“I’m sorry,” Darryl said as he started toward the door, “but we’ll have to talk about it later. I’ve got to hurry and catch Zel.”
Darryl thanked Vince again as he left his office. He greeted Zel just as rapidly after being invited into the toymaker’s workshop.
“Coming from Vince?” Zel asked.
“Yeah.”
“Had a nice long chat?”
“Long enough,” Darryl said. “I’m short on time.”
“What’s up?”
“I need to speak to you about my corresq.” Darryl handed him the silver toy.
“Something wrong with it?”
“Not necessarily,” Darryl said, “but any chance you’ve made an improved version?”
“Haven’t,” Zel said, “but could. Any suggestions?”
“It’s a little too rigid. Is there any way you could make one that I could, say, adapt to any situation at hand?”
“You mean create one made of a pliable metallic substance? Something that can be changed into different shapes?”
“Yeah, a softer metal,” Darryl said, “like the key-tool you made for me. I get a little tired of having to work with a circle all of the time.”
Zel laughed. “That’s interesting. Most people tend to think of Robert as a real square.”
Darryl didn’t get the joke. “I have other thoughts about him,” he said as his attention turned toward the laser instruments hanging on a nearby wall. “But they’re not worth discussing now.”
“You know, before I get started on this,” Zel said, “have you considered maybe there’s nothing wrong with the corresq? You can already make it suit any and every need that might arise—but maybe whatever faults you see in it are, possibly, attributable directly to you?”
“I’m sorry?” Darryl turned his gaze back to the engineer.
“‘I’m sorry,’” Zel repeated. “A common phrase spoken by those who lack confidence.”
“I don’t lack anything but reliable assistance.”
“And I’ve heard your assistant say the same thing.”
“The corresq talks?”
“I’m talking about Robert.”
Darryl wanted to shout, but he looked at the floor and took a long breath before responding. “Mister Bernard, he’s not something I want to talk about right now.”
“Diverting your attention, lack of concentration,” Zel said. “Another telltale sign of what your real problem may be.”
“I’m not diverting anything. You’re the one who keeps bringing my partner up. I just want to know if I can get a new and improved corresq, and how soon.”
“I’ll work on it, but it won’t be a total solution. Among others, at the very least, will you please make an appointment to see the Institution’s physical trainers? Go through a thorough workout and assessment?”
“I’ll think about it,” Darryl said. “Right now, I’m running late for another appointment.”
Darryl had stopped running an hour ago, just making it. Now seated, he nevertheless felt as if he were on an inclined treadmill, one that sped up with each step.
He was enraptured in her voice, her words. Sin Limite seemed to be literally moving him—until the final tug and shove of the song’s last few words.
Darryl had only one comment after the music ended and she took her bow.
“That was pretty creepy.”
Vanessa Blake smiled at him from across the table. “Well, their lyrics aren’t for the faint of heart. Or the feeble of mind.”
“And you’ve written how many songs for them?” he asked.
“Only a few,” she said. “And only when they’ve asked. Usually I just try to point The Phantasie in the right direction for their inspiration.”
“Like The Blackbook of Autumn Numbers?”
“It’s as good a source for quality lyrics as any.”
Darryl took another sip of his orange juice and turned back toward the stage where the same group was performing from the same playbook as when he and the blonde had first met. He noted the coincidence shortly after he entered the dawnclub and joined Veronica at the table she’d reserved. She told him it wasn’t a coincidence. She’d asked him to meet her at this particular lounge because Phantasie’s rEVEnge—a group she happened to manage and promote—would be performing. She had to be here. And they were in luck because the lounge’s food happened to have an excellent reputation. Darryl nevertheless had opted only for fresh fruit, unbuttered toast, and pulp-free juice. He wasn’t in the mood for anything that would weigh heavily on his stomach. Too much was already weighing heavily on his mind.
It seemed nothing could weigh Veronica down. She was already on her second stack of mixed-fruit-topped pancakes and her third cup of green tea. Darryl had initially insisted on paying for the entire meal, but he was half-glad she demurred, insisting they split the check instead. He’d pay for his food, and she’d pay for her own. It was just as well. Coherent fractions seemed to make more sense to Darryl now than deceptive wholes.
For most of the morning, his thoughts had been running through a multitude of subjects, concerning the past, present, and future, all at once: maybe he really was shirking his responsibilities with the IAI; Veronica would have to be fixed, set on the bright path, and soon; the performers on stage were really unique and interesting, like nothing he’d ever seen before. His head had begun to hurt. Darryl was thankful at least the music had been pleasant.
Then two new singers began a new song.
Their convoluted lyrics had not been adapted from The Blackbook. When the music started, and before the singers began, Veronica leaned over to whisper it was a new song she’d just written for them. The duo on stage would be portraying an angry husband accusing his wife of being too energetic and loving with others, and an unhappy wife accusing her husband of being everything he shouldn’t be with her. The two threw pointed lines at each other, singing them in such a way that their voices and the lyrics flowed seamlessly while the two gestured and moved around the stage, seeming to fight and dance simultaneously without even touching each other. They sang on for six minutes, their lyrics increasing in complexity until the end.
“I loved that,” Darryl said, applauding as the singers bowed. He didn’t necessarily understand it all, but he’d been entertained. “They’re good.”
“Harold and Harmony,” Veronica said. “They were performing as a duo called ‘Red Redemption’ before I recruited them for The Phantasie.”
“The woman—Harmony, I presume—is particularly good.”
“Good woman, and great women,” Veronica said. “The first noted for what she does for man in the present, the second remembered for what they didn’t do to men back then.”
Darryl almost choked on his toast as he turned to look at her. He recognized the words immediately. It was a quote, lifted and recited, almost intact, from the Yellow section of his favorite book, the book of his life.
As he continued to hack, trying to get the crumbs out of his windpipe, Veronica took a casual sip of her tea, looking at him over her teacup with a bright and rheumy blue eye. She picked up a raspberry from her plate, smiled, and said, “Yes—I’ve read it,” before sticking out her tongue and placing the raspberry on the tip of it.
“You’ve read Death’s Heart?” Darryl finally managed to say after swallowing some orange juice.
She nodded. “All of it. In fact, I acquired a very good copy some time ago, but it’s been a while since I’ve leafed through it. After I left you yesterday afternoon, I dusted it off, just to refresh my scary memory on a few bits and pieces.”
Darryl conceded her memory was “scary.” The word could also be used to describe her intellect, its ability to make leaps. On Saturday, he’d only quoted from Death’s Heart three times, and he’d only made an indirect reference to the book’s title. One day later, she was quoting from it. As he’d suspected, Veronica was different. She was different from all those who’d come before.
“I only wanted to
begin solving the mystery of Mister Ridley,” she said.
Darryl had been staring at her with questioning eyes, and an open mouth, while the aches in his head seemed to increase their pressure. He was discomforted, but he couldn’t continue to show it—displays of uncertainty were signs of moral weakness—so his lips gradually drew together until they’d formed a smile.
“A mystery solver, huh?” he said. “Sure you’re not following a red herring?”
She smiled back. “I’m no amateur, honey. And men aren’t that complex. Honestly, I think I’m getting close to the end of you.”
“Is that so?” he asked after swallowing another mouthful of juice.
“Or perhaps,” she said, “to the end of what you think you’re trying to become.”
Darryl gave her a quizzical look. Veronica smiled again. With only one eye exposed to view, in a dimly lit lounge, Darryl thought her smiles were looking more unsettling than they probably should’ve been. Was it her, or was it him?
“And what’s at the end?” Darryl asked.
“A beautiful creation, of course.”
“Oh, why, thank you.”
“I didn’t mean you,” Veronica said. “You, Mister Ridley, seem determined to remain incomplete, unfinished, unresolved.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re incomplete,” she repeated. “Basing your life off of half-formed ideas and pieces of philosophies, each of which may appear beautiful individually—but when taken together as a whole?” Veronica shook her head. “We’ve got to fix that.” She took another sip of her tea.
What was that? He got the reference to his comments in the sculpture garden on Saturday, but what was she really saying? Was she insulting him, or was that supposed to be playful banter? The throbbing in Darryl’s temples made it hard for him to tell which. He decided it’d be best to just brush it off, keep cool. Starting an argument wouldn’t stop his headache.
“Are you suggesting I re-create myself ?” Darryl asked. “Take on a new personality maybe, or a different lifestyle?”
“I’m suggesting the one you have now isn’t working,” she said. “You’re only jerking yourself in circles.”
Darryl laughed, but not out of amusement.
“You can continue to just make yourself feel better,” she said, “or you can make an effort to help heal the world.”
When they met, Darryl didn’t tell her exactly what he did; he only said he was a social worker for the homeless. She hadn’t asked for details, and Darryl had thought it odd. In the DC-area, the first thing folks almost always wanted to know after meeting was what the other did for a living, and the second thing was where, and there were usually several related follow-up questions. Veronica hadn’t pursued it, so Darryl thought it doubly strange she suddenly pretended to know all about him, even if she was speaking vaguely. He’d met pretentious artists before, but she was breaking the mold. “You may not believe it,” he said, “but that’s just what I’ve been trying to do.”
“I believe you believe you’ve been doing some good,” she said. “But I also believe you’re half-blind.”
Darryl looked at the blonde tresses covering her right eye. She had to be kidding him.
“You’re blind to your own potential,” Veronica said. “I’ve seen it. And it’s huge.”
Darryl smiled at a thought that popped into his head. “Is ‘palm reader’ also on your list of talents?”
She smiled back at him, another one of her discomforting smiles, but said nothing.
“And have you realized your potential, Miss Blake?” Darryl asked.
“Yes,” she said, “I’m an artist. Ever curious, but sure of The End: a peaceful beautiful world, a perfect existence. As an artist, I’m living and working for a time and place that has no time and no place for artists.”
The mold of pretention, broken.
“Artists don’t live to entertain,” she said. “They only exist to remind the world of imperfection. At The End, there’s no need for art, there’s no urge to imagine something different, there’s no desire to change or alter anything. In spite of what all these neo-nihilists and the faux-anarchists and the pseudo-rebellious say they believe in, they and we all want the same end: the place-time after the Greatest Artist has sung-spoken-painted-written The Word, producing the Greatest Work of Art.”
That was a mouthful. Darryl didn’t quite get what she was saying, but he thought he found it a little interesting. Maybe. His thoughts had become more and more agitated as she was speaking; he assumed that effect had to mean something. He wanted to ask for clarification, but the pangs in his head…He tried to ignore them, play it off.
Darryl pushed his plate aside, clasped his hands on the table, and leaned toward her. “You artists love to use those pretty words,” he said with a smile. “Talking in tangles, but strangling all meaning.”
“Look who’s talking,” she said as she copied his actions and leaned closer to him. “I can tell, quite clearly, that you, Mister Ridley, have been living a pretty-pretty perverse life in the name of an artful little book you really don’t understand.”
Darryl stopped smiling. “Excuse me, Miss Blake, but I’ve read that colorful little book, from cover to cover, well over a dozen times. I understand its message more than anyone. Maybe you just don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He tried to hide any signs of the anger that seemed to be contributing to the fizzing sensation in his brain’s frontal lobe, but he couldn’t help but coat his words with venom.
Veronica furrowed her brow and inverted her smile as she opened her mouth, no doubt ready to spit a response dipped in acid. She was on the verge of losing her playful cool. But she swallowed it all back when their waiter passed and placed the check on the table.
Neither Veronica nor Darryl spoke as they retrieved their debit cards and, at the same time, threw them on the table. After the waiter made another pass-by, Veronica broke the silence.
“You know, you’re right. Words are meaningless in this day and age. Misunderstandings stand over words, buried.”
Darryl thought he recognized her last sentence as a quote from something. A misquote maybe. But he couldn’t remember. All he could do was rub his temples with his fingers.
“You know,” he said, “you’re really making my head hurt, V.”
“Am I now? I’m really, really sorry.” She seemed genuine. “I didn’t mean to talk so much about nothing, but I thought you were the philosophical type. I just wanted to engage you on your level. Talk mind-to-mind, heart-to-heart. How about we go for a walk to try to clear things up?”
“I—” The fizzing sensation had become stronger; it seemed to be expanding to other regions of Darryl’s brain. Where the hell had it come from? “I don’t know. I’ve really got a lot to do today.”
“Now, D., can any of it be more important than taking a stroll down what you may one day remember as lover’s lane?”
Lover. The tragic word. Attempting to ignore his headache, Darryl removed his hands from his head and smiled at her. “Is that your way of coming on to me? I’d expect that type of language from a sad, cheesy-rat male, not a smart and savvy female.”
“Oh,” Veronica said as she signed her receipt, “I promise you’re not going to be expecting what comes next.”
“I’m not a kid,” Darryl said. “I’m sure I can guess.”
She responded with a wink then said, “Excuse me for one moment. I want to let the band know I’m going out for a stroll.” Veronica rose from her seat and glided her body around the other chairs and tables as she made her way to a door leading backstage. Darryl remained at the table, staring at the flickering flame of the candle at its center. He massaged his temples with one hand and picked up the candle’s lighter with the other while all his conscious thoughts tried to focus on the reasons behind one clawing headache.
Misunderstandings stand over words, buried…Where had he heard that before? Had he heard it before? Regardless, what did it mean? And
why did his brain feel like it was shrinking while sprouting multiple birds’ talons, talons that picked and scratched at the inside of his skull? Why—?
“Ready?”
Darryl started and almost fell out of his seat. He hadn’t seen or heard Veronica approach; she seemed to have appeared from the other side of nowhere, materializing by his side the moment she asked her question.
“Yeah.” He tried to keep his equilibrium in check as he got up from his chair. He massaged his temples once more as they approached the exit.
A construction sight dominated their first view outside. Most of the area was still in development, at a stage where the HSA hadn’t even set up surveillance cameras yet. Just outside of Old Town Alexandria, it was an area slowly moving toward completion; the economy was its primary obstacle. Like all such works-in-progress, the display of creation showed much more evidence of destruction. The area’s construction projects had led to an increased production of garbage, which in turn had led to overflowing dumpsters and overstuffed sidewalk garbage cans. The excess spilled onto the ground only to be kicked or blown farther away by the winds. Adjacent to the littered sidewalks were some brand-new stores and some empty shops with “Opening Soon!” signs in the windows; some had “Retail Space for Lease” signs, while others were just black, providing no reflections, no views, and no hint of their future use. Among the open and operating places in the area were a movie theater, a federal courthouse, some other nondescript buildings housing various government offices, and a yellow line Metro station. There were also assorted restaurants and other eating spots, most nearly empty at any given time. There was really no reason to be in the area on the weekend, unless one was coming to catch a movie or grab a bite. There was nothing else to do but walk, peacefully.
Their brunch date had been an early one. Darryl and Veronica had met at the lounge at nine o’clock. When they left, it was more than half past ten, and much more humid than it had been earlier. Darryl had dressed smartly and had taken the proper dosage of his medication on schedule; he was nevertheless even more uncomfortable outside than in.
Broken Angels Page 15
