Adiklein stood, and for one terrifying moment, Blake thought the conversation was over. Thankfully Adiklein gestured for him to follow. The second floor balcony was a loop around the circumference of the grand lounge below; they were apparently going for a stroll.
“When we study this two-class system closely,” Adiklein continued, “as with all things in nature, we find a third force, in this case, a third class, so to speak.”
“Like a different kind of worker bee?” Blake interjected.
“In a way, this person looks like a worker bee, but something about him is not quite right. This bee flies a little erratically. This bee is unpredictable. Let’s call him le papillon, the butterfly.”
Adiklein ran his finger along the smooth marble railing. “Now this papillon, he doesn’t fit in with all the other bees. ‘No, no, no,’ they say. ‘We don’t like this guy. He’s weird; he is not like us.’ This is because this papillon can see things that worker bees cannot. Le papillon does not see the world as it is. He sees the world, but he also sees . . . a . . . someplace else.”
“What’s the someplace else?”
Adiklein smiled broadly. “How would I know, Blake? I am no papillon.”
As if working out a riddle, Blake began verbalizing his thoughts. “Maybe it’s like where the mind goes when you get a great idea. Like when I’m at the gym and I just—”
“Blake, please,” Adiklein said while suppressing a laugh. “Don’t embarrass yourself. I am not talking about you. You are most definitely not a papillon. For you this someplace else will always be unknown.”
Blake was too confused now to conceal his disappointment. “But aren’t you saying that in order to join those guys down there, you have to become a butterfly first?”
“No, Blake. The men you see down there were never le papillon. Le papillon is too fragile, too easily crushed. But more importantly le papillon has no interest in sitting in a boring room filled with ugly old men. He would rather flutter about and dream. Those men down there don’t give a shit about fluttering and dreaming; they don’t even have wings. And they don’t need them; if they want to go somewhere, they just get in their private jets and go.”
“So what’s the deal with this papillon, then?” Blake said a little too loud. “I don’t get it.”
Adiklein put a finger to his lips. “I beg to differ. You do get it, Blake.” His voice intensified but remained soft. “You see, sometimes a worker bee who is a little more clever than the others meets one of these papillons but doesn’t go along with the popular belief that he is crazy or worthless. Mais non, this clever bee is intrigued by the butterfly and decides to follow him. And every so often, this clever bee is rewarded, as his papillon leads him to someplace else, a special garden, let’s say, where many exotic flowers grow.
“The butterfly, well, what does he care about the value of these flowers? He wants only to dance in the glow of their beauty. But the clever bee knows exactly the value of these new flowers, and he knows exactly how to harvest their precious and exotic pollen. This is the real secret of how the clever worker bee can one day join the Blancheforts and Rhodeses of this world.”
Adiklein looked down again. “These men, Blake, they understand the art of collecting butterflies. You have caught your first one. Good for you. But unfortunately he has flown away.” With a casual shrug, Adiklein added, “Too bad.”
“I’ll get him back,” Blake said. “I promise.”
Adiklein smiled gently. “I have confidence in you, my friend. And when you do get him back, may I suggest something?”
Blake nodded.
“Pin him to a display case.” Adiklein pressed his thumb down hard on the marble railing as if pushing in a thumbtack. “Where he can produce without flying away. Because without your butterfly, to me, Blake, you are just one more worker bee among many. And there is nothing like stepping on an obsolete bee to give one a quick taste of Schadenfreude.”
CHAPTER 18
THIS IS NOT AN ORANGE
A pair of orange butterflies floated along the edge of the bluff, dancing around the rocks and shrubs that stood guard over the otherwise unprotected 100-foot drop. Below lay a crescent-shaped beach cluttered with driftwood and tangles of reddish-brown seaweed. In a few places, the wood had been piled into barricades against the wind and the remains of a beach fire could be seen.
“Hey!” Adam called down.
Beatrice looked up from the spot where she had just dragged a surfboard-shaped piece of driftwood.
Adam help up a large, white paper bag. “Ham and Swiss! Macaroni salad! Root beer! Sound good?”
Beatrice gave a thumbs-up. “And here we have our picnic table!”
“I like it! How do I get down there?”
“Jump!” Beatrice said, deadpan.
Adam shook his head, smiling. “Funny!”
“Over there!” She pointed to a spot where precarious wooden steps zigzagged down to the beach.
They had spent the morning out on the bluffs, walking the paths and exploring the cliffs. Searching through tide pools for sea anemones, Adam proudly identified most all of them. As Beatrice had suggested, there was no serious talk, and no mention of the night before. It felt awkward at first, pretending like nothing had taken place between them, and Adam even wondered if he had made more of their sexual encounter than he should have. But then he caught Beatrice looking at him with a glint of longing in her eyes and he understood, she was protecting them both against the moment, very soon, when they would be saying good-bye.
As the minutes and hours slipped by, they slowly found their way back to that friendly banter they had forged on the boat the night before—teasing each other, joking, arguing playfully—and by lunchtime all awkwardness had dissolved.
“I can’t believe you went to the Galápagos Islands and didn’t go on a single nature tour.” Adam wiped away bits of sand and macaroni salad from the corner of his mouth; it was by far the best macaroni salad he had ever eaten, sand or no sand. “Did you even go to any of the nature reserves?”
“Afraid not.” Across the surfboard table, Beatrice struggled to keep from eating her hair along with her ham-and-cheese sandwich. The wind on the beach had picked up.
“Did you see any blue-footed boobies?”
“Sorry, missed the boobies.”
“What the hell did you do there? Don’t you remember anything? Come on, you’ve got to give me something.”
“Well, let’s see.” Beatrice closed her eyes. “What I remember most about the Galápagos Islands . . . the aquamarine-colored toilets at the Barranco Bar on San Cristóbal Island.”
Adam stopped chewing his sandwich. “Toilets?”
“I got smashed on some cheap rum with this wannabe pirate named Guillermo—he had a parrot and everything. I ended up getting horribly sick.” Beatrice shrugged and took a sip of root beer.
“You don’t understand how much I love those islands. For months I was obsessed. I watched every National Geographic special, every documentary, every YouTube video. Oh, and there’s even this great virtual tour thing where you can scan around each island. Seriously, I know everything there is to know about the Galápagos Islands.”
“You don’t know everything,” Beatrice countered.
“There are seventy-three different species of lava lizards; would you like me to name them?” Adam gave a cocky raise of his eyebrows.
“You’ve never even been there,” Beatrice shot back. “For all you know, the Galápagos don’t even exist!”
“Of course they exist—”
“Prove it,” Beatrice challenged.
“Wait, don’t tell me you’re one of those crazy creationist people?”
“I’m much worse.” Beatrice gave Adam an evil scowl. “Seriously, what empirical proof of its existence do you have, besides what you’ve seen on your computer screen?”
“Well, for one thing, I’ve seen a map!”
“Paper and ink. Or with you, probably just glowing pixels or w
hatever.”
“You just told me you were there!” Adam pointed at her. “You’re my proof!”
“I was lying.” Beatrice’s Mona Lisa smile was on full display. “I used to be a phenomenal liar, you know.”
“It is a scientific fact that the Galápagos Islands exist! It is an established fact!”
“What’s the difference between blind faith and blind facts?”
Adam paused for a moment, distracted by how much fun it was arguing with Beatrice like this. “‘What’s the difference between blind faith and blind facts?’” Adam repeated the question, buying himself a little time. “Facts can be proven.”
“But you haven’t proved them. You just sit there accepting them, one blind fact after another.” Beatrice pushed harder. “And the more you stuff your head with information that you yourself have not experienced, or discovered, or pondered, or even questioned, the more you confuse information with knowledge. Therefore, Mr. Scienceman, until you’ve seen the aquamarine-colored toilets at the Barranco Bar, the Galápagos Islands do not exist for you.” She finished her root beer.
Adam had no rebuttal, just a strong urge to push Beatrice down in the sand and make love to her right there on the beach. As if sensing this, Beatrice leaned across the driftwood table and mock-whispered, “Facts are dead.”
Adam laughed. “‘What do you mean, ‘facts are dead’? Like as in, ‘God is dead’?”
“Yep, that’s right.” Beatrice’s face lingered close to Adam’s as she continued to playfully push to win the debate. “You’ve got all these militant atheists out there, so happy to denounce religion, without the balls to even consider the assumptions of their own materialistic belief system. Sorry, but science does not have all the answers. Facts are dead. The brain is just as unreliable as the heart.”
“Oh, I see,” Adam said with mocking smugness. He was aching to kiss her but not yet ready to concede her point. “So basically what you’re saying is that knowledge is evil? Education is evil?”
“Of course not,” she rebuffed. “It’s lopsided. Like you. Your head is so packed full of answers that you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be in a state of question. To be open.” Beatrice pushed the macaroni salad out of the way so she could lean closer. “That was the Adam I fell in love with. The boy who knew how to create worlds. And I don’t mean digital ones.”
As Beatrice continued to stare into Adam’s eyes, the sounds of the world around him were slowly fading away. Again she seemed to be posing a question without words, trying to reach something inside of him that was aching to respond. But the intensity of her look was too much, and Adam started to fidget. Seeing this, Beatrice quickly broke the moment with a smile and a quick kiss on his cheek.
Seagull cries and the sound of pounding surf returned to Adam’s ears. Beatrice stood up and looked out at the water for a moment before turning back to Adam. “Last night you told me you thought this other part of you was already dead.”
Adam nodded.
“How about I prove to you that it’s not?”
An hour later Adam sat at one of the picnic tables on the bluff facing Beatrice. They had just spent 20 minutes at a grocery store, meticulously picking out two oranges from the produce section. Beatrice insisted that they be as similar as possible—in size, color, and ripeness. Now she set both of them down in front of Adam.
“Pick one.”
After Adam randomly pointed at one, Beatrice picked up the orange and started peeling it. “This is a version of a game I learned from some kids in Lhasa.” Beatrice handed the peeled orange to Adam. “Now since we bought these both at the same market, they should taste pretty much the same, right?”
“Right.”
“First taste this one.”
Adam pulled off a section of orange and ate it.
“How is it?”
Adam shrugged. “Pretty good.”
“What does it taste like?”
“Like an orange.”
“Okay,” Beatrice instructed. “Now with this orange”—she pointed to the second orange—“we’re going to feed your other half—the part of you that you think is already dead.”
“This is silly.”
“It isn’t silly. Now pick it up.”
Adam took the orange and started to peel it. Beatrice reached over and stopped him.
“Wait! Don’t peel it. Not yet. First just look at it. Look at what you’re holding in your hands.”
Adam looked at the orange for a moment then back to Beatrice. “Okay. I looked at it.”
“Don’t look at me.” Beatrice sounded like a schoolteacher. “Keep looking at the orange.” Adam did as he was told.
“Now just tell me what you see. What are you holding?”
Was this a riddle of some sort? Adam shrugged. “I’m looking at . . . an orange.”
“No, it’s not,” Beatrice asserted. “What is it?”
“It looks pretty much like an orange to me.”
“No. That’s just a word. That’s not what you’re holding in your hand,” Beatrice said. “Just listen to the question I’m asking, and don’t try to answer it with your mind.” Beatrice’s voice became quieter. “Pretend for a moment that you’ve never seen one of these before, and just look at it. Consider it. Stay with the question, ‘What is this thing I’m holding?’”
Adam stared at the orange-colored ball in his hand. The skin had a shine to it but it was also porous. Adam noticed how uniform the pores were, like his own skin but more so. The color itself wasn’t uniform. Within the orange was a range of colors, lighter and darker.
Beatrice had slipped over to sit next to Adam. Her mouth was close to his ear, her voice breathy. “Now close your eyes.” Adam did. “Just feel it in your hands,” she continued. “How heavy is it? Is the skin cool to the touch?” Beatrice slipped her hand onto one of Adam’s hands, guiding him. “Now with your fingernail, just scratch the skin.”
Adam did, and Beatrice slowly brought the orange up under his nose. Adam took in its scent as Beatrice continued. “Smell is a language. Try to hear what it’s saying.”
Beatrice guided Adam’s hand to puncture the skin with a fingernail. He inhaled again.
“Imagine what could be inside something that smells like that. Let your mouth imagine what it’s going to taste like. Is it sour? Sweet?”
Adam was salivating so much he had to swallow.
“Now let’s peel the skin away. Slowly. And as we do, I’m going to tell you a secret.” Beatrice helped Adam slowly peel the orange. “Inside this protective skin, beneath the outer wall of this miraculous object, there is a treasure made of pure light. Light that has traveled millions of miles from the nearest star just for you. Just to be tasted by you, to be consumed by you. And now it’s here, in your hands, a sweet golden ball of pure light, right in front of you.”
Beatrice brought the peeled orange up to Adam’s lips.
“Now bite.”
Like an animal Adam bit into it, his eyes still closed. Juice spilled down his face. He opened his eyes and looked over at Beatrice, blinking at the brightness of daylight and the beauty of her face.
It was by far the best fucking orange Adam had ever tasted.
Beatrice smiled. “Why hello . . . There’s the Adam I remember. Still here, and despite reports to the contrary, very much alive.”
CHAPTER 19
CHICKEN BOY RETURNS
Adam leaned against the white fence that separated the bluff from Main Street. Behind him were the public restrooms where he washed up following the transcendent orange experience. Splashing cold water on his face had only emphasized what he was already feeling: physically and mentally refreshed. Open, the way he had felt sitting up on the water tower the day before.
Adam’s sense of contentment, however, was short lived. There was a white minivan parked directly across Main Street, and until now the sun’s reflection had made it impossible to see into the van’s back window. But when a delivery truck slowed to a stop just be
yond the van, casting a shadow over it, Adam became aware that someone inside was watching him. It took a moment, but Adam eventually recognized the face; it was the boy who had seen him up on the water tower, the boy who had made those crazy chicken sounds, and now, for whatever strange reason, that same boy was staring at him. What’s more, it appeared to Adam that the boy’s face was stained with tears.
Adam then witnessed something that absolutely terrified him. The boy in the van began to shake his head back and forth, violently, before slamming it repeatedly down into the headrest in front of him.
The delivery truck moved on, and the boy disappeared into the sun’s glare. But the line of cars that had backed up behind the truck now flowed freely past, creating a flip-book of shaded images: adult arms reaching back to contain the boy, the boy flailing, the boy being flipped around in his seat, the boy being strapped in. After a moment, the brake lights went on, the minivan pulled out, and as it accelerated away, a final blast of direct sunlight off the back windshield shot Adam in the face.
“Are you still checking out today?”
It took Adam several moments to realize there was someone standing on the sidewalk next to him. Blinking away the sunburn his irises had just received, Adam finally made out Dorothy, the woman from the front desk at the Mendocino Hotel, standing there, looking at him expectantly.
“Because you’ve already missed checkout,” Dorothy said with a somewhat exacerbated smile, “and we, like, need to get into your room and clean it.”
“Oh, right. Sorry about that. I’d actually love to stay another night. Is that—would that be possible?”
Dorothy sighed. “Weeelll, if you want to stay in the same room, we might need to move some other people around . . .”
Adam realized he was being cued to grovel. “It would be really wonderful if you could do that for me. I would really appreciate it . . .”
“All right.” Dorothy broke into the more flirtatious smile she seemed to have been saving. “I’m heading in to work now, so let me see what I can do.”
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