Virtually Lace

by Uvi Poznansky

  The figure looked schematic, too schematic for his taste. So, he took the photograph out of the white envelope and scanned it, so as to give her a face. Blue eyes, plump lips, and an impression of her braid attached themselves to her wiry neck. Even at a two-dimensional likeness, she gave him an eerie feeling.

  He pointed at the familiar rock formation “Fix her here. Set the time of her death at 9:01pm.”

  At once she collapsed, arms spread out next to an LED display that was frozen in time.

  He remembered how he had stood there, dumbfounded, in front of the body. Some distance away, a sailboat seemed to be floating in midair. From time to time, gusts of wind had filled her black sails.

  “Bring in a sailboat.” He pointed at a spot on the blue surface that represented ocean.

  Wiggling slightly over the blue, painted surface that signified water, there it came: a huge sailboat that seemed to fill the entire space of his office.

  Its keel formed the centerline at the bottom of the hull. It extended downward as a blade beneath the vessel, increasing its stability. From time to time it rubbed against the office floor, giving a shrill sound of friction.

  With a swift hand gesture, bringing together his thumb and forefinger, Michael shrunk the vessel down, till it appeared to be at same scale as the seascape underfoot. Flow vectors appeared, forming wavy blue pleats capped with foam, over which the sailboat started rocking.

  Meanwhile, Michael remembered Mr. Armstrong telling him how he had steered his sailboat away all by himself, how his muscles still ached from pulling up her sails. Just for fun, shouldn’t he place him aboard this vessel?

  “Create man.” Michael pointed at the deck. “Name him Mr. Strong.”

  A broadly constructed wire figure stepped out. It held on to the mast for dear life and occasionally, gave a sharp, abrasive pull to raise the black sails.

  “Let Mr. Strong wear a life jacket.”

  Selected at random from some e-commerce site such as eBay, an immensely thick vest appeared, featuring large armholes for unlimited range of motion. Its bright straps and adjustable belts tightened around the waist, to keep the vest snug and in place. It wrapped over the wire shoulders, barely concealing a somewhat crooked back.

  The sailboat wiggled about over the geometrical waves when—splash!—Mr. Strong fell off, nearly sinking between one blue pleat and another. He would dutifully climb back onboard, only to fall off and climb back again.

  Michael was determined to find out why this infinite loop started to play out. “Show me an internal view of the code.”

  A storm of pixels whipped across the space, settling here and there in small heaps of dust. Out of it grew long, straight links. These, in turn, produced round, hollow nodes that started to arrange themselves into a complex structure, a structure that represented logic and data.

  And just as Michael identified a broken link in the midst of it all, there came the sound of heavy footfalls down the corridor.

  His heart skipped a beat.

  “Stop,” he said hurriedly, and the structure melted away just as the office door swung open.

  In stepped the real Mr. Armstrong.

  ❋

  The president raised his arm for a handshake. Oblivious to the sailboat that seemed to block his way, he walked right through it.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said. “I had some urgent business that needed my attention.”

  “No need to explain,” said Michael.

  Mr. Armstrong pointed at his headset. “Can I see what you see, when you wear this thing?”

  “Okay.”

  Michael picked up another headset from his desk and handed it over. It was the moment he had dreaded, the moment he had prepared for. Camouflage time!

  At the president’s request, he adjusted the headset for him to a snug fit, but not before saying, “Bomb.”

  “What?”

  “It’s part of this simulation game,” said Michael. “Here, take a look!”

  Up at the corners of the ceiling, four Northrop Grumman B-21 Raiders started descending from the clouds.

  The president lurched forward and crouched under the desk. His eyes dilated. He breathed hard as the bombers drew closer.

  Their simulated air travel must have grown faster than the speed of sound, because a sonic boom rocked the room and particles began shooting all over. The air seemed to sizzle. Bombs started raining down on them.

  Mr. Armstrong’s jaw dropped. He placed his hands up to protect his head, his ears.

  “Wow.” He gasped. “That’s amazing!”

  Michael could barely hear him, because by now, the explosions became deafening. Huge chunks of mud flew every which way.

  At long last, silence. The dust started to clear.

  New craters were still forming at the side of the hill. The mapped elevation lines were still rattling. Cliff outlines were still being flattened. Several geographical features, such as the familiar rock formation, seemed to have been obliterated. Only a mangled wire figure sprawled there, its face covered beyond recognition by a dirty heap of pixels.

  And the sailboat, out at sea, was floating askew. Next to it, between one wavy pleat and another, a figure wearing a thick vest attempted to thrust itself onboard, but as soon as it found a foothold, it lost it again. There it was, struggling to come up for air.

  “How pitiful,” noted Mr. Armstrong.

  On its next try, the figure clasped the mast with wiry fingers. Holding its balance for a moment, it placed its hands up as if to protect its head, its non-existent ears.

  Then it slipped off again.

  Michael yanked off his headset, and so did Mr. Armstrong. The chunks of mud vanished, as did the flying particles. Even so, the president kept brushing his shoulders with his hands, as if to clean off some invisible dust. Coming out from under the desk, he punched the seat of the chair with his fist, as if to establish that he was still in charge of this place. You might expect him to say, any moment now, that he was still the man—was he not?—even if he had been questioned by police.

  “You all right?” asked Michael.

  For a while, the president said nothing.

  “Thank God that’s over,” he muttered at last. “I’m glad to find myself back in familiar surroundings, away from a world of hurt.”

  “Sorry if it scared you—”

  “Me? Scared?” said Mr. Armstrong. “Ha!”

  A smile came to his fat lips, even though they were still trembling. He wiped off the cold sweat. “Well, this simulation is interesting, very interesting indeed. Keep me abreast of it, will you?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Good work! What a huge asset it’s going to be for military training!”

  With shaky laughter, out the door he went.

  For the rest of the afternoon, Michael explored different ways to hack into police data banks. It wasn’t easy. At last, he found a crack in the firewall that protected their information. He penetrated through it and searched for recently uploaded files. Finally, he identified the police photographs taken in Laguna Beach that very morning, downloaded them to his computer, and just to be on the safe side, he erased any trace of his roaming about inside the firewall.

  All the while, his mind kept going back to Ash. On the way home, he should buy a box of chocolates for her and a bottle of champagne. Tonight, they would meet again. And he could not wait.

  Chapter 8

  Getting ready for the date with Ash, Michael bought not only a box of chocolates and a bottle of Rosé champagne but also all the ingredients necessary for his specialty: berry salsa, to be served along with hers: roasted chicken and vegetables.

  When they had worked together in the back of his garage, the thrust of their virtual reality startup was not only games but also employee training in the food industry. They had created lessons in a detailed environment, designed for employees to interact remotely with their future everyday job surroundings and learn the required tasks, such as dealing
with Walmart’s holiday rush, mastering the espresso pull, and cooking a variety of gourmet meals.

  In the course of their work, one particular meal became their favorite. Ash used to love preparing it together with him and watching him simulate the entire process. Now, this was going to be more than a date. It was going to be a celebration.

  Michael parked on the street, opened his garage door, and entered. Its concrete floor and walls painted blue, the place looked like a warehouse, where a variety of kitchen appliances were stocked. Coffee machines, sinks of various sizes, commercial ovens, even faucets. Once they had been replicated in the virtual world, there was no use for them anymore. Having no time or patience for selling them on eBay, he had draped them in blue fabrics, so they could disappear into the background when conjuring a simulated food preparation environment.

  In his real kitchen, Michael rinsed the strawberries. After they dried for a few minutes on paper towels, he hulled them and sliced them into quarters. Then, just as he finished mincing the onions and adding them to the bowl, the front door opened and in came Ash.

  Wearing a midnight-blue avant-garde sequin cocktail dress with a plunging v-neckline and no jewelry except for pearl stud earrings, she looked stunning. Her lips glistened into a smile when he touched his nose to hers, coming into a kiss, almost.

  Ash took in the trace of Dior Sauvage aftershave on his chin, and her eyes closed as she gave a little moan. Then she pulled back, took a silk apron off a hook, and joined him in preparation of the meal, as if no time had passed since their last date, way back when.

  “I missed you,” he said.

  Ash answered by letting him bite into a strawberry she was nibbling on. Having washed some blueberries, she added them to the mix along with a cup of sugar. “Your pepper mill is nearly empty.”

  “Let me fill it for you,” said Michael. And lowering his voice, he added, “Sweetheart.”

  She gave a little giggle, so he figured he need not be too cautious in using terms of endearment.

  Peppercorns danced their way with a pinging sound into the mill. Michael dialed it to the exact grind he wanted. Then he sprinkled freshly ground pepper into the bowl, and for good measure, added a dash of hot pepper sauce and a squeeze of lemon juice.

  Ash toasted some slivered almonds, to be stirred into the concoction just before serving on top of the poultry dish. The aroma tingled his nostrils. It was wonderfully enticing.

  Next, she took the chicken out of the refrigerator and stuffed its cavity with a bunch of fresh thyme, both halves of a lemon, and a head of garlic, cut crosswise.

  “Is that a new dress?” he asked.

  In place of a reply, she blushed.

  “Looks beautiful on you.”

  She turned to the sink and splashed some cold water on her face, to make the blush go away, but it didn’t. “So, will you tell me about the murder?”

  “I’ll do better than that. I’m going to show you.”

  “Really?”

  “Virtually.”

  “I’m dying to see!”

  “I’m dying to see it myself, sweetheart. Later.”

  With impatient strokes, Ash brushed the outside of the chicken with melted butter and sprinkled it with salt and freshly ground pepper. Then she tied the legs together with kitchen string and tucked the wing tips under the body of the chicken.

  “Oh,” she said. “You’re such a tease!”

  “And so are you,” he said. “Why didn’t you answer my calls, all these months?”

  Ash bit her lip. She gave no answer. Instead, she took in a deep breath through gnashed teeth and busied herself with cutting carrots into chunks and a bulb of fennel into wedges. Her manner was decisive, furious even. Her eyes—brooding, intense—were turned away from him. It was only when she started drizzling some olive oil onto the bottom of the roasting pan that she seemed to calm herself down.

  Michael leaned over her to kiss her forehead, but she backed away.

  “I’m sorry, so sorry I asked,” he said. “We shouldn’t dwell on the past.”

  “I am the one who’s sorry.” In a blink, tears welled in her eyes. “It’s just, I find it difficult. Can’t talk about it, is all.”

  His stomach flipped, aching for what she had gone through. “I understand, sweetheart.”

  “No, you don’t.” Her breath quickened. “By now, my physical injuries have cured, but in my heart—”

  “You’re still struggling to heal.”

  “Exactly. All I knew when I came to was that someone’s defiled me, broke my body, but there was no memory of it, no idea who did it. It’s like, I lost part of me, lost it in a dark, ugly place. To this day, there’s no way for me to find my way there, no way to claim it back.”

  “You’re right. I can’t imagine the pain—”

  “Don’t even try.” She grabbed his arms, so hard that he was about to yell at her to stop. “Until now, pain was the only thing holding me in place.”

  Michael hugged her till her touch eased into a soft caress. “I feel responsible for what happened to you.”

  “You were the one to find me.” She smiled through the tears. “You were the one to call for help. I owe my life to you.”

  “I should’ve come sooner, should’ve knocked that man off his feet. And yet, even though I saw you in a pool of blood, I can’t—for the life of me—think of you as a victim.”

  “What I am is a survivor.”

  “Better yet, a fighter.”

  “That is what I want to become. One way or another, I’m going to find a way to avenge my rape.”

  With no further exchange of words, they went through their old routine. There was something soothing about it, especially when their fingers came into contact.

  Michael spread the vegetables, along with a thinly sliced yellow onion, around the roasting pan. Ash tossed in some salt and a dozen sprigs of thyme, and placed the chicken on top. At last, into the oven it went.

  She removed the apron. “So, what do we do now?”

  He meant to suggest, “Let me show you what I’ve done with the simulation,” but then, coming into contact with her, he felt the electrifying warmth of her body. So instead, he said, “You tell me.”

  She lowered her voice. “I don’t think I’m ready.”

  “Come here.” He opened his arms, bringing her to his heart. “All I want to do is hold you close.”

  That came short of the truth. What Michael really wanted, but knew enough not to say, was different. He wanted to unzip her dress, let it puddle down at her feet, so she could step out of it. Fully aroused, he imagined feeling her bare skin. The thought of it made him hot. He ached to run his hands down to the small of her back and squeeze her hips against his.

  But for her sake, he had to wait. Oh, when would she be ready? When would she melt in his arms, till they become one?

  ❋

  Eine kleine Nachtmusik was playing softly on the quadrophonic sound system, and for a while, they danced to it. Then, Michael took the roasting pan out of the oven and sliced the chicken onto a platter, to be served with the baked vegetables and his berry salsa.

  Ash uncorked the champagne and poured it into two toasting flutes. They ate. They laughed. It seemed just like old times, when they were working together and beginning to fall in love.

  Peering out the kitchen window at the darkening sky, her eyes clouded with worry. “It’s becoming dark,” she said, with a tremble in her voice.

  “I’ll walk you home.”

  “Can I stay here tonight?”

  “Of course. You’re safe with me.”

  While he washed the dishes, she went to the living room and curled on the couch. By the time he was done, Ash was falling asleep. She looked so peaceful that Michael didn’t want to disrupt her, except to brush a stray wisp of hair away from her temple.

  But then, he could not help himself. He reclined by her side, propped himself up on his left elbow, and with his right hand traced the line of her cheekbone, then c
urved around her ear and down to her chin. When he reached the small of her neck, she burst into giggles.

  Michael rose from the couch, because her warmth stimulated him to the point of going crazy. He held back a fiery groan. Stopping himself from taking her would soon become impossible. So, he covered her with a woolen blanket, pulled it up to her ears. “Sweet dreams.”

  Ash opened her eyes for a second and in a sleepy voice asked, “Michael? Where are you going?”

  “Be back in a bit. I need to take care of something.”

  “What kind of something?”

  “A new simulation.”

  Fighting her drowsiness, she rose on her elbows, her eyes glinting with curiosity. “Shall I come with you?”

  “No. It’s a surprise.”

  She sank back into the cushions and fluffed the blanket around her. “Really?”

  “Virtually.”

  Ash muffled a yawn. “When you get it ready, wake me up.”

  Michael picked up his laptop on his way to the garage. “I will, sweetheart.”

  ❋

  Because of the blue walls, the place was dark, except for a sliver of light that rolled in, stealthily, under the closed garage door.

  Michael guessed his way to one corner, where a few prototypes of virtual headsets were stocked. Most of them were bulkier than the one he kept at work. By feel, he selected one of them.

  He opened his laptop to the murder scene, and instantly found himself floating at sea level. The four Northrop Grumman B-21 Raiders were still hanging overhead. Their only purpose had been to rain havoc on the landscape, so that no one at work would suspect it was a recreation of Laguna Beach.

  “Delete bombers,” he said.

  With a sucking sound, they were swallowed by reddish clouds that swept across the simulated evening sky.

  This time, the virtual cliffs looked more vivid than ever before, because the backdrop behind them was painted blue. It did not fight for attention. In fact, it allowed every outline in the conjured landscape to shine, capturing a moment of sunset.