Men and Cartoons

by Jonathan Lethem

  We returned upstairs on a quest for more beer. The smokers had returned from the stoop, and villagers and mafia alike mingled in excited dissection of the game's plot: I told you so was the general thrust. There was hopeful talk of another game, but Val and Irene, a couple with babysitter problems, had to go. A few more defections followed, and suddenly we didn't have numbers enough for a village. “Don't everybody go,” said Adam, as one after another made their excuses. “The night is young.”

  Seven of us remained. Happily, this included Doe. There were also two younger men vying for the attention of an Asian woman named Flour. Perhaps predictably, it was singles who'd stayed—us with nothing to rush home to. We sat in the sea of empty bottles and abandoned chairs, a ghost village. But Adam Cressner and Roberta Jar seemed glad to have us. He went downstairs and soon Chet Baker emanated from speakers in the parlor's corners. Roberta lowered the lights.

  “I know a game,” I said.

  “Yes?” said Roberta.

  “It's called I Never. It's a drinking game, though. We all have to have an alcoholic beverage in our hands.”

  Adam plopped two fresh sixes of Pale Ale at our feet. I explained the rules: Each of us in turn made a statement—a true statement—beginning with the words I never. Those in the circle who'd done the things the speaker hadn't were required to confess their experience, by sipping their beer. Thus the worldly among us were made to grow embarrassed, and intoxicated, and thus secrets were flushed into the open.

  “For example, I'll start,” I said. “I've never had sex on an airplane.”

  Adam and Roberta smiled at one another and tipped their bottles. Flour also wet her lips, and one of her suitors as well. Doe and the second of Flour's men were in my more innocent camp.

  “Excellent,” I said. “The rest is just a matter of thinking of good questions.” I felt now an unexpectedly sharp appetite for this game—I wanted Adam and Roberta, and Doe too, to see how false the drama of Mafia was compared to our real lives. Of course, after my example we first had to endure a tentative round of inquiries into sex on trains, in restaurant coatrooms, in film projection booths, etc. When my turn came again I ratcheted things up a notch.

  “I've never had sex with anyone in this room,” I said.

  Adam and Roberta clinked bottles, toasting smug coupledom.

  Then Doe raised her drink and gulped, eyes closed. “Oooh,” said one of the single men. I did the easy math, then inspected Roberta for her reaction. If anything, she looked ready to toast Doe's confession as well. Certainly it came as no surprise.

  “I've . . . never . . .” Flour thought hard, eager to fill the loud silence. We were eager to have her fill it. “I've . . . never . . . had sex with a married person.”

  “Good one,” congratulated one of her suitors.

  I was forced to drink to this, as were our sybaritic hosts—and, yes, Doe. Her long-lashed eyes remained cast down to the floor, or squeezed as if in pain.

  It was Adam's turn. “I've never killed anything bigger than a cockroach,” he said.

  Neither had I. Nor Roberta Jar, nor the woman named Flour or her two wannabe boyfriends. No, it was Doe again who had been trapped by the odd question, who raised her bottle once more to her thin-pressed lips. I wasn't sure she actually drank, but I wasn't about to call her on it.

  It's the nature of I Never, as in other of life's arenas, that though explanations aren't called for in the rules one often feels compelled to explain. I can't claim our circle didn't look to Doe for some gloss on her lonely confession.

  “I was five,” she began, and there was something ominous in the specificity: not four or five, or five or six. “My uncle had given me a new kitten, and I was playing alone in the yard with it, with some string. I hadn't even given the kitten a name yet.” Doe looked at Adam Cressner, as if the whole game had devolved to the authority of his eerie question. “There was a tree in the yard, it's still there”—she spoke as though hypnotized, and seeing the tree float before her—“my parents still have the house. I used to climb the tree, and I had the idea I would take the kitten up the tree with me. I tied the string around the kitten's neck”—here Flour gasped—“and tried to pulley it up with me, across a branch.”

  Her tale's Clint Eastwoodian climax having been telegraphed by Adam's question, Doe was permitted a graceful elision. “A neighbor saw the whole thing from a window across the yard. He thought I'd done it on purpose, and he told my parents.”

  “Did they believe you?” asked Roberta Jar, clinically impassive.

  “I don't know,” said Doe, raising her eyebrows. “It didn't matter, really. Every since then I think something broke inside me . . . when my parents made me understand that the kitten wasn't alive anymore . . . there's always been a part of me missing.”

  “That's horrible,” said one of Flour's men.

  “I mean, I still have a capacity for happiness,” said Doe, matter-of-factly, almost impatiently. It was as though she wanted to protect us from her story now, felt bad for telling it.

  We meditated in silence on what we'd learned. Someone guzzled their beer, not as a gesture within the game, just to do it: a quiet pop of bottle mouth unsealing from lips was audible in a break between songs, Chet Baker finishing “I Fall in Love Too Easily,” then, absurdly, beginning “Everything Happens to Me.” I'd have been tempted to put my arm around Doe's shoulders, or even lead her from the room, if she as much as met my eye. She didn't. Tears streaked Flour's ivory cheeks instead.

  Adam Cressner began speaking. At first it seemed a hollow gambit, an attempt to distract us from Doe's testimony by non sequitur. “When I was last in Germany, I visited the Glyptotek in Munich,” he said. “It's full of statuary the Europeans ripped out of the old temples. They've got a Roman copy of a Greek marble by Boëthus—the original's in the Vatican—showing a boy with a goose. The bird's practically as big as the boy, and they're wrestling. The kid's got the goose by the neck. A museum guard came up behind me, he saw I was transfixed by this sculpture, and he uttered this line I'll never forget, it shot through me like a bolt: ‘Spielend, doch, mit toedlichem Griff.' He thinks it's a game, but he's choking the goose. But in the guard's High German it was more allusive and grand—‘playing, but with a deadly grip.'”

  “Like something from Rilke,” said Roberta Jar.

  Oh yes, I thought viciously, Rilke and High German after four or five beers. You're both such fine people. However slow my uptake, a picture formed: I now supposed Doe's dissertation had been in art history, for example. And that Adam Cressner and Roberta Jar had together known, from intimate experience, how easily Doe might be induced to turn herself inside out for us.

  I wanted revenge on Doe's behalf. “I've never,” I said loudly.

  All stared. I began again. “I've never pretended I was a character from a comic book. Never, say, dressed up in a superhero costume, not even on Halloween.” I glared at Adam Cressner: Let him eat cape.

  It was Roberta Jar who drew our attention, though, by lifting her bottle high, as if to toast again before she sipped. We looked to her as we had to Doe.

  “I met a man once,” Roberta said. “I liked this man, well, very, very much. This was eight years ago now.” She lolled her big head, a little shy to tell it, though her voice was still strong and resonant in her chest. “When we began to see one another, this man and I, there was something between us that was difficult, a secret—a secret priority in his life. It had to do with this, exactly: dressing up as a character from a comic book. And this priority was difficult for both of us.”

  She'd turned my hostile joke into another confession, to give Doe company. We listened wide-eyed—I caught Flour glancing at me, likely wondering how I'd known to ask the question, as I'd wondered before at Adam Cressner. As for Adam, he sat quietly adoring his paramour while she spilled on.

  “I realized I had to learn as much about this as I could, or it would beat us, and I was determined not to be beaten. I discovered that the comic-book cha
racter in question had gotten married, to another character, called the Scarlet Witch. I thought this was very unusual, two married superheroes, and I took it as a good sign. So, I went shopping for fabric, and hand-sewed a Scarlet Witch costume. Tights, and pink boots, a sort of pink headpiece to hold back my hair. I did a good job, really impressed myself. It was the most sustained arts-and-crafts project of my life, actually.”

  Roberta paused, and in the silence we were allowed to sense the result of her efforts, a climax as inevitable and in its way as horrible as the kitten's execution. I wondered if Adam still wore the red food coloring for face paint, or whether he'd found some better method, easier to remove when he'd wanted to pass for a mere Columbia professor. I thought of the Scarlet Witch as I knew her from Marvel Comics, an exotic beauty whose powers, loosely defined as “sorcery,” mostly consisted of throwing up pink force fields, but whose real achievement was a stoical, unwavering devotion to her Spock-like emotional mute of a husband.

  I looked again to Adam Cressner. I still faintly wished for the satisfaction of an unmasking, but his eyes gave me nothing. Adam Cressner was as little interested in my impressions of his Visionhood as he'd been at second base, all those years ago. He hadn't even sipped his beer to confess the truth.

  “I have to go,” said Doe suddenly. She flinched her head from me, from all of us, hastily gathered a load of beer bottles into the kitchen and rinsed them in the sink. I wondered if she'd also been enticed into a costume—Ant-Girl, or Thumbelina.

  “Well, anyway, that's my story,” said Roberta, the sardonic twang restored to her voice. One of the men gave an artificial laugh, barely adequate to break the tension. It was only now that Adam Cressner followed the game's protocol and also drank. I'd had my answer, though not as I'd wanted it, from Adam's mouth. I don't even know whether Flour or the two men had any understanding of what had happened—for all Roberta had told us, the man in question could have been someone other than Adam. Strangely, it was as if he and I were allies, having each forced confession from the other's woman. Except that neither woman was mine, and both might be his.

  “A beautiful story it is,” said Adam Cressner. “With that we'll see our dear guests to the door, yes?”

  No one resisted. The spell was broken. We were in some way broken, shattered by the game, unable to recover any sense of delight in one another's company, if we'd ever had that—I no longer knew. We cleared bottles, shuffled chairs, mumbled excuses, made promises to be in touch, to forward one another's e-mail addresses, which rang hollow. Within ten minutes we were out on the street, each headed home alone. At least I think we were alone. Certainly Doe strolled away, apart from the others, a tiny figure vanishing on the pavement, before I'd turned my back and descended into my basement entrance, before I'd even had a chance to wish her good night or kiss her equivocally on the cheek. It's possible one of Flour's suitors followed her home, but I doubt it. It had all been a little much for us poor singles, the tyranny of the Vision and the Scarlet Witch.

  Access Fantasy

  THERE WAS A START-UP ABOUT A HALF MILE ahead the day before, a fever of distant engines and horns honking as others signaled their excitement—a chance to move!—and so he'd spent the day jammed behind the wheel, living in his Apartment on Tape, waiting for that chance, listening under the drone of distant helicopters to hear the start-up make its way downtown. But the wave of revving engines stalled before reaching his street. He never even saw a car move, just heard them. In fact he couldn't remember seeing a car move recently. Perhaps the start-up was only a panic begun by someone warming their motor, reviving their battery. That night he'd dreamed another start-up, or perhaps it was real, a far-off flare that died before he'd even ground the sleep out of his eyes, though in the rustle of his waking thoughts it was a perfect thing, coordinated, a dance of cars shifting through the free-flowing streets. Dream or not, either way, didn't matter. He fell back asleep. What woke him in the morning was the family in the Pacer up ahead cooking breakfast. They had a stove on the roof of their car and the dad was grilling something they'd bought from the flatbed shepherd two blocks away, a sheepsteak or something. It smelled good. Everything about the family in the Pacer made him too conscious of his wants. The family's daughter—she was beautiful—had been working as Advertising, pushing up against and through the One-Way Permeable Barrier on behalf of some vast faceless corporation. That being the only way through the One-Way Permeable Barrier, of course. So the family, her ma and pa, were flush, had dough, and vendors knew to seek them out, hawking groceries. Whereas checking his pockets he didn't have more than a couple of dollars. There was a coffee-and-doughnuts man threading his way through the traffic even now but coffee was beyond his means. He needed money. Rumors had it Welfare Helicopters had been sighted south of East One Thousand, One Hundred and Ninety-Fourth Street, and a lot of people had left their cars, drifted down that way, looking for easy cash. Which was one reason the start-up died, it occurred to him—too many empty cars. Along with the cars that wouldn't start anymore, like the old lady in the Impala beside him, the dodderer. She'd given up, spent most days dozing in the backseat. Her nephew from a few blocks away came over and tinkered with her engine now and again but it wasn't helping. It just meant the nephew wasn't at his wheel for the start-up, another dead spot, another reason not to bother waiting to move. Probably he thought now he should have walked downtown himself in search of welfare money drifting down from the sky. The state helicopters weren't coming around this neighborhood much lately. Alas. The air was crowded with commercial hovercraft instead, recruiters, Advertising robots rounding up the girl from the Pacer and others like her, off to the world on the other side of the One-Way Permeable Barrier, however briefly. The world of apartments, real ones. Though it was morning he went back to his latest Apartment on Tape, which was a four-bedroom two-bath co-op on East One Thousand, Two Hundred and Fifteenth Street, just a few blocks away but another world of course, remote from his life on the street, sealed off from it by the One-Way Permeable Barrier. He preferred the early part of the tape, before any of the furnishings arrived, so he rewound to that part and put the tape on slow and lived in the rooms as hard as he could, ignoring the glare of sun through his windshield that dulled his view of the dashboard television, ignoring the activities of the family in the Pacer up ahead as they clambered in and out of the hatchback, ignoring the clamor of his own pangs. The realtor's voice was annoying, it was a squawking, parroty voice so he kept the volume down as always and lived in the rooms silently, letting his mind sweep in and haunt the empty spaces, the rooms unfolding in slow motion for the realtor's camera. While the camera lingered in the bathroom he felt under his seat for his bottle and unzipped and peed, timed so it matched to the close-up of the automatic flushing of the toilet on his television. Then the camera and his attention wandered out into the hall. That's when he noticed it, the shadow. Just for a moment. He rewound to see it again. On the far wall of the hallway, framed perfectly for an instant in the lens, was the silhouette of a struggle, a man with his hands on the neck of another, smaller. A woman. Shaking her by the neck for that instant, before the image vanished. Like a pantomime of murder, a Punch-and-Judy show hidden in the Apartment on Tape. But real, it had to be real. Why hadn't he noticed before? He'd watched this tape dozens of times. He rewound again. Just barely, but still. Unmistakable, however brief. The savagery of it was awful. If only he could watch it frame by frame—slow motion was disastrously fast now. Who was the killer? The landlord? The realtor? Why? Was the victim the previous tenant? Questions, he had questions. He felt himself begin to buzz with them, come alive. Slow motion didn't seem particularly slow precisely because his attention had quickened. Yes, a job of detection was just what he needed to roust himself out of the current slump, burn off the torpor of too many days locked in the jam at the same damn intersection—why hadn't he gone downtown at that last turnoff, months ago? Well, anyway. He watched it again, memorized the shadow, the silhouette, imagined blurre
d features in the slurry of video fuzz, memorized the features, what the hell. Like a police sketch, work from his own prescient hallucinations. Again. It grew sharper every time. He'd scrape a hole in this patch of tape, he knew, if he rewound too many times. Better to have the tape, the evidence, all there was at this point. He popped the video, threw it in a satchel with notebook, eyeglasses. Extra socks. Outside, locked the car, tipped an imaginary hat at the old lady, headed east by foot on West One Thousand, Two Hundred and Eighth Street. He had to duck uptown two blocks to avoid a flotilla of Sanitation hovertrucks spraying foamy water to wash cars sealed up tight against this artificial rain but also soaking poor jerks asleep, drenching interiors, the rotted upholstery and split spongy dashboards, extinguishing rooftop bonfires, destroying box gardens, soap bubbles poisoning the feeble sprouts. Children screamed and giggled, the streets ran with water, sluicing shit here and there into drains, more often along under the tires to the unfortunate neighboring blocks, everyone moaning and lifting their feet clear. Just moving it around, that's all. At the next corner he ran into a crowd gathered staring at a couple of young teenage girls from inside, from the apartments, the other side of the barrier. They'd come out of the apartment building on rollerblades to sightsee, to slum on the streets. Sealed in a murky bubble of the One-Way Permeable Barrier they were like apparitions, dim ghosts, though you could hear them giggle as they skated through the hushed, reverent crowd. Like a sighting of gods, these teenage girls from inside. No one bothered to spare-change them or bother them in any way because of the barrier. The girls of course were oblivious behind their twilight veil, like night things come into the day, though for them probably it was the people in cars and around the cars that appeared dim, unreachable. He shouldered his way through the dumbstruck crowd and once past this obstacle he found his man, locked into traffic like all the rest, right where he'd last seen him. The Apartments on Tape dealer, his connection, sunbathing in a deck chair on the roof of his Sentra, eating a sandwich. The backseat was stacked with realtors' tapes, apartment porn, and on the passenger seat two video decks for dubbing. His car in a sliver of morning sun that shone across the middle of the block, benefit of a chink in the canyon of towers that surrounded them. The dealer's neighbors were on their car roofs as well, stretching in the sun, drying clothes. “Hello there, remember me? That looks good what you're eating, anyway, I want to talk to you about this tape.” “No refunds,” said the dealer, not even looking down. “No, that's not it, I saw something, can we watch it together?” “No need since there's no refunds and I'm hardly interested—” “Listen, this is a police matter, I think—” “You're police then, is that what you're saying?” still not looking down. “No no, I fancy myself a private detective, though not to say I work outside the law, more adjacent, then turn it over to them if it serves justice, there's so often corruption—” “So turn it over,” the dealer said. “Well if you could just have a look I'd value your opinion. Sort of pick your brain,” thinking flattery or threats, should have chosen one approach with this guy, stuck with it. The dealer said, “Sorry, day off,” still not turning his head, chewing off another corner of sandwich. Something from inside the sandwich fell, a chunk of something, fish maybe, onto the roof of the car. “The thing is I think I saw a murder, on the tape, in the apartment.” “That's highly unlikely.” “I know, but that's what I saw.” “Murder, huh?” The dealer didn't sound at all impressed. “Bloody body parts, that sort of thing?” “No, don't be absurd, just a shadow, just a trace.” “Hmmm.” “You never would have noticed in passing. Hey, come to think of it, you don't have an extra sandwich do you?” “No, I don't. So would you describe this shadow as sort of a flicker then, like a malfunction?” “No, absolutely not. It's part of the tape.” “Not your monitor on the fritz?” “No”—he was getting angry now—“a person, a shadow strangling another shadow.” The chunk of sandwich filling on the car roof was sizzling slightly, changing color already in the sun. The dealer said, “Shadows, hmmm. Probably a gimmick, subliminal special effects or something.” “What? What reason would a realtor have for adding special effects for God's sake to an apartment tape?” “Maybe they think it adds some kind of allure, some thrill of menace that makes their apartments stand out from the crowd.” “I doubt very much—” “Maybe they've become aware of the black market in tapes lately, that's the word on the street in fact, and so they're trying to send a little message. They don't like us ogling their apartments, even vicariously.” “You can't ogle vicariously, I think. Sounds wrong. Anyway, that's the most ridiculous thing I've ever—” “Or maybe I'm in on it, maybe I'm the killer, have you considered that?” “Now you're making fun of me.” “Why? If you can solve crimes on the other side of the barrier why can't I commit them?” The dealer laughed, hyena-like. “Now seriously,” he continued, “if you want to exchange for one without a murder I'll give you a credit toward the next, half what you paid—” “No thanks. I'll hold on to it.” Discouraged, hungry, but he couldn't really bother being angry. What help did he expect from the dealer anyway? This was a larger matter, above the head of a mere middleman. “Good luck, Sherlock,” the dealer was saying. “Spread word freely, by the way, don't hold back. Can't hurt my sales any. People like murder, only it might be good if there was skin instead of only shadow, a tit say.” “Yes, very good then, appreciate your help. Carry on.” The dealer saluted. He saluted back, started off through the traffic, stomach growling, ignoring it, intent. A killer was at large. Weaving past kids terrorizing an entire block of cars with an elaborate tag game, cornering around the newly washed neighborhood now wringing itself out, muddy streams between the cars and crying babies ignoring vendors with items he couldn't afford and a flatbed farmer offering live kittens for pets or food and a pathetic miniature start-up, three cars idiotically nosing rocking jerking back and forth trying to rearrange themselves pointlessly, one of them now sideways wheels on the curb and nobody else even taking the bait he made his way back to his car and key in the lock noticed the girl from the Pacer standing in her red dress on the hood of the car gazing skyward, waiting for the Advertising people to take her away. Looking just incidentally like a million bucks. Her kid brother was away, maybe part of the gang playing tag, and her parents were inside the car doing housework Dad scraping the grill out the window Mom airing clothes repacking bundles so he went over, suddenly inspired. “Margaret, isn't it?” She nodded, smiled. “Yes, good, well you remember me from next door, I'm looking for a day or two's work and do you think they'll take me along?” She said, “You never know, they just take you or they don't.” Smiling graciously even if a little confused, neighbors so long and they'd never spoken. “But you always—” he began pointing out. She said, “Oh once they've started taking you then—” Awkwardly, they were both awkward for a moment not saying what they both knew or at least he did, that she was an attractive young girl and likely that made a huge difference in whether they wanted you. “Well you wouldn't mind if I tried?” he said and she said, “No, no,” relieved almost, then added, “I can point you out, I can suggest to them—” Now he was embarrassed and said hurriedly, “That's so good of you, thanks, and where should I wait, not here with you at your folks' car, I guess—” “Why not, climb up.” Dad looked out the door up at them and she waved him off. “It's okay, you know him from next door he's going to work, we're going to try to get him a job Advertising.” “Okay, sweetheart, just checking on you.” Then she grabbed his arm, said, “Look.” The Advertising hovercraft she'd been watching for landed on the curb a half block ahead, near the giant hideous sculpture at an office building main entrance, lately sealed. Dad said, “Get going you guys, and good luck,” and she said, “C'mon.” Such neighborliness was a surprise since he'd always felt shut out by the family in the Pacer but obviously it was in his head. And Margaret, a cloud of good feeling seemed to cover her. No wonder they wanted her for Advertising. “Hurry,” she said and took his hand and they hopped down and pushed their way around the cars and thr
ough the chaos of children and barking dogs and vendors trying to work the crowd of wannabes these landings always provoked, to join the confused throng at the entrance. He held on to his satchel with the video and his socks making sure it didn't get picked in this crowd. She bounced there trying to make herself visible until one of the two robots at the door noticed her and pointed. They stepped up. “Inside,” said the robot. They were ugly little robots with their braincases undisguised and terrible attitudes. He disliked them instantly. “I brought someone new,” she said, pulling him by the hand, thrusting him into view. “Yes, sir, I'd like to enlist—” he started, grinning madly, wanting to make a good impression. The robot looked him over and made its rapid-fire assessment, nodded. “Get inside,” it said. “Lucky,” she whispered, and they stepped into the hovercraft. Four others were there, two men, two women, all young. And another woman stumbled in behind them, and the door sealed, and they were off. Nasty little robots scurrying into the cockpit, making things ready. “Now what?” he said and she put her finger to her lips and shushed him, but sweetly, leaning into him as if to say they were in this together. He wanted to tell her what he was after but the robots might hear. Would they care? Yes, no, he couldn't know. Such ugly, fascistic little robots. Nazi robots, that's what they were. He hated placing himself in their hands. But once he was Advertising he would be through the barrier, he'd be able to investigate. Probably he should keep his assignment to himself, though. He didn't want to get her into trouble. The hovercraft shuddered, groaned, then lifted and through the window he could see the cars growing smaller, his neighborhood, his life, the way the traffic was so bad for hundreds of miles of street and why did he think a start-up would change anything? Was there a place where cars really drove anymore? Well, anyway. The robots were coming around with the Advertising Patches and everyone leaned their heads forward obediently, no first-timers like himself apparently. He did the same. A robot fastened a patch behind his right ear, a moment of stinging skin, nothing more. Hard to believe the patch was enough to interfere with the function of the One-Way Permeable Barrier, that he would now be vivid and tangible and effective to those on the other side. “I don't feel any different,” he whispered. “You won't,” she said, “not until there's people. Then you'll be compelled to Advertise. You won't be able to help it.” “For what, though?” “You never know, coffee, diamonds, condoms, vacations, you just never know.” “Where—” “They'll drop us off at the Undermall, then we're on our own.” “Will we be able to stick together?” The question was out before he could wonder if it was presuming too much, but she said, “Sure, as long as our products aren't too incompatible, but we'll know soon. Anyway, just follow me.” She really had a warmth, a glow. Incompatible products? Well, he'd find out what that meant. The hovercraft bumped down on the roof of a building, and with grim efficiency the ugly Nazi robots had the door open and were marching the conscripts out to a rooftop elevator. He wanted to reach out and smack their little exposed-braincase heads together. But he had to keep his cool, stay undercover. He trotted across the roof toward the elevator after her, between the rows of officious gesticulating robots, like they were going to a concentration camp. The last robot at the door of the elevator handed them each an envelope before they stepped in. He took his and moved into the corner with Margaret, they were really packing them in but he couldn't complain actually being jostled with her and she didn't seem to be trying to avoid it. He poked into the envelope. It was full of bills, singles mostly. The money was tattered and filthy, bills that had been taken out of circulation on the other side of the barrier. Garbage money, that's what it was. The others had already pocketed theirs, business as usual apparently. “Why do they pay us now?” he whispered. She said, “We just find our way out at the end, when the patch runs out, so this way they don't have to deal with us again,” and he said, “What if we just took off with the money?” “You could I guess, but I've never seen anyone do it since you'd never get to come back and anyway the patch makes you really want to Advertise, you'll see.” Her voice was reassuring, like she really wanted him not to worry and he felt rotten not telling her about his investigation, his agenda. He put the envelope into his satchel with tape and socks. The elevator sealed and whooshed them down through the building, into the Undermall, then the doors opened and they unpacked from the elevator, spewed out into a gigantic lobby, all glass and polished steel with music playing softly and escalators going down and up in every direction, escalators with steps of burnished wood that looked good enough to eat, looked like roast chicken. He was still so hungry. Margaret took his hand again. “Let's go,” she said. As the others dispersed she led him toward one of the escalators and they descended. The corridor below branched to shops with recessed entrances, windows dark and smoky, quiet pulsing music fading from each door, also food smells here and there causing his saliva to flow, and holographic signs angling into view as they passed: FERN SLAW, ROETHKE AND SONS, HOLLOW APPEAL, BROKEN SMUDGED ALPHABET, BURGER KING, PLASTIC DEVILS, OSTRICH LAKE, SMARTINGALE'S, RED HARVEST, CATCH OF THE DAY, MUTUAL OF FOMALHAUT, THNEEDS, etcetera. She led him on, confidently, obviously at home. Why not, this was what she did with her days. Then without warning, a couple appeared from around a corner, and he felt himself begin to Advertise. “How do you do today?” he said, sidling up to the gentleman of the couple, even as he saw Margaret begin to do the same thing to the lady. The gentleman nodded at him, walked on. But met his eye. He was tangible, he could be heard. It was a shock. “Thirsty?” he heard himself say. “How long's it been since you had a nice refreshing beer?” “Don't like beer,” said the gentleman. “Can't say why, just never have.” “Then you've obviously never tried a Very Old Money Lager,” he heard himself say, still astonished. The barrier was pierced and he was conversing, he was perceptible. He'd be able to conduct interrogations, be able to search out clues. Meanwhile he heard Margaret saying, “Don't demean your signature with a second-rate writing implement. Once you've tried the Eiger fountain pen you'll never want to go back to those henlike scratchings and scrawlings,” and the woman seemed interested and so Margaret went on “our Empyrean Sterling Silver Collection features one-of-a-kind hand-etched casings—” In fact the man seemed captivated too. He turned ignoring the beer pitch and gave Margaret his attention. “Our brewers handpick the hops and malt,” he was unable to stop though he'd obviously lost his mark, “and every single batch of fire-brewed Very Old Money Lager is individually tasted—” Following the couple through the corridor they bumped into another Advertising woman who'd been on the hovercraft, and she began singing, “Vis-it the moon, it's nev-er too soon,” dancing sinuously and batting her eyes, distracting them all from fountain pens and beer for the moment and then the five of them swept into the larger space of the Undermall and suddenly there were dozens of people who needed to be told about the beer. “Thirsty? Hello, hi there, thirsty? Excuse me, thirsty? Yes? Craving satisfaction, sparkle, bite? No? Yes? Have you tried Very Old Money? What makes it different, you ask—oh, hello, thirsty?” and also dozens of people working as Advertising, a gabble of pitches—stern, admonitory: “Have you considered the perils of being without success insurance?”; flippant, arbitrary: “You never know you're out with the Black Underwear Crowd, not until you get one of them home!”; jingly, singsong: “We've got children, we've all got children, you can have children too—” and as they scattered and darted along the endless marble floors of the Undermall he was afraid he'd lose her, but there was Margaret, earnestly discussing pens with a thoughtful older couple and he struggled over toward her, hawking beer—“Thirsty? Oof, sorry, uh, thirsty?” The crowd thinned as customers ducked into shops and stole away down corridors back to their apartments, bullied by the slew of Advertising except for the few like this older couple who seemed gratified by the attention, he actually had to wait as they listened and took down some information from Margaret about the Eiger fountain pen while he stood far enough away to keep from barking at them about the beer. Then once t
he older couple wandered off he took Margaret's hand this time, why not, she'd done it, and drew her down a corridor away from the crowds, hoping to keep from engaging with any more customers, and also in the right direction if he had his bearings. He thought he did. He led her into the shadow of a doorway, a shop called Fingertoes that wasn't doing much business. “Listen, I've got to tell you something, I haven't been completely truthful, I mean, I haven't lied, but there's something—” She looked at him, hopeful, confused, but generous in her interpretation, he could tell, what a pure and sweet disposition, maybe her dad wasn't such a bad guy after all if he'd raised a plum like this. “I'm a detective, I mean, what does that mean, really, but the thing is there's been a murder and I'm trying to look into it—” and then he plunged in and told all, the Apartment on Tape, pulling it out of his satchel to show her, the shadow, the strangling, his conversation with the dealer and then his brainstorm to slip inside the citadel, slip past the One-Way Permeable Barrier that would of course have kept his questions or accusations from even being audible to those on this side, and so he'd manipulated her generosity to get aboard the hovercraft. “Forgive me,” he said. Her eyes widened, her voice grew hushed, reverent. “Of course, but what do you want to do? Find the police?” “You're not angry at me?” “No, no. It's a brave thing you're doing.” “Thank you.” They drew closer. He could almost kiss her, just in happiness, solidarity, no further meaning or if there was it was just on top of the powerful solidarity feeling, just an extra, a windfall. “But what do you think is best, the police?” she whispered. “No, I have in mind a visit to the apartment, we're only a couple of blocks away, in this direction I believe, but do you think we can get upstairs?” They fell silent then because a man swerved out of Fingertoes with a little paper tray of greasy fried things, looked like fingers or toes in fact and smelled terrific, he couldn't believe how hungry he was. “Thirsty?” he said hopelessly and the man popping one into his mouth said, “You called it, brother, I'm dying for a beer.” “Why just any beer when you could enjoy a Very Old Money—” and he had to go on about it, being driven nuts by the smell, while Margaret waited. The moment the grease-eater realized they were Advertising and broke free, toward the open spaces of the Undermall, he and Margaret broke in the other direction, down the corridor. “This way,” said Margaret, turning them toward the elevator, “the next level down you can go for blocks, it's the way out eventually too.” “Yes, but can we get back upstairs?” “The elevators work for us until the patches run out, I think,” and so they went down below the Undermall to the underground corridors, long echoey halls of tile, not so glamorous as upstairs, not nice at all really, the lengths apartment people went never to have to step out onto the street and see car people being really appalling sometimes. The tunnels were marked with street signs, names of other Undermalls, here and there an exit. They had to Advertise only once before reaching East One Thousand, Two Hundred and Fifteenth Street, to a group of teenage boys smoking a joint in the corridor who laughed and asked Margaret questions she couldn't answer like are they mightier or less mighty than the sword and do they work for pigs. They ran into another person Advertising, a man moving furtively who when he recognized Margaret was plainly relieved. “He's got a girlfriend,” she explained, somewhat enigmatically. So those Advertising could, did—what? Interact. But caught up in the chase now, he didn't ask more, just counted the blocks, feeling the thrill of approaching his Apartment on Tape's real address. They went up in the elevator, which was lavish again, wood paneled and perfumed and mirrored and musical. An expensive building. Apartment 16D. So he pressed the button for the sixteenth floor, holding his breath, hardly believing it when they rose above the public floors. But they did. He gripped her hand. The elevator stopped on the sixth floor and a robot got on. Another of the creepily efficient braincase-showing kind. At first the robot ignored them but then on the fifteenth floor a woman got on and Margaret said, “The most personal thing about you is your signature, don't you think?” and he said, “Thirsty?” and the robot turned and stared up at them. The doors closed and they rode up to the sixteenth floor, and the three of them got out, he and Margaret and the robot, leaving the woman behind. The hallway was splendid with plush carpeting and brass light fixtures, empty apart from the three of them. “What are you doing up here?” said the robot. “And what's in that bag?” Clutching his satchel he said, “Nothing, just my stuff.” “Why is it any of your business?” said Margaret, surprisingly defiant. “We've been asked to give an extended presentation at a customer's private home,” he said, wanting quickly to cover Margaret's outburst, give the robot something else to focus on. “Then I'll escort you,” said the robot. “You really don't have to do that,” he said. “Don't come along and screw up our pitch, we'll sue you,” Margaret added bizarrely. Learning of the investigation had an odd effect on her, always a risk working with amateurs he supposed. But also it was these robots, the way they were designed with rotten personalities or no personalities they really aroused revulsion in people, it was an instinctual thing and not just him, he noted with satisfaction. He squeezed her hand and said, “Our sponsors would be displeased, it's true.” “This matter requires clearance,” said the robot, trying to get in front of them as they walked, and they had to skip to stay ahead of it. “Please stand to one side and wait for clearance,” but they kept going down the carpeted hallway, his fingers crossed that it was the right direction for 16D. “Halt,” said the robot, a flashing red light on its forehead beginning to blink neurotically and then they were at the door, and he rapped with his knuckles, thinking, hardly going incognito here, but better learn what we can. “Stand to one side,” said the robot again. “Shut up,” said Margaret. As the robot clamped a steely hand on each of their arms, jerking them back away from the door, its treads grinding on the carpet for traction, probably leaving ugly marks too, the door swung open. “Hello?” The man in the doorway was unshaven and slack-haired wearing a robe and blinking at them as though he'd only turned on his light to answer the door. “They claim to have an appointment with you, sir,” said the robot. The man only stood and stared. “It's very important, we have to talk to you urgently,” he said, trying to pull free of the robot's chilly grip, then added, regretfully, “about beer.” He felt a swoon at looking through the doorway, realizing he was seeing into his Apartment on Tape, the rooms etched into his dreamy brain now before him. He tried to see more but the light was gloomy. “And fountain pens,” said Margaret, obviously trying to hold herself back but compelled to chip in something. “I apologize, sir, I tried to detain them to obtain clearance—” said the robot. Detain, obtain, what rotten syntax, he thought, the people who program these robots certainly aren't poets. The man just stood and blinked and looked them over, the three of them struggling subtly, he and Margaret trying to pull free of the robot, which was still blinking red and grinding at the carpet. “Cooperate,” squawked the robot. The man in the robe squinted at them, finally smiled. “Please,” said Margaret. “Fountain pens, eh?” the man in the robe said at last. “Yes,” said Margaret desperately, and he heard himself add, “And beer—” “Yes, of course,” mumbled the man in the robe. “How silly of me. Come in.” “Sir, for your safety—” “They're fine,” said the man to the robot. “I'm expecting them. Let them in.” The robot released its grip. The man in the robe turned and shuffled inside. They followed him, all three of them, into poorly lit rooms disastrously heaped with newspapers, clothes, soiled dishes, empty and half-empty takeout packages, but still unmistakably the rooms from his tape, every turn of his head recalling some camera movement and there sure enough was the wall that had held the shadow, the momentary stain of murder. The man in the robe turned and said to the robot, “Please wait outside.” “But surely I should chaperone, sir—” “No, that's fine, just outside the door, I'll call you in if I need you. Close it on your way out, thanks.” Watching the robot slink back out he couldn't help but feel a little thrill of vindication. The man in the robe continued
into the kitchen, and gesturing at the table said, “Please, sit, sorry for the mess. Did you say you'd like a beer?” “Well, uh, no, that wasn't exactly—if you drink beer you ought to make it a Very Old Money Lager for full satisfaction—but I've got something else to discuss while you enjoy your delicious, oh, damn it—” “Relax, have a seat. Can I get you something else?” “Food,” he blurted. “Which always goes best with a Very Old Money,” and meanwhile Margaret released his hand and took a seat and started in talking about pens. The man opened his refrigerator, which was as overloaded as the apartment, another image from the tape now corrupted by squalor. “You poor people, stuck with those awful patches and yet I suppose I wouldn't have the benefit of your company today without them! Ah, well. Here, I wasn't expecting visitors but would you like some cheese? Can I fix you a glass of water?” The man set out a crumbled hunk of cheddar with a butter knife, crumbs on the dish and so long uncovered the edges were dried a deep, translucent orange. “So, you were just Advertising and you thought you'd pay a house call? How am I so lucky?” “Well, that's not it exactly—” Margaret took the knife and began paring away the edges of the cheese, carving out a chunk that looked more or less edible and when she handed it to him he couldn't resist, but tried talking through the mouthful anyway, desperately trying to negotiate the three priorities of hunger, Advertising, and his investigation: “Would you consider, mmmpphh, excuse me, consider opening a nice tall bottle of Very Old Money and settling in to watch this videotape I brought with me because there's something I'd like you to see, a question I've got about it—” The man in the robe nodded absently, half listening, staring oddly at Margaret and then said, “By all means let me see your tape—is it about beer? I'd be delighted but no hurry, please relax and enjoy yourselves, I'll be right out,” and stepped into the living room, began rummaging among his possessions of which there certainly were plenty. It was a little depressing how full the once glorious apartment had gotten. Margaret cut him another piece of cheese and whispered, “Do you think he knows something?” “I can't know he seems so nice, well if not nice then harmless, hapless, but I'll judge his reaction to the video, watch him closely when the time comes—” grabbing more cheese quickly while he could and then the man in the robe was back. “Hello, friends, enjoying yourselves?” His robe had fallen open and they both stared but maybe it was just an example of his sloppiness. Certainly there was no polite way to mention it. There was something confusing about this man, who now went to the table and took the knife out of Margaret's hands and held her hand there for a moment and then snapped something—was it a bracelet?—around her wrist. Not a bracelet. Handcuffs. “Hey, wait a minute, that's no way to enjoy a nice glass of lager!” he heard himself say idiotically cheese falling out of his mouth jumping up as the man clicked Margaret's other wrist into the cuffs and he had her linked to the back of her chair. He stood to intervene and the man in the robe swept his feet out from under him with a kick and pushed him in the chest and he fell, feet sliding on papers, hand skidding in lumps of cheese, to the floor. “Thirsty!” he shouted, the more excited the more fervent the Advertising, apparently. “No! Beer!” as he struggled to get up. And Margaret was saying something desperate about Eiger fountain pens “—self-refilling cartridge—” The man in the robe moved quickly, not lazy and sloppy at all now and kicked away his satchel with the tape inside and bent over him and reached behind his ear to tear the patch away, another momentary sting. He could only shout “Beer!” once more before the twilight world of the One-Way Permeable Barrier surrounded him, it was everywhere here, even Margaret was on the other side as long as she wore the patch, and he felt his voice sucked away to a scream audible inside the space of his own head but not elsewhere, he knew, not until he was back outside, on the street where he belonged and why couldn't he have stayed there? What was he thinking? Anyway it wouldn't be long now because through the gauze he saw the man in the robe who you'd have to call the man half out of his robe now open the door to let the robot in, then as the naked man grinned at him steel pinchers clamped onto his arm and he was dragged out of the room, screaming inaudibly, thrashing to no purpose, leaving Margaret behind. And his tape besides.