FSF, December 2006

by Spilogale, Inc

  Since his arrival at F.U., however, he had yet to complete a single chapter of his dissertation. But this had not prevented him from mapping out so many ambitious lifetime projects that it made his advisor's head hurt.

  "I am compiling notes for a trilogy on the failure of knowledge,” Heinrich breathlessly explained on their long afternoon walks to the Metro, while Dazzle just as breathlessly tried to outdistance him. “Then there is my history of Prussian Absolutism, my critique of Benjamin's radical desubjectivization of spirit, an essay on the anxiety of essay-writing and, of course, my reschematization of German philosophy since Lessing, which should encompass at least twenty book-length manuscripts and lead me to the doorstep of my self-proposed lifetime project: to chart the intellectual DNA of God through the prose and poetry of every heterotext on the Internet. What do you think about that for a lifetime project, Herr Dazzle? I realize it may sound excessively ambitious, but as you must know by now—if there's one thing I'm not afraid of, it's excess."

  Walking with Heinrich was like trying to win a race with your own obsessions. No matter how fast you thought you were going, they were always a few steps ahead—even on two feet.

  "Don't you ever get lonely, Heinrich?” Dazzle asked one day when they found themselves slumped side by side on a leafy, convenient bus bench just short of the Metro. “Don't you ever feel that you're spending too many nights alone in your bed?"

  "German women are afraid of commitments,” Heinrich replied sulkily, nostrils flaring. “Especially when it comes to making commitments with Heinrich."

  "What about TV or movies, Heinrich? Or even Nintendo? Just something, you know, to get your mind off itself."

  "German TV is nothing but bourgeois propaganda about the terrible, nonsensical traumas associated with being bourgeois. And as for American TV, forget it. Dreams of plenitude, twenty-four hours a day. And as you must realize, Herr Dazzle—those aren't the sort of dreams that fool me at all."

  "Then what about a good cause, Heinrich? Like working with kids, or cleaning up the environment. You can't spend your entire life being obsessed with Liebestod, Heinrich. Especially when you have so much trouble just getting a date."

  "Heinrich has no trouble getting dates."

  "Okay, second dates."

  "Making love is the death of desire."

  "But it clears the head, Heinrich. It keeps you from thinking too hard about things you can't change. Like, you know. Yourself."

  "Heinrich refuses to turn his back on the universe which today's Germany does not wish to acknowledge. The universe of heartache, spiritual insufficiency and loss."

  "Tristan and Isolde."

  "Who told you about Tristan and Isolde?"

  "I may be a dog, Heinrich,” Dazzle explained with a sigh. “But everybody's heard of Tristan and Isolde."

  * * * *

  When it came to unraveling the complex knot of human nature, Dazzle had limited means at his disposal. But sometimes you have to make the effort, he thought. Even when you have no idea what's going on.

  "Heinrich is perfectly attractive,” conceded Agatha on the afternoon Dazzle asked her into his office for an informal chat. “And he certainly boasts the sort of passionate intelligence that a girl doesn't often come across in our new, improved Germany. But at the same time, he's a really tough date, especially with all his engines running. After an endless bus ride during which he continuously talks about Hegel, you end up at some badly lit cafeteria, where the rubber-gloved staff clearly find him offensive. And every time you try to change the subject to something interesting—such as your long-unconfessed ambitions to win the Euro-Vision Song Contest, or the latest episode of Friends—he just scowls terribly, as if you have hurled hot pasta in his face. He begins spouting Nietzsche or Hlderlin, and raving about the mindless herds of contemporary culture. Pretty soon it's nothing but ‘bourgeoisie-this’ and ‘bourgeoisie-that,’ and he's not even looking at you anymore, or noticing how much trouble you went to with your hair. Once, I was so upset, I started crying into my bratwurst. And did he notice? No, he didn't notice at all. But in answer to your question, I could actually imagine sleeping with Heinrich, or even accompanying him in a romantic manner to your highly publicized lecture at the Cross-Humanities Institute next week. But I'm afraid I can't imagine doing these things until he learns how to shut his stupid mouth for more than two seconds."

  Agatha was sitting with Dazzle in his office on the swaybacked, well-worn sofa, and aimlessly scratching his rump while she talked. Dazzle realized that this was probably not the sort of situation a professor should cultivate with his most attractive female student (even if it was Europe), but then what the hey, he thought. It helped him think.

  "So what you're saying, Agatha, is that you want to be with Heinrich. But only if he stops telling you who he really is."

  Agatha considered this for a moment.

  "I guess that's what I am saying, Herr Dazzle. Does that sound superficial?"

  Dazzle almost laughed.

  "No, Agatha, I don't think it does. Especially when we're talking about Heinrich."

  Which was when Dazzle realized that he might have something to teach his students after all.

  * * * *

  "I think I resemble the funny, wacky, sometimes stupid-sounding one named Joey. Don't I seem like Joey to you, Herr Doktor? I certainly feel like Joey—now that I'm getting to know him, that is."

  It was quite amazing, Dazzle thought, how quickly these European types could pick up a totally new language. It was like dealing with chameleons or something.

  "Well, yeah, I guess so, Heinrich. Joey, right. And his hair's always slightly disarranged in a kind of attractive fashion. Just like yours."

  Heinrich pulled vainly at his crumpled locks. “And he always looks so baffled when he learns something obvious that everybody else has known all along. Like one of the other friends feels inclined toward him physically. Or two of his fellow friends are having an affair. He is very naive and easily astounded. Much like I feel myself to be almost all of the time."

  "Boyish vulnerability,” Dazzled added, trying to help. “And innocence. Don't forget innocence, Heinrich."

  They had just finished screening the first three seasons in the audio-visual Common Room, where Dazzle was enjoying his best attendance of the term. The chairs and tables were full, and many students were sitting cross-legged on the linoleum.

  "Myself,” piped up Ingrid, a beautiful, fair-skinned Swiss woman who hadn't uttered a single word before now, “I must confess strong feelings of similarity to the very sarcastic one with the blonde hair, though my own hair is far too curly and boring. I often aim my wicked barbs at people for no reason whatsoever, and many do not appreciate my characteristically bizarre sense of humor."

  Hands were being raised by students Dazzle had never seen before. Some of them weren't even listed on his register.

  "We especially enjoy their manifest looks of surprise when they awaken in each other's beds. And no matter what sort of insurmountable problems they face—such as achieving personal space in their bathrooms, or the ominous threat of really attractive non-friends trying to break into the inner circle—they still feel total devotion to one another without exception, and raise their variously engendered (and highly attractive) offspring in total harmony."

  "Except perhaps for that English girl. We have trouble accepting that a true friend would ever marry an English girl."

  "It was doomed from the start."

  "She hardly makes any subsequent appearances."

  "She was nowhere near so entertaining as Sean Penn."

  "Which brings us to a collective point of interest, Herr Dazzle, if you wouldn't mind—"

  After snoozing through the entire DVD marathon, Dazzle had awakened to a class buzzing with excited young men and women learning about one another as fast as they could. Especially Agatha and Heinrich, who were sitting so close together that they almost touched.

  Dazzle even felt enough confidence
to tackle the most troubling issue of the term:

  "I think I know where this is going, so let me reiterate for like the thousandth time. There's nothing to those rumors about Sean Penn playing the lead in my life story. And I hate to disappoint you—but at this point in time? I doubt if Sony will even renew the option."

  * * * *

  It was never easy for Dazzle to tell when he had turned a potentially disastrous experience into a marginally successful one, but he was pretty sure the breakthrough occurred sometime during his presentation of the Seymour Fischer Lecture, which was held at the Modern Language Institute, conveniently located just across the street from the Mitte Metro.

  "First off,” Dazzle began, “I want to tell you all woof, and say that I've had a terrific time during the last few months, woof woof. And just as expected, I've ended up learning more from you guys than you could ever learn from me, especially when it comes to language. For example, I've learned that you guys really take language seriously, not simply as a means of expressing yourselves (like most American mutts I know), but as a means of communicating with other cultures. You guys actually listen to other people, whatever country they're from. I guess it's the result of living on a continent with so many various languages and all, and everybody competing for the same euros and shelf-space. And so far as your canine—hey, stop apologizing! For my money, you speak it as well as any dog, right down to the guttural diphthongs. Good going!"

  The large audience of well-dressed, attractive men and women smiled a collective smile.

  (When in doubt, just compliment these people on their language skills, Dazzle thought happily. It's like turning on all the lights.)

  "Anyway,” Dazzle continued, shouldering up to the low-slung microphone, “I'll never forget my time in your country, or the things I've learned while I was here. For example, I now realize that language isn't just a pile of words in a dictionary. Language is the air we breathe, and the food we eat, and the stories we tell when we're together. Look, I know I can be pretty cynical and footsore about this crazy world, but there's one thing I've learned which gives me hope. Every effort to speak or listen is basically a good effort, so long as we keep trying. Which is, I guess, a long-winded way of saying thanks for having me. I had a terrific time. Oh—and one more thing."

  The audience moved forward just a little to the edge of their chairs. Dazzle didn't think he'd ever get used to it: the posture and intensity of almost-alien human beings listening.

  To him.

  (What a trip, Dazzle thought.)

  "Herzlichen Dank fr Ihre Wunderbare Gastfreundschaft,” Dazzle enunciated thickly, in possibly the worst German ever spoken on the face of the planet. “And now, if you don't mind, it's time for me to go."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Coming Attractions

  As we move into the year 2007, we look to one of our favorite futurists to entertain us. Bruce Sterling comes through in fine form with “Kiosk,” an excellent example of how revolution sometimes comes from unexpected sources.

  Next month we also plan to bring you Neil Gaiman's “How to Talk to Girls at Parties,” a fine new story from the author of Anansi Boys and Neverwhere.

  Our inventory runneth over with fine new tales from M. K. Hobson, Alexander Jablokov, Marta Randall, and William Browning Spencer, to name but a few. Do your holiday shopping at www.fsfmag.com and your friends will thank you throughout the year.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Damascus by Daryl Gregory

  The nosphere posited by Matthew Hughes is a grand form of a collective unconscious. We here at F&SF sometimes feel our magazine is a similar sort of thing—an amalgamation of the dreams and nightmares of a small portion of the humans occupying this planet.

  The nightmares we receive say a bit about the anxieties and fears dogging people nowadays. Consider, for instance, this speculation...

  Daryl Gregory lives in State College, Pennyslvania with his family. He has published several stories in our pages, including “The Continuing Adventures of Rocket Boy” and “Gardening at Night.” He's currently finishing up a novel entitled Pandemonium.

  * * * *

  I.

  When Paula became conscious of her surroundings again, the first thing she sensed was his fingers entwined in hers.

  She was strapped to the ambulance backboard—each wrist cuffed in nylon, her chest held down by a wide band—to stop her from flailing and yanking out the IV. Only his presence kept her from screaming. He gazed down at her, dirty-blond hair hanging over blue eyes, pale cheeks shadowed by a few days’ stubble. His love for her radiated like cool air from a block of ice.

  When they reached the hospital, he walked beside the gurney, his hand on her shoulder, as the paramedics wheeled her into the ER. Paula had never worked in the ER, but she recognized a few of the faces as she passed. She took several deep breaths, her chest tight against the nylon strap, and calmly told the paramedics that she was fine, they could let her go now. They made reassuring noises and left the restraints in place. Untying her was the doctor's call now.

  Eventually an RN came to ask her questions. A deeply tanned, heavy-set woman with frosted hair. Paula couldn't remember her name, though they'd worked together for several years, back before the hospital had fired Paula. Now she was back as a patient.

  "And what happened tonight, Paula?” the nurse said, her tone cold. They hadn't gotten along when they worked together; Paula had a temper in those days.

  "I guess I got a bit dizzy,” she said.

  "Seizure,” said one of the paramedics. “Red Cross guy said she started shaking on the table, they had to get her onto the floor before she fell off. She'd been seizing for five or six minutes before we got there so we brought her in. We gave her point-one of Lorazepam and she came out of it during the ride."

  "She's the second epileptic this shift,” the nurse said to them.

  Paula blinked in surprise. Had one of the yellow house women been brought in? Or one of the converts? She looked to her side, and her companion gazed back at her, amused, but not giving anything away. Everything was part of the plan, but he wouldn't tell her what the plan was. Not yet.

  The nurse saw Paula's shift in attention and her expression hardened. “Let's have you talk to a doctor, Paula."

  "I'm feeling a lot better,” Paula said. Didn't even grit her teeth.

  They released the straps and transferred her to a bed in an exam room. One of the paramedics set her handbag on the bedside table. “Good luck now,” he said.

  She glanced at the bag and quickly looked away. Best not to draw attention to it. “I'm sorry if I was any trouble,” she said.

  The nurse handed her a clipboard of forms. “I don't suppose I have to explain these to you,” she said. Then: “Is there something wrong with your hand?"

  Paula looked down at her balled fist. She concentrated on loosening her fingers, but they refused to unclench. That had been happening more often lately. Always the left hand. “I guess I'm nervous."

  The nurse slowly nodded, not buying it. She made sure Paula could hold the clipboard and write, then left her.

  But not alone. He slouched in a bedside chair, legs stretched in front of him, the soles of his bare feet almost black. His shy smile was like a promise. I'm here, Paula. I'll always be here for you.

  * * * *

  II.

  Richard's favorite album was Nirvana's In Utero. She destroyed that CD first.

  He'd moved out on a Friday, filed for divorce on the following Monday. He wanted custody of their daughter. Claire was ten then, a sullen and secretive child, but Paula would sooner burn the house down around them than let him have her. Instead she torched what he loved most. On the day Paula got the letter about the custody hearing, she pulled his CDs and LPs and DATs from the shelves—hundreds of them, an entire wall of the living room, and more in the basement. She carried them to the backyard by the box. Claire wailed in protest, tried to hide some of the cases, and eventually Pa
ula had to lock the girl in her room.

  In the yard Paula emptied a can of lighter fluid over the pile, went into the garage for the gas can, splashed that on as well. She tossed the Nirvana CD on top.

  The pile of plastic went up in a satisfying whoosh. After a few minutes the fire started to die down—the CDs wouldn't stay lit—so she went back into the house and brought out his books and music magazines.

  The pillar of smoke guided the police to her house. They told her it was illegal to burn garbage in the city. Paula laughed. “Damn right it's garbage.” She wasn't going to be pushed around by a couple of cops. Neighbors came out to watch. Fuck them, she thought.

  She lived in a neighborhood of Philadelphia that outsiders called “mixed.” Blacks and Latinos and whites, a handful of Asians and Arabs. Newly renovated homes with Mexican tile patios side by side with crack houses and empty lots. Paula moved there from the suburbs to be with Richard and never forgave him. Before Claire was born she made him install an alarm system and set bars across the windows. She felt like they were barely holding on against a tide of criminals and crazies.

  The yellow house women may have been both. They lived across the street and one lot down, in a cottage that was a near-twin of Paula's. Same fieldstone porch and peaked roofs, same narrow windows. But while Paula's house was painted a tasteful slate blue, theirs blazed lemon yellow, the doors and window frames and gutters turned out in garish oranges and brilliant whites. Five or six women, a mix of races and skin tones, wandered in and out of the house at all hours. Did they have jobs? They weren't old, but half of them had trouble walking, and one of them used a cane. Paula was an RN, twelve years working all kinds of units in two different hospitals, and it looked to her like they shared some kind of neuromuscular problem, maybe early MS. Their yellow house was probably some charity shelter.