by Brian Short
The policeman, a little older than Proteus, to judge by the gray in his thin mustache and the depth of the wrinkles around his eyes, resembled nothing so much, thought Proteus, as a kindly uncle. The man repeated what he’d said before, more or less. None of it made any sense to Proteus. One thing that was clear, though, was that something definite was expected of him, and the officer wasn’t going away until he’d given it.
“I’m sorry?”
“Pass-port,” the policeman said, and held his hand out to accept the document. His expression was stonily unreadable, yet for some reason Proteus couldn’t shake his impression this man was his kindly uncle. Or if not his, then someone’s. A kindly uncle. He produced his passport from his jacket pocket, opened it, and looked at his own photo and the name beside it: PROTEUS. He handed it over.
The police officer took a look inside the document, giving it only the most cursory glance before shutting it again and tucking it into his own jacket’s inner pocket.
The two of them looked at one another in silence for a moment.
The policeman barked something angry at Proteus, spit flying from his lips, his face suddenly changed, deeply reddened, almost purple. He was no longer the kindly uncle. Proteus only blinked in response.
With nothing more to add, the policeman marched brusquely away in the direction he’d come from.
Proteus returned to staring forward at the oddly shimmering, domed building, while crowds of people parted and flowed around him, like a stream around a bit of stuck deadwood. He felt a lightness in his mind, as if his mind were a helium balloon and might simply lift off and float away in the breeze. Just then, a sudden gust of wind blew around him, picking up the lighter debris of the street and whipping it around in a swirling vortex. A spray of sand or dust impacted his face and Proteus instinctively shut his eyes tight against it. When he gradually opened them again, a small woman stood directly in front of him, smiling an embarrassed, little smile. She wasn’t even five feet tall, and wore a bright red, puffy jacket and a rather large and heavy-looking backpack strapped to her back. Inky black hair spilled out from a knit cap and over her shoulders, and her huge, dark eyes blinked up at him like a happy sea creature’s.
“Hel-lo,” she said. Her voice was as small as her person, and she appeared to be quite young; not a child, though, despite her size.
“Hi.”
“You… are Am-er-ic-an.”
Proteus blinked. Her dark eyes blinked.
Though it had not been a question, he said, “Yes.”
“The police,” she said, “have… ta-ken… your passport.”
Proteus cocked his head slightly to one side. He tried to understand this new person, this new sea creature. He said, “Yes.” After a moment, he added, “Why?”
The young woman looked to either side – either watching for eaves-droppers or seeking invisible support? – before she turned again to face him, cocked her head slightly to match the inquisitive angle of his, then smiled brightly. She said, “So that… you… would not… have! It!”
He nodded. He understood.
Before she spoke again, Proteus could see something in her winding up, as if she were sorting carefully through all the words she could think of first, trying to find the right ones. “You could,” she told him, “have… giv-en… him. Money.”
“Yes.”
“He would. Maybe. Give it back.”
“Yes.”
“Too late now.”
He nodded. “Too late. Yes.”
“He’s…”
“He’s gone away,” Proteus finished for her.
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
Her smile broadened and she bounced on her toes.
“Thank you,” said Proteus. “You speak English really well.”
“I study,” she said. “I’m Byambaa.” She pressed her hand to her chest.
“Hi. Thanks, Byambaa.”
“Hi. I can practice. With you.”
“I’m…” Proteus hesitated.
“You need help.”
He nodded.
“Come… with me.”
•
The place where young Byambaa took him was an American-themed hamburger restaurant.
“This is good and… and you… will like it,” she told him. Already he’d learned to read through her pauses and odd use of punctuation, so that her way of speaking seemed by now more natural to him.
A hostess in a blonde bouffant wig and elaborate ivory chiffon dress seated them at a table in the back. Aside from her Asiatic features, it seemed she was supposed to be Marilyn Monroe. The mole painted onto her cheek was the final giveaway. And the place was crammed full of people, though the hour seemed an odd one. But then, Proteus didn’t know what the hour was.
Perhaps she’d thought the element of familiarity would help to put him at ease. But the restaurant was a fever dream of Americana, set within a concrete bunker and crowded with Union Jacks, posters from old westerns, photographs of antique gas pumps, movie stars, and a much-faded portrait of the elder George H.W. Bush, smiling as blandly as any man could. Proteus noticed that most of the clientele were young – Byambaa’s age, maybe students like herself. When a waiter approached their table wearing a leather jacket, his dark hair shaped with volumes of grease (either Elvis or James Dean, it seemed), he nodded first in recognition of her, then hesitated for a moment when he realized that Proteus probably truly was American, giving him a look as if to ask what would someone like you be doing here?
She ordered hamburgers for the both of them.
After the waiter left, the two sat in awkward silence for a time. Byambaa smiled sweetly, but then her smile faltered, became uncertain, dropped. She lowered her eyes shyly. Proteus looked around the dining room until his gaze lighted on a landscape painting of the “Mittens” rock formations of Monument Valley. The artist had depicted several noble-looking Navajo riding war ponies over the flat terrain, long black hair trailing behind them in the wind, vast red rocks on the horizon. Beside it hung an iconic photograph of John Wayne as a lawman, a publicity still from some movie or another. Proteus had never followed westerns.
Byambaa saw where he’d been looking and seized upon it. “In America,” she said, “you have… the cowboys… and the In-di-ans. Both sides.”
“The Indians were there first,” Proteus said. “But the cowboys won. Now it’s mostly cowboys.”
She thought about this, nodding. “Here,” she told him, “we are both. Indians and cowboys, both. We are… here first. We win… then we lose, then we’re still here.”
“I see.”
“You… can-not go back.”
“No… Wait. What?”
“You… cannot go… home… with-out your pass-port.”
“No.”
“What-will-you… do?”
“I don’t know. Maybe something else.” The waiter brought their hamburgers and set the plates onto the table between them. Beside the burgers were heaping piles of French fries and an assortment of small, foil packets of condiments: mustard, ketchup, mayonnaise. The packets were American brands, in keeping with the theme, and Proteus then realized where the mayo packet in his kitchen had come from.
“May-be…” Byambaa echoed. “You can go. To. American embassy.”
“I’m looking for something.”
She nodded enthusiastically and tucked into her food, picking the burger up and cramming as much into her mouth as would fit.
Proteus poked at a fry.
She set down her burger and chewed, watching him not eat. “You are… mif-fing… fomefing…” she said around a mouthful of food.
Proteus stared at the fry he’d poked.
She swallowed hard, looked like she might choke, didn’t, then said, “You have… dropped… pieces. Of yourself. Somewhere. Your. Soul.” Her eyes widened. “And… so-you… lost-it.”
He looked up.
“I am. Looking. Also,” she said, seeming almost, for an instant, on th
e verge of tears. “For something.”
He tilted his head skew-wise.
“Tell me,” she said, “about… the… future.”
•
“What?”
She set her food down and looked at him levelly. “It was. A. Simple question.”
“Yes, but…” he stared at her in astonishment, “why should you know about that?”
“Why are you… changing? Shapes?”
“I’m sorry.”
“It is… just-fine. Not to be sorry. But why?”
“It’s what I do.”
“I don’t see. Who you are. You look dif-fer-ent.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not to be sorry. But. You will-not… tell me… the future?”
“No.”
“Now you are back to yourself. Just-fine. I… just-fine. Tell me. This, but… why… were you star-ing?”
“I didn’t know I was staring. Sorry.”
“Not. Now. No… then. When-I… found… you. When the police-man. Found you. You were star-ing. At. Something?”
“I… I was looking at a building.”
“Yes.” She nodded emphatically.
“There was something about the building.”
“Yes. Yes.”
“It seemed to shimmer.”
“Shim-mer. Yes.”
“Do you know what that means?”
She nodded. “No.”
Proteus tried to think of how to describe shimmer to her. Finally, he held up both his hands with his palms toward her, fingers outspread, and he waved them back and forth really fast.
Byambaa only looked confused.
“Never mind.”
“This is,” she said, “what. Is wrong? With you?”
“That’s how I saw the building.”
She mimicked him with her small hands, holding them up and waving them really fast. “Like this?” People were staring.
“Yes,” Proteus said, “like that.”
Understanding seemed to awaken in her eyes then. “The Wrestling Palace!”
“That big, domed arena building. In the middle of everything.”
“Yes!” she said excitedly. “Yes! It is like that!”
“The Wrestling Palace.”
“It is like that!” And she did it again with her hands, waving them quickly back and forth.
It was his turn to look confused, and when she saw it in his face, Byambaa became suddenly serious. “Okay!” she said. “I will make a deal. With you. Okay.”
“Oh…”
“This is… a good deal. You are American. You will… under-stand.”
“Good.”
“Yes. I help-you. Find your… missing pieces. Your soul! Okay. You-will. Tell-me the fu-ture.”
“Oh.”
“You are. Do-ing. It. Again. You change shapes.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t help it.”
“Not to be sorry.”
“But why do you want to know? You’re so young. Nothing good ever comes from it.”
Byambaa, finished with her burger and fries already, eyed his, as yet untouched. He pushed his plate over to her.
“I am. Young?” she said, taking his plate, picking up his hamburger, holding it in front of her mouth. “Yes. Maybe. I have. No-time. I have. Visions? Of… some future. Of? No future. I take… things…” and she shook the burger violently, flinging specks of pickles and dressing into the air, “I see… no past… no future. In things! What. Is. Future? Is? Time… a shape? I want… to see… the shape.”
“The… shape?”
“Yes! The! Shape!”
He dropped his gaze down toward the empty spot on the table where his plate had been. “I can tell you the future. But you’ll regret it,” he said.
“Regret? What is this? To… know. To see. The. Shape.” She bit into the food. “I… haff to… regreft… fomfing…”
She had a point. Maybe. What Proteus could not quite grasp of her reasoning, he could at least appreciate that these were her conditions. Perhaps it was a fair trade, because the price, no less, was his missing soul, perhaps by magic returned. And so, amidst this lunchtime crowd (that had by now collectively lost interest in them both, despite his evident strangeness), while Byambaa stuffed her second burger of the day, almost whole, into her tiny little mouth – there would be no further words between them here; none were necessary – despite his misgivings, they came to an understanding.
SIX
Fake City
[Outside Time]
Not only had there been no complaint from our highlevel corporate customer, I was specifically requested to bring the next afternoon’s lunches directly to the office again myself. I didn’t understand this. But when my manager Roskind cornered me – literally backed me into a wedge between a workbench and a shelf of pans as soon as I walked through the door – she made the matter as clear as clear could be.
“You,” she said, pointing at me. “You take these upstairs now. Right now.” Her eyes were wide with fear, as if she were the one in the corner.
“I…”
“You…?” Was that doubt? Like lightning shot through the surface of her face, as soon as it had come, it was gone, like I’d never seen it. Her expression turned stony again, and manic. She was panting. She stood there, fierce and paranoid: the rudimentary hair, disheveled; the red-split veins at the corners of her eyes, wide, wobbling; and the stance: she took a wide stance, while she herself was not wide. I noticed these things, looking at her, following her ragged breathing, wondering at the likelihood of violence.
“Why me?” It wasn’t that I didn’t want to, but…
“They asked for you. Okay? They said to send ‘that same guy from yesterday’. The same. That was you. You went yesterday. You go now. You.” She pointed at me.
“Again. This time. Okay.”
Her lower jaw jutted out. “You’ll take these.” She indicated the several bags on the workbench, already prepared and waiting. So I carefully wound my fingers through the entwined handle-loops and was weighed down again, like before, with exactly as much as I could manage, not less, and no more. “Go now,” she said. “Go.” She made shooing waves with her fingers. “You go now. You.”
•
Because the tower had grown again during the night, the BOX Group no longer occupied the 129th floor as it had the day before, but was now on the 136th. As I rode, I wondered dimly what may have taken over the intervening numbers. The building would of course manage somehow to fill itself with tenants, much the same way as it grew, spontaneously. I was curious what this client of ours wanted so specifically with me – but more than this, I wanted to see how much closer this new height would bring me to the orb.
The 136th floor might almost be as high up as Mosquito.
As the elevator surged upward and I stood confined, dangling so many sacks from my fingers, I tried to remember what I’d got up to the night before. It was hazy. There was time, some span of it, or there’d been time, or something like it, after a manner, a duration of some sort. But the details were lacking because nothing had happened. Of course, I’d not slept. I’d watched Mosquito hang all ruddy-silver and weightless in the clouds. I’d felt it shimmer, quick and cold. I’d seen cockroaches scuttle over the wood-slat floors. They’d climbed the leg of the coffee table and onto its surface. They’d poked into the scattered objects left there – strange objects, scattered magic: the hat, the badge, the g-g-gun – and they creeped and crawled about, in and out of these things. I thought I’d maybe watched my own hand for a long time, washed as it was in the silver orb-light that shone through the window, and wondered that it could really be my hand, unfamiliar as it seemed. But that may have been another night, or every other night, or it may not’ve even happened at all. I worried about my job. Lousy as it was, I still worried, despite the lack of trouble I’d expected, despite the lack of incident to result in trouble. I still worried I would lose it over nothing.
No. Now. The client wanted to see
me again. For what? Why? For some reason, he, they, the BOX people, wanted me, I…
The elevator doors chimed and slung themselves apart. Brass, shiny. I’d seen myself in them, bent and split. I’d seen myself. Again: the reception of the BOX Group, vaguely Japanese. Black floors. Planter boxes in the corners with stalks of living weeds, leaves, segments. The desk was a long slab, a block of black granite. Three women behind it, two on the phone, the third available. She: young, prim, professional, something. I approached, these bags and bags hung limp from the strap-constricted flap-hands of each arm, more bags than I had bothered to count, more than I knew. I held them forward, up: see?
“Hi, I’m –”
“Yes, just set those up in the conference room, please.”
“Set? Up?” Upsetting. My words wouldn’t work.
“Right.” Her eyes flicked at mine. “Just in there. Please.”
“You’re sure?”
She darkened with annoyance. When the phone rang next, she looked away from me to answer it, giving at the same time an impatient finger-point toward the empty conference room. I shrugged and hauled the bags that way. She had at least been clear, quite specific. There. I went. Long, along.
•
The room was a restful bit of quiet, apart from the front, wide and silent, waiting. I settled the bags on the table, careful not to let them spill – gently, gently – and was again taken immediately by the view. Now I knew what to look for and there I found it: up, there, still just a little higher, though not so much higher as it was before: look up. That I could remember, and quite clearly, if a fog obscured the rest. Angle, tri-angle. Dot. Degrees of declension. Dot. These things. Only an approximation, some might say. Quite exact, I think. My head, aswim with figures and form. She knew. What. She? Coming closer, seeming nearer to the node, yes. She, she. The Orb of Ambiguous Approach. We are approaching the IT, she… moss, mossy; compared to it, my thoughts were slow. Gently set and do not falter. Further IT to Touch. I reached my fingers forward. I felt my mouth fall open. I stared at the sky.
“Excuse me.” That was a voice I knew, now, details re-emerged entangled. Two feet on the floor were mine. Two others, his.
