by Glenn Grant
Amusing to think that the people of Argus are perhaps behind the transparent, immaterial portion of the moon; a tiny dot in the blue sky, to the left of the first quarter.
Now why did I think of Argus? Is the city still inhabited? They haven’t anything left to observe: the Earthlings are so quiet, so inoffensive, since becoming a mere handful, no longer obliged to fight over land and resources. Are the underground halls of Argus deserted? Or are they haunted too, like our cities, by a few people whom leisure has rendered hollow, shallow, without ties—mere party balloons. Has boredom overtaken the Erymaeans? What a joke: to be condemned to idleness by Peace on Earth, their raison d’être since time immemorial.
* * *
A hand touches my arm before I reach Stardust Boulevard. I turn my head: the Erymaean of a moment ago. A Psychaean, I now observe; the breeze has lifted a lock of hair from his temple, revealing the small triangular interface.
He scrutinizes me intently, as though to scan not my mind but my soul, if in fact I have one.
I submit to his scrutiny without flinching, and, funny thing, I imagine the contrast between the black diamonds of his hard, piercing eyes with their clear-cut irises, and my own as they must be at the moment: washed-out blue seeping into the rosy-veined whites, as though melting in the water that constantly bathes my eyes.
Everything about him seems clear cut: his elegant but sober costume, his precise way of speaking, his intensity. It’s the intensity, I think, that I envy; I feel I’m always … blurred, vague.
“Are you happy?”
What’s he getting at? And that almost solicitous air, as though he really cared about my happiness, about the happiness of us Earthlings. They’ve always been concerned about us.
Just curiosity? More than that. Is he conducting a sociological survey? His question seems more like a heartfelt cry.
“I’m okay,” I answer. “I can’t complain.”
“But still—don’t you sense … something missing, some uneasiness?”
Some uneasiness! I should ask him to spend a few days inside my head; then he’d see. Some uneasiness.… Yes, perhaps: to live is an uneasiness. But I’m not about to unburden my soul to him in the midst of the thronging Carnival crowd—we’ve reached the Boulevard and its merrymaking. I answer by telling him what I’m missing most.
“Right now what I want most is a good screw.”
“There must be something else.…”
“So long, buddy. At least try to have a little fun.”
I think I’ve disappointed him. No, not really disappointed. Hurt. He carries a burden of hurt that I’ve made a bit heavier, just a bit. But he could have stopped anyone in the street and got the same sort of answer, or an even more curt retort. For a moment I think of turning back and saying, “You shouldn’t worry about us; we’re okay like this, I suppose. There’s no way we’d want to live like they did in the last century.”
I look behind me. He’s standing where I left him, scanning the merrymakers with a sombre eye. He’s not going to interrogate anyone else. It was just something that came over him all of a sudden; he spotted me—perhaps I also look very much the part.
Poor guy. I’d rather be me than you, with all those gloomy thoughts festering in your head. Is it remorse? You should have a fix of greendelight; it’d do you good, make you forget.
A cortège of inflatable myths hides him from view: great country bumpkins swollen to bursting, girls in peasant skirts and ankle-boots, pink with health. I bump into someone—I should look where I’m going—and then a really clever juggler by the roadside makes me forget all about the Erymaean.
Not really, though; who can forget the Erymaeans?
* * *
I’ve lost the moon and here I am, alone again, between two long buildings that form an artificial canyon. The shade is cool at the end of the day.
This is the silence I like. I don’t think anyone lives here.
The slice of sky is blue, with a few fast-moving, grey-bellied clouds. I stop and look up. I like it when there are clouds. You’d think the tops of the buildings were moving against a steady background of sky. Like standing at the bowsprit of a ship. Dizzying, even when you haven’t had anything. When you’re stoned, it’s better to stretch out on the concrete; it creates the perfect illusion.
Time passes unnoticed.
Children’s voices. I turn to look, propping myself up on one elbow.
Over there in the square. Two or three kids on low-slung tricycles, the ones with a huge front wheel and gears. The fun is in skidding around corners, but at those speeds it’s dangerous. The kids are helmeted and swathed in elbow guards and kneepads.
One of them heads in my direction.
I watch him coming the length of the canyon.
Quite effective.
He jams on the pedals, braking at my feet. I’ve risen.
“Come and see, mister. Aeros.”
He turns on a dime; look at the way he handles that cycle! And off he goes. I run after him, feeling like a teenager with my beat-up running shoes, my jeans and T-shirt. I feel the wind in my long hair—a bit stiff; I’ll have to see about washing it.
I pass the little guy, but by the time he catches up with me on the square I’m doubled over with a coughing fit. The other kids—are there four?—watch me without a word.
“How old are you?” finally asks a little girl with yellow ribbons.
It’s not the one with the jewels. This one’s even younger.
“Twenty-two, I think.”
I look up at the sky: two aeros. Who had talked of going up? Charles, I think. And the girl who was with him last time … Vonda? It doesn’t matter, anyway. Their aeros are high up, you can’t hear them. It’s mainly the vapour trail that shows they’re there. They make patterns, arabesques. Symbols? I’m not stoned enough to read anything into it.
I find they’re delaying, dragging out the show. The children have already started pedalling and shouting.
“How old are you?”
It’s the same kid.
“I just told you.”
“Have you a mom?”
“Everyone has.”
“And a dad?”
“Must have.”
“And a little brother?”
“Yes.”
The crafts have stopped their somersaults.
“How old is he?”
“He’s dead.”
“How old was he?”
I really think they’re getting ready for the grand finale.
“How old was he?”
“Sixteen.”
Yes, there they go, letting off all the remaining smoke charges. Red, as it should be.
“How did he die?”
Two thick red lines converge on a huge field of azure.
“How did he die?”
I raise my arm and point.
“Like that.”
Short and sharp. Head on.
Did I see the aeros break up a fraction of a second before the explosion? Bravo! Not surprising their somersaults were a bit slow, with a payload like that.
The flash has tinged the cloud-bellies pink, hundreds of metres above. Pink, green, a hint of silver in the falling debris. A beautiful combination.
The smoke lasts for quite some time, white as real cloud but with a glow underneath.
I’ll have to find out if that was Charles. I didn’t think he was up to such a good performance.
* * *
A Carnival night without fireworks wouldn’t be the same. Pyrotechnics have certainly improved since the ancient Chinese, but I don’t think the ritual of exclamations has changed. The oohs! and ahs! of the spectators are those of my grandparents on public holidays. I don’t think you ever get tired of it. Except that fireworks can’t fill your whole life.
In Century Park at the end of Stardust Boulevard I find a good place to look up at the sky. I should have taken two munchies from the little vendor just now in the Moonlight Café. They’re best when you’re wat
ching fireworks.
Among the heads lit up by the explosions I see a light gold one. The girl with the curly-frizzy-curly hair. Her head is lowered, her pale face in shadow. And her eyes are two wells of darkness.
Still the same sad, fixed smile.
I realize that unconsciously I’ve been looking for her.
She manoeuvres her way between the people and animated sculptures, walking purposefully towards the park woods. She’s taken off her sandals and lets her feet drag on the grass. Waves of whistling rockets—the kind that don’t go very high and form a curtain of colours—silhouette her against the light, a frail outline on a luminous ground, her head a fluffy halo.
I stay a moment to watch the sprays, the showers of gold, the bursts of colour, the fleeting comets, the small, blinding suns.
Then I climb the gentle slope as far as the woods.
The echo of Carnival fades as you go beyond the first line of trees. Even the explosions are somewhat subdued. The flashes filter through the young leaves, lighting the scene in snatches. People leaning against the trees, or strolling, hands in their pockets.
As you penetrate the wood, the human density increases. There are almost as many people as on the Boulevard. They scrutinize each other as they pass, but the darkness only allows them an impression. Guys? Girls? Men? Women? Everything is in the way they walk, linger, turn their heads to look intently at one another.
Hands furtively probing to check or make contact. Hands gently pushed away, or grasped and held.
Murmurs. Friends meet, recognize each other, light up a joint, part to continue the round.
From the thickets come whispers, sighs, raucous breathing.
In the heart of the woods is where it happens. In couples. Leaning against trees, stretched out beside a bush or one kneeling while the other stands. In clusters on the grass, confused movements, soft slitherings, glimpses of white skin when a flash lights up the sky. Passersby meld, separate, in incessant rotation.
Gasps, sucks, hisses.
I don’t enter into the orgy, not for now, at any rate. You can’t always control what’s happening; my anus is still sore from being buggered yesterday evening because I was too stoned to get myself out of a tangle of arms and legs.
I go back to the less thriving section.
And there, in front of me, is the little blond again.
Perhaps she’s what I’m looking for?
She looks at me steadily, deeply. The fixed smile on her pale face makes me uncomfortable.
My hand seeks hers. Slim and warm. Soft, slightly limp. Like in the farandole.
Almost blindly we reach a bank and lie down on it.
That pathetic smile, that unmoving face.…
I bring mine close to hers.
With a rapid movement she lifts hers off.
Her mask.
My lips touch hers before I’ve had time to see her real face. My fingers find it slim, angular, firm-skinned. And the eyes that open when I open mine are the black holes that I wanted to sink into.
Her blouse opens on slight breasts. How old is she, then?
Awkward rubbings and squirmings. Our jeans are off at last, our legs find each other, entwine, our bodies roll.
The damp triangle is not blond. I look up, see a dark head with short hair. The wig is on the grass, near my T-shirt rolled up in a ball. The fireworks have stopped.
The rest happens as usual. Even stoned, I come right away—the hands in the den really turned me on—but I keep it up until she shudders and lies quiet.
I’ve heard those stifled little cries before.
We go on for a moment, giving pleasure to our bodies that came here for this purpose. But it isn’t as if the little blond were … what she seemed.
But just what am I looking for? It’s pathetic: I don’t even have a clear idea. And when I find it, if there is anything to find, it will be vague, uncertain. Am I actually looking for someone? That would be too easy: I might end up finding someone, there aren’t that many of us. A mirage, then, that will always elude my grasp just when I think I’ve caught it?
I’m asking too many questions. There are times like this, especially after making love, when my mind becomes cruelly lucid despite the smoke I inhale.
It doesn’t last, fortunately, and the next day I take up where I left off.
The girl and I get dressed. She puts her wig back on, but not her mask. We head towards the edge of the woods.
Her hand feels for mine. I take it. Soft and warm, but now her clasp is firm.
A little before reaching the open area of the Park, those vast lawns planted with singing sculptures, we stop for a last kiss. Passionate, as is often the case here, expressing the tacit closeness, the almost pathetic moment of great tenderness, the complicity of two absurd lives that, for the space of an embrace, have sought to reach something together.
Already our bodies move away from each other. Her hand grasps mine hard, and I return the pressure. Then we drop hands and, without looking back, I walk towards Stardust Boulevard where the Carnival hasn’t yet run out of steam.
I think that was Maryse.
* * *
At twilight people stroll on the promenade overlooking the lower town. If we were in a seaside resort this would be the boardwalk along the ocean front, with bonfires on the dunes, cocktails on the villa patios, with poets, actors and artists.
Here there are also poets, actors and artists, and this evening most of them will go down to Stardust Boulevard to play among the Carnival characters, masked and music-making, to recite their verses on the café terraces, to dance and show their fine bodies in the dens.
I lean on the balustrade, my head swimming a little, my stomach churning.
The Boulevard is lighting up for the Carnival, but all I can see are the images of this day. The aeros and Charles, my little sixteen-year-old brother. Chris and his candle lighted in full sun.
Maher Stelson is dead. I saw him sprawled on the concrete when I went home just now to shower and change. Blood and brains splattered all over the place, as I’d pictured. Greendelight sometimes gives you premonitions. Too bad he did it when I wasn’t around. In fact, it seems that no one saw it happen: the body was lying alone, still warm. Poor Stelson. Climbing up and down his rope every day for months on end—it was a good idea—and then to flub his exit line like that.…
There’s a planetary show tonight. Before going down to the Carnival I’ll stay on the promenade for a while and watch, since it’s beginning in a minute.
And not a munchy vendor in sight.
The ships have all lit up at once. There must be at least twenty in translunar orbit.
They form a four-pronged star. That pulses and fades. Hey, look at that! They make a line that must stretch halfway across the sky. A vast, synchronized movement, from east to west, like a bow drawn across the firmament. Then the ships close up.
What speeds they must be doing!
Energy beams! From one ship to another, a line of bluish, vibrating lights. A good start, if they’re going to stay up for an hour.
It might have been an interesting job. Astronaut. Of course, it’s no big deal, just entertainment for idlers. But all the same, to see good old Earth from up there. Now it’s done by remote control and they don’t need pilots. They wouldn’t have picked me anyway; my health isn’t good enough.
I’m impatient to see the Northern Lights. Nothing beats it, whatever else they try. Especially when one doesn’t have to live up north to see it.
* * *
Strange how the best things never last and leave you feeling let down.… Yesterday it was that little blond with the sad smile who succeeded in making herself desirable simply by appearing here and there during my trip. The planetary show just now; unforgettable, yes. But I’m already off my high.
Broadgate Street, and no one’s going uptown. We’re all going in the same direction, towards Stardust Boulevard, towards the cafés and the dens. In little groups, in couples, and alone; there
’s something to look at and enjoy, in any case.
Tonight again I’ll search among the masks and costumes, among the inflatable myths. Beneath the festoons of light, the torches and Chinese lanterns, the bubblelights.
The loudspeakers are already broadcasting music, laughter and exclamations, excited voices.
A particularly violent coughing fit brings my supper up. Just as well, I won’t have anything on my stomach. I’d better go by the Moonlight Café early, though, and have a shot of O’Reilly’s doublewhammy.
The people going down talk of nothing but the planetary show.
“That Catherine Wheel!”
“And the laser battle!”
True, it was a success.
Trainers cross the street with enormous tigers on leashes. Those eyes! Those green eyes! Awesome!
Small circles of four dancers form, chasing each other like links from a broken necklace. A circle opens for me. I stick my joint between my lips and take the two proffered hands.
Tonight again I’ll search among the café terraces and in the smoke of the dens. On the grass and among the trees of Century Park.
On Stardust Boulevard the Carnival plays on.
BALLADS IN 3/4 TIME
Robert Charles Wilson
Robert Charles Wilson came to Canada at the age of nine and has lived there continuously—in Toronto, Nanaimo, and Vancouver—ever since. He has been publishing science fiction novels since the late 1980’s, all seven from Bantam/Doubleday Books in the U.S., including the most recent, Mysterium (1994). His first novel, A Hidden Place (1986) marked him as a significant new writer and garnered comparison to the work of Theodore Sturgeon. Two of his books have been selected as Notable Books of the Year by The New York Times Book Review, and two were finalists for the Philip K. Dick Award (for a distinguished work of science fiction published as a paperback original in the U.S.).
