<<< Back Table of Contents Next >>> 21 Lost Simplicity After Becky's departure, Anton had a crisis of confidence. He decided that all his talk of youthful rebellion had been a sham, nothing more than a way of fooling himself and others. Techno-primitivism had failed, or vanished into a hundred streams of self-promotion. His success after Trashtown only proved he was the biggest self-promoter. He'd embraced the celebrity lifestyle and wallowed in its pleasures. What did it all mean? Nothing. For years he'd held out hope of winning Becky, but now that dream was over. He'd tried to dazzle her with his success, but instead he'd scared her off. In the process, she'd persuaded him that Timmins got nothing from his way of life. His pursuit of fame was the opposite of what Timmins needed. He'd always told himself that he was doing it for Timmins, but now that Timmins was secure in his Iowa farmhouse, what was left to accomplish? Why had he wanted to be famous? To spread his vision across America and the world. Young people everywhere would set themselves on fire, drown in the ocean, dive from buildings into the streets. "Teenagers multiply, skyscrapers multiply, people fall from the sky." But the notion of dying for beauty, which had been a blinding truth for him when he was starting out, had been polished into words and gestures with no meaning in them. He'd posed as a champion of authenticity, a pioneer of the unexplored regions of the soul. As a result, he'd held himself in a state of emotional vulnerability at all times. Had the right word been said, the right gesture made, he would have been blown apart in an instant. Yet until Becky's visit, that had never happened. People had simply assumed he was wearing armor. Becky was the first person to pierce his armor, because she'd seen he didn't have any. He found himself yearning for lost simplicity. He missed the feeling of being alone in a strange place, of wanting something he couldn't have. He'd identified with that once, he'd been there himself once. What was the taste of unrealized desire? He barely remembered. He'd given voice to the involuntary longings, the half-realized instincts of his generation, and he'd been raised on the shoulders of the many. Now he would never again be invisible. Late one night, he spoke with Timmins and confessed his doubts. "I've lost the sense that a song I create in a fit of desire will strike the target at which it was aimed. I've betrayed myself, not been betrayed by society or by God, because as I've gained the knowledge of what to say and how to say it, I've lost the will to speak. I no longer believe that my songs, and the life they contain, will mean anything to others." • • • "You do it for the money," someone was saying. "Why else would you do it?" He was at the home of a venture capitalist, on a terrace overlooking the ocean. The person speaking was Billy Phantom, drummer for Money Flavored Gelatin, the closest thing he had to a rival band. Ever since he'd knocked them out of the top spot, they'd become friendly with him, recognizing him as a fellow player. "Money isn't the reason," he said. "Sure, money's part of it, but that's not my motivation. I do it for—hell, you know—the satisfaction of doing it well. And because it's important." "Important? You call what we do important?" "It's important that we do it well! If we didn't, people would notice. They might not understand where the difference was coming from, but they'd see a difference. In a life or death game like this one, where every move matters...." A magazine editor overheard him as she walked by. "Anton's in one of his moods again," she told her companion under her breath. His words had come automatically, but he no longer believed them. He knew that even if there was no good music out there, people would still buy records. So why had he taken the hard way, and tried to say something meaningful? These days he was often in the company of fashionable people, and he found that he was a natural in their world. He could be both witty and charming, never crossing the line between polite scandal and outrage. Indeed, the real scandal for such people was that he was so well-mannered for such a famous scoundrel. They expected him to play the barbarian, and when he denied them that pleasure, they didn't know what to think. • • • "Now that you're famous," the journalist said, "the whole world knows the power of your words. Where will you take that? What will you do next?" It was the sort of breathless question they were asking him nowadays. "To be honest," he said, "I'm losing interest. I'm not going to write lyrics for teenagers all my life, you know." "But it's what you do!" "It's what I do now. That's not a reason in itself." "Teenagers need someone to express their concerns. Isn't that why you got into this business in the first place?" "How long can I get away with repeating what I already know? The kids will notice if I stop trying. 'Here's that boy again with the guitar tricks.' Are they buying my records because I've got something to say to them, or because they've heard the hype from people like you? I've only got the right to speak for them if I'm making an effort." "But you are making an effort." "I'm not so sure any more." The journalist looked uncomfortable. "Maybe I should try an experiment," Anton told him. "Start over from zero, go back to being a nobody trying to break in. Change my name, my sound, and my look. If I've still got something to say, people will listen. If not, someone else will take over. They'll get over me, forget I exist!" He said this with a cry of triumph. • • • He'd always been quick to take aim at his enemies, but now his worst enemy was himself. He saw all the flaws in his own character. For him the one unforgivable flaw was hypocrisy, and he accused himself of this. He took refuge in missions for Reinhold, which were happening now of their own accord. He was no longer invited to the Citadel for instructions, or given the chance to refuse. Instead he would set off across town on an errand, and suddenly realize he was on a mission. The line between everyday life and the missions was seamless, but he could tell they were missions because they had a logic of their own. People he'd never met already knew him. The goal of the action was clear to everyone but him. He learned to relax and let it happen, in the belief that everything would become clear in time. Even when it didn't, he knew that the mission would be over soon enough, and he would be returned to whatever he'd been doing when it began. He came to enjoy the reality-warping aspects of the situation, which allowed him to squirm out of danger at the last minute. Just as he found himself in a tight spot, the rules of the game would change, or he would receive help from an unexpected source. Whenever this happened, he couldn't help wondering if the consequences were being deferred to a later time. • • • They were pulled over as they sped through a small town in the Nevada desert. Anton told the officer, "It's true that we were doing three times the speed limit, but we were just filming it for a movie." The officer didn't buy that. "If I saw you take a bag of cash from an armored truck, do you think I'd let you go if you said it was for a movie?" "Sure, if we promised to put it back when we were done." He was thrown in a holding cell along with his mates. An hour later, a deputy showed up with a perplexed expression. "The judge dismissed the charges. We have to let you go." The Citadel had done its work. Anton guessed that the judge had been offered a large sum of money, or threatened with the exposure of an embarrassing private vice. • • • They got a call from Kansas City. An event at the Kalashnikov Gallery had been shut down in a surprise raid, and two of their operatives had been caught. "Is the gallery open for business?" Anton asked the caller. "They aren't picking up the phone." "Has anyone been over there to check on things since the bust?" "There's a security perimeter around the neighborhood. The authorities are monitoring everything going into or out of the zone." "Send in a couple of agents to mingle with the bystanders and tourists. Business around the gallery should look normal, got it? All the usual activities should be taking place. If you encounter resistance, note it and back off. Don't be provocative, but test the limits. Is the zone radioactive?" "Like they sprayed repellent all over it. None of our people wants to go there today." "We'll have reinforcements to you by evening. A few of our best will arrive at staggered intervals. In the meantime, pull yourselves together. Where is the precision of your reports? It sounds like your communications have fallen apart." "Samantha and Pietro are in jail!" The voice at the other end dissolved in hysterics. • • • Anton addressed the committee. "Earlier this afternoon, Jesse told me he had reliable information that one of our members is a spy." He turned to Jesse. "Considering that one of us here is a spy, what can you tell us that won't compromise your source? How do you know we can trust him? How did he back up his information?" "Above all, what do you mean by spy?" Samuels interjected. "Someone who places other interests above those of the committee," Jesse said. "Someone who serves an outside master." "You'd better explain yourself, boy," Rogers harrumphed. Jesse shot Anton a nervous glance. "I want to ask first," Anton said, "if any of you has heard rumors like this before and dismissed them out of hand. Have you ever heard people making such claims, that one among us is a traitor?" Rogers coughed. Samuels muttered and turned away. "No, never," came from their old, gray throats. "I have!" shouted Kennedy, a rowdy lad of twelve. Anton knew Kennedy from the Citadel as one of Reinhold's referees. The boy's gaze was frightening because it was all mirrors. He pointed to Goddess Martha and called out, "The birds and the squirrels told me she's the one!" Goddess Martha got to her feet, stumbled a few steps, and shattered as if made of glass. The room filled with shards of light. • • • Anton felt sick at heart. He wanted a new life that was all his own. He wanted to distance himself from the hangers-on, the excessive hype. The problem was that Kliff was responsible for all that, and Kliff was involved in his life at every level. Since they lived together and were regular lovers, it would take him a long time to disentangle himself. The easiest way would be to let Kliff hold onto whatever projects were under way, and make any new plans on his own. He decided to tour the South without a band, playing with local musicians in roadhouses and cafes. It would be the opposite of the Destroyed Teen tour, in which he'd flown from city to city by private jet. It would have the feel of a mission, because in each new town he would be forced to improvise, taking cues from the people who lived there. It might even be a real mission, because the idea had come to him during a conversation with Reinhold. To get in the mood, he worked on Talisman, his first new material in several months. It was one of the "hidden albums" he released clandestinely from time to time. He wanted to remind himself what it felt like to be an outsider. If there was anyone out there who could relate to his music for reasons other than fame, this was their chance. The tour would force him to play with people of unknown abilities, so he recorded the album with inexperienced musicians. This restored his idealism and got him through the summer. To accompany him on the tour, Reinhold offered him the services of Jack Pratt, a robotic young Citadel handler. It was his way of saying that he approved of Anton's efforts to distance himself from Kliff. Now that Anton was a regular at the Citadel and directly involved in its affairs, Kliff's seductive skills were no longer needed. Moreover, he suspected that Kliff had grown too close to Anton, and was sometimes putting Anton's interests above those of the Citadel. He trusted Anton to make decisions about his career without Kliff's guidance, but he still wanted to keep Anton on a tight leash. Anton arrived in Augusta in a motorcade of sorts. He was driven by Sean, his local host, in Sean's mother's sedan, while the rest of the party followed in two other vehicles. They stopped on a quiet street of converted brick warehouses, beside a canal overgrown with ivy and ferns. There were antique stores, tea gardens, and a small dinner theater. They walked to a terrace in the shade of a rustling cottonwood, and sat at two tables pushed together beside the water. Anton leaned back in his metal chair, feet propped on the table, arms crossed behind his head. "Hey fellas, this is nice, but who are you anyway? What's your angle?" He turned to Jack Pratt. "Gimme the scoop, the lowdown, the skinny." Pratt thumbed through the pages of his itinerary. "September 8, Augusta, Georgia. Guest speaker, Friends of Ubu, 1:00 p.m. That's these people. WSUP Chat Line Live, 4:00 p.m. Later there's a dinner with donors and supporters at the home of Dr. Larry Weatherbee, dentist and cosmetician." "Scratch that last one," Anton said. "I don't like dentists." Pratt recoiled. "In the current sector, support from this man is essential." "Why do you Citadel drones always speak in code?" He gestured to his welcoming party, Pocahontas chicks and forthright dudes with clean, unshaven faces. "We're being disrespectful guests." "It's not disrespectful," Sean told him. "Only, some of us probably feel you're right about Weatherbee," he added. Anton gave Pratt a sharp look. "We don't know him real well," said Will, rolling his eyes. Anne popped her gum. "Some folks say he's a real button-down Republican." "A Christian," Will said. "A paying Christian." "His daddy was a Klansman," Sean said, reaching over his shoulder to massage his neck. "You know what they say. It's a tradition that's passed down through the blood." "Is that what you folks believe, here in the South?" "Don't blame me, I'm telling you how it is. You're the one who's got a dinner date with the man." Sean turned to Jack Pratt. "Who else is on that list? Who else is interested in our friend's cause?" Anton set his chair upright. "Who are you Ubu people, anyway? What's this luncheon we're going to? Are you gonna get me on stage and hand me a petition to Support the Cause of a More Just Nation? Or maybe lure me into a photo opportunity with a leper, a local pariah, a boy accused of animal mentalism?" Anne laughed. "You've got an active imagination." "That's how I got where I am." "We're the good guys in this story," Sean told him. "Just come and give a sincere talk, say what's on your mind. At 4:00 we'll go to the radio station to take questions over the air, so anyone in town can hear. That's Melanie here." She waved. "After that, decide what you like about us, and about Weatherbee." He gestured to Pratt. "This monkey of yours says you need Weatherbee's support, but I think different. Of course, that's my unofficial opinion." He looked around him. "Anyone care to differ?" Will growled and coughed. "He's put it in an extreme way, but I think it states our concerns." Anton eyed Pratt uneasily. "We've got an hour to go before the event, and I'd like to eat first. Why don't you go with one of these folks to find me a sandwich?" He looked around at his new companions, seeking a volunteer. His eyes fell upon Anne. She jumped up. "I'll take him. I know the nearest place, and I know the best place. Which would you like?" "Go to the best place. But be back in half an hour." She nodded and started to leave. As she reached the gate she turned back, mouth open. "A meatball sandwich," he specified. She stopped again, confused. "We don't have meatballs in this town." "The ribs, then." She grinned and went out, Pratt trailing behind. A few seconds passed in silence. On the street, car doors slammed and an engine came to life. "Well?" Anton spread his arms, palms up. "Let's say we improvise. How do I slip through the cracks? How can I tour the South without any help from Weatherbee and his gang?" Following his radio appearance that afternoon, he slipped out the back door with the help of his new friends. He played an unscheduled concert that night in a local roadhouse. After spending the night with Will and Anne, he left town the next morning, heading north to Charleston instead of south to Savannah as planned. His collaborators kept Pratt busy with false leads until he was out of reach. He toured without a program for the next couple of weeks, drifting from one group of supporters to the next. In the process, he discovered a divide among Reinhold's agents. People like Pratt and Weatherbee were working from the Colonel's script, but the young people he met were in it for the adventure. If they were aware of the Citadel at all, its influence made them uneasy. They saw Anton as their ally and were eager to help him. Eventually Pratt caught up with him at a diner near Baton Rouge, where he'd stopped for a burger on his way to New Orleans. As they sat at the counter, Pratt tapped his pen against the clipboard he always kept with him. They were supposed to be in Memphis, three hundred miles away. Given Reinhold's network of scouts, it didn't surprise him to see Pratt again. The only surprise was that it had taken so long. He wondered what the consequences of his rebellion would be. Had he inconvenienced Reinhold, or angered him in any way? He doubted it, because for Reinhold, any deviation from the script was part of the script. But one thing was clear, the Citadel had noticed what he'd done. If he handled it right, he could turn it to his advantage. He could tell Reinhold that he'd noticed a conflict within the organization, and had penetrated one of the factions to learn more. He'd wanted to find out if there was a conspiracy against the Citadel. On the other hand, it might be better to keep that information to himself. If some of Reinhold's agents harbored doubts about the organization, he could channel that energy, nurture it, and guide it. One day, he would be in a position to lead a rebellion in the ranks. • • • He returned to Portland thinking about Sabrina's "other channel," her conspiracy within a conspiracy. He wanted to talk to Sebastian about that. Sabrina liked to present herself as an alternative to the Colonel, and he'd flirted with that, but Sebastian had gone all the way. Like him, Sebastian was a rebel, reckless in everything he did. The main difference between them was that until meeting Sabrina, Sebastian had never given any thought to how to package his talent. Sabrina had shown him the way. Sabrina had given him access to her world, exposing him to power and influence he'd never before imagined. She'd promoted his paintings among the culture crowd: insects gobbling cities, insects mating with the TV, insects laying eggs in the president's brain. His rough and ready symbolism was highly prized for a time, as were his unorthodox good looks. He was invited to the best parties, supplied with drugs in daring combinations, and the secret corners of his soul were scraped clean by trendy parasites. Before long, this treatment had reduced him to a vegetable. He'd become a liability, and his fashionable friends abandoned him to the street. Anton knew the rumors of Sebastian's rise and decline, and he blamed himself for not stepping in. He hadn't seen his friend in almost a year. When he called, Sebastian was surprised to hear from him. He seemed to be struggling at the other end of the line with unexpected emotions. "Can I come see you?" Anton said finally. "Sure. Come see me. That would be good." He went to Sebastian's studio and was about to ring the buzzer, when he stepped back and scratched his head. "I need a joint. I need to collect myself." He looked around for a quiet place to smoke. The street was almost deserted. A solitary, middle-aged woman was walking a small dog. He strolled down the block, looking for a secluded spot. He chose an entryway with some steps where he could sit without being seen. He took the joint from his pocket and lit it with lean fingers. As he often did on such occasions, he brooded on mortality and related topics. He wondered how long people would find him beautiful. In his music, he'd created a cult of youth in which beauty was an important force. He shivered at the thought that unless he died young, "someday I will wake up old." He finished the joint and leaned back. From where he sat, he could see rooftops, treetops, and a few stars. He realized he was cold. "Listen to your body and it will take care of you," he thought. He sprang to his feet and left the alcove. Returning to the studio, he pressed the button. The door buzzed open and he took the stairs two at a time. When he reached the second floor, he saw that Sebastian's door was ajar. He pressed against it and went in. Sebastian was sitting on the corner of an old couch, holding a coffee mug in both hands. A second mug waited on a low table. Anton took off his jacket, threw it over the end of the couch, and sat down next to Sebastian in a slouch, legs spread wide. He looked around. Everything was as he remembered it, only there was no sign of activity. Canvasses were stacked in the corners, facing the wall. Dry paintbrushes stood in dusty jars. He put his hands behind his head and sank further onto the couch. "I haven't seen you since that night we ate peaches," Sebastian said. "You turned a poetry reading into a riot." Anton gave a dismayed grin. "Let's not talk about that!" "You have to admit, it felt like the right thing to do at the time." "Of course it was. Those people aren't poets. It's better than letting them spend the rest of their lives imagining they have talent!" A flash of pain showed on Sebastian's face. "Do they really need to know they failed?" Anton realized he'd hit a nerve. "Do you have any tobacco?" he said finally. "You know I only smoke weed." "Let's go buy some." "It's late. Everything's closed." "What's my modeling fee, then?" Sebastian blinked. "Your modeling fee?" "Aren't you're going to paint me?" "Is that what you came here for? I thought you were feeling sorry for me." "I thought painting a glamour boy like me might cheer you up." "You know I don't work from models. I paint dolls, clouds, insects...." He shuddered and trailed off. "Actually, I stopped painting." Anton sprang to his feet and shucked off his clothes. "Let's get to work." "What are you doing?" He was surprised to see Anton already standing naked in the middle of the floor, clothes at his feet. Anton struck a provocative pose, hand on one hip, his body all angles and points. He tossed back his hair in a becoming way. He resembled a pale flame that had come to life at the edge of the circle of light. Sebastian laughed. "You sure got naked in a hurry." "An artist doesn't care about clothes." He toyed with the pile of dirty laundry with the point of his foot. Sebastian shrugged and got up. He guided Anton to a spot by the window where he had an easel. He found a stool for Anton to sit on, switched on a spotlight that hung from the ceiling, and got on a stepladder to adjust it. He went to a corner of the room and pulled out a blank canvas. As he set the canvas on the easel he said, "Want some wine?" "That would be nice." Sebastian went into the kitchen. Through the door, Anton watched him rummage through a cupboard above the counter. He returned with a bottle and a couple of glasses. He handed Anton a glass and poured it for him, then poured one for himself and set the bottle on the floor. He raised his glass in salute and disappeared behind the easel. Anton drained his glass in a couple of swallows and reached for another. He sat there, nostrils flared slightly, the expression in his eyes an insistent challenge. His feet rested on different rungs of the stool. He held himself in a caricature of repose, hand resting on his knee, glass held in front of him as if he were raising it. Sebastian leaned out from behind the easel. "Come on, relax." "I am relaxed! This is the way I am." He shifted his position in search of one even more haughty. "I'm not a photographer. You'll have to find a position you're comfortable with for a couple of hours." Sebastian disappeared again behind the easel and started drawing. Anton could hear his pencil scratching. "I don't know. What do you like?" He tried different arrangements of his shoulders, back, and head. In the process, he drained his glass a second time. Better to drink straight from the bottle, he thought. It would be a long night. He woke up the next morning with paint on his nipples and navel, a sheet tossed over his naked frame. He lay on the floor among brushes and pots of paint, a cushion propped under his head. Sebastian was asleep on the couch, one hand dangling to the floor, a hat pulled over his eyes to keep out the light. The spotlight from the night before was still burning. He got up to switch it off, letting the sheet fall to the floor. He looked around for his clothes. He found his pants and was slipping them on when Sebastian stirred. He turned toward Sebastian as he buttoned his fly. The paint on his chest made a face. "How did this get here?" Sebastian pushed back his hat so he could see better. "I don't remember." He'd found his shirt by now. He slipped it on after making sure the paint was dry. "Say, what happened between you and Sabrina? She dropped you, right? Since then, you've been laying kind of low." Sebastian's voice was barely audible. "She made me popular for a while, but it didn't work." Anton went over and swatted him on the foot. "C'mon, get up." He manipulated his legs, poked him in the chest. Sebastian pushed Anton away and sat up slowly. Because the couch was low to the ground, his knees reached to his chin. He leaned his arms on them, dropped his head in his hands, and raised his eyes to Anton with a haunted look. "She pretended to be my friend...." "But she wasn't." "We messed around. Bondage scenes, orgies, the usual stuff. I met a lot of cool people. She'd tell me, 'This guy likes African art. This chick likes power. Here's what you need to do to make an impression.' I started to freak out because so much was happening. She decided to keep me for herself after that, as a kind of pet. She said, 'Why waste time with those people? I'll take care of you.' And she showed me her garden." Anton's breath caught. "Her garden? You mean the assassins' paradise?" "It's not a paradise. It's a torture garden." He remembered dreaming about Mona, a woman in a black dress, who he recognized as Sabrina in another form. Mona had shown him her garden, her poisoned fruit, her flowers flecked with blood. Screams had filled the air, blending with the sound of a bubbling brook. "Why 'torture garden'?" he said. "Because it takes instead of giving. It feeds on your desire. Instead of filling you up, it leaves you hungry. After a while, you never taste pleasure again. All you know is desire, never release. You get sucked dry." Sebastian's eyes were empty as he spoke. "I'm sorry. You trusted her because of me." "I should have known better. I'm not a kid." His eyes were still haunted, but soon he cheered up. "Last night was fun, huh? You gonna come back so I can finish the painting?" "Of course." Sebastian pulled on his boots. As he laced them, Anton looked around for his shoes and socks. Sebastian ran his fingers through his hair, then mussed it again so it flew in all directions. "Wanna get breakfast? I know a place." Later that day, as Anton thought about what Sebastian had said, he realized that Sabrina was a soul parasite. The stronger a person's drive and creativity, the more valuable it was to her as food. That explained what she wanted from him. He'd been under the illusion that she might help him against Reinhold, but now he knew better. Her torture garden was the same as the assassin's paradise, only it was raised to a new level of cruelty. Some of its victims learned to be feeders themselves, becoming Sabrina's assistants like Peter, Cybele, or Big Joe. Others like Sebastian were too weak, and they remained victims until they were sucked dry. He could see that there was no alternative to Reinhold. Sabrina was part of the same manipulative scheme. The "other channel" she promised was just another form of dependency. She'd encouraged his fantasies of revolt simply to feed on them. If he ever turned on the Colonel, she would be there to guide his efforts. Not only would she would keep him from realizing his dream, she would feed on it to build her power. If he rebelled, he would have to do it alone. <<< Back Table of Contents Next >>>