by A. Sparrow
When the bus finally came, my nerves kicked in. I was counting on the element of surprise to boost my leverage. Just knowing Luther would not be able to pull any fancy weaving encouraged me, but I couldn’t help being intimidated by his mystique.
I had a lot questions for Luther, demands as well, but not a whole lot of confidence that they would be answered. Coming up here had sounded like a good idea in Rome, but I had to admit now that that I hadn’t thought this one out.
Luther might have had nothing or everything to do with Karla’s disappearance from the ‘Burg, but he was totally to blame for Lille and Bern’s troubles. Maybe that should be my tact—ask him to call off the dogs, open the walls.
Finding Karla here was a shot in the dark. I supposed it was possible she was here in Geneva or Chêne-Bourg, but I was far less certain of that prospect than I had been of finding her in Rome. A picture of a lake in a tapestry was not much to go on. As far as I knew, she might be living on the shores of Lake Titicaca. The lakes depicted in her art might not even have anything to do with where she lived these days. I couldn’t even be sure that she was still alive, in any sense of the word.
All in all, I had little hope that I would accomplish anything here. But what else was I going to do?
When signs for Chêne-Bourg began popping up with some regularity, I got off the bus at this street called the Rue de Gèneve. It was a wide boulevard lined with modern apartment buildings. I studied a map posted on the side of the bus shelter and was happy to see that I was just a short walk from my destination.
I cinched up my daypack and went traipsing off around a corner down the Avenue de Thônex. I passed more of those knobby-branched whomping willows. They seemed to be everywhere around here.
I passed some more generic-looking apartment buildings, and then the neighborhood kind of opened up with old-style, single family homes, some of them so cute they looked like they could be made of ginger bread, with yards that looked like wild alpine meadows.
I rounded a hedge near this little traffic circle and there it was—a sign displaying a ladybug on a leaf—the EMS La Coccinelle. A trellised walk led up to a stucco building with a boxy roof and long balconies extending down either side of the upper floors. It was older and less fancier than I had imagined.
I circled around a bit to get a feel for the place. The neighborhood was a mix of old and new residences interspersed with remnants of its farming past—greenhouses, fruit trees and grape vines.
The residents of La Coccinelle had access to a canopy out back and some simple tables and chairs. It was nothing ritzy. At ground level, they didn’t even have a view of Lake Geneva, but maybe it was visible from the third floor balconies.
Palms sweating, heart going like a kick drum, I went down the walk and walked into the lobby. There was a counter there very much like the front desk in a hotel. There was no one behind it, but there was a bell to ring, so I rang it.
A young woman with frizzy, blonde hair came out of a back room. She had the milkiest complexion I had ever seen, and an open, curious face.
“Bonjour,” she said, followed by a string of verbiage that slipped right past my ears.
“Do you speak English?” I said, hopefully.
“But of course. How may I help you?”
“Yeah … um … my name is James … and I was visiting Geneva and my parents told me I should come by and visit an old friend of theirs … a man by the name of Luther.”
“Your parents know Luther?” Her head cocked to one side. Her eyebrows tilted.
“Um … yeah. Don’t ask me how. They just wanted me to come by and say hi.”
“Well, I am not sure if Luther is around today, but I can certainly page him.”
“Page him? Isn’t he a patient here?”
“Oh no,” she said, smiling. “Luther Strunk is a licensed physical therapist. Some of our short-term residents come here for rehabilitation after surgery. You are looking for Luther Strunk, yes?
“I … I guess so. Are there any other Luthers?”
“He is the only one we know at La Coccinelle.” She dialed a number and looked up at me. “Have a seat. He should call back soon.”
Her phone rang back almost immediately. She spoke with a man, in what sounded like German this time. She looked over at me. “Okay. He is out back with a patient,” she said. “Feel free to go see him.”
I passed through the lobby and into a U-shaped courtyard that opened into an orchard backed by greenhouses. The walks were wide here and smoothly paved. I spotted a frail old man with a cane being aided by a long-haired blonde guy who looked like a super buff surfer dude. This … was Luther?
The blonde guy guided the old man to a bench under a linden tree. The patient looked like he had been in a car wreck. A brace stabilized his neck. Bruises and scabs discolored his face.
The therapist—Luther?—threaded a pair of thick rubber straps around the bench and had his patient reach forward with a loop hooked over each thumb. The old man grimaced each time he attempted to comply.
I hovered behind a tree, taken aback. This version of Luther was thirtyish, tanned and built like a wrestler. Blonde hair billowed down over his shoulders. He looked like he had walked off the cover of a romance novel—pure beefcake.
Seeing this young and virile Luther withered my confidence. I expected to find someone older and weaker, stripped of the woven flesh that augmented his physique in Root. It turned out that the morph I had deemed too perfect to be human was actually the real thing. Here it was, standing right in front of me.
I gathered my courage and walked up. Luther turned and looked at me, displaying his blue eyes and rugged chin.
“Excusez moi, Arthur,” he said to the old man, in a voice pitched higher than I expected, before turning to me. “Are you the American who’s looking for me?” His English influenced more by London than New York.
“I’m … James.” I braced myself for his reaction, but he didn’t even blink. There was not the faintest glimmer of recognition in his eyes. He thrust his hand out for a shake.
“Luther Strunk. How can I help you?”
I stared at him awkwardly, and studied his face for some kind of validation that this was the man I sought. But there was nothing in those eyes or the way he carried himself that suggested that this was the Lord and Master of Luthersburg. Superficially, maybe, he resembled one of Luther’s many morphs, but I was no evidence of Luther’s soul behind that visage.
He returned my handshake with a firm but well-lotioned grip. These were not the hands of a manual laborer. The old man stared at us and glared at me in a creepy, quaking silence.
“How can I help you?” I stared into his greenish-blue eyes and still saw no sign that he recognized me.
“I … um … I … don’t know. I think I might have made a mistake.”
He sighed. “You’re not another stalker are you?”
“Stalker?”
“Maybe that’s too harsh a word. How about … fan boy?”
“I don’t get you.”
He shrugged. “You see, I’m a singer. In Lausanne, I have quite the following in the LGBT community. Even Arthur here is a fan of mine. Isn’t that right Arthur?” The old man leered from the bench. “Some of them get a bit carried away sometimes.”
“Pardon my asking, but have you ever been to Root?”
He squinted at me. Even the crows’ feet in the corners of his eyes were perfect.
“What is that? Some kind of club? In Geneva?”
“You really don’t know?”
His phone went off. The ring tone—Sinatra’s ‘Love is Just Around the Corner.’ He engaged in a brisk and argumentative exchange in French. “Excuse me,” he said. “I have an issue to work out with one of my other patients. Arthur, are you fine sitting here with this young man?”
The old man nodded, a perpetual smirk engraved in his face. He may have been aged, but there was mischief in those eyes. We watched Luther trundle off, muscles rippling beneath scr
ubs a mite too tight for a man of his considerable physique.
I sighed and thought about heading back downtown, but then what? This entire excursion had been a waste. And now I had no place to turn.
The tide began to turn on my mood, In the back of my mind I realized the implications, but I tried to keep the idea of returning back to Root as vague and formless as I could because wanting to be there would prevent my going. I think this was what Karla meant by ‘surfing.’ Nevertheless, I girded myself for the dogs, or the Reapers or whatever I would face this time around.
“Hello James,” said the old man, his smirk more pronounced.
I looked at him, startled, and saw the childish depravity in his eyes, obscured by wrinkles and rheuminess, but unmistakable. This old man was the true Lord and Master of Luthersburg.
***
He was a shriveled old thing, with thinning hair plastered to his scalp and bifocals dangling from a strap around his neck. He wore gray slacks and a dark blue cardigan under a suit coat. The only color on his person came from a pair of mismatched turquoise and coral socks.
“I never would have taken you for a skinhead,” he said. “But I suppose it makes sense now.”
“Skinhead? You mean my haircut? I just did this to make it easy to wash up on the road.”
“Are you sure? Weiss und stoltz does not mean anything to you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His expression softened. “You honestly don’t know? You’ll have to forgive me. It was some skinhead types who put me into this hospital, and other hospitals before.”
“But … why?”
“Because of my ways. My differences.”
“I don’t get you.”
“My goodness are you dense. I like boys, James. Not little boys. Big boys … like Luther.”
“So … who are you, really?”
“I am Arthur Knebel, or rather, what is left of him. I owned a gallery in Geneva for many years. And I used to sculpt. Abstract nudes mostly. Luther owns my heart, but five children he has now. For ten years he has been my physio-therapist. I have broken my body for him and will do so again, if it is the only way to be near him.”
“Whoa dude. You’re in love?”
He nodded sadly. “He is my hopeless hope, my ticket to Root. It is why I weave flesh. He is sometimes my avatar. Anytime I wish, I can become him. It’s not as good as the real thing, course. But it suffices.”
“You seem so different here. You’re not nearly as weird. You’re like … human.”
He rolled his eyes. “It’s all an act, that other persona. Root is my stage; the ‘Burg, my perpetual show. I direct the action because I can. I may have been a failure as a sculptor, but as a weaver I am unsurpassed. Of course I choose to exert my powers to amuse myself. Wouldn’t you?”
“Luther … er … Arthur. The ‘Burg’s all fucked up because of what you did. No one’s getting in or out. I bet people are getting Reaped because of it. Karla—”
“Well, that’s just too bad. The move was necessary to protect my investment.”
“Protect it from who?”
His eyes narrowed. “You know who. You were there. You saw what she did.”
“Victoria? But she’s not going to bother with you. Why should she? You’re no threat to her.”
“And how can you possibly know this? You’ve only been in Root … sum total … a few days. Me, I’ve been going over a decade now, three days out of four, returning only to replenish this shell of a body and see my precious Luther. I’ve seen powerful souls come and go and I know an existential threat when I see it. The attitude of that woman. You could almost smell her disdain for me.”
“But your walls can’t keep her out. Even I managed to cut through. They’re just keeping souls out of the ‘Burg and making the others miserable.”
“Impossible. You could never pass through those walls. ”
“But I did. I went right through it. Like butter.”
Luther/Arthur gripped his cane and wielded it defensively. His chin trembled. “You! You’re one of hers aren’t you? She sent you here.”
“Calm down. I’m just some kid who wandered in. Okay? Honest. I know nothing of Victoria. I just want my friends to be safe. Open the walls and I promise nothing bad will happen.”
“I can’t,” he said. “Not until I am certain the threat has passed.”
“But you’re losing souls left and right. Those who fade don’t come back. You’ll have nobody left at this rate.”
“We are improving the stock,” he said. “Distilling the loyalty. Keeping the best of the best. We’ll still recruit, but with more stringent requirements going forth. No more riff-raff. I am afraid, though, that you have disqualified yourself with your presence here today. You can bet we’ll be taking special measures to keep the likes of you out.”
“What about Karla? Does she qualify?”
“Karla has nothing to worry about,” said Luther.
“Then where is she? Why hasn’t she been seen in the ‘Burg?”
He smirked. “Did you never suppose your little crush had anything to do with it? That little thing called hope? If she’s not there … she’s been driven out of Root. She’s probably … here.”
“Here? In Geneva?”
“No, you idiot. With her father. In Inverness.”
Chapter 35: Relations
A wisp of a woman in a flowing shift hobbled out onto a balcony and leaned over the rail, studying me intensely as if I were some sort of rare squirrel that had ventured onto the property.
“Inverness? Is that in Switzerland?”
The old man rolled his eyes. “Scotland, you fool. You must be the dimmest heap of flesh ever to weave.”
His insult slid right past me. My heart was already on a train to Britain. But then it was like the vultures swooped down and plucked away my hope. What if this turned out to be another wild goose chase? What if I got there and found out Karla was actually in Newfoundland or Labrador?
“You know this for sure? That she’s in Inverness.”
“Look at you.” The old man’s gaze drilled into me. “She’s all you care about, isn’t she?”
I couldn’t deny that.
“Let me tell you something, then, that you may not like to hear. I am ten years ‘out of the closet,’ as they say. But back in the day, men like me took great pains to disguise our sexual proclivities. Some of us married women. Our wives bore children. I have a daughter. An only child named Hanna. She’s forty-six now and she once was married to a terrible man named Edmund.”
“Oh my God! You’re Karla’s grandfather?”
“But I’ve little contact with the family ever since Hanna left him. I don’t even hear from Hanna anymore. She’s not been right in the head, but who can blame her after being with Edmund. You can imagine how an extremist like him felt about a man of my predilections. I must be the devil personified in that household, and Hanna certainly suffered by association.”
“Does Karla know … in Root … who you are?”
“Of course she knows. I actually participated in their family life when she was small. I used to travel to Rome for holidays and they even came to Geneva once. That, of course, was before I came out.”
Luther, the physio-therapist, came striding out of the building.
“You two having a nice chat? Listen, Arthur. I am needed down at the main hospital. They have no one to work with the burn cases today. So we’ll have to reschedule our session. I know much you are heartbroken. How much you love this shoulder torture.” He winked. “Good to meet you James. Au revoir!”
He wheeled about and crossed the patio to the street. I gazed up at the crown of a willow, its leaves exposing their silvery undersides in the changeable wind
“Inverness,” I said. “It sounds so far away.”
“Why would you ever want to go there, boy? What good would it do Karla? One glimpse of you and Edmund would beat her raw simply for attracting the attention
s of a male.”
“Jeez! I don’t get why she doesn’t just leave.”
“She has a younger sister. Isobel. If Karla left, there would be no one to protect the little one.”
“Protect her from … Edmund?”
“And not just the beating. That’s not the worst of it. No one will say for sure, but I suspect there was molestation as well. It was a crime that Hanna was unable to gain custody of those girls.”
“You know this and you just let it happen? Why don’t you report him?”
“To whom? Who would listen? He is a leader in his church. He is calm and chaste in the court room, polite to the judges, and exceptionally well-groomed.”
“So letting them live with that monster, that’s better?”
The old man shrugged. “Karla is a weaver. She has Root to help her cope with hardships. It’s good enough for me. Why not her?”
“You’ve had the power to help her all this time and you did nothing? That girl’s surfing on the edge of suicide. How long can she keep that up?”
“Hmm … perhaps indefinitely. There is an art to persisting. Comes a point every weaver must decide where to stake their claim on existence. But anyone who finds himself in Root is already an earthly failure. Weaving offers a second chance at something indistinguishable from immortality.”
“But not if you die … here.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. It is rumored there is a way to sever all earthly connections … to die, so to speak … and keep one’s soul in Root. That is my quest … my Holy Grail. So far, I have come to believe it requires complete commitment to Root, with no earthly distractions. Alas, my dear Luther may prove my ball and chain, unless….”
“Why would you ever give up on life on earth? There’s nothing in Root that compares. Everything in your ‘Burg is just a cheap replica. Why not hang on to the real thing, for as long as you can?”
“Famous last words of the Reaped. You’ll get nowhere in Root with that attitude, boy. My advice? If you want to find Karla, don’t waste your time in Inverness. Find your way back to Root. Wait for her to come to you.”
