“It’s alright. We’ll be alright.” Josh took his hand and held it.
Alfred didn’t crane to see if anyone could see. Frankly he didn’t care. They sat hand in hand, watching the sunset bleed into the sky. He didn’t know if he had helped Josh, but Josh had certainly helped him.
***
Slowly but surely, Josh healed. It began that day on the veranda, when he learned it could have happened to anybody. He looked at himself in the mirror and lifted his chin. You have nothing to be ashamed of.
Alfred hadn’t volunteered further information, but he didn’t want to pry. It must have taken courage to admit he had been a victim himself. Perhaps it was as well: if he had learned the identity of Alfred’s attacker he would have killed him without a thought.
He kept doing his updates, Alfred composed his Dispatches. When recounting it later they focused upon the stories, the characters. Like Roadkill Trev, who they met dragging a blood soaked skunk behind him. “G’day, cocks!” he cried. “Fancy a cookout?” He spent the next hour demonstrating how to put an animal out of its misery - “Give it a bonk on the head, it won’t even feel it.” Or Marisa Marsters, a madcap dilettante. She went skydiving and whacked into the side of a cliff; she was last seen in a full body cast, indestructible. Or the squeaky blonde who leapt out of nowhere, exclaimed, “I’m writing a book about you!” and had her picture taken with them.
These were the signposts of their journey as described to friends, landlords, enemies. Running alongside, like a secret seam, were Josh’s feelings. He didn’t know where they came from. The Code stated he shouldn’t experience emotions other than content and gratitude. Yet here they were.
He’d wake up in the night, feel if Alfred was there. If he wasn’t he felt a terrible desolation. If the solid form lay beside him he’d edge in closer, feel safe. If his timing was off and he couldn’t go back to sleep, he’d watch Alfred’s face, the expressions crossing it. He became aware of this need for his friend during the day, too - not the co-dependency of a teenager but wanting Alfred with him, as was his right.
Perhaps that’s why it took him so long to identify it. It was like nothing he’d known, and it grew stronger every day. Even though he knew it must be wrong, he nurtured it and kept it safe.
***
It was Josh’s turn to choose the next destination. They’d turned it into a game: they’d get up, have breakfast and sit with a globe between them. They’d close their eyes, spin the globe and go where their finger landed.
Josh did all this, solemn as a child making a birthday wish. “Where’ve you got?” Alfred asked, magnifying glass at the ready.
“Farva.” Josh could picture it: sleepy canals, sepia ruins, groves haunted by ancient gods.
“Farva it is.”
Farvan Finagles
If Alfred had guessed the thoughts Josh was having, he might have stopped torturing himself. Knowing him, he would find something else to worry about. Was he the sort of person to inflict on anyone, never mind someone as impressionable as the artificial?
It should’ve grown easier with time. Spending all their work and leisure hours together, holding each other in the still of the night. On one hand they could cosy up, Josh’s leg over his, face against his neck. The other - they might have been worlds apart.
The problem was Josh’s innocence. He was unbelievably good, a goodness you couldn’t believe existed. It dumbfounded Alfred at every turn. He wasn’t good. He knew his faults, knew that when it came to it, he was a cock. A drunken, self pitying, manic depressive cock.
He was used to getting what he wanted. As a young man he’d acted like he was God’s gift and when you do that, people play along. There had always been fan boys to give him a thrill for the price of an autograph. He aged like a fine port, thinking soon it’d be time to settle down. Time to choose partners for more meaningful attributes than cute faces and bum hithers.
In his head he was thirty, fit and unmarked, so when he saw revulsion at his middle aged spread, wrinkles and scars, it hurt. He’d turned into something he despised, a leech who went crawling for trade, for a hand or blow job on a dark pier. One night, sick at heart, he swore it would never happen again. He hadn’t had sex in so long, he had almost forgotten what it was like.
Just as he’d accepted his loveless, lonely lot, Josh entered his life. A lifetime’s experience was useless. You cracked a grubby joke and he stared. Once they met two women who introduced themselves as “Beatrix and my better half.” Josh called them “those nice sisters”!
You’d think you were getting somewhere. Flowers your side of the bed, looking at you that way, ambushing you nude. Alas, there’d be an explanation. He liked flowers, he was adjusting his eyes, he was so used to being naked he’d forgotten the need for clothes. He had no idea where you could and couldn’t touch. Alfred would take himself off to the bathroom for a shamefaced quarter hour. Then Josh knocked and asked if he was alright, he was making funny noises -
Round and round they went, the old joke of lover and beloved. Talk about humiliating.
One of the nicest things about travelling with Josh was he had no preconceptions. A human would draw up a list a mile long, ticking off ‘must see’ sites, ‘must do’ activities. That’s all very well for a skim but it doesn’t give you a feel for a place.
Alfred couldn’t abide tourism. The people were bad enough: loud voiced with tacky shirts, clicking their beebos, telling little Timmy that Empress Alvira was stabbed twenty times on this very spot. It was the construct of tourism he had issues with, how it robbed a destination of charm and mystery. How you’d be penned in for two hours, in shrivelling heat or pouring rain, only to be rushed around a temple like any other. All the places you wanted to see were cordoned off or out of order.
Since it was the Faith’s heartland there were no robots. Alfred saw people, natives and tourists alike, staring at Josh. He hoped the artificial wouldn’t notice. No such luck.
“They don’t like robots, do they?”
“Not really.”
The old Josh would have hopped on the next craft. Since then he’d developed a hard shell of bloody mindedness. The next time he caught somebody gawping - a padre on a cycle - he waved. As the priest watched in horror, he toasted him with engine oil.
They hurried through the obligatory “boring churchy stuff” (Alfred’s quote) and “artistic epiphanies” (Josh’s). They couldn’t avoid the Paradisium, although it was debatable how much a pair of atheists would get out of it.
“Doesn’t it remind you of CER?” Josh kept saying, as their guide - a dyspeptic, harassed monk - took them from one dome to the next. As his creators were secular, he didn’t know anything about Zara. Alfred had to explain every mural. The war to recover Prince Caspar. Zara’s breakdown over her beloved Naomi. How she’d stormed the city singlehanded, only to be shot down by a flaming arrow.
“That’s what the modern Faith is based upon,” Alfred finished.
“Is that it?”
“What do you mean, ‘Is that it?’”
“If you ask me, it’s Zara’s fault. Yes, Caspar shouldn’t have run off with that woman, but Zara was the one who kept them there. If she hadn’t sulked in her tent, the war would’ve ended and they could’ve gone home.”
“Ssh!”
“Naomi needn’t have died, she wouldn’t have gone mad. Why worship someone like that? She was an idiot.”
Alfred half expected a fork of lightning to incinerate him. When it didn’t he shrugged. “You’ve got a point.”
“I know I have.”
While they didn’t have an audience with the Hierophant, they were in the crowd as she gave her blessing. She was a tall, bony old woman, any softness masked by crisp scarlet robes and mitre. You could tell, by the way she blinked and peered around, that she was slightly deaf.
“A turtle,” Josh said, an iconoclast to the last.
Sensing Josh was disappointed with the Holy City, Alfred thought he’d treat him to his idea of
a religious experience. “We’re going to the opera!”
Opera going had certain rituals. After a siesta and freshen up, you dressed slowly and with care. He went into the bathroom and put his ensemble together. He thought he’d managed it but Josh beckoned him over. “Let me.”
Alfred had learned to expect this. With a human it might have been a come on, but Josh seemed oblivious as he smoothed down Alfred’s shirt front, buttoned it. “Do I look alright?” the artificial wanted to know.
As if he needed to ask. “You’ll do.” He hoped Josh didn’t hear the longing in his voice.
Next came a light but pricy supper in a private restaurant. As they ate, Alfred told him about the history and traditions of opera. Here, as in many areas, his friend’s education was lacking. “Do you know what’s playing tonight?” Josh asked.
“It’s three hundred years since Serafina Loretz’s birth, so probably one of hers. Even her duff ones are good.”
As it was a fine night and the opera house was only across the river, they walked. In the half light Josh’s antecedents were less obvious; several passersby looked at him admiringly. As they went beneath the bridge a woman approached them.
“Evening, gents.” She’d pegged them as Lilans. “Could you help a girl down on her luck?”
She had oily matted hair, moist lips and a velvet ribbon around her neck. With an insinuating wiggle she let them know exactly what form their help would take.
“No, thanks,” Alfred said. “We’re not interested.”
“I didn’t mean you,” she retorted. “Perhaps your friend - ?”
“He doesn’t want to either.” Before Josh could open his mouth he pulled him along.
“You couldn’t afford me anyway!” She sounded like a cat on heat. After a second’s thought, “Faggot!”
Alfred looked at her coldly. “With knobs on.” As she stood slack jawed, he put as much distance between himself and the whore as possible.
Josh strode to keep up. “Why were you so rude? She only wanted money.”
“If I opened my purse to every scabby doxy - ”
“I’m going to apologise.” Josh slipped from his friend’s grasp and ran down the path.
“Mind you don’t catch anything!” Alfred shouted.
Josh returned soon afterwards, nonplussed. “I gave her the money but she didn’t want it.”
“Charity begins at home. Now, if you want to get there in time ...”
They arrived at the Allegra with ten minutes to spare. Normally Alfred would admire the building’s classical lines and austere angels, but there wasn’t time. All he could see was the billboard for that evening’s entertainment. The Clockwork Opera by Serafina Loretz.
Fan - fucking - tastic. Josh’s first trip to the opera, and what was on the programme? The only work in the canon to feature a doomed romance with a robot. Someone up there didn’t like him.
“What’s wrong?” Josh asked. “Why aren’t we going in?”
“It’s The Clockwork Opera. It’s about -” Alfred flailed.
“A robot? Let me guess. It doesn’t have a happy ending?”
“I’m not saying that - ”
“It won’t offend me, if that’s what you’re worried about. Let’s go in.”
They had the best box in the house. Alfred showed Josh how to use his opera glass, warning him not to pinch it like other patrons did.
The Clockwork Opera had once been his operatic passion. Lord Arthur took him to see it when he was twelve and it’d become a ritual. They’d seen it once a year till 2136, the year his parents died, and even then he’d booked a spare seat and tumbler of whisky. When he thought of the score he thought of his dad’s interpretations, the arias in his surprisingly fine voice. He tried taking Gussy, but opera bored her. Ken dismissed it as ‘foreign racket’, the pleb. His ambition to introduce it to somebody was put on ice, especially after the Event.
“The Clockwork Opera by Serafina Loretz!”
Like all operas the story was a skeleton for the music. No sooner has Hans, your typical blacksmith with a poet’s soul, complained that nothing happens to him than a stranger comes to the village. His name is Dr Borkin, he’s obviously evil as he has a moustache and sinister baritone. This Borkin was on the hammy side, but diabolical genius is never knowingly underplayed.
Soon everyone’s talking about the heavenly singing coming from his house. Hans and his friends want to get to the bottom of it. They sneak in while the doctor’s asleep and poke around. Enter Sidonie, played by celebrated diva Liu. She implores them to leave before her father wakes up, and gives them the flower from her hair.
Of course they fall to arguing who the flower belongs to. Aaron, Han’s best friend, points out that since he’s the town stud, it must be his. They agree their friendship is too important to be ruined by a crush and pledge to help whoever has a crack at Sidonie.
Hans mopes home. He’s shutting up the smithy when somebody taps on the window. He’s flabbergasted to see Sidonie - even more so when she declares her love. This being traditional opera, kissing isn’t allowed, so they engage in passionate waist touching instead.
As the bell went for the interval, Alfred turned to Josh. “What do you think?”
“It’s magical! I wish I could write music. It’s the most perfect art, don’t you think?”
“It’s the hardest. You can be a hack writer or indifferent painter, but you can’t be a bad musician.”
“If I could write a decent tune, I wouldn’t care about anything else. I can’t wait to see what happens.”
“The libretto’s there.”
“I’m not looking. I hate spoilt endings.”
“Sorry to disappoint, but at the end of your life, you die.”
Josh made a face. “You know what I mean.” He stared at the ices. “Say, can Sidonie eat? Where would you take a robot on a date?”
Alfred blushed. “The same places as anyone else.”
“Telling a stranger about yourself, ugh! Better to go out with your friends and have a laugh.”
Mercifully the bell went. Sidonie and Hans fall in love. More face touching and eye fucking -
“Does he know she’s a robot?”
“Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn’t. Depends on the production.”
“I think this one suspects but doesn’t want to admit it.”
“I think so too.”
The boys notice Hans is different but don’t know why. Aaron announces his intention of wooing Sidonie and, before anyone can stop him, goes to Borkin’s and introduces himself. The doctor hurls him into the street. He barges into Sidonie’s room, where he vows no one else will touch her.
“That’s creepy and unnecessary,” Josh commented.
“A few sessions with a shrink’ll do wonders.”
“He looks like Dr Sugar, don’t you think?”
“Imagine him singing an aria.” They stifled giggles.
“It’d be about how, when he was young, he had a full head of hair and was the best anything ever. He always has to be better than you for some reason.”
“Can’t think why. I could never build a robot.”
“What’s Thingummy?”
“A caprice, dear boy.”
Sidonie is relieved when she learns the visitor wasn’t Hans. Holding hands, gazing into each other’s eyes, they have opera sex, i.e. lie down as a sheet obscures them from view, though the music gives you a good idea what’s going on. Once Alfred had got frisky with an usher at this point. It had a similar effect on him now: the sensual music, the proximity of Josh, the scents of whisky and cologne. Damn the eroticism of opera boxes!
Josh nudged him. “That woman’s waving at you.”
“It must be somebody else.”
“I’m positive it’s you.”
Alfred zeroed in on the flapping figure. “Bloody hell. Vita Alconbury.”
“Isn’t she supposed to be dead?”
“Everyone’s entitled to a holiday. We’ll chase her do
wn after the show.”
He wished he hadn’t seen her. He imagined her smirk as the story hurtled towards its climax. Where were they now? Anais the village bitch and her harpies, vowing revenge because Sidonie had ‘stolen’ their men. As her voice hit the ceiling in a coloratura screech, somebody tapped their box.
“Hello, Rusty.”
He wasn’t in the least surprised to see Vita. Hair like vines, intimidating teeth, sleepy voluptuous body. “What brings you to this neck of the woods?” she asked.
“Serafina Loretz.”
“You know, this is my first time? Give me the races any day.” She looked at Josh with lascivious interest. “Aren’t you going to introduce your friend?”
“Leave him alone.”
“Josh Foster,” the artificial said, holding out his hand.
“How are you finding the show, Josh?”
“It’s very romantic.”
“I’ll give you that. What’s with that mime, though? What’s wrong with showing them have a good old fuck?” She fanned herself with her libretto. “Watch yourself, young man. Twenty years ago you’d’ve been just Rusty’s type.”
Alfred was mortified. “Where are you staying?” Josh asked.
Bless the boy, he’d saved his skin. Vita must have noticed his relief. Casting sideways glances at Alfred - Wait till I get you alone - she described her itinerary, three days of abominable sickness, the local boy she’d picked up.
“He was meant to meet me,” she said. “I hung around in the lobby but he never showed. Ah, well. This place has to be crawling with gigolos, eh?”
The bell for Act Three rang. “Got to dash.” She darted Alfred a meaningful look before heading for her box.
The mob descend on Borkin’s. They whirl through the building and destroy everything in sight. The frenzy only stops when somebody finds the doctor’s corpse. He’s committed suicide, blaming Sidonie’s loose ways. A still more sensational discovery awaits: Sidonie, lifeless in a trunk.
Alfred felt Josh lean forward. Since he was too engrossed to speak, he gave his elbow a squeeze. A tremulous smile, warming his heart.
Love and Robotics Page 20
