by Geoff Ryman
'Ah well. That at least hasn't changed.'
Both of them stand looking at each other. Milena moves first, vaguely walking in the direction of the beanbags. After a step or two forward, Rolfa vaguely stays where she is, near the door.
'You ah, you know that we're doing a production of the Comedy?' says Milena. It is possible that Rolfa hasn't heard. No one at the Zoo has seen or heard of Rolfa for two years.
'Oh yes,' says Rolfa. 'Something about space.'
Is that all you have to say? thinks Milena the director. Did I really get obsessed with this person? She tries to laugh, but it sounds more like a cough.
'It's going to be a rather major production,' says the director.
'Golly,' says Rolfa. She says it coldly, plonking the word down as if it were a brick. She communicates quite effectively that she is not impressed. Rolfa has become sharper. There is an edge to her.
'Well,' says Milena. 'They're sending me up on the Bulge, to try out the lighting.' Usually people brighten when told this, relieved to be able to ask a string of questions that will have interesting answers. Milena realises immediately, is a tactical conversational error. Rolfa is not brightening with interest.
'I'm going to Antarctica,' Rolfa says.
'Oh,' says Milena, brought up short.
'Good for business. Need the experience if I'm to get on. Thought you might like to know, anyway,' says Rolfa and begins the process of turning around in the cramped space. She is turning around to leave.
'Rolfa. Wait! Antarctica?'
Rolfa looks over her shoulder. 'Seems like the best place for me.'
'But what about your music?'
'Don't have any music,' says Rolfa. 'Poof! Gone.'
'Your singing!'
'My dear woman,' says Rolfa. That's it, the gentleness has gone because the sexual attraction has gone, perhaps even been soured. Perhaps to block it, they turn it to distaste. 'Do you sincerely believe that they are going to cast me as, say, Desdemona in Otello? Or a delicate Chinese heroine in a classical Beijing piece perhaps? Now if there was an opera called David and Goliath in which the part of Goliath had been written for a soprano, perhaps I would have something that could be part of my regular repertoire. Otherwise...' Another raising up of the hands, and a smile. 'Nothing.'
'But liede. Song of the Earth, concert singing. Don't just give up!' Milena apprehends the waste.
'Why not?' asks Rolfa.
'Because you're good,' says Milena, disappointed, looking away.
'I quite like the idea of going to Antarctica,' says Rolfa. 'It's not all ice. There are some places that are so cold that water has never fallen there. It's a desert, freeze-dried, just rock and gravel. My mother was in the desert once and she found the corpse of a walrus. Perfectly preserved, nothing to rot it, really. Three hundred miles from the sea.' She pauses. 'Well. I am the walrus.'
'What does that mean?' asks Milena, bleakly.
'No one knows how it got there.' said Rolfa. 'And walruses can't make music'
Milena finds that she has to sit down. She sits down and screens her face. She wants to protect her face from Rolfa, from the fact of her standing there.
'Rolfa,' she says without looking at her. 'Everyone says that the Comedy is a work of genius.'
'Really?' says Rolfa. 'Who orchestrated it?'
'The Consensus. But it is your basic music'
'Then let the Consensus take the credit,' says Rolfa. 'They've taken everything else.' And a sputter, a kind of laugh.
Milena finds anger. Anger she can understand and cope with. 'Rolfa! You always let yourself be defeated.'
Rolfa stands looking at her, and the eyes, turning back the anger, seem to say, don't mistake. This is a different Rolfa. Don't tell me I am easily defeated. Her eyes narrow and she decides to sit down.
She sits down, and leans forward on the beanbag to make a point. 'I appreciate your efforts,' she says. 'But you must understand that everything has changed for me.'
She leans back and seems to relax. She expands. 'It was quite strange for a while, becoming someone else. But I rather like it now. Father and I get on rather well. I'm his star girl. Revamped his accounting system. I came up with a system of time-sheeting. Everyone's time is costed. Time is money. May not seem much to you, but I'm proud of it.' Rolfa shrugs in place, a bit like a boxer.
Perhaps Milena looks bleak. She is staring at the floor, unhappily. This seems to exasperate Rolfa.
'I'm not that interested in what happens to the Comedy, Milena. It was not seriously written to be performed. I'm impressed that you've been able to get it on. But,' again the sputter. The sputter performs roughly the same function as the shudder-chuckle once did, though the sputter is more purely indignant. 'But the Comedy is hardly going to be anything new to me.'
'Was it hard to adjust?'
Rolfa raises her hands behind her head and seems to muse, as if considering something impersonal. 'It was rather strange, I suppose, yes. I could never be sure which bits had been lopped off, or what would grow back in their place. I positively terrified Zoe and Angela for a while. Called them stupid moos. I found I could not stand women for a while. I had a few drinking buddies, men mostly, and from time to time, rather unexpectedly, I found myself fancying them. It would always be terribly, terribly unexpected, because until just before then, I rather identified with them. They said that it was rather like having one of their mates suddenly make a pass. None of them ever took me up on it, of course.'
Milena is looking at her wrist. She is looking at the Mice crawling in and out of her skin, patrolling, still asking: where is Rolfa? Where is Rolfa? She wants to put both her hands around Rolfa's wrist, feel the warmth and the silkiness of the fur. It's starting. The love is starting, again.
'It was fun wasn't it?' says Milena. 'Those three months.' Milena's voice is pleading, frail.
'Oh yes,' agrees Rolfa, somewhat dismissively. 'Long time ago now. I seem to recall spending most of my time in a daze in that room of yours. I got horribly demoralised. Sorry about the mess.'
'I didn't mind,' whispers Milena.
'I should have done,' sniffs Rolfa.
'Are you tidy now?'
'Try to be,' says Rolfa, almost snapping.
I'm calling to you across a very wide, deep canyon, and the wind is blowing the words away. The wind is blowing you away.
'Are you going to see your mother?' Milena asks. She coughs. 'In Antarctica?'
'Oh yes. You and her became friends didn't you? Allies against the Family.' Rolfa smiles. She has bright new teeth. Fangs. 'It'll be nice to see old bag. I feel a bit guilty really. I haven't written her or anything.'
Milena feels her mouth go thin with disapproval. Only the fact that Hortensia might call herself an old bag has stopped her being very angry.
Rolfa sees the expression and sputters, and shakes her head.
'Your mother is very nice person,' says Milena. 'I was wondering how she was. I haven't heard.'
'Neither have we,' said Rolfa. 'She's gone quiet on us. I expect she's been on a binge.'
The letter in its sealed packet has not yet been written. But you know already, Rolfa, that The Family has decided Hortensia is to come back. You just think it's none of my business. You are smiling, with your new fangs.
'When are you off?' Milena asks.
'Oooh, about three weeks.' The conversation is flagging. There is too much and therefore too little to say.
'Do you... uh... have a boyfriend now then?' Milena asks. Trying to sound casual, her voice trails off into high, forlorn question.
'No,' says Rolfa, abruptly.
The destruction is complete. Neither of us have anyone. The director begins to feel horribly alone. Her life is her work. Somehow the memory of Rolfa has always been there, in the work, in the music, in the very sound of it, to keep her company. The work and the fact of Rolfa's living presence, somewhere hidden in the vastness of London, has made the connection seem real. The Comedy had made it real. But the ar
tist is not the work. And this Rolfa was not the artist.
'Rolfa. I'm very, very sorry.' Milena says, meaning, I'm sorry I destroyed you.
'Don't be sorry for me,' says Rolfa, moving her shoulders as if punching something. If anything, this new Rolfa is far more masculine. 'Don't ask this Rolfa to be sorry, this Rolfa wouldn't exist without what happened. Wouldn't go back to being the old Rolfa for the world. What? All that moping about? All that dreary nonsense, writing, rewriting, pinning your hopes on nothing. What would have happened to that Rolfa in the end, eh? Dead drunk at the Spread, that's where she'd be.'
'Or writing another Comedy.'
This Rolfa sighs, rising and falling like the sea. 'Or writing another Comedy, yes. But all that's gone now.'
'It's as if you died. It's as if I killed you.'
'Oh don't go getting soppy on me, woman.' This Rolfa sulks. 'Can't stand sop anymore. What's the use of it?'
'You feel it anyway. You might as well face it.'
'Yes, but there's no need to draw it out. That's what I find with opera now, the people just stand there drawing it out. Takes them two hours to say goodbye to each other. I mean, what's the point?'
'If they have things to say...' Milena doesn't finish. 'I... I have time to go to a kaff, if you'd like some food.'
Rolfa's smile has gone queasy. She's frightened that I still fancy her, she wants to avoid that. She's come here to make a clean break.
'No, I'll be getting back home to eat,' said Rolfa, and slaps the beanbag. She reaches for her hat and puts it back on.
She probably thought about not telling me at all.
'Thank you for coming to see me,' says Milena, going cold herself.
'Well,' says Rolfa generously. 'Old time's sake, you know. Sorry I caught you while you were so busy.'
'I'm always busy,' says Milena, her voice dull.
'Well,' says Rolfa with a dreadful heartiness. 'You're a success.'
Pause. Milena goes colder. 'I've got something of yours,' she says, rising up from her beanbag. She goes to her closet, her new Tarty flat has drawers and closets, and she finds the thing stuffed behind preserving jars and spare batteries. With a sudden wrench of frustration, she pulls it out, scattering jars. A dirty lump of felt smelling of childhood. She turns and presents it to Rolfa.
'This,' she says.
'Piglet,' says Rolfa staring at it.
'Take it, I don't want it,' says Milena, angry now.
Rolfa has already reached up and taken it. She sits with it on her lap, and strokes its ears, and feels its stomach, as if to make sure something is still there. She shudders, as if touching something cold, and then passes it back to Milena. 'I left him on purpose. It was a present. Old time's sake.' She shrugs, in a gesture of utter helplessness.
The two of them look at each other. Milena reaches up and takes Piglet back.
'Someone's cooking supper for me,' says Rolfa and stands. She extends her hand. 'Goodbye.'
'Goodbye,' says Milena and shakes it. Rolfa leans over her, vast, intimidating, like an adult to a child. Milena wants to fight. Why bother to tell me at all? Why didn't you just go?
Rolfa bunches herself under the door, out of the doll's house, onto the stairway. Milena stands in the doorway, feeling as swollen and bitter as a wound. She thinks it is only social habit that is making them go through this ritual.
And Rolfa turns and smiles with her new white teeth, a beautiful wide smile that the old Rolfa could not have made. 'Such larks,' she says. 'I'm going to have such fun in Antarctica.'
Milena can suddenly imagine it, dogs and ice and stars. She can see what might have been, Hortensia and Rolfa, happy on the ice that was as white as Rolfa's new smile. An Antarctic smile.
Out from one eye, in a trail, there is a line of moisture, and damp shiny fur. 'Pooh and Piglet go in search of the South Pole. Eh? Who'd have thought it? Me to Antarctica, you up into space. Well if you think it's hell down here, watch out, cause it's purgatory up there.' Rolfa barks out a laugh and makes a ghost punch at Milena's shoulder. 'Couldn't keep either of us down, could they? Ah? Ha-ha-ha!' Rolfa is shouting.
Awkward, she shuffles backwards on the landing.
'Anyway, take care of yourself, old girl,' she bellows at Milena, too loudly, swaying dangerously on the tiny landing. 'Take care of yourself. Get your work done. Don't worry about me, I'll be all right. Right as rain, eh? Ta-ra!'
Rolfa starts to climb down the steps backwards, one at a time, still looking at Milena, still howling as loudly. She is shouting more loudly than Milena has ever heard anyone shout, shouting across a tundra colder than mere nature could ever blast flat, through the Dead Space.
'Be good, and if you can't be good have fun. Remember, tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life! Ah? Ah? Ha-ha!' The head is laughing as it disappears below the level of the landing.
The shouting continues. 'Don't take any wooden nickels! Ha! Old Canadian expression! Mind your pees and queues! Keep well! Keep well! Keep well!' It is a fervent hope. The voice falls away, with a kind of cough.
Milena tries to go back to packing. She has packing to do after all. Plenty to do. And she looks out of her window, in the dusk now, and there is Rolfa, huge and swaying, her back towards Milena, walking towards the quay.
And me, the one who remembers, I know. I know that this is the last I'll see of Rolfa. There is her back, the gait, the huge round shoulders, the sagging head, all of it familiar. As familiar as if we still lived together.
And oh! Rolfa turns around and waves, waves from the shore of the Slump, where the punt is still waiting for her. 'Ta-ra!' she booms as if across the ice.
And little Milena waves a little wave. The lamps are out, and it is dark in the room. Does Rolfa see her. I think not. But wait, yes, she would.
There is a fluorescent patch of skin now on my palm. Is it glowing? Does she see it? Am I burning?
I'll never know. Rolfa gets in the boat, but she is still standing. She stays standing as the narrow unsteady craft wobbles its way back from the shore. The hat is turning over and over in her hands. Milena stands by the window, stroking Piglet's ears, smelling childhood, and she is thinking: what do I do now? What can I do? I'm getting old and selfish and I need to have someone here, someone real and alive, not a memory.
Me, I know what lies ahead. Ahead of her lies space and Mike Stone.
Behind her lies love.
I remember Rose Ella's room, the room I stayed in at the Estate of the Restorers, who wanted to bring back the past. I remember the Chinese panels on the walls of the room and the spaces in the inlay, the shoes, the clothes, the dolls and the bare gaps the people left behind them. The Dead Spaces, full of the things they might have felt, might have thought, might have done.
If only, only, they were still here.
Antarctica was one of the few places in the world from which it would be impossible to see the Comedy.
And suddenly Milena is in the Bulge, saying goodbye. Through the window, she sees the stars. She can sense their weight now. The stars to her are anchors, solid and unmoving hooks on which to hang things. She is calling for Bob, plucking the strings of thought that are in the air.
'Going.' she says. All the other feelings, of farewell and anticipated return throb in the lines of gravity. She passes on feelings, direct.
Ah, love, hums the Angel, as if plucking strings in her.
And she asks him a question she would be too embarrassed to put into words, a personal question about him that was also a heartfelt mystery to her, a question that was somehow one with the unmoving stars.
Bob answers. We're embedded in the flesh, the Angel says. He means the flesh of the Consensus, and for a moment, Milena can feel the flesh of the Consensus in her mind, a mountainous and tangled pattern etched in the lines of gravity.
But once we leave it, he says, meaning once we become Angels, then we are embedded in the lines. And we just keep dancing in the wires. And Milena feels how the self could slither up out of
the Slide, the Charlie Slide. The self is a perturbation in the forces of attraction. Gravity pulled energy out of nothing. The Angels do not need feeding. The self is embedded in the universe, beyond harm.
Milena remembers: I look through eyes of flesh at the darkness between the stars, the small part of the universe that flesh can see. And I'm thinking that we are embedded in flesh too, and I'm wondering if we can become Angels, too.
Goodbye, says Bob, but the feeling is: you'll be back, girl, you'll be back here again.
'Time to go,' says Mike Stone, months before I marry him, ducking down into the little Bulge, and feeding the last of my equipment into the holding maws of the cargo racks. I'm strapped into the living chair, and Mike Stone gives me a quick kiss on the top of my head. Like a butterfly, it is beautiful, but I'm not sure I don't want to swat it away from my hair.
And there is my future husband, standing in the open mouths of the two Bulges, where they meet and kiss. He gives me an odd little wave, just the tips of his fingers moving, as if in a breeze.
Then there is a hiss and the seal is broken. The mouths of the Bulges purse shut, shifting and crinkling and turning inward. I look out of the window, at the stars. I think of the lines and the Angels moving up and down them. The air is full of people dancing.
Next.
And here it comes, on a high, hot April day of a different year, with a different Milena. She walks slowly, musing how to bring the Comedy down to Earth. The animals will be Zoo performers, the souls of the dead will be the dry and empty clothes of the Graveyard. And the clouds of lovers? Will the peak of Purgatory be the summit of the orbit of the Bulge?
There are cries of children, climbing scaffolding, swinging from it. Monkeys. And there is a clutch of Bees, sitting on the walkway to the Zoo, in the sun.
The Bees have learned how to do something new. Perhaps they learned it from the Bulge. Perhaps they learned it from me. They can change their genes by thinking. And now there are leaves sprouting out of their backs, thick, broad leaves on sinewy stems, like purple rubber plants.
