<<< Back Table of Contents Next >>> 16 Life without Limits Building on the success of Extreme Liberties, the Psychic Rangers began preparing for a European tour. As usual, Kliff did the planning. The band's success had brought him into contact with young promoters like himself from places like Amsterdam, Barcelona and Prague. Mutually beneficial arrangements had been made. As a result, it was easy for him to find venues in Europe where they could play, and people there to publicize the tour. After many grueling months on the road over the spring and summer, the Psychic Rangers had gone their separate ways for a while. Vince had gone on a mountain retreat with his wife and baby daughter. On their return, they moved into a Victorian townhouse in Zombieland. When he finally got back to work, he discovered that he was full of musical ideas. He began to experiment with layered polyrhythms using the xylophone, vibraphone and bells. He reworked several of their old songs and went through them with Blake. They even created some original compositions. Neither of them was good with lyrics, so they hoped that Anton would fill in the words. Anton was absent through all of this. They called to let him know what they were doing, but he rarely picked up the phone. When they did get through, he seemed preoccupied, even annoyed they were bothering him. They began to feel they were better off working on their own. When Anton was in the room, he wanted to control everything. Without him, they communicated with a freedom they hadn't felt since the early days of the band. Anton finally went to see Vince when the tour was just a month away. Vince was eager to show him the results of his experiments. It was the first time he'd taken the lead in something new. He invited Anton to the guest house in the garden, which he'd converted into a studio. Diane brought them tea and biscuits, the baby strapped to her back. Once she was gone, he ran through the changes he'd been making as Anton paced impatiently. Instead of picking up an instrument to join in, Anton raised his hand after a few minutes and told him to stop. "Why are you bothering with that? Those are last year's songs. They're not important now." "We'll be playing them in Europe." "That's just a formality." "We thought we'd experiment, try out some new ideas." "You mean the xylophones and stuff? It sounds hokey to me." "Blake likes it. We worked on it together." "Those songs are supposed to be raw and angry. What you've done is decorate them. It doesn't fit." "We wrote some new songs, too." "Don't you get it? We don't have time for that now. We've got a tour coming up in less than a month and you guys are screwing around." "We've been rehearsing for weeks. Where were you all this time?" "Was I wrong to blow it off? You're drifting, dude. As soon as we get this tour over with, I've got plenty of ideas for where to go next." "Are you the only one with ideas in this band?" "It looks that way." Vince stared at him in silence. Though he was calm on the surface, he was quietly steaming. For over two years, he'd contributed everything he had to the Psychic Rangers, and this was what he got in return? Ambitious people like Anton usually understood that they couldn't get anywhere on their own. They had to make the people they were working with feel appreciated. In the past, Anton had applied all his charisma to this purpose. Now he didn't seem to care, as though he could get whatever he wanted without any effort. It was almost as if he were daring Vince to break up the band. Vince played with the idea in his mind. What would he lose? He'd been looking forward to the European tour, but he could go to Europe anytime. Without the Psychic Rangers, he could spend more time with his daughter. He could play music or not, as he liked. He could tend the garden, or catch up on his reading. He could open an antiquarian bookstore. He felt like he was being goaded into it, but he rebelled. "It sounds like you don't need us any more, and I've kind of gotten used to my independence. So we'd better rethink this, whether we're still a band." More than Vince's words, it was the look in his eyes that made Anton realize what was happening. He figured he could still fix things, but he didn't try. They shook hands abruptly and Anton let himself out. "Quitter," he thought as he walked down the garden path. When Vince told him what had happened, Blake wasn't surprised. It had been obvious to both of them for some time that Anton had changed. He was in it for himself now. The proof was that he'd refused to save the group with a small apology. Blake realized there was no more Psychic Rangers to be loyal to, so he joined Vince's decision. He didn't even bother explaining himself to Anton. It was too late for that. Now Anton had a problem, because he would be touring in a month and he needed musicians. He could cancel the tour, but that would be expensive and embarrassing. He decided to hire a couple of prettyboys who knew enough to play a few notes. He didn't want to involve them in the creative part of what he was doing, he just needed a gutsy, mind-numbing groove to lay his music over. "I need meatheads," he told Kliff. "A blond one and a dark-haired one. Nineteen to twenty years old. Recruited by me, and dedicated to me!" His eyes threw off silver sparks. Kliff brought him Matt from Oregon and Andy from Tennessee, a tag-team act of bass and drums. Matt had grown up half wild on a remote river, catching badgers for food. Andy was from a religious community that had avoided mixing their blood for generations. Andy's people considered him a mutant, but he had adaptations that allowed him to travel. He was sociable, well suited to life in the cities. Both of them were wounded a bit by their background and upbringing, and Anton liked that. Rehearsals went smoothly, because they'd listened to Fever Dreams and Extreme Liberties so often that they knew their parts by heart. Anton was only asking them to repeat what they'd practiced so many times on their own. Because Matt played bass, Anton switched to guitar which he'd been wanting to do anyway. The downside was that their playing sounded exactly like the recorded version. The inspired variations he was used to from Blake and Vince just weren't there. At times he was on the verge of anger, but he would bite his lip and say calmly, "Let's try that again." Kliff wanted them to keep the name Psychic Rangers, but Anton said no. It wasn't the same group, or even the same idea. The Psychic Rangers had been born in the spirit of Trashtown, and had survived by carrying that spirit forward in new ways. To present Matt and Andy as the inheritors of that legacy would be a lie. Besides, he was convinced the didn't need the name Psychic Rangers to sell his music. His own name would be enough. He deliberately let the argument rage for a few days, until tempers flared and nerves frayed on the subject, then he stepped into the breach. "The name of our band is Hermaphrodite Goat," he said to end the debate. They flew to Europe. It was the first time Anton had been in an airport, and he decided he didn't like them. They were a dead zone, a limbo where time was suspended. After passing through the inquisitive fingers of security, travelers found themselves in an idyllic world, an international crossroads more familiar than their own home. In such an environment, they felt they were on the same level no matter where they were from, and romances blossomed. A Pakistani engineer met a German biologist, an Israeli exchange student met a Japanese painter. Smiles led to kisses, and kisses led to children who would come to the airport themselves one day to meet their mates. Anton had no patience for any of this. His decision to tour with prettyboys instead of the band who'd recorded the album led some European critics to praise his "brilliant deconstruction of the hype inherent in popular music," while others jeered him as a poser and a prima donna. He felt out of place on stage, as if an invisible wall separated him from the audience. Something was missing, the passionate connection with his fans that he took for granted back home. At first he thought it was because Blake and Vince weren't with him, but he finally decided it wasn't that. His message just didn't work in Europe. He'd held up the flame, but Europe didn't burn. On his return, he felt adrift. He missed playing with musicians who were talented in their own right, but begging Vince and Blake to come back was out of the question. For the first time since arriving in Portland, he was unsure what to do next. Because of his success, he could no longer stand with the downtrodden rabble and demand the keys to the palace. No one would believe him if he did that. It made more sense to work with people who were already powerful, like Colonel Reinhold. Injecting himself into the popular consciousness would be easier that way. He was obsessed with surpassing himself, and it got harder each time. He wanted to be more than a musician. He wanted his name and image to have a transformative effect. "I want to sweep the world along with my passion. That's the only way. Only when it's caught up in passion will the world change." He imagined himself as a kind of global superhero, a cartoon character who showed up on cereal boxes in Japan, Lithuania and Brazil. Children around the world would eat Anton Flakes and dream of revolution. It occurred to him that if he wanted to multiply his influence, he could have many bands, like a fashion designer with different lines of clothing. But he was feeling fragmented enough already, and that would only make it worse. Then he realized he could do it sequentially, instead of all at once. With each new album, he would introduce a band with an entirely new sound, dedicated to a weird subgenre of its own. He would create endless mutations of style and attitude, or "stylitude" as he called it when he wanted to annoy people. No doubt his fans would soon be repeating that word as if it were cool. He would hear his own lame invention flung back at him from a million mouths. • • • He went to see Sebastian, who had broken up with Melissa and was now a nervous wreck. They sought consolation in a bottle of red wine and a bag of weed. After a while that wasn't enough for Sebastian, who suggested dropping acid as well. Anton agreed it would be fun. As the acid made itself felt, the boundary between their bodies and the world became electric. They realized it was poetry night at the Community Project, and Melissa would be there. They could heckle her. They decided to go. They arrived just as people were settling into their chairs. Cybele greeted them at the door and showed them to seats near the back. Sebastian was fascinated by her breasts, which he called peaches. "Check out her peaches," he whispered to Anton. Then he told her directly, "With all due respect, ma'am, I'd like to taste your peaches." Anton laughed. Cybele glided away, saying nothing. As they sat down, Sebastian stumbled over his chair, making a noise that turned heads throughout the hall. It made Anton self-conscious, and the acid multiplied the effect. He saw Sebastian and himself as icons of shabby glamor. Sebastian's threadbare jacket was lined with silk, frayed at the edges and meticulously mended. An old scarf was tossed around his neck. Anton wore a rust-colored sweater and dark olive slacks. The colors looked good on him, and he knew it. Peter stepped to the microphone. "Tonight's reading is themeless." Two girls with lots of hair were jostling in the aisle, blocking Anton's view. "Hurry up and get out of there!" Anton said in a strangled voice, just as the first reader took the stage. He pulled a peach from his satchel and bit into it. It was a perfect gesture, speaking of isolation and self-containment. "Peaches!" Sebastian said, staring at him in astonishment. He laughed and handed Sebastian a peach of his own. The audience shifted politely, some waiting their turn, others there to support their friends. As the minutes wore on, Anton grew restless. He felt stifled, and his sweater made him itch. Sebastian was restless too, whispering whatever came into his head. When the lady at the microphone mentioned insects, he said excitedly, "The ants are talking to me again. They say Melissa is a torturess." People shot him angry looks. Next came a poem about gender identity. It kept repeating the refrain, "Let x equal y." "Why should x equal y?" Sebastian commented. "Let x equal peaches!" One or two people shushed him. "Please be quiet," someone said. "He's not talking to you," Anton shot back. "Show some respect." "You show respect. If you listen to him you might learn something." The poem droned to its conclusion, and next up was Melissa. She was sitting in front, so they didn't see her until she took the stage. She glared at them before beginning. "This poem is about the baby I'll have one day, and the world of peace I'd like it to live in." To my unborn baby.... "Hey, that's original," Anton said. He didn't mean for her to hear him, but it was audible throughout the hall. She started over in a higher register. To my unborn baby, Whose eyes have not yet seen a mother's tears When her son doesn't return from war.... "I hope your baby is born blind," Anton said. "Will you be quiet!" someone told him. "Respect the poets," said another. "No, wait, it gets better," Sebastian was saying. "She read it to me once, it's really special." Melissa tried to power through the disruption by raising her voice. Whose heart has never felt the shame of knowing That brown eyes and blue eyes and black eyes Yellow skin and brown skin and pink skin Aren't the same to all people.... Anton stood up. "Who are you kidding, this sucks!" "Do you have something better?" someone challenged. "How can you sit there and listen to this? This is awful beyond words." Peter took the microphone, coughing to get people's attention. "I think we should respect the poets, and save the discussion for after the reading." "Maybe the poets should respect us," Anton answered him. "If somebody's pissing on my shoes, I'm gonna get mad." "Anton, can we save this for after the reading? These may not be the feelings of everyone in the room. I really think we should respect the poets." "Do you have something better?" the challenge came again. "Yeah, put up or shut up. If you don't have something better, you shouldn't criticize." "Of course I've got something better! My ass can make better poetry than that." "Let the young woman finish," came a prim voice. "Anton, you're not on the reading list," Peter said into the microphone. "I think we should just stick to the program." "So let's hear it," said the challenger, overruling Peter. "Yeah, let's see what the kid's got." "I didn't compose something for the occasion," Anton said bitingly. "I didn't come with a manuscript. I've just got my brain on." "Okay, then." "Well, okay." He took a breath and began. Once I've learned to thread the bow of time And pull it taut, once I've learned to pluck it In all its intervals, its natural harmonies Then I will let the arrow fly. Let time begin! Let the song of the arrow pierce the heavens. Let the song of the arrow be the seed For a new drama, a new arc of history. Let the plagues come, the floods and the fire, Let our proud cities be encased in ice. Let armies of unwashed peoples swarm our shores As courtesans and hypocrites dance On balconies against the dying light. Let my thoughts sing as if exploding this building, Let the world blow up and carry this song. Let the intensity of this moment penetrate all other moments. Let the agony of this moment be an impossible joy! Let it all happen, let it come down. The arrow has been launched The dagger has been cast The spear is in flight. Sebastian gave a joyous trill, and chaos broke out. Some people applauded, others heckled the applauders. Melissa tried to start again from the beginning, but no one was listening. Someone yelled at her, "The kid won! Get off the stage." A young man stood up and began to recite his poetry in one corner of the room. A young woman did the same and their lines wove together, each filling the spaces left by the other. A rhythm formed. Not to be outdone, other poets joined in with scattered phrases. "Respect the poets," someone said, half singing, and it became a refrain. "Respect the po-ets...! Respect the po-ets...!" People drummed on their metal chairs, and Sebastian continued his wild trills. An argument swirled around Melissa, who stood at the front of the hall just below the stage. She made stiff arm gestures and shrilled wildly, as Peter and some of her friends tried to calm her down. Someone shouted at her, "Just deal with it." Finally she stormed out of the room with her entourage. Anton got caught up in a fight. Some people tried to push him into the street, yelling that he was nothing but a showoff who should learn some manners. He pushed back and managed to hold his own. Sebastian danced around the battle scene emitting war whoops, which wasn't very helpful. A jazz interlude followed. Anton wasn't sure if it had happened, but he could remember a jazz piano and a sultry female voice. The room filled with tender warmth, a crimson glow, a feeling of despair and longing. People grew wistful, enraptured. Some even started dancing. Once it was over, many were reluctant to leave, standing around talking in small groups. He saw Sabrina off to one side in her Blues Singer dress, and realized that she had been the source of the glow. She was chatting with Sebastian, who seemed to have fallen under her spell. His eyes glistened, and he nodded at everything she said. "I'm an agent," Sabrina was saying as Anton approached. "You can be cultivated. I have connections in the art world who can help you." "I paint insects," Sebastian told her. "Insects and clouds. Sometimes I glue baby heads to the canvas. You should come by my studio and see." "Just bring them here. If we like them, we'll put them up." She gestured around the walls, where there was already a collection of young people's art—monkeys in ruined temples, spraypainted buddhas, hermaphrodites with spiky hair. "How would I get them here? They're too big." "Bring one or two. If you need help, we'll send someone." She turned to Anton, who was standing next to her. "I want to congratulate you on the ruckus you made tonight. We haven't had such excitement in a long time." "I see you've discovered Sebastian." "To be honest, I've known about him since Trashtown. He's evolving nicely, don't you think? I suppose it's time I gave him a little boost." Sebastian's attention had wandered, as if they were talking on a wavelength he couldn't hear. His eyes followed Cybele as she glided about, collecting chairs and stacking them by the stage. He drifted toward her, stopping at a respectful distance and swaying gently. Anton remembered what Sabrina had told him about the assassins' paradise. "If you're trying to recruit him into Reinhold's army, I've got a problem with that." "He'd make a good volunteer, don't you think? He's precocious and good looking, which is our demographic right there. But he's docile, not obnoxious like you." "Once the volunteers get a taste of the garden, they're desperate to get back there at any cost. So they aren't really volunteers, are they?" "You're trying to protect your friend. That's loyal of you. But remember, not everyone gets a chance to enter the garden, and the ones who are invited can refuse. Shouldn't you let him choose for himself?" The acid was still working on Anton, otherwise he would have said that a person can't choose unless he knows what he's choosing. Instead he just stood there, flummoxed. She took advantage of his confusion to change the subject. "Speaking of Reinhold, I hear you've been in communication with him." He laughed. "You mean the payoff? The suitcase full of cash?" "The strategy I laid out for you is working. The Colonel is showing his hand more and more. He knows I've taken an interest in you, and he's trying to win you back. There'll be more of that to come." He marveled at the fierceness in her eyes. "You're always anticipating the next step, aren't you? Looking to the inevitable catastrophe at the end of the road. The squalor of everyday events doesn't seem to interest you. It can't compare with the seed of perfection you carry inside you. You never lose track of your reason for being here in the world." She was amused. "You're describing yourself, you know." "That occurred to me while I was speaking. Only I'm a full-grown tree of perfection you'd like to chop down." "Who says I'm your adversary?" "That's how it's written. It's your job to keep an eye on me, keep things under control." "We could rewrite the script—or go off the script into a zone where nothing is written." "That would be dangerous." "I thought you liked danger." He shot her an intrigued look. "You want me to spy on him? I'm his heir apparent or something, so you think I can get access to him you don't have. You want me to infiltrate his command center, be your man on the inside." "You forget, dear, I'm already on the inside. The command center is no secret to me. You don't even know its name. All I want is for you to keep your eyes open, more for your sake than for mine. You should be thinking more about the future. At some point, you'll have a decision to make. When you do, it'll be better to have as much information as you can. You'll make a better decision that way. So by all means look around you, ask questions, find out what you can. Do it for yourself. I already know." She signaled Peter. He began moving the last stragglers toward the door. "As for being heir apparent, don't even start. For one thing, Reinhold is planning to outlive us all. You wouldn't believe me at first when I said he was grooming you. Now you're calling yourself the heir apparent! All I can say is, that's typical of you. You can't imagine a story you aren't the center of. So yes, you're an important player. Act like a prince and the carpet will be laid down, bugles will sound, lilies will be scattered as you walk by. Enjoy it while it lasts, and see where it takes you. But be warned, there is no heir apparent. No one is indispensable to Reinhold." Cybele finished putting away chairs and drifted from the room. With nothing left to gawk at, Sebastian returned to them like a gangly puppy. Anton took his arm and guided him to the door. He kept looking back at Sabrina, as if unwilling to break the spell. "Don't forget the paintings," she reminded him as they left. • • • "Did you know Champion's mad at me?" Reinhold was saying. "He says that protégé of mine lost him one of his best clients—Vince Dubious, drummer. Seems that young man's career held a lot promise until recently. But his falling out with Anton caused his prospects to plummet." He was seated across from Kliff in a stylish bar in London. He wore a pale gray banker's suit and glasses with a rose tint. Kliff was dressed in a velvet jacket, dark corduroys and riding boots. His hands rested on the silver ball of a walking stick. He leaned his chin there, gazing at the Colonel. The dark growth on his upper lip had been joined by another on his chin. He had the air of a primitive who'd stumbled upon style without understanding it. Johnny Champion, like Sabrina, was one of Reinhold's referees, a member of his innermost circle. His specialty was heroin, harvested on plantations in Southeast Asia, and brought into the country using the CIA's own drug-running planes and airstrips. Vince was one of Champion's preferred clients, because in addition to his own and Diane's habits, he provided for a number of friends and hangers-on. Champion called this "the miracle of the loaves and fishes" due to Vince's ability to feed a multiplying hunger. In order to connect with the rebel youth who were his main target, Champion fashioned himself as an activist with dark glasses who could be found on the sidelines at rallies, always ready to organize legal help for those arrested. When Vince's career was on the rise as the drummer for the Psychic Rangers, he'd seen the chance to grab a wide swath of the market, not just in Portland but throughout the nation. Heroin would be fashionable again! He'd increased his production in Burma, figuring he would soon be the supplier of choice to America's fashion and art worlds. Now this dream had been swept away. "Tell Champion to chill," was Kliff's advice. "He's reading it wrong. Vince is the best drummer on the West Coast. He's got a lot of bounce. Give it a few weeks, a few months maybe. Once people get over their shock and realize he's available, he'll be snapped up. Or he'll make a career of his own. It's a shame, though. I told Anton it was a mistake." "Then why did he do it? If Dubious is the best drummer around, why let him go?" "And Blake, who's also the best." "It's crazy! Why is he doing that? It's self-sabotage." Kliff shrugged. "That's how he is." He told the Colonel there was little he could do to change the situation. All three musicians were determined not to look back. What had made it work in the past had been shattered. Vince and Blake still got together for the occasional jam session, but the breach with Anton was stronger. Even an ultimatum wouldn't work. Reinhold showed his displeasure. "I hope our young protégé won't turn into a problem case. We need to build momentum in his career, because without it, people will drift away to some other thing. The European tour was a disappointment. If we're in a rough patch now, his ego is to blame. He's got an exaggerated sense of his own importance. That's an opportunity for us, and a danger. We need to harness that energy, make sure it's working in our favor. Is he still seeing Sabrina?" "I'm afraid so." By now, Kliff knew that the Community Project was Sabrina's base in Portland, and that Anton was a regular there. "Why I brought her onto my team is beyond me," Reinhold hissed. "She does this sort of thing out of spite. She's ruining the boy's innocence. Already he knows too much to keep in the dark. It's either tell him everything, or destroy him. I guess that's what she wants." A look of alarm flashed on Kliff's face. "Here's what we'll do. We'll bring him to the Citadel, and let him see the inner workings of our empire. Give him a sense of what's at stake. I'll invite him into the inner circle, and let him take part in our decisions at the highest level. My guess is, he'll jump at the chance. If he doesn't, then I've underestimated him, and he's worthless to me." He removed his rose-colored glasses and polished them with a tissue. He put them back on, shinier than ever. "Your role is to prepare him for his visit. Entice him, seduce him, whatever it takes. I want him at the Citadel in a few weeks." • • • Kliff walked with Anton on a busy street. A girl stood at the corner, her back to them, a CD player on her hip. She wore earphones and was bopping to the music. Kliff got a glint in his eye. "Wanna see something? Wait here." He approached her from behind as Anton stood watching. Unseen by her, he reached around to the CD player and switched it off. She fell to the sidewalk and lay there, crumpled and still. He returned to Anton, grinning. "Jesus," Anton said. "What happened?" "You see that? They're robots, not human. I just turned her off." "Jesus." "C'mon, before we make a scene." They walked around the girl, keeping a safe distance. A couple of people stopped and stood over her, looking confused. They turned down an alley. "Hey, wait a minute!" Anton said. "Who's a robot? Women? People with headphones?" "Women," Kliff said with a wry smile. "Only most of them can't be turned off. Once they get older, they get smarter about it." "You're crazy." "You saw for yourself. Women are spies, robotic decoys. They're not to be trusted. Take Sabrina, for instance. I know you're still seeing her. I can smell her on you, even now." It was the first time he'd confronted Anton about this. "Don't think I'm saying it out of jealousy. I just want to warn you that women are dangerous. They don't have souls, like we do. They're a tactic Reinhold uses to divide us from each other, here on earth." "Reinhold? What's he got to do with it?" "He controls them. He invented them. So watch out for women, is all I'm saying." "You're a rebel within the ranks." Kliff shuffled his feet nervously. "I don't have a grudge against Reinhold. But we're free agents, you understand. I learned long ago to look out for my own interests. I've got the best instincts in the world for dodging bullets and shit like that." Anton rubbed his eyes. "If Reinhold invented women just to lure us from our goal—" "Then resistance is futile!" By now they were walking again. Kliff gestured to a doorway that led to an empty lot. A building had been torn down, leaving only the facade. He stepped through, and Anton followed. They were in a whirling, chaotic, multilevel club. Music pulsed and throbbed obsessively. Lava lamps adorned the tables, and the booths were upholstered in shimmering hues. The lights were dim, recessed. A girl with a tube top and bell bottoms walked by with a tray of cigarettes and candy. A bald German with a delicate, cruel nose stood behind the bar with his arms crossed. At a nod from him, a young man with a ponytail stepped forward. They were escorted to a private booth on the balcony, away from the melee. "How do you like the change of scene?" Kliff grinned. "Sweet. I wonder if they'll remember me the next time I come in?" "If you can find it again. It's here now though, so enjoy it. Didn't I tell you I was your magic boy?" Two beers showed up on the table without human intervention. "Don't try to stun me with your carnival tricks. All I know is I'm not in Iowa, and life never seemed so grand." He offered a toast. "To a life without limits." "To a life without limits." Their bottles touched. Kliff leaned forward and whispered, "Be honest with me, though. Isn't this a bit strange to you? Doesn't it bother you that nothing ever happens like it should? Doesn't it seem awfully chaotic?" "Where I grew up, people had a lack of imagination. I've always expected this, frankly. Why else would I have left home?" Kliff reached in his jacket and brought out an antique cigarette case with an intricate clasp, its engraved silver surface worn almost smooth. "Where'd you get that?" "The Romanovs. You know, the Russian royal family?" "Weren't they all shot?" "Exactly. For a while I was seeing a Russian arms merchant. His father used to be an official in the Soviet state. I guess you could say he gave me this as a parting gift." "You mean you stole it." He was getting better at decoding. "I was worth it." Kliff flipped open the case to reveal a row of thin, carefully made hand-rolled cigarettes. Moving his finger along the row, he selected one for himself and another for Anton. Anton took his, ran it delicately under his nose, and slipped it behind his ear. Kliff studied his reflection in the surface of the case before snapping it shut and returning it to his pocket. He lit his own cigarette, drawing a leg under him on the seat to get comfortable. Anton was brooding. Despite what he'd said to Kliff, he had doubts. A life without limits was effortless. And if it was effortless, how would he know he'd earned it? "I want to believe that things mean something, that they add up." "There's six billion people out there. You're unique, but so are the rest of them. We're nothing but molecules, molecules with attitude." He slid closer, gripping Anton's arm. "As talented as you are, you'll vanish one day. You've got no more say in it than the rest of us. On the other hand, your molecules will still be here. They'll just get spread out over time, like a planet expanding slowly. If our consciousness can survive that way, in our molecules, we can evolve into gods. I'd like to try that." Anton wanted to slap him. What right did they have to talk like this, whores that they were? He took him by the shoulders, unsure whether to hold him or push him away. Kliff looked in his eyes and said gently, "Life is meant to be good, Anton. We just have to keep insisting to make it happen." Anton drained his beer and stood up. "Let's get out of here." They went for a walk by the river. Kliff was in a confessional mood, so he pointed out the haunts of his misspent youth. "This was where I used to come to sniff glue. This is where I gave my first blowjob. That wooden shack is where I first met Reinhold." They found a way to climb onto the substructure of one of the bridges. Nestled in the girders a hundred feet above the water, they listened to the whir of traffic overhead. On the roof of a warehouse directly across from them was a billboard that read, "Act on Feelings and Sensations." "That can be dangerous," Anton said in alarm. "Sometimes it can result in death." "Like when?" "Like now, if we jumped. Like when you have an impulse of vertigo, a desire to fall endlessly, and you happen to be in a high place. Right this minute, impulse and opportunity match perfectly." "Then do it. Don't stifle what was meant to be." "But I'll die." "So what? The act will live. And you'll have the satisfaction of knowing that every particle of you will be recycled somewhere in the universe." "People will laugh at my body, smashed to bits on the rocks." "Their deaths will be laughable too. Who says death by cancer is pretty?" Anton was in exactly the right mood, and Kliff knew it was time. When they returned home, Anton invited him up to the studio. As Anton fumbled with the keys, all Kliff had to was touch his arm. Anton turned toward him, and their lips almost touched. Seeing Kliff there at close range, Anton grabbed him and slammed him against the wall, a hand fumbling under his shirt. A flood of emotions poured out of him all at once. Kliff showed him what it was like to possess another human being completely, to know every brainwave, every molecule of flesh. Perhaps for the first time, Anton felt satisfied, understood, inside and out. He realized that what drew him to women was that they remained out of reach. They weren't really there, they danced away laughing. With Kliff, it was different. "Why did we wait so long?" he asked in amazement. Their lovemaking went on for days after that, interrupted only by deliveries of Thai food and moments when Anton felt like playing the guitar. During one of these intervals, Kliff got out of bed to take a shower and freshen up. He left his address book on the table, open to the notation, "Pathway to the Citadel." Anton noticed this when he reached for a hit of weed. He saw a diagram marked with obscure comments, such as "transparent hum" and "sharp angle dropoff." He memorized the details as he packed his pipe. Kliff emerged from the shower smelling like cinnamon and musk. The spring air was perfect in every way. The day was warm and promised to get warmer. The colors were oily and rich, dripping from the objects to which they were attached. Anton moved his hand in a crescendo of sound and light. "The slightest move has a magical effect," he was thinking, as he stared directly into Kliff's bright grin. He was eager to taste Kliff again. They would merge together to the point of bursting, their faces would change places, their spines would meld. They would flip inside out like a glove. While all this was happening, he kept repeating in his mind the phrases he'd read, over and over like a mantra. He could imagine that Kliff was repeating them too. • • • In his room at the mental hospital, Timmins looked up from what he was writing and stared out the window. "I'm not sure if this is a letter to you," he said softly, "or if I'm hearing voices in my head." There were moments when Anton's life bled into his own in such a way that it was impossible to separate the two, like a dream that wouldn't go away even when he was awake. The broken tune the gardener hummed as he trimmed the shrubs had shown up later in one of Anton's songs. The patterns of cloud and light he saw from his window were the same ones that had inspired "The Omen." Surely a great omen People stand and stare But who can understand What's written there? Words burned in the sky There for all to see But who can read them? Not you, not me. He wanted to let Anton know that it was time to buy the plain white farmhouse by the river. The widow who had lived there for many years was dead, and her children had just put it up for sale. No one had told him, but he knew. He also knew that Anton's career was about to enter a stormy period. The time of tragedy and overreaching had begun. The old widow had died none too soon, because with all the difficulties on the horizon, Anton would soon be too distracted to worry about him. Timmins would have liked for the world to be a happier place, but it was out of his hands. He suspected himself of having created the universe when he was still in the cradle, and now it was unfolding. If there were parts of it he didn't like, he had only himself to blame. <<< Back Table of Contents Next >>>