“Or if I refuse to place the orb in the box?”
“Sadly, the box and orb would vanish again for another millennium.”
He waved to them, arms and wings mixed up in the motion. Then he turned and disappeared behind the totem pole.
• • •
When they arrived at Pedersen’s the next evening, Levitt and Quisted were waiting.
“Excuse me,” Pedersen said, “I must have the wrong apartment.”
“This is no time for jokes,” Levitt said. “Where have you been?”
“Where we’ve been is none of your business,” she said.
“May I remind you –”
“No! May I remind you –”
“Please, Dr. Levitt, Dr. Pedersen,” Quisted said, holding out his hands. “This is getting us nowhere. Anne, we apologize for the intrusion. The superintendent let us in when we told him who we were and that it was an urgent matter.”
“I see,” she said. “And, pray tell, what matter of urgency may it be?”
“It’s that damn box,” Levitt blurted out. “It won’t stop howling. We can’t turn the noise off. Or at least the incompetents” – he looked at Quisted – “I employ at the lab can’t.”
“Okay,” Pedersen said. “So, what do you want from me?”
“I thought perhaps,” Levitt said, “as you set up the translation program you might know a way to turn it off. Or, at least to make it bearable.”
“I might,” she said. “But right now, I need my beauty rest. I’ll come down to the lab first thing in the morning.”
• • •
The next morning Pedersen and Greshner were silent on the drive to the lab. They drove through some of the city’s worst slums, mostly empty shells slated for demolition, rusted tin shacks resembling the favelas of Brazil. Ahead of them, on the edge of the destruction, like a squat white larval beast devouring the countryside, Levitt Labs waited. The security guard at the front gate waved them through. Levitt and Quisted stood at the lab door, not wanting to go in one minute too soon.
The moment the door opened, a blast of sound hit them, a high-pitched screech-cum-moan-cum-signal for help.
“We’ve shut down the laser, disabled all input and output to it,” Levitt shouted, hands clasped tightly over his ears.
Pedersen approached the box. She stopped beside it, beside the chair she’d occupied for six weeks. As she stood there, the howling seemed to increase in strength, become more insistent. It was as if the box knew it was being isolated and she had something it wanted, something it needed badly to reverse the process. Pedersen looked into it, into the unceasing, unchanging pulse. She pulled her hand out of her pocket, holding the orb. It glowed and pulsed at the same rate as the box.
The others fell back as if they had been violently pushed away. Pedersen held the orb above the box. A beam erupted from the box and enveloped the orb. She felt the warmth surround her. She saw fields that resembled Elysium, super-human creatures without a care in the world, lush forests sending out signals to the rest of the universe – and, at the centre of it all, Red in all his glory, black-plumed, fierce-eyed, grinning. “Oh my,” she said, as she lowered her hand towards the box, held the orb upside down, prepared to release it.
And then threw it against the back wall before collapsing to her knees.
The box moaned once – and vanished. The orb bounced before it too disappeared.
“What the hell just happened?” Levitt demanded after recovering his senses. “You were supposed to stop the howling. Not make it disappear.”
“Thank you,” Greshner said, helping her up.
“What are you thanking her for?” Levitt said. “We had a contract to fulfill. That box was supposed to be handed over to our benefactors.”
“Benefactors?” Greshner said. “You mean the war mongers.”
“Don’t be so naïve,” Levitt said. “They pay our bills. We wouldn’t survive without them.”
“Sorry,” Pedersen said, still trying to catch her breath. “But I’m not sure you’d like the alternative.”
“This is sabotage,” Levitt said.
“That might be a little difficult to prove,” Greshner said.
“What! I’ve got you as witnesses,” Levitt said. “And all the computer data.”
“I didn’t witness a thing,” Quisted said.
“Nor I,” Greshner said.
“And that so-called computer data is completely useless,” Pedersen said.
“This is outrageous,” Levitt said, stalking out of the lab. “You’re all fired. Scientists like you are a dime a dozen.”
“Perfect timing,” Pedersen said. “The three of us are thinking of starting our own lab.”
“We are?” Greshner said, startled.
“Nothing extravagant, mind you. Just a place to investigate some of the basic phenomena. Have you ever noticed how the basic phenomena get ignored, Dr. Quisted?”
“Yes,” Quisted said, “a little too much emphasis on mixing peanut butter and jelly.”
“Get out!” Levitt yelled.
As the three walked towards the exit, Red, once more stooped and shuffling, came around the corner pushing a bucket with a mop in it.
“Red,” Pedersen said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Maybe next time,” he whispered as he shuffled by, mop slapping against the floor.
“What?” Pedersen said. “What did you say?”
STRANGERS
“I’m tired of knowing you so well,” I say, lying in bed beside you propped on a pillow. “I’m tired of your pleasant smile and your boundless patience; your never-say-die attitude and your unflagging energy. Why is it my food’s never burnt? Not even slightly overcooked. And what’s the reason for having the bathwater always so absolutely perfect? Perfect temperature; perfect level; perfect round bubbly suds? In short, I’m tired of having you know me so well, so intimately, and yet without words. Do you hear me?”
You, of course, pretend not to, pretend to be asleep, your back turned to me, warm flesh – where exposed – rising and falling calmly, predictably, mouth slightly open and the breath exhaling softly through your nostrils. You turn languidly towards me. Look at that, will you? Not a crust on your eyes; not a speck of dried foam on your lips; not a hint of sour breath. Nothing to indicate, mere moments after you awake, that you’ve been sleeping, that your stomach has been digesting bits of acid-coated food, that your bowels are bursting with gas.
“I’ve heard it said, through reliable sources, that others nag their lovers constantly, forbid them certain necessary privileges, demand money, make them feel guilty for the slightest indiscretion, the teeniest deviation from the straight and narrow. That’s what I’ve heard said. And from unimpeachable sources. You! You forgive and forget. You satisfy my every need, no matter how outlandish. And, when you find yourself unable to do so, you give me money to go satisfy myself as I see fit. Bah, you disgust me!”
I lift my arm as if to strike you across the face, across the delicate alabaster face, upturned in its saintly posture of repose. The arm trembles above you (as it has done countless times before), quivering with a rage of its own, but then falls back (as it has done countless times before), tamed and useless. I was once told, prior to your knowing me so well, that a fierce animal in a zoo – a tiger, I think, or a leopard – escaped from its cage and ran for miles through streets filled with juicy humans simply to lie at your feet, to allow itself to be petted by you. Is it true? You shrug.
“Darling, let’s play a game,” I whisper close to your ear, your delicate ear, holding back an urge to bite it off. “That’s it! An exciting, invigorating game. Some way to get to unknow each other again. Just like the old days. We’ll drive to a field outside the city, to a—”
Shivering, you suddenly sit bolt upright on the bed, like a spring folded in half perhaps or a trap set to catch some invisible prey, your eyes wide open yet, for a moment, unseeing. You gasp, then blink and shake yourself awake. You throw the covers bac
k and give me a kiss on the lips. Your mouth smells of flowers. Or is it ambrosia? I want to kiss you again, to pin you down and slide my hand down the front of your pink slip. But you roll over me playfully (oh my God! The scent of your body!) and walk away swaying, a long purple robe wrapping itself about your shoulders. I follow you and stand with my mouth to the washroom door, against the cold keyhole.
“About that game,” I say, knowing persistence is the only thing that pays off. “It’s one you like. We’ll drive to a field on the outskirts of the city. You’ll enjoy the country and the fresh air. Yes, you will. Once there, you stand at one end and I stand at the other. It doesn’t matter which end. Oh, all right. You can have the side with the sun to your back. Is that okay?”
The toilet flushes, followed by the odour of lavender.
“Good. Here’s what we’ll do then. On three…let me think now. On three, we’ll shout our names. No, in order to forget, we’ll shout someone else’s names. That’s it. We’ll shout the names of complete strangers and run towards each other. Not too fast and not too slow. What do they call it? Loping, that’s it. Like werewolves do. Or tigers. Easy, eh? Very easy. We’ll run through fields of red and orange flowers, pink and yellow flowers, tangerine and pale gold flowers – and embrace in the middle. A meeting to dispel one another, to repel the familiarity, to unspell our names.”
The door flies open. You peck me on the cheek and brush past into the kitchen, combing your hair. Of course, it doesn’t need combing. Nor does a single strand catch in the comb’s teeth.
“I know, I know,” I say, sitting in the chair across from you so that our knees touch (it’s a small kitchen, a minuscule kitchen more like a broom closet than a kitchen). “We’ve played this game before. Four, no, five times. Well, anyway, many times. And you’re fast tiring of it. But that’s no reason not to play it once more, is it? Is it?”
The piledriver starts up outside the kitchen window. It is visible there, rising up and inserting thick steel girders into the ground, building up a small fortress of thick steel girders. Even with the window shut, that makes it very hard to converse. But I’m determined and start to shout above the din, above the shaking thunder of glass.
“Today would be a fine day on which to play the game. A fine day, I said. Do you hear me? A chance to escape all this, even if only for a couple of hours. What say you?”
You are holding a grapefruit in your hand which you cut expertly. It is my grapefruit. First, you make a general incision around the edge, disconnecting the rind from the meat. Then you sever the pieces, two by two, so they float in the fruit’s own juices. Finally, lifting it, you sprinkle sugar above and beneath it, rivulets of dissolving sweetness.
“It’ll be such great fun,” I say, opening my mouth and allowing you to spoon several pieces into it. “I know you’ll enjoy it just as much as I do. And besides, it’s not too often we get to do this. Especially on a summer day.”
I’m finished eating. After wiping my mouth, you leave me to get dressed. I take the opportunity to examine the beautiful stiletto I carry Sicilian-style, tied to a string about my neck. It had been won years before at a church bazaar, the one prize I desired above all else. When we still made love, before the fear of disease drove all loving out of us, sometimes it dangled against your back (naughty, naughty), raking up and down your spine; other times, it hovered over what you called the “hot private parts” nipping and stinging like a puppy. It is, of course, my destiny to kill you with it, I whisper. In no time, you’re out of the bedroom again.
“How come you dress so fast? Others I know take hours. Some even start the day before on really important occasions – and go all night without sleeping for fear of wrinkles. But you, you walk in nude and walk out clothed. Surprise me one day with your foolishness. Delight me with an ounce of high stubbornness, a stamping of delicate feet. Tell me I know less about you than I think. Tell me about your dreams before I created you.”
You wear nothing but a sackcloth blouse and your favourite rubber boots. The ones scarred with makeshift patches. Your hair, now frizzy and unkempt, is tied back with a piece of black electrical wire. Purple lipstick is smeared across one side of your face, from earlobe to edge of mouth.
“You insist on making me admire you for your lack of taste. I must refuse, deny. And yet you take the refusal, the denial for a compliment. How is that possible?”
You hold my arm like a true lover and we step outside. The car – how red and sporty it looks – is still there, parked inches from the piledriver. I roll back the convertible top and we get in. It is thus we drive out of the city in search of the right field, a just-so field surrounded by large straight fir trees and perhaps resplendent with strawberry plants. Although the strawberries aren’t necessary. Not really.
“I hope you’re ready for this game,” I say, patting you on the knee. “Mentally prepared, as it were. But, of course, you are. How many times have we played it now? Five? Yes, it must be five. It becomes easier all the time, doesn’t it? No more worries about missing a step or going in the wrong direction or running by each other. And I know you enjoy it. Oh, there’s no use denying the fact. It’s written all over your face in bold letters. Here, let me read it for you: `I really enjoy the game. It’s the kind of thing I could do forever. There’s no better way to get to unknow each other.’ See, I told you I could read faces.”
We drive and drive. Over hill and dale. Over dale and hill. Nothing quite fits our needs. Those fields with flowers, even more colourful than expected or demanded, are already occupied by cows, intensely stupid cows, chewing, chewing. Or horses showing off their penises. Other fields, just a bit on the short side or without trees surrounding them, might have been suitable on previous occasions or for future use. But not today.
“You understand, don’t you, my dearest? Today of all days I want something ideal. What my mind’s eye sees. I want the dream. Not a dream. The dream. You have dreams, don’t you? Come on, don’t deny it now. That’s why you wake up so startled in the morning, isn’t it, with your eyes shut tight? You’d like to hold on to it, isn’t that so? Hold on for as long as possible. That’s why I always wake before you do. To catch you dreaming. But it doesn’t help. Not in the least.”
The car sputters, then runs out of gas and coasts to level ground. I try to coax it further but it’s no use. This is it. The location has been chosen for us. All around us are fields choked with potato plants. No flowers, no trees. Not a hint of strawberries. Just row on row of young potato plants covered in pesticidal spray – and bright-coloured potato bugs writhing in their death throes. I open the car’s glove compartment and pull out a gun, a cute little six-shooter peashooter which I hand to you. Then we climb the fence (watch out for splinters) and walk to opposite ends of the field. The sun shines directly in my eyes. I’m near tears.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, knowing you can’t hear me. “I’m truly sorry our game must be played in such deplorable surroundings, amid potato plants. I would have hoped for more. But, never mind. It’s the spirit that counts. Isn’t that right? I’m sure it is. Are you ready?”
I reach into my shirt and unhook the stiletto, hefting it like an expert, an old pro. You adjust your boots and shake yourself from top to bottom.
“One, two, three.”
I shout your name, your familiar name. You shout mine. Too late to remember we should have used pseudonyms. Real names can be dangerous. We start to run at one another. I trip on the first step and fall with my face in the dirt, sending up a puff of pesticide. But I am quickly up again, spitting sand. You dance towards me, all sweetness and light, the sackcloth heaving up and down, revealing your “hot private parts,” a perfect patch of red hair like a triangular target. It’s marred in the middle. Why did you have to mar it in the middle? Your face sparkles with a huge, beautiful grin, a fantastic, sensuous smile. I snarl and look grim. We draw closer together. Crows gather to gossip on the wooden fence posts: chattering chattering. They’re talking about us, yo
u know? Yes, they are. Potato plants fly into the air; potato bugs expire underfoot. We draw closer, smiling, snarling, laughing, grunting.
“Yes, we know each other too well. Too well. Your left nipple is smaller than your right. Just a touch smaller, mind you, but noticeable when aroused. You tell everyone who stares at you that your perfect teeth are false. That’s a lie. You’ve carried my child within you for too long now and it’s afraid to be born. Afraid it already knows more than it’ll ever need to cope. That’s another lie.”
Steadily, steadily, only a few feet apart, the tiger and the leopard gone, your smile a radiant invitation to heaven, your feet floating slightly above the ridge-encrusted earth. Steadily, steadily, I unsheathe the stiletto, my stiletto, the one you’ve studiously ignored all these years, and plunge it sideways into your neck. Then pull it out again. Waiting for you to crumble. But there’s no crumbling; there’s no blood; there’s only the tiniest pink mark on your neck. I fall back weeping, kneeling, jabbing the earth. You stand above me, feet apart, the sun blinding me, obscuring your face.
“The knife will always be the same,” I blubber, “retracting when it touches your skin, folding within itself. Only a bazaar-won knife, you understand, useful for Cowboys and Indians and little kids who want to live again to die another day.”
You push the gun hard against my forehead, between the creases of my forehead, cold against my flesh – and smile at me with perfect teeth.
“Five clicks,” I say.
You nod. The farmer rushes down the hill, shouting. The crows burst into the air. My knife plunges in and out of the earth, leaving no dent. The gun – the gun – the gun—
Clicks.
The following stories, some in revised form, have been previously published in journals:
Exorcism: West Coast Review (1971)
Bandages: Global Tapestry (1988)
The Photographer in Search of Death: Canadian Fiction Magazine (1986)
Asgard’s Light: The University of Windsor Review (1992)
The Photographer in Search of Death Page 12