by Matt Spire
He was not, despite his adamant claims, clean.
He finally told me I had “all the wrong books,” frowning. “La puta, la puta.” Which is Spanish for “the whore, the whore.” At this level of absurdity, I couldn't help but laugh.
But he was lost in his serious world. “I can't explain anything on your terms,” he said, trying to cut off my laughter. “Everyone has a right to life. Don't you think?”
“Of course.”
“And the pursuit of happiness.”
I didn't know if he was implying that he'd lost both of these things, and I said nothing.
“I can,” he said, lost in thought again. “Everyone has a right to choose how to throw their life away.”
Before I could tell him to hold onto his, he muttered a most unusually poetic and chilling line: “What happens to castles built on the clouds when it rains forever?”
I could only think of Oscar Wilde: “Illusion is the first of all pleasures.”
Jericho smiled, premature creases showing around his eyes. “Indeed, professor.”
Our first, our last.
11
Vestigial Memory
Lydia ascends to the second floor. Her father is sleeping, so she changes into her robe and draws bathwater.
She stares at her phone, wondering if she'll hear from Jericho again.
Why did she always need to be so controlling, so dominant–she shouldn't have thrown herself at him.
He was so reserved, he must have assumed she didn't value their time, the fun at Aurore, that she just wanted an excursion from her mundane life.
And in a way, was she guilty of that? There was no particularly good reason to choose this moment, this person, after three years, other than the fact that she was simply drawn to him whereas others slipped by, white noise amidst more important things.
How ironic, if he thought he was just being used for sexual pleasure–she hadn't even felt a void until they touched. And a release would have been nice, but under that opaque shyness, his company was just as rewarding. More so than anything physical, she'd missed that weightlessness. For a night, nothing mattered.
Oh well.
She reclines into the water, and thinks about the approaching week. She'll have to finish calling restaurants tomorrow–it was stupid to have tried calling them on Saturday; she knows better than that. Maybe she'll try to snag Aurore if she hadn't made too big a fool of herself.
Watching the steam rise, her head heavies. She closes her eyes, focuses on her lungs expanding.
Then it happens again–the water becomes hotter, or maybe colder, but it's different. She feels every molecule of its pressure on her skin, while the overhead light grows brighter and brighter. Grasping the edge of the porcelain, she struggles against the collapse of her body, pulling herself up and away, terrified of slipping into the water and drowning.
And just as quickly, the faint feeling plateaus and it ends.
She collects her senses, then drains the tub, puts on her robe and hurries into bed.
A bottle of wine on such sleep deprivation was a bad idea.
No matter how long she lies awake, she'll toss and turn all it takes until sleep welcomes her.
***
She stands on the shore, shivering, then realizes it isn't cold.
It's so quiet, there doesn't even seem to be air.
The sky and water are inverted, atmosphere hanging heavy and blood-red, streaming into the steamy horizon.
She reaches to her bare feet and collects a handful of sand. Gray, delicate, light as ash, it floats away like feathery down.
There's a terrible stillness. No ticking clocks here, no life in the water.
She feels her naked body, but the skin of her fingertips or arms or chest don't respond.
This isn't Caligatha.
This is outside of everything, a dream of the unborn.
She walks into the water, and when it's up to her waist it begins to pull her down.
Then the dream is an unseen color, not darkness or lightness.
Everything is blindness in this primordial corridor, a place of forgotten feeling. Lydia can't move, can't sense direction.
Everything is weightless.
She reaches out for loneliness, but even that eludes her in this place of unbeing.
Trying to envision the face of her father, of Jericho, of anyone, only vague face-shapes flash, blending together, and then nothing comes, and then even names and words are gone, just panic, blaring panic, echoing and speeding up and choking.
She awakens in a ball, slippery, iced. Dazed, thrown overboard and into her bed.
There's the faint ticking of the clock the next room over, the whispering drizzle of rain on the rooftop.
She throws off the covers, drinks from cupped hands in the bathroom and splashes the cold water on her face.
Not one for having nightmares, shaken, she pushes against the darkness of the hallway, telling herself to relax, and settles into bed again.
But it didn't feel like a nightmare–not the scary mishmash of strange, threatening shadows that lurk in the day.
It felt like being born in reverse, a fear beyond fear.
***
Her father is asleep in his wheelchair in the morning. Bewildered, Lydia wakes him and helps hoist his body back into bed.
“What were you doing?” she asks, all too aware of the frailty in her voice.
He seems confused and half-asleep, so she tells him she'll bring breakfast a little later.
She checks his pills–nothing out of the ordinary.
Taking note of the steady mist, she brings her umbrella to The Sandy Sparrow.
“That's better, dear–good to see you dry,” Florence says, but then changes her tone when Lydia approaches the counter.
“Hun, you look exhausted!”
She is exhausted. How long did the dream keep her awake?
“But I'm not an otter today.”
She sits with her usual banana-nut muffin and chai, becoming more aware of how tired she is, picking it apart and chewing without interest.
“No book today?” Florence asks.
No, no book. Nothing to hone her business acumen, no notebook for ideas or planning her day. She should be kicking herself, but there's no energy for that.
Florence grins wide, says one of the staff saw her at Aurore last night with some cute guy. “About time you had a little fun.”
Lydia smiles. “I did.”
They look to the street. “It's awfully dark out,” Florence says.
It is. Dark. Rainy.
She shivers, remembering the ashen sand and dripping-blood sky.
After eating half her breakfast, she buys a few of her father's favorite brioche to bring home, knowing he'll probably only nibble at one of them. Florence tells her they'll have the pumpkin muffins she likes soon.
For some reason, this levity makes her want to break into tears. She grits her teeth, wishes she could wear sunglasses in the dark rain, tries to think of something stupid to say.
“Can I carve the leftover pumpkins?” she asks, forcing a caricature of herself, and Florence laughs.
“You're the light of my life, dear.”
Lydia. Good job, mom.
Outside, she tells herself to stop acting like a moody little girl, then walks out of her way just far enough to see the water rolling in the distance, as drab as her dream.
There's beauty in everything.
The beach is mostly empty this rainy day in early October.
Whatever.
Back at home, her father stirs, acknowledges the brioches and settles back into sleep.
Reuben has Mondays off, so she gets the store ready and opens the door.
Antsy, she takes her father's stroll through the aisles, not really looking at anything, then tries reading his paper.
The hours pass slowly; a couple, bored from the rain, take a look around but quickly leave.
By noon, Jericho sends a message: I miss you
.
She stares at it for a long time, types Can I see you?, but doesn't want to sound needy and erases it. Then she decides he sounds more needy anyway, and retypes and sends the message.
He responds right away: Yes, when? Today?
She looks at the unceasing rain. If you can. Do you have a break?
Here til 5 but you can come.
She checks on her father, still asleep, and turns off the open sign.
***
She almost doesn't recognize Jericho at the front desk in his white shirt and black tie, but he still has the same sad blue eyes, unshaven face. He looks just as tired.
“Hi,” she says, feeling the skin on her arms with her fingertips, the thought of her numbness in the dream giving her a chill.
“Thanks for coming.”
She's taken aback by this, not sure what he means. “I couldn't sleep much last night,” she tells him.
“I'm sorry.”
“What? It had nothing to do with you.”
Maybe it wasn't the best idea to come here. She doesn't want to tell him about her father, or her dreams, or how tired she is. These are her problems–no, not even problems, they're things she just has to suck up. So why did she come?
He nods and encircles the desk.
They stand in silence for a moment, then he says, “You can stay here as long as you want. There's one reservation for today. I don't think I'll be busy.”
She tries to smile, says, “Me either.”
“I was thinking.” He leans against the desk. “I don't know the things you do. Would you like to redesign the wine list at Tombolo's with–I mean, as in, we get our wine from you?”
“I don't need help,” she says. “I can handle myself.”
“I know.”
She steps to the large window, stares at the rain falling in waves off the roof and onto the porch. “I'm sorry. That's very nice of you.” Looking back at him, those sorrowful eyes, she says, “Sorry, I don't know why I'm here. I enjoyed last night, but today isn't going so well for me, and I don't–”
“Don't apologize.” He steps toward her, touches her shoulder.
“I'm doing fine,” she insists, I don't need to be here and I don't need help. But then a growl of thunder shakes everything around them, and as if it were a cue she grabs his face and kisses him, pushing their bodies onto the desk.
“Wait,” he says, squirming loose, locking the door. “Come on.”
She follows him down a hall behind the desk, unable to comprehend her actions, and he opens one of the first rooms.
They collapse on the bed, and all she can think as she stares at his face is why can't you be like last night?–relaxed, laughing, making jokes.
He starts to talk but she pushes her mouth over his, grabbing at his hair, pulling harder than she should.
Whatever it is, that faint familiarity from the moment she saw him–something makes her care, and she can't stand this complacency, pulls his hands onto her breasts. She feels his mouth move into her's, the pressure in his fingers. But it's not enough, she leans into him with all her weight, crushing him with her hips, needing more.
She tries to focus on the sensations, but can't, even when his hand is between her legs, even when he rolls her over and moves his mouth on her bare chest.
Her mind bounces faster than her heart beats–why is she so overcome by a need for this? Is it guilt? Some irrational betrayal of her father? Is she doing this because she feels sorry for Jericho? She tries to look into his eyes, sits up as he removes the last of her clothes, pulls his face to her's.
Those eyes, they hid a landscape as barren as her dream. But there’s no sadness behind them anymore. The black ocean within him no longer still, she resists closing her eyes. She won’t walk into it and drown.
She digs her fingers into him, forces him onto his back, and loses herself.
Before long, they're breathing into each other's necks, listening to the rain in silence.
Then they repeat everything, less hungry.
It feels better than her boyfriend years ago, but there's something else she can't place. She tries to express this phantom sensation, and only says his name.
“It's like we've always done this,” he says between gasps, and it sends a shiver of pleasure throughout every nerve.
Whatever it means, she feels it too.
They take their time returning to the world outside their bodies, redressing in a haze and ignoring the inevitable departure. A heavy, sad happiness smothers the room. She forces herself to say something, but only says “crazy.”
Returning to the front of the hotel, Jericho stops at one of the rooms and stares at the door, entranced.
“What's wrong?” she asks, hesitating before putting her arms around his waist, still reluctant to seem too attached.
“Nothing,” he dismisses, staring at the numbers. 114. “I keep meaning to...” but he trails off.
She wonders why the room broke his spell.
Then he kisses her again, sadness back in his eyes.
Something in her heart is sent adrift, like ashen sand from her palm.
***
Lydia sits in her father's wheelchair, picking apart one of the brioches.
“I thought those were for me,” he says, stirring.
“I thought you were trying to starve yourself.”
He moves his eyes under half-raised lids, smiles. “You should be so lucky.”
“Shut up,” she whispers.
He tries to laugh, but erupts in coughing.
Beads of sweat form on his brow, and she brings him a tonic water only to find him asleep again.
A surge of guilt at the sound of his struggling breath almost erupts into panic, but she comforts herself with the idea that happiness and misery are not mutually exclusive. She's tried to control life for so long, she might have forgotten what end of the leash she's on.
She remembers her words to Jericho: “Being human is being able to change.”
Or something like that.
12
Sepulcher
And so work began on Realm.
He told me to take whatever I needed from my old apartment. That I should keep the key, and he would give me money to continue paying rent as usual.
Then we spent a couple hours with a cheap 3-D scanner, making sure we'd recorded every nook and cranny.
I asked what we were doing.
“Don't worry,” was his only explanation. “They won't be able to eat anything.”
Such non-sequiturs were his natural language anymore.
He'd purchased a flat, the very flat where I sit and write now. It was in my name and would later become his wedding gift, after Realm was complete and he’d introduced me to my future-wife Emma.
But then it was his laboratory. He didn't bother furnishing it, and when I rarely caught him asleep it was in his chair, awash in the glow of his endless wall-mounted monitors. Filled with rows of numbers or inkblot-like shapes. Virtual mouse brains, he explained.
I had no idea what Realm was to be. Indeed, he hadn't even given his project a name. For weeks, I was relegated to the mere task of answering calls on his growing collection of cell phones, shunning reporters, and eventually caring for the actual mice that moved into the flat.
One of the mice he named Methuselah and kept sequestered from the others, which he said were “learning to navigate mazes.” Except there were no mazes in the loft. Just walls of numbers, inkblots, and lots of mice.
Impossibly, Jericho managed to stay awake nearly every hour of the day, catching drifts of sleep between his poorly hidden drinking and pills. I'd mildly suggested he might be killing himself slowly with the combination of chemicals and labor, but he scoffed and questioned my faith in his immune system. After all, it negated the negative effects of all harmful chemicals ingested. “The chemicals go in, the cirrhosis and pain go out,” he'd say.
Soon, I needed time from the persistent odor of rodents to consider the loneliness and lack of
meaning that now defined my life. One does not expect to transition from lecturing on Dostoevsky to scrubbing urine from cages. A particular night, about six months in, I'd requested to return to my old apartment, and he vehemently opposed. “It'll ruin everything.”
I suppose just to give me something to do, Jericho was insistent I spend much of my days searching the news reports for any new plagues. Sure enough, new diseases emerged. “Superbugs,” they were usually called. “Evolution's response.” This is exactly what Jericho was looking for in the news, but when I reported to him he would just snicker.
By then, Jericho's immune system had become a rich open-source platform, and the “superbugs” never even spread to the few impoverished fissures of the world without it. By the time I reported to him, such diseases usually had their own module on the hub. Nothing stuck.
At that time, the only story that roused him was quite unrelated, a malicious attack on the new Xumu dolls that had become a holiday craze.
“Those biotoys?” he asked. “The 'expectant mother units' everyone's giving kids like candy?”
“Well, you know they have downloadable faces?”
Jericho nodded. “Yes, there's an avatar marketplace. They're being marketed like fucking pets.”
“This morning en masse they downloaded macabre faces with fanged mouths and began attacking their owners.”
He considered this. “They couldn't hurt anyone. Their brains and bodies are bio, but their faces are just displays embedded into their skulls.” He sat back, a wild grin growing. “Still, I love it. More news like that, please.”
Eric looks up from the book, listening intently.
Below, from the tunnel, he can hear Crane and Mae digging through the basement, their voices solemn.