by L. Lee Lowe
Zach huddles by the lantern, which emits a surprising amount of heat. Within a short time—measured by the metronome beat of his heart—he feels warm enough to take off his hat and mitts, unzip his anorak, and slump down onto the sleeping platform, where he gazes at the lantern, listens to its soft crooning, inhales the pungent smell of paraffin. The painful prickling of skin returning to normal body temperature seems genuine, yet he makes no move to undress further. With his fingertips he traces the line of jaw and cheek, the thin sharp slope of nose, at last his eyelids, trying to recapture the sensation of burning. But sensory memories are erased from the mind's buffer within fractions of a second, as irretrievable as the previous tick of a clock, the final beat of a heart. Briefly, he wishes for a mirror. 'Fool,' he mutters, 'as if that would prove anything.' Shaken by the sound of his own voice, he resolves not to speak aloud again.
He's tempted to remove his boots and crawl straight into the sleeping bag, but he forces himself to make a meal. And it's true, he feels better after the mug of pemmican-and-noodle soup, the fistful of raisins. Underestimating their energy needs killed a great many Arctic explorers. He settles back amid the furs on the sleeping platform to gnaw on a slab of dried meat, thickly edged with fat, and tries not to think of the horror stories they used to tell after lights-out. No one was ever scared; no one admitted to bug-eyed insomnia, to nightmares or—the cringing horror of it—a wet bed afterwards. Zombies, for him, had been the worst: the living dead, sapiens who looked normal but had become inhuman simulacra of an already horrifying species.
Going without sleep isn't an option. The other way back: WTF is that supposed to mean? Fulgur programmers ought not be allowed within reading distance of fantasy or science fiction. Even a spoilt dickhead like Owen would have no trouble foreseeing that the Abominable Snowman will seem a big, cuddly teddy bear, and the Snow Queen a fairy godmother, compared to the treats likely to be in store for Lord Zachariah, Archmage of the Realm of Fulgur—dupe, more like. He should have paid attention to the weirder totems of gaming, something no simu much bothers with.
After the last bite of biltong—a South African word he's adopted—Zach rubs his fingers together, the greasiness a discomfort only tolerable as a salve to near-constant chapping. The lantern sighs like a living creature, and he gets up to reposition it. Or perhaps it's the entire iglu which has awakened from a long hibernation in his presence. Beneath the insulating furs the walls are sweating, but when he turns the campstove down, they'll refreeze into an even more airtight surface. Tomorrow he'll calculate his fuel requirements, but a rough estimate—the drum is full—suggests that he'll run out of food first. He can afford to sleep with the companionship of his lantern.
His belly is full, he's warm, and the sleeping bag is for once long enough, yet sleep, fickle as a saucy goddess coyly fingering pomegranate tits, disdains his every offering, every lure and plea, every twist and roll and squirm. A book would help. He remembers how irritated he'd get with Lev during their long hours shut up together in the storm. He remembers the hunger for solitude—he could deal with bodily functions, it's the way another person abrades your skin that leaves you so raw and oozing. He remembers longing for a book, any book, in which to escape for a while. He remembers waking from a nightmare with Lev's arms around him, Lev's breath like tobacco-scented unguent. Zach remembers that he's promised himself not to remember.
'I'm going for walk,' he said.
'Brr, it's awfully cold,' Laura said.
He moved to the window, beyond which lay miles of snowy darkness, woods and frozen lake.
'Stay inside,' he said.
'You're getting sick of being cooped up with me.'
He held out his hand to her then, and she joined him at the window.
'Look,' he said, breathing on the pane.
'What?'
Again he frosted the glass with his breath.
'I don't understand,' Laura said.
He smiled at their reflection. 'Sometimes you need to cover something up in order to see it better.'
Zach flings aside the covers and yanks on the zip, the fabric catches and he's forced, sod it, to spend some minutes easing it free of the teeth. Time lost? How much more inane can you get? He kicks off the sleeping bag and prowls round again, searching the iglu for clues, anomalies, anything really. At this point he'd settle for a sleeping pill, an aspirin even, toxic as the stuff is to his system. He finishes off the dregs of his soup, eats another handful of raisins. His water bottle is two-thirds full, hardly an excuse to venture outside. Undecided, he hovers near the entrance. His memory is good, he can recall quite a lot of poetry. A lot of music. There's always the clarinet, but without Lev . . . anyhow, you don't need an instrument to play for yourself. Often it just gets in the way like a bad translation. And what about the sonata he'd started in another life? Don't leave it unfinished, Andy said. It's for Laura, isn't it? Write it, and you'll write her into every beat and note. As if notes were knots stitching up all that's come undone . . .
'You won't fall in the lake, will you?' she asked.
'It's frozen over,' he said.
'The ice might not be thick enough. It hasn't been cold for that long.'
'I'll keep to the woods.'
'What if you get lost?'
'Look, I promise I'll be OK.'
'That's not something you can promise.'
'Simus keep their promises.' His tone became wry. 'And everyone knows we have a great sense of direction.'
She traced a loopy chain in the condensation on the window pane, again and again, loopier and loopier, threading her way from dot to precarious dot.
'What?' he asked.
'Promise not to laugh.'
'What?' he repeated, already laughing a bit.
'Take your clarinet with you.'
Then he did laugh. 'You mean like a dog whistle?'
But she was serious. 'I'll hear it. Whenever you play, I hear your music.'
Hear it now. If there's any justice in the universe, then hear it now.
His anorak is hanging to dry on the line he's rigged between two of the antler toggles securing the overlapping caribou skins to the walls. He ducks under the damp folds and removes the clarinet case from an inner pocket. The instrument brightens at his touch, but Zach carries it gingerly to his bed and hesitates before putting it to his lips. As if in entreaty, it coughs a delicate subliminal cough while he recalls Lev on the ice, Lev laying his hands on Zach's abdomen, Lev imploring him to practise. Wherever in this divine comedy you've gone, Zach thinks, I hope you know what you're doing. He runs his fingers along the crystalline surface, wondering as always at its feel—the way warm ice might feel, or Bach's Art of Fugue if worked in matter.
Its simple theme replays in his head: D minor, a serene key. Then the rest of the first contrapunctus, whose four voices fill the iglu with clear black notes like flocked birds in flight—now rising as one, now drawing apart to swoop and counter and plummet, now rising again, and rising, now infolding. Each note with its own sleek body and wings—singular, yet never alone. Meaningless alone.
Eyes closed, Zach waits for the notes to recurve and settle. For a measureless time he waits.
Finally, with a grimace at his stiffening muscles, he lays aside the clarinet, still untried, and lumbers to his feet. How did Bach do it? he asks himself as he bends and stretches. Single notes that anyone can repeat, even anticipate. And yet at some indefinable moment the notes become fugue become never-ending flight.
He adjusts the lantern and slips the elastic from his rather greasy hair, combs it through with his fingers. There's a bar of strong-smelling yellow soap but no brush—no toothbrush or towel, for that matter either. Washing can wait. He'll sleep in his underwear and fleece. Wind overalls still damp, he plucks his down trousers from the line, rolls them into a tight pillow, and covers them with one of the furs. After tugging off the kamiks, he slides inside his sleeping bag and rearranges several other pelts as blankets, with one for—well, for the fee
l of skin near his face, a ghost of breath. Inside the sleeping bag, the clarinet is tucked safely at his feet. He needs a reason for tomorrow.
*****
Woodsmoke—the scent of cherrywood. Some spitting, a few sparks. She brushes a finger across his tattoo. I want to play your clarinet, she says. Yes, he says. She bends her head and rolls her lower lip, seals the corners of her mouth, blows a gentle stream of air until the reed begins to vibrate. Careful, he says. But she has a good natural embouchure, just the right pressure from her jaw. A single rising note, rising.
He wakes, at first disoriented. But as reality remixes, he fights it. Sometimes if you cling to the vestiges of a dream, you can go back. The firewood still a little green, the tree felled only this autumn. The cottage with its sauna and borehole and generator, its owls and mice. Laura's childhood books, his clarinet. The snow. Their music.
Except that he has to deal with the lees. He wrangles out of the sleeping bag, so hungry that he must have slept for hours. Before even lighting the stove, it's a fistful of raisins and a huge slab of something which resembles a cross between dark chocolate and freeze-dried tofu and Josh's dish sponge but tastes surprisingly of ripe banana; surprisingly delicious. Once dressed in his down trousers, he rinses and hangs his things to dry. Coffee, he thinks with zest, extra strong with heaps of sugar. By then the water's boiled, and he takes a few minutes to savour the aroma, the slightly smoky flavour—who thought they'd bother with such a luxury—and chews a bone-hard biscuit that probably contains enough kilojoules to power a wormhole. Maybe he's got more time—more food—than he first supposed. Maybe nothing's been left to chance. Maybe all he needed was sleep and a decent meal, a monkey meal—he can hear that indulgent chuff of Lev's. Maybe, in fact, it's time to trust him. After a last swallow of coffee Zach picks up the clarinet and begins to play.
Chapter 29
The freeze continued, promising a white Christmas. Promising Yuletide Blessings. Seasons Greetings and Best Wishes for the New Year. Through deep snow may Friendship's glow our hearts unite this Christmas. Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will to men.
Homo sapiens, of course.
There were no further bombings in the weeks before the holiday, but the three other simus at school disappeared over a single weekend. The youngest, a girl who was a year ahead of Max, had eaten lunch with Zach in the canteen a couple of times at the beginning of term, and once had matched her steps to Laura's in the corridor to ask if there were any openings on the swimming team. Though by herself, Laura had muttered 'check with Saunders' without stopping, without so much as a brief smile, and had veered away towards a group of kids she barely recognised, some of the loathsome Purist types. What was the girl's name? Lily? Leslie? Something like that. Maybe Max would know. It was a bit late to start feeling guilty about such a trivial slight, and at school there was no way she could show any but generic interest in the girl. Generic, she thought with a familiar ache. The Head had made an official announcement that Fulgur was opening a new on-campus secondary school for the gifted: 'Naturally we will miss our cognoscens pupils, who, thanks to the generosity and continued support of the Fulgur Corporation, have enriched our intellectual life immeasurably, and provided our school with a unique opportunity to practise mutual tolerance, but it would be churlish to regret what is clearly in the young simus' own best interests.' Olivia nudged her in assembly, while he went on to describe the new media facilities. 'Fartbag. The augers are being rounded up by I.S.' Lately Olivia used auger as often as possible in Laura's presence, priming her hotglot for an explosion, with juicy radioactive fallout. But that was the old Laura. Resigned to the growing coolness between them, she only continued to sit with Olivia to avoid suspicion. No, she was lying to herself, there was a certain longing as well—maybe it was like smoking, they said you never got over wanting a cigarette even years after you'd quit.
On the Friday before regionals, Laura came into the kitchen to pack up a sandwich and a bottle of juice, maybe some biscuits. She was always ravenous after training, and her mum was baking again, the whole house smelled like the inside of a warm oven. Three gingerbread slabs were cooling on the worktop, packets of sweets for decoration nearby—one of the seasonal exceptions to the no-teeth-rot rule—but her mum was staring at the contents of a parcel spread across the table.
'Christmas presents?' Laura asked.
'It looks that way, though nothing's gift-wrapped.'
'Who's it from?'
'That's the strangest part.' Her mum pointed to the packaging. 'There's no sender's name, only a PO box in Cape Town, and no note. South African stamps.'
'I didn't know you've got friends there.'
'We don't.'
'How weird.' Laura said, examining the dark-grained Mancala board obviously intended for her dad, a battered single-stringed musical instrument, and a football in an acrylic display case which proved to be autographed by Pelé. 'Rad, wait till Max gets a look at this!'
'This one's yours.' Her mum took a white envelope with Laura printed neatly on its face from her apron pocket. 'Open it.'
Laura succeeded in keeping her hands steady as she turned it over. The seal still intact, her mum must have just unpacked the parcel. Lifting the flap on her backpack to slip the envelope inside, Laura headed for the door. The pool snackbar was open till nine. 'Can't, I'm already late, Janey will murder me.'
*****
Clipboard in hand, Janey beckoned Laura from her lane, then flipped through the top sheets to tap a finger on a printed notice. 'I'm trying to make this inconspicuous. Collect your towel and go to my office while the others are still doing their laps. There's someone waiting for you.'
'Police?' Laura whispered, though they couldn't be overheard from the water, and the assistant coach was standing at the other end of the pool. Because of the weather, there wasn't even a pushy parent in sight.
Janey shook her head. 'Make it quick, there's work to do. I expect at least three firsts tomorrow, and one new record.' But she was smiling, Laura had been besting her own times ever since . . . ever since the cottage.
'A bloke?' Laura couldn't keep the note of hope from her voice.
'No.' Janey met Laura's eyes, and there was both understanding and something like regret in them. Janey was no fool, however underpaid and underappreciated. Not for the first time, Laura wondered why this tough, articulate woman had chosen to coach at all, and then a minor team. Without arrogance, Laura knew she was about the best material Janey was ever likely to get. Fulgur channelled its support into basketball and football, not swimming. 'I'm sorry, it's an older woman,' Janey added, 'but I think you'll be glad to see her.' She passed Laura her coach's clipboard. 'Here's your pretext, should someone ask. Any papers from my desk will do.'
One slam-dunk of a heartbeat, that was all, for Laura to recognise Stella under the black knitted hat—rounded, not peaked—and metre-long scarf concealing her double chin; the last person Laura had expected. What had the woman told Janey to explain this visit?
'Come in and shut the door,' Stella said calmly, gesturing towards the second chair, from which Laura would have to remove a precarious stack of magazines and books, topped by some spare swimming caps, the sleek silver silicone ones embossed with the club logo.
After bolting the door behind her, Laura rewrapped her towel, which had slipped a bit, and made her way to the seat. She felt at a distinct disadvantage, almost vulnerable, in a skin of dripping lycra, especially since Stella hadn't removed her cumbersome anorak, hadn't even unzipped it.
'Hurry up, girl, I haven't got all day.'
Laura noted with surprise that Janey seemed to like reading poetry and anthropology as well as sports magazines.
'I saw what they did to your place,' Laura said. 'I'm sorry.'
Stella nodded, then unwound her scarf to free her jaw. 'I reckon I'll never get used to the cold.'
'Did anyone get hurt?'
'Only my pet iguana.' Stella guffawed at the expression on Laura
's face, a sound like a jackal's call. Laura remembered reading that jackals were highly intelligent animals. 'They don't take down old Stella that easy. You can't joke, you might as well order the coffin.' Her eyebrows snapped towards each other like feinting pups. 'Only so many times you can cheat the hangman, though.'
Laura would have liked to ask where the woman was staying, what she was living on, but satisfied herself with a less risky question. Stella was perfectly capable of leaving without another word if offended, never to approach Laura again.
'How did you find me?'
'You mean why, don't you?'
Laura crossed her arms in an attempt to disguise her shiver. But Stella smiled, a genuine smile this time, and the two of them regarded each other with mutual respect, the one thing uniting them acknowledged at last.
'Where—' Laura cleared her voice of a slight hoarseness. 'Where is he?'
'I've got good ears for my age. Word is, you swim a lot. Word is, you swim like no one else in the entire city.' Stella leaned forward to inspect the pendant that, contrary to club rules, Laura wouldn't remove during training—and would definitely, defiantly, not remove while competing tomorrow. 'Word is, you've got flippers hidden inside those skinny limbs of yours. I sure hope so. My da used to fish with a speargun. It takes some mighty powerful swimming to outrace them cunts. And the hate-tipped ones—they're poison. You swim with Zach, it's not going to be in a turquoise pool under gently swaying coconut palms, with the five stars of a tropical paradise to lighten his sultry skin.' She saw Laura begin to shake her head. 'Listen, sugar, some things never change. Once a nigger lover, always a nigger lover. Only now they call them augers.'
*****