<<< Back Table of Contents Next >>> 21 Lost Simplicity When Becky walked out on Anton, it destroyed the last of his illusions. His talk of youthful rebellion had been a sham, nothing more than a clever way of fooling himself and others. The Trashtown movement had failed, or dispersed into a hundred streams of self-promotion. His own career was a success, but that 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. He'd always told himself he was doing it for Timmins, but now that Timmins had his house by the river, he'd done all he could on that score. Becky was right to say that Timmins didn't belong in Portland. His cynical opportunism was the opposite of what Timmins needed. 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. Perhaps it was the first time in his life he'd been turned down. Why had he wanted to be famous? To spread a transcendent vision across America and the world. Young people everywhere would set themselves on fire, 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 feeling 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. Until Becky's visit, it had never happened. People had simply assumed he was wearing armor. Becky was the first person to pierce his armor, because she had seen he didn't have any. He found himself yearning for lost simplicity. What was it like to be on the outside looking in? He missed the feeling of being alone in a strange place, of wanting something he couldn't have. He'd identified with that once, 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 had been raised on the shoulders of the many. Now he would never again be invisible. Late one night as he met with Timmins, he confessed his doubts. "I've lost the sense that a song I created 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. Sure, money's part of it, but that's not what I do it for. I do it for—hell, you know—for 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...." The words came 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? A magazine editor overheard him as she walked by. "Anton's in one of his moods again," she told her companion under her breath. These days he was often in the company of fashionable people, and he found that he was a natural in their world. If he was at ease with the role he'd put on for the evening, 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 this 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 breathless sort of question they were asking him nowadays. He surprised himself by telling the truth. "To be honest, 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." "But 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 already of me? I've only got the right to speak for them if I'm making an effort." "You are making an effort." "I'm not so sure any more." The journalist looked uneasy, so Anton tried to help him out. "Let's make an experiment. I'll start over again from zero, go back to being a nobody trying to break in. If I've got something to say, people will listen. If not, someone else will take over the role. They'll get over me, forget I exist." He said this with a cry of triumph. • • • He was on the verge of a crisis, one he was sure would prove he was hollow. 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. Instead the missions began without warning. He would set off across town on an errand, and suddenly realize he was on a mission. He recognized them as 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, on the assumption that everything would become clear in time. Even if it didn't, the mission would be over soon enough, and he would be returned to whatever he'd been doing before. It wasn't always easy to distinguish between missions and everyday life, so he stopped trying. In fact he came to enjoy the reality-warping aspects of the situation, which allowed him to squirm out of tight spots at the last minute. Whenever that happened, he wondered if the consequences he'd avoided had simply been deferred to a later time. • • • They were stopped for speeding as they tore through a small town in the Nevada desert. He told the officer who pulled them over, "It's true we were doing three times the speed limit, but we were just filming it for a movie." The officer wasn't buying it. "If I saw you take a bag of cash from an armored truck, do you think I'd let you go if you said you were doing it 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 behind the scenes. Either the judge had been offered a lot of money to drop the matter, or he'd been 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 now?" he 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?" "It's like they sprayed repellent all over it. None of our people want to go there today." "We'll have reinforcements to you by this 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. • • • He 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 we 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 this 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, has any of you heard such rumors 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; he was one of Reinhold's referees. The boy's gaze was frightening because it was all mirrors. He pointed at 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. • • • He was tired and sick at heart. He wanted a new life that was more 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. They lived together, after all, so it would take him a long time to disentangle himself. The easiest way would be to let Kliff hold onto whatever projects were already 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 a form of repentance for the Destroyed Teen tour, which had seen him flying from city to city on a 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. In fact it probably was a 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 almost a year. It was one of his "hidden albums" that he released clandestinely from time to time. He wanted to remind himself what it felt like to be an outsider, full of uncertainty. If there was anyone out there who could relate to his music for reasons other than fame, this was their chance. Because the tour would force him to play with people of unknown abilities, he recorded the album with inexperienced musicians. Their playing made him wince at times, but the project restored his idealism and got him through the summer. To accompany him on the tour, Reinhold offered him the services of a Citadel handler, a robotic young mercenary named Jack Pratt. It was his way of saying that he supported 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 Kliff of divided loyalties. He felt confident that Anton could make decisions about his career without Kliff's guidance, but he still wanted to keep him on a tight leash. Anton arrived in Augusta in a motorcade of sorts. He rode beside Sean, his local host, in his mother's sedan. The rest of the party followed in two other vehicles. They stopped on a quiet downtown street of converted brick warehouses, along a canal overgrown with ivy and ferns. There were tea gardens, antique stores, and a small dinner theatre. They walked to a cafe terrace in the shade of a rustling cottonwood, and sat at two tables pushed together beside the water. He leaned back in his metal chair, feet propped on the table, arms crossed behind his head. "Say fellas, this is nice, but who are you anyway? What's your angle?" He turned to Jack Pratt. "Give me the scoop, the lowdown, the skinny." Pratt thumbed through the pages of his itinerary. "Augusta, Georgia, September 8. 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. I don't like dentists." Pratt recoiled in horror. "In the current sector, support from that man is essential." "Why do you Citadel drones always speak in code?" He gestured to his welcoming party, slacker chicks and forthright dudes with clean, unshaven faces. "We're being disrespectful guests." "Not disrespectful," Sean said. "Only some of us probably feel you're right about Weatherbee," he blurted in a rapid mumble. Anton gave Pratt a narrow stare. "We don't know him real well," said Will, another of his hosts, rolling his eyes. Anne popped her gum. "Some people say he's a real button-down Republican." "A Christian," Will said. "A paying Christian." "His daddy was a Klansman." Sean reached over his shoulder to massage his back. "You know what they say. It's a tradition passed down through the blood." "Is that what you folks believe, here in the South?" "Don't blame me, I'm just reporting. You're the one who's got a dinner date with the man." Sean challenged 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?" "You've got an active imagination," Anne laughed. "That's what they pay me for." "We're the good guys in this story," Sean said. "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 phone, so anyone in town can hear. That's Melanie here." She waved. "After that, decide what you want 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 and find me a sandwich?" He looked in anticipation at the faces of 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?" That afternoon, after his radio appearance, he slipped out the back door of the studio with the help of his new friends. He played an unscheduled concert that night in a local bar. After spending the night with Will and Anne, he left town the next morning, heading north to Columbia instead of south to Savannah as planned. His collaborators kept Pratt busy with false leads until he was out of reach. For the next several days he toured without a program, drifting from one group of supporters to the next. He discovered a generational divide among Reinhold's agents. People like Weatherbee were working from the Colonel's script, but the kids he was meeting were in it for the adventure. If they were aware of the Citadel at all, its influence made them uneasy. They saw Anton as a natural ally and were eager to help him. Eventually Pratt caught up with him at a diner where he'd stopped for a burger on his way to New Orleans. As they sat at the counter, Pratt tapped his pen impatiently 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. He was only surprised it had taken so long. He wondered what the consequences would be of his rebellion. Had he inconvenienced Reinhold, or angered him in any way? He doubted it. Yet 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 in 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, perhaps he should keep that information to himself. He realized now that some of Reinhold's younger agents harbored doubts about the organization. If he could channel that energy, nurture it and guide it, 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. Would she be willing to join him? He decided to ask Sebastian about that. Sabrina had always held herself out as an alternative to the Colonel, and Anton had flirted with that, but Sebastian had gone all the way. Like him, Sebastian was a rebel, reckless in everything he did. The difference between them was that until meeting Sabrina, Sebastian had never given any thought to how to package himself. He'd chosen to remain poor, and that kept him free. Sabrina had shown him a new way. She'd given him access to her world, exposing him to power and influence he'd never before imagined. The culture crowd was smitten with his paintings of insects. Insects gobbling cities, insects mating with the TV, insects laying eggs in the president's brain. His rough and ready symbolism was highly prized, as were his unorthodox good looks. "I love the body of the proletariat," a German model told him, rubbing her hands over his chest. 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 reduced him to a vegetable. As soon as he became a liability, his fashionable friends abandoned him to the street. Anton blamed himself for not doing more to help. He hadn't seen Sebastian in almost a year. He remembered that when Trashtown was shut down, he'd felt isolated and pulled away from his friends. He called Sebastian, who seemed surprised to hear from him, struggling at the other end of the line with unexpected emotions. "Can I come see you?" he said finally. "Sure. Come see me. That would be good." He took a taxi to Sebastian's studio. He was about to ring the buzzer, but 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 gave her time to pass as he strolled down the block, looking for a place to hide. He chose an entryway with some steps where he could sit without being seen. He took a joint from his jacket pocket where he always carried a couple, and lit it with lean fingers. He brooded for a while on mortality and related topics. He wondered how long people would consider 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 while he was still young, "someday I will wake up old." He finished the joint and leaned back. From where he sat, he could see treetops, roofs and a few stars. His body realized it was cold. "Listen to your body and it will take care of you." He sprang to his feet and left the alcove. Returning to Sebastian's building, he pressed the intercom. The door buzzed open and he took the stairs two at a time. When he reached the second floor, he saw that the door to the studio 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 an adolescent slouch, legs spread wide. He looked around the studio. Everything was as he remembered it, only there was no sign of recent 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 into the couch. "I haven't seen you since that night we ate peaches," Sebastian said. "The night you turned a poetry reading into a riot." "Let's not talk about that!" He gave a dismayed grin. "You have to admit, it felt like the right thing to do at the time." "Of course it was. They deserved it. What right do they have to call themselves poets? They're a bunch of pretentious mediocrities, a disgrace to the name of art!" "Do you think they need to know they failed?" "It's better than letting them spend the rest of their lives imagining they have talent." Remembering Sebastian's recent setbacks, he checked himself. "Do you have a cigarette?" "I only smoke weed." "No tobacco? What kind of host are you? "I don't have any, that's all." "Let's go out and get some." "It's too late. Everything's closed." "What's my modeling fee, then? You'd better think of something." "Modeling fee?" "You're going to paint me, aren't you?" "Is that why you're here? I thought you were just feeling sorry for me." "I thought painting a glamor 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." He sprang to his feet and shucked off his clothes. "Let's get to work." "What are you doing?" Sebastian was surprised to see him already standing naked in the middle of the room, clothes at his feet. He struck a provocative pose, hand on his hip, his body all angles and points. He tossed his hair back in a becoming way. He looked like a pale flame that had come to life at the edge of the circle of light. "You sure got naked in a hurry," Sebastian laughed. "An artist doesn't care about clothes." He played with the pile of dirty laundry with the tip 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. "I'll sketch you tonight, and maybe block in some of the background, but you'll have to come back in daylight for me to finish." 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 in a cupboard below 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 a 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 holding for a couple of hours." He 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 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, 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?" he pointed. 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." "She made me popular for a while, but it didn't work." His voice was barely audible. Anton went over and swatted him on the foot. "C'mon, get up." He manipulated his legs, poked him in the chest. Sebastian swatted him away and sat up slowly. Because the couch sat low to the ground, his knees reached 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 said she was some kind of 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.' Then I started to freak out because so much was happening. She decided to keep me to 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 heart leaped. "Her garden? You mean the assassins' paradise?" "It's not paradise. It's a torture garden." He remembered dreaming about Mona, a woman in a black dress, whom he knew was Sabrina even though they looked different. Mona had shown him her torture 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'?" "Because it takes instead of giving. It feeds on your desire. Instead of filling you up, it leaves you hungry. After a while, you'll never taste pleasure again. All you know is desire, never release. You get sucked dry." His eyes were empty as he spoke. "You trusted her because of me. I'm sorry." "I should've 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 own shoes. 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 he thought about what Sebastian had said, Anton had a realization. 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 she might help him against Reinhold, but now he saw the truth. Her torture garden was the same as the assassin's paradise, raised to a new level of cruelty. No doubt some of its victims learned to be feeders themselves, and became Sabrina's assistants like Peter, Cybele and Big Joe. Others like Sebastian were too weak, so they remained victims until they were sucked dry. Sabrina was no alternative to the Colonel, she was part of the same manipulative scheme. The "other channel" she offered was another form of dependency. She'd encouraged his fantasies of revolt just so she could feed on them. If he ever turned on the Colonel, she expected him to come to her. Not only would she 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. As he'd learned during his tour of the South, some of the younger agents were on his side. He would play on their doubts, and show them the true nature of the power they served. Once they understood, they would help him destroy it. That was how he would approach things, if he decided to act. <<< Back Table of Contents Next >>>