It just doesn’t occur to him that it might be necessary sometimes to … Rix? Are you okay?”
I was stunned by her resemblance to the only woman I had ever truly loved, and when I tried to answer, nothing came out.
“Rix?” she said again. My legs had turned to rubber, and it was all I could do to keep my balance as another vivid memory swept me back in time …
Robin and I had splurged that warm summer night, with a trip to Atlanta, dinner at our favorite Italian restaurant, and a special showing of Gone with the Wind at the historic Fox Theater. Upon returning to our tiny cabin in the north-Georgia woods, we were greeted by a sight one might be privy to once in a lifetime, and then only if they are very, very lucky.
Most easterners are familiar with fireflies, or lightning bugs as we southerners call them, but few, if any, have ever seen the kind of living fireworks we found ourselves in the midst of when we parked in the dirt driveway next to our ramshackle home. To say they lit up the sky would be an understatement. It was impossible to count them, but there were thousands, if not tens of thousands, flashing their iridescent beacons among the dense forest that surrounded us. The spectacle was so bright I could make out the color of Robin’s blue chiffon dress in the midnight darkness, and the vision of her standing there, framed in that ethereal light, had stayed with me ever since.
“Hey!” Aurélie said, startling me back to the present. Seeing her bathed in the soft glow of the wall lamp, I realized my earlier vision of her, backlit by the sparkling effect of the fire, had triggered the flashback.
“I … uh … Sorry,” I said. “Little déjà vu there.” I raised my glass and drained it, hoping the whiskey would dissolve the growing lump in my throat. “I was thinking how much you remind me of …” But I stopped in mid-sentence. If I’d finished, it would have sounded like I was trying to hit on her, which was the furthest thing from my mind at that moment. It wasn’t that I had a problem with bedding women half my age, or that she hadn’t awakened my sleeping libido. It was just that for decades my sexual fantasies had been dominated by memories of Robin, and seeing her come to life before my eyes had knocked me for a loop.
“I remind you of what?” she said.
I didn’t want to answer, but since I’d already started, I thought it would seem rude if I refused. “Just someone I used to know,” I said, my voice hoarse with emotion. “But that was a long, long time ago.” I managed to straighten up and lean on the wall next to the open elevator door. “Anyway, if you’re taking me to see Heyoka, maybe we should get going.”
“Oh,” she said. “Sure. He’s waiting for us in the lab.” She took hold of my arm and steered me into the elevator. We waited for the door to close, then she pressed her palm against a small blank screen next to the controls. I heard a faint beep, and when she took her hand away the screen was flashing with a red arrow pointing down.
The elevator ride took quite a while, though there were no lights to show how far we traveled. I did, however, have the sensation of floating, which indicated we were descending rapidly. The awkwardness between us increased until the silence became nerve-racking, so I was happy to feel my weight return as we slowed to a stop. I took a step toward the door, and when it didn’t open, I looked at Aurélie.
“It’ll be a few more minutes,” she said. Again, there was a sensation of rapid movement, but no loss of gravity. Instead, I felt myself being pushed toward the wall until I was forced to lean on it for support. Aurélie, on the other hand, leaned into the movement, obviously familiar with how to compensate for the nuances of this strange, underground journey.
When the elevator stopped again, the door opened on a small chamber reminiscent of the airlocks I’d seen in a few science-fiction movies. As we stepped out, the door closed, and three ceramic-looking triangular panels drew together in front of it, meeting with a muted click in the center. A faint whirring sound indicated some sort of seal being engaged, and a moment later a purple mist began to fill the chamber.
“It’s okay,” Aurélie said, sensing my anxiety. “The lab complex includes several sterile clean rooms, so we try to keep the overall environment as uncontaminated as possible. Heyoka has developed this bacteria-neutralizing nanofog to cleanse our skin and clothes before we enter.”
Within seconds the mist dissipated, and the wall before us split in triangular sections identical to the ones that had closed in front of the elevator door. I expected some sort of Star-Trek scene, or maybe a room full of tables laden with bubbling beakers and glowing glass tubes, so I was surprised to see an antiquated office, featuring a scarred wooden desk piled with books and papers. Behind the desk sat a bespectacled Heyoka, seemingly unaware of our presence until Aurélie cleared her throat.
“And this,” she said, “is the Master’s study. As you can see, it’s modeled on Albert Einstein’s office, which you may know rivaled Mark Twain’s in sheer messiness. I’ve tried to get him to let me clean and organize it, but he refuses.”
“Don’t mind my pretty protégé,” Heyoka said, coming around the desk to shake my hand. “She’s a pain in the ass sometimes, but I love her just the same. Who wouldn’t? She’s not only got the looks of a virgin teenager, but the brains of a massive parallel supercomputer. She could do with a little breast augmentation, but, like me, she refuses.”
This lighthearted banter seemed to come naturally to them, the sarcasm tinged with faux exasperation.
“For your information,” Aurélie said, taking my empty glass, “I am neither a teenage virgin nor a human computer. I happen to be thirty-six years old, and my educational credentials include a high-school diploma and a couple of wasted years in college before they booted me out. The only reason he thinks I’m smart is that I once managed to pull a Will-Hunting by arranging a group of symbols and numbers into the solution to some arcane mathematical conundrum called the ‘Yang–Mills existence and mass gap problem.’ Though I had no idea where it came from or what it meant, apparently that momentary flash of insight was stupendous enough for this aging cretin to kidnap me and make me his slave.”
She went to a small sideboard between two bookcases,
and poured me another drink. “As for the virgin part,” she continued, handing me the refilled glass, “he wouldn’t know the first thing about that, since he’s a eunuch. Of course, I have no proof of that. But the fact that I don’t means I’m either right or he’s an asexual old fuddy-duddy.”
“Enough of this mutual-admiration crap,” Heyoka said, returning to his desk chair. “I’m glad you decided to come back, Rix. And, again, let me assure you that you are free to leave at any time. But since you’re here, I have to assume you’re at least curious to see what we’ve been up to, so I’ve asked Aurélie to give you a little tour while I finish a few things. She knows everything there is to know about our endeavors and the science behind them, so feel free to ask any questions you want. In fact, you might want to ask her about the multiverse and alternate realities I mentioned earlier. She may be a smartass, but she’s a lot better than I am at coming up with simple explanations for complex scientific concepts.”
“What he means is, I talk in English, rather than quantum Klingon,” Aurélie said. “Come on, let’s leave this cranky old Injun to his musings.”
“Have fun,” he said, as she led me along a narrow path between teetering stacks of books and journals. “But be careful. She’s been awfully horny lately.”
“Humff,” she said. “As if you would know.”
We rounded a corner into a corridor that wasn’t visible from the office. Soft light radiated from smooth translucent walls, cool to the touch. Except for our muffled footfalls on the resilient flooring, the silence was so penetrating I felt it in my ears, like the increased pressure when a plane descends toward a landing.
About a hundred yards along, we came to another airlock that opened when we approached. “This is going to be just like the one beside the elevator,” she said as the panels closed behind us. The same misting operation took place, and after the second set of panels separated, she led me onto a platform next to what looked like a miniature bullet train. The train car stood in an open space cut in the side of a tunnel about twelve feet in diameter. A metal bench protruded from the opposite wall, apparently to provide seating for people awaiting the car’s arrival.