by Sophie Ward
‘Would you excuse me? My wife needs some help.’
She watched her husband extricate himself from Dorcas’s considerable presence and smiled as she handed him his drink.
‘Don’t overdo it, Nicky. I’m not getting a lift home from Atalanta again.’
‘We must ask her to live with us. We could do with a non-drinker in the house.’
‘The only reason she doesn’t drink is because she’s an alcoholic, which hardly counts. And you know perfectly well I hardly drink at all these days.’
‘So true. But then, you don’t drive either.’
‘I most certainly could drive. I’m an excellent driver.’ Elizabeth drew another glass from the tray of a passing waiter.
‘You don’t have a driving licence though, my love, which amounts to the same thing.’
‘The driving examiner was having a nervous breakdown.’
‘Technicalities, trying as they may be, are of the essence in these matters.’
‘They wrote me a letter of apology.’
‘We should carry it with us at all times. We have put a man on the moon. We have given Keith Chegwin a career. It cannot be beyond the realms of possibility that your letter is accepted as a de facto licence to drive.’
‘Keith Chegwin? For goodness’ sake, Nicholas.’
‘Cheggers, to his friends. Among whom I, sadly, am not numbered.’
‘You’re not to drink any whisky tonight.’
‘Very good.’ Nicholas looked past Elizabeth’s head to the garden beyond. ‘I’m just going to have a little chat with Atalanta. She might have some teetotal tips. Do you need any help?’
‘Of course not.’
Elizabeth shifted her weight on the bench and smiled at an elderly gentleman in a velvet suit. Really, the Olivers’ friends were alarmingly aged. It couldn’t be good for you to constantly associate with so many old people. She took out her glasses to afford a better view of the numerous unframed canvases in the wide hallway. The man in the velvet suit tipped his silver head in her direction and turned back to his companion who appeared to be dressed in a kaftan. Why did fat people insist on dressing so badly? There was no reason to wear a giant, what were they called? Moomoo. Exactly. Like a cow. Elizabeth nodded to herself and caught Velvet Suit glancing back at her. To cover the moment, she raised her glass at him, found it was empty and looked about for the waiter.
Rachel had worn a similar garment when she was pregnant. On more than one occasion, Elizabeth had arrived at her daughter’s house to find her wafting around in an outfit that most closely resembled a bedspread without the redemption of simplicity. The first time, when she asked her whether she was going to dress, Rachel had opened her arms and performed a little twirl.
‘This is it, mum. Freedom.’
‘I see. Very brave.’
‘I know what that means. This is comfortable.’
‘Like your shoes?’
Rachel’s face flushed and Elizabeth remembered stepping back as though she thought her daughter might hit her. She wouldn’t have, Elizabeth knew that, but her eyes had darkened with fury in her pink face and an electric energy seemed to spark from her skin.
‘I’m carrying a baby. Your grandchild. Why should I want to truss myself up like a chicken?’
‘I don’t think those are your only choices, Rachel. Really, does Eliza like this get-up?’
‘We don’t model our relationship on your patriarchal, hetero-normative repression. She sees me as a person.’
‘You don’t have to look hideous to be seen as a person.’
‘Hideous?’ Rachel’s voice had risen to her teenage octave.
‘Oh, not you. You could never look hideous. Why do you always have to take what I say the wrong way?’
Elizabeth felt the wooden bench pinch the back of her thighs. The tiny quantity of Valium she had taken over sunset drinks with Nicholas had worn off and she reached into her purse for something stronger. Where was everybody? The waiter had not returned and there was barely enough wine in her glass to help her swallow the pills. She really should circulate a little; she hadn’t even seen the Olivers. Only the old man and the fat woman remained in the hallway and she had no desire to strike up a conversation with either. She rose from the bench without the aid of her stick and glanced down at her clutch purse. The lipstick stain appeared to have spread.
She was very hot, her neck clammy beneath the damp clods of her hair. The slight breeze from the garden called to her and she resolved to leave the purse and return for it later. She could sense the gaze of Velvet Suit as she tugged at the hem of her dress where it stuck to her legs. Despite his great age and inappropriate attire, Elizabeth couldn’t help feeling flattered. She drew herself up and headed for the garden in as straight a line as she could manage and imagined Beatrice Oliver whispering to her later, ‘My dear, you quite fascinated the gentleman I invited for my single girlfriends. They were all furious. However do you do it?’
She had won prizes, she reminded herself, for deportment, at the establishment to which her mother had sent her after boarding school. If she hadn’t married Nicholas, she might have had a career as a fashion model. And perhaps, it wasn’t too late even now. She turned back to make sure of her admirer but he was laughing politely with the woman in the kaftan. Fat and jolly. Elizabeth supposed there was little point in one without the other. Velvet Suit could not be faulted on his manners in any event, despite, or possibly because of, his age. She determined to speak to him after all, when she had learned a little more from Beatrice.
The garden glowed in the lamplight. Cigarette smoke and mountain laurel scented the hot night air. Elizabeth stood on the terrace and surveyed the party, the pain she had felt creeping at her temples now receding as a wave of warmth for the other guests washed over her. Perhaps it wasn’t so terrible to be surrounded by the sort of people you had always known. At the drinks table, Dorcas and Atalanta were swaying unrhythmically to a Portuguese ballad broadcast from an upstairs balcony. She could see Nicholas, an entire skewer of chicken livers in one hand and a cigarette in the other, at the far end of the terrace. He was talking expansively to a man in crumpled linen trousers, whom Elizabeth recognised from previous parties at the Olivers’ as a ceramicist of some renown. Both men wore expressions of utter bliss on their grizzled faces. They might be in love, Elizabeth thought, if love were measured in joy.
Beatrice Oliver waved at her over the shoulder of a man with a grey ponytail who had his arm around her waist. She kissed his bearded cheek and headed toward Elizabeth with an alarming smile.
‘Elizabeth! Where have you been? You don’t even have a drink, darling.’
‘I haven’t felt like drinking,’ Elizabeth said. And wasn’t it the truth? And shouldn’t Beatrice have come to meet her in the hallway with a glass of something lovely and a kind word? ‘You know how it is.’
Beatrice’s smile widened though it hardly seemed possible. ‘Oh, my dear. But didn’t they say everything with Rachel was better? All gone?’
‘Yes, yes. Quite gone.’ Elizabeth made sure to raise her eyebrow a little at the idea. Really, Beatrice was almost a simpleton.
‘Then we must celebrate. There’s someone here I’m longing to introduce you to.’
Beatrice thrust an arm through Elizabeth’s and pulled her away from the terrace. Elizabeth’s knee sagged at the sudden move and she struggled to maintain her balance but she refused to communicate her distress to her hostess. Beatrice was five years older than her and braless in a halter-neck maxi-dress. Elizabeth was not willing to be pitied by a woman with such inadequate taste, even if she was her closest friend.
Expecting to be taken back to the hallway to meet Velvet Suit, she was surprised when Beatrice dragged her down one of the uneven paths toward a covered archway, beneath which a tall man was laughing loudly with a male companion. Only as they grew closer did she see that the tall man was wearing high heels and a dress. Sofia from her capoeira class.
Beatrice squeeze
d Elizabeth’s arm. ‘Isn’t she merveilleuse? I met her at the lace market a few weeks ago. Sofia! This is my friend, Elizabetta, the one I was telling you about. With the daughter. My goodness, it is impossibly warm tonight.’
Elizabeth stood quite still and thought about her walking stick propped against the bench in the house. She badly needed to sit down but there were no chairs in sight and Beatrice seemed to be making an exit, removing her scrawny brown hand from Elizabeth’s elbow and flapping uselessly at the garden as though a breeze might be summoned from the wingless arm.
The morphine calm had evaporated.
‘The daughter?’ Sofia smiled. ‘Does she dance as well? We have missed you at class.’
Her companion waited to be introduced. He stared at Elizabeth with dark eyes in a sallow face. Liverish, Elizabeth thought. She wanted to slap him. These are the people that Beatrice wanted her to know, the motley group with whom she was supposed to have something in common because of her daughter’s life choices. Outcasts. Women with beards and men with breasts and sad little marches and ugly clothes and always wanting to be different and difficult and angry when she was the one who should be angry. Her daughter had been stolen from her, had left her for another woman whose name was almost the same as hers. It didn’t take a Freudian to see what had happened.
Sofia put a hand on her companion’s shoulder. ‘Elizabetta?’
Elizabeth started. ‘Oh! Well, my daughter is in England. She is … I am … not well. Excuse me.’ Elizabeth turned to the house and forced her body forward.
Her knee ached. With every step, the house seemed to withdraw further into the hillside and she staggered as she tried to catch her breath in the close night air. From behind, she heard a gasp and a strong arm reached around her waist before her leg gave way.
‘Elizabetta!’ Sofia gripped her hip and steered her toward the back door. ‘You must rest. Come and sit with me and tell me about your girl.’
Elizabeth strained to see Nicholas as she limped. He was standing on a chair with his head thrown back, skewer in hand, a flowerpot balanced on his chin.
‘Oh, Nicky!’ Dorcas shouted, camera in hand. ‘A little to your left, the light is perfect.’
‘My husband …’ Elizabeth gestured at the vignette on the terrace.
‘We will fetch him later.’
The two women continued into the house where the smallest breeze fluttered in the hallway and moths batted against the walls above the lights. Elizabeth staggered the last few steps to the bench she had so unwisely left. She could feel the sprightly transsexual at her side and ahead of her Velvet Suit and Kaftan were glued to a book they appeared to be reading together.
‘Thank you so much.’ She tilted as she reached for the bench rail. ‘I will be fine now.’
Sofia darted forward with a little sweeping motion just as Elizabeth fell into the seat. The clatter of small objects on the floor was followed by a loud crash and the echo of a bottle spinning against the tile. Elizabeth gasped and clutched at her chest. She thought she might faint. Or be sick. She stared at the ceiling to catch her breath and when she looked down, a trio of heads bobbed below her.
‘I think this belongs to you,’ said Velvet Suit, an arm outstretched. In his hand, the stained clutch purse sagged, the contents spread over the floor. Red wine pooled against her overstretched shoes. Item-by-item, her belongings were retrieved and placed by her side. Assorted phials of pills, make-up, her spectacles, an empty glass. Lastly, and with some ceremony, the walking stick was laid on her lap, duckbill up.
‘I think that is everything.’ Sofia stood and brushed at her lace skirt, the hem of which was now fringed a deep pink. ‘I will speak to your husband.’
The other couple retired to the bookcase. Elizabeth sat as straight as she could, her possessions around her. Her whole body ached. From the ruined purse came a regular pulse of light. She reached inside for the block of phone and looked at the message; a missed call from Rachel. As if there were any other kind, Elizabeth thought and put the phone down. I could die right here and not have to endure what comes next in this world. I don’t have to outlive my daughter.
An image of Rachel as a baby came unbidden to her and she closed her eyes against it. The dark curls and flushed cheeks as the newborn lay in her arms. The look of her father so clear in those first days, the boy on the beach with the sea in his blood. Elizabeth had kept Rachel close then to stop Nicky seeing, hidden her away amongst the swaddling and blankets. But there was no need, Nicky never noticed his pirate daughter, saw only the girl from a painting he imagined he would one day paint, and Elizabeth spun the yarn of her Portuguese ancestors and only remembered Ali in the smallest of moments, in the grounds of strong coffee, or the crash of a wave in an arthouse movie. She never remembered him as a boy with no mother. Or why. How could she?
When Nicholas came in from the garden he found her upright and asleep, her head folded forward. She screamed when her husband touched her and clutched at her heart.
‘I’m still here,’ she said. She was not disappointed.
‘So it seems, my love.’
‘Am I?’
‘Here?’
‘No. Am I your love, Nicky?’
‘You better be,’ he said, not unkindly. He held an arm out for Elizabeth. ‘Did you see my flowerpot dance?’
‘I couldn’t help it,’ Elizabeth stood, ‘you looked ridiculous.’
Nicholas smiled. ‘I did, didn’t I? Don’t you want any of your things?’ He waved at the assorted items below them. The message light on the phone continued to blink.
‘Not much,’ she said, turning away from the bench. ‘They’re not very me.’
4
Ameising
Philosophical Zombies
David Chalmers is credited with the development of the philosophical zombie, or P-Zombie, a creature just the same as us but without consciousness. Chalmers argues that since we can imagine a creature that is just like a human being in every physical sense but without the quality of sentience, even though such a thing might not be possible, we can see that consciousness is not a physical thing and is some other quality of being human.
If there is a possible world which is just like this one except that it contains zombies, then that seems to imply that the existence of consciousness is a further, nonphysical fact about our world.
David J. Chalmers Zombies on the Web
There are two parts to my life and they are as different from each other as you are to a stranger who sat next you on a bus one summer’s day, or borrowed a library book you had once read. The before and after of me are not two halves of one, as many lives must be. Young and old. Child and parent. There is nothing that follows as a natural progression, only a clear division. Of course, were you to meet me, in person, you would not notice anything of distinction about me at all save, perhaps, a minor imperfection. Introducing my self to you this way though, through a meeting of minds as it were, will allow you to understand the very great change in my circumstances. We say ‘meeting of minds’ though really it is my mind that is being met, this is not a two-way discovery.
Welcome.
The difficulties you may experience in understanding my story are to be expected. There is a small comparison to be made between my own transformation and the one you are embarking upon but only a small one, since your discovery is by conventional means and mine was, as far as can be told, unique. Yet you will be prey to sudden jolts and shocks, and your already advanced and settled knowledge of the world and its physical constraints will at times obstruct the absorption of new, conflicting, information. Still, here you are, embracing the process. We must commend ourselves for our exploratory natures.
We will start with the night that everything changed.
The first difficulty is how to properly convey the way things happened without tainting your impressions with my current form. You will understand so much more if we can edge a little into my original incarnation and proceed from there. To this
end, let us envisage the bedroom of the converted Victorian terrace flat on a warm June night. The household sleeps and our small party enters from the garden, lured by the scent of something sweet.
program TimeDemo;
Tap my way along the unvarnished edge of the table. On the trail of sweetness. The scent of sugar. Icha and Ka follow behind me, Ki and Ekhi are ahead. We move in single file, no need to veer off this track now the way is shown. We’ve been here before; the sickly smell of fallen kin has led us here. We are high on death and the promise of what lies beyond.
The clicks and clacks of the column rise above us. Upside-down on the underlip of the table when the human bodies come into view, two women sleeping. Their scent blankets the room. Sweet but metallic. And one of them is dying.
The call from the scout grows stronger. Crick. Crick crick. Crick.
The source of sugar. See a glass surrounded by damp circular imprints of glucose on one corner of the table beside a brass bedstead. Make our way to the glass and Ki ascends. She enjoys the sugar, but on the other side of the wall sits the liquid and the scouts should go first. Ki is too eager to drink, and it has been dry. Dry in the gravel and the concrete around us, dry in the grass that pushes up between the stone and the brick. She is thirsty as well as hungry, and Ki risks the liquid surface that might trap her as surely as sap though not so pretty.
The scouts follow her up, in line.
Stay behind and watch the sleeping human forms. The rise and fall of their bodies. They are simple creatures. The abdomen and thorax are fused together and they have four limbs and no antennae. Even the males are flightless. They are of interest in their great size and in their capacity for creating sugar. They remind me of animals from stories, not wild like the birds and the foxes near our colony. When we worked for the queen we heard the tales of humans and how they lived but here, asleep in the dark, they surprise.
At the top of the glass, Ki turns back. We served the queen together and she senses me. Watch as the scout makes its way past her and slows down to the edge of the sweetwater. We know the way to break the skin on top with a bite, and the scouts may bring the droplet to the nest. This time we will all take a piece. Because of the dryness. That is the plan, but the scent of the sleeping animals draws me back. And something else: the death.