Harmony

by Marjorie B. Kellogg

  I sighed as I headed for the stairs. “You know, Yoli, I don’t really want to talk about it. Take my word for it, he’s all right.”

  Mark had left a note on my door. “3,200 so far. Like magic. If we get 5,000, we do the T. C. exec. board meeting Monday. How are you?”

  I went up to his room to tell him, but he’d hung his “GONE FISHIN” sign on the knob. I went back to my empty bed, hoping he was having a better time than I was.

  * * *

  Sunday morning it rained, the longest continuous rain I’d ever seen in Harmony. I got drenched biking to the studio, but at least the rain kept the teen muggers indoors.

  Micah was in before me, sitting at his desk with his shirt stuck to his back, shivering in the damp. I made him exchange the shirt for his dry smock. The warm olive of his skin was sallow, his eyes dark and tired. For the first time I worried about his health. I wished Rosa would hurry up and come home, to bully him into taking care of himself.

  “Crispin’s not joining us this morning?” he asked. “Or Jane?”

  “Cris is at Cora’s.” I did not offer an explanation. Micah raised an eyebrow, then let me work in peace.

  It was strange to be back in a cramped white space after so many long days in a big black empty one. The studio was so clean. The drafting tools seemed too small for my work-roughened hands. My fingertips were sore. After working with such intensity in the scale of the The Gift, I found myself thinking bigger on the drawing board. And without Cris around making me self-conscious about what he’d think, several problems that had plagued me about my Lysistrata design simply melted away in the face of this broader vision. It was like, well, magic.

  This being the first good thing to happen in quite a number of days, I let the joy of it overtake me. “I can actually do this!”

  “Good,” murmured Micah absently.

  “I don’t mean just Lysistrata, I mean all of it!”

  He must have heard something special in my babbling. He put down his own pencil and came over. “Well, let me see.”

  I flattened my palms across the glowing sketcher. “Oh, there’s nothing here, it’s… I mean, I’m beginning to see how it works. How it works for me, how to put it together, all of it! It’s there, in my head!”

  “Then say a prayer right now that you hold on to it,” he said dryly. “Revelation is a slippery thing.”

  I gazed at him, inarticulate with all the pushing and shoving going on inside me.

  He smiled. “Well, it is.”

  “Oh, Micah, I’ve felt like such a failure.”

  “Why?”

  “I couldn’t make this project work right and I couldn’t help with Sean or get things going for you at the theatre and—”

  “Wait. What’s going on at the Arkadie has nothing to do with you,” he said sternly. “It has nothing to do with Design. That’s Execution, or in this case, the failure thereof. Design is here”—he tapped the drawing board, then pressed his hand to his chest—“and here. In theory, Design and Execution should never be considered separately. In practice, you must separate them on occasion or the conflict will… break your heart.”

  I reached over and hugged him one-armed. “Micah, you’re amazing. Thanks so much. For everything.”

  He patted me awkwardly. “Don’t thank me yet. Revelation is just the beginning.”

  * * *

  At noon, the Master and his apprentice put Design away and readied themselves for Execution.

  I told Micah about the gangs at the dorm, and he insisted I walk with him as far as the Barn, where he was due for a run-through. We said we’d walk in order to stretch muscles aching from the previous day’s physical labor. In truth, even Micah, as articulate as any about the need for tourism and the Open Studio policy, could no longer bear to ride the Tube during weekend tourist hours.

  It rained on and off the whole way, in ten-minute, angry downpours. The dome was the sullen color of lead. Beyond it I could see sun and blue sky Outside. The stingy gray light did nothing to improve my mood as I told Micah about the Eye’s ritual mourning and their disillusionment with the Arkadie. “I bet half of them don’t even show for rehearsal.”

  In a particularly vicious pelting, we took shelter under the branches of a spreading magnolia outside some citizen’s quaint wickerwork gate.

  “Do they do things by halves?” Micah mused.

  “They’re fighting a lot among themselves lately.”

  “Performance anxiety, now that we’re getting close to it?”

  I shook my head. “They know they’re getting the shaft here.”

  Micah looked unhappy. “Is that what they think?”

  “Well? Aren’t they?”

  Half the Eye was missing when we arrived at the Barn.

  This time the game was circle catch with a giant ball of wadded-up white paper. The object, at least in Pen’s mind, was to lob this missile as hard as you could at the person opposite you. We watched as he juggled the melon-sized wad on his palm and sidearmed it viciously at Cu. Cu caught it against his belly with a soft explosion of breath, then slammed it down in disgust. Pen’s catcalls followed him as he stalked away from the circle.

  At the production table, Liz and her assistants paged madly through their scripts. Smaller wads of paper littered the floor around them.

  “Dead pages,” said Liz wearily. “Howie’s been doing cuts.”

  “Isn’t it a little late for that?” I asked.

  Liz shrugged. “Panic sets in…”

  Howie was walking Louisa around the ground plan taped out on the floor, spieling eloquence about the evolution of his new production style. Hickey had sent over the little dark-haired woman who would be head of The Gift running crew, which was reasonable except Hickey usually came to final run-throughs himself.

  Micah sank into the chair beside Liz. “I’d better get those cuts from you.”

  Mali and Ule sauntered in, not at all concerned about being late. They joined the circle catch immediately. I smelled coffee brewing in the food corner and headed over. I poured one for Micah and stuck a second under the spout for myself.

  “So, you get any work done this morning?”

  Hot coffee cascaded across my wrist. Clumsy fool. Really, I thought, I should be handling this better. “Sure did.”

  “Congratulations.”

  I knew it was significant that I couldn’t bring myself to look him in the eye. “You’re a mean drunk, Sam.”

  “I was not drunk.”

  “Then you’re mean sober.”

  “Hey, I was working. A job needed doing.”

  Angry, I could look at him. His scars were pale lines against his tanned skin, his bruises fully healed. Amazing. “I don’t like being part of your job, whatever it is.”

  He poured himself a large tumbler of fruit juice. Behind us, Tua ran through the hoots and trills of her vocal exercises. Liz tried to call the company to order and discovered she was still a few short. Sam sipped at his brimming glass. “Okay, if it helps, I apologize.”

  “You treat us like children.”

  “No—”

  “Yes, you do! Hopeless, ignorant children!”

  “Innocent,” he corrected. “And that is never hopeless.”

  “You know, when Mali says that sort of thing, it doesn’t sound pretentious.”

  “Now who’s being mean?”

  “I’m tired of you looking at me like you knew something I didn’t.”

  He smiled into his juice. “Probably do. A few things.”

  “I mean—”

  “About the world, maybe, how it really is. Other things.” He set his juice down casually. “Like, why you let the kid off the hook so easily last night.”

  This was not a conversation I wanted to have. I moved away, he blocked me. His hands were free, mine full of steaming liquid.

  “You let him go because he’s a self-involved young snot and you don’t need that kind of shit anymore.”

  Oh, how right he was. “Please,
I’d like to take Micah his coffee.”

  He stood aside, then stopped me with a murmur as I passed. “I lied to you last night. The charade was nothing. Habit. But I learned something from it.”

  I glanced up, curious in spite of myself.

  “Forget the kid. It’s me you want, whether you know it or not.”

  HARMONET/CHAT

  08/10/46

  ***Just keeping you up-to-date, and we know you couldn’t bear to be otherwise when Mr. Just-moved-to-Lorien CONAKRY sees you coming out of the fitting rooms in your newest DeClara frock. His latest love-chick is in the room next door, but this is Harmony!***

  ***But seriously, folks, and things *are* getting serious in Town lately. Hey, let’s have more *fun!* These nasty muggings and all this dreariness in the public e-mail, and what’s with this PETITION stuff anyway? Just because the kiddies have to go to bed a little early? Aww…

  ***Must say we agree avidly with the mayor’s decision to authorize a Security sweep of the markets, checking on all these so-called visitors come to sell their wares without paying a good citizen’s taxes *but* we do hope they won’t kick out the ladies we buy our favorite imported handmade jewelry from! *Really,* sometimes our own crafters are just too *ARTY.* Never mind expensive!

  But listen, if they’re letting in all these peddlers, who KNOWS what else is walking our streets? Is this how we explain the recent wave of nighttime violence?

  ***Another thing we want to know: is everybody on Tuatua coming here? Does CAM BRIGHAM’s dinner guest on Friday know it’s not so safe for Tuatuans on Harmony’s streets? Or maybe that just applies to the ones who are rumored to be on the *left* side of the law? We’re sure that doesn’t count Mr. IMRE DEELAND, who looked extremely pleased after feasting at length with Cam and visiting Francotel exec LOUIS ARMANDE. Now there’s a Tuatuan who knows how to dress.

  ***And haven’t we all just HAD it with the weather, f&n? Rain and hail and gloom and more rain? Is this all part of the Founders’ *Long-Term Program,* or does our dear computer maybe need a bit of a tune-up? We all do, now and then!

  ***On the cheerier side, log on to the advert campaign for the new MARIN SEADOME. We have, and we’re booking our tour tomorrow! Now there’s a *creative* entertainment idea! Maybe we should be thinking along those lines here in Harmony. Any entrepreneurs worth their salt out there?

  ***Remember, you DIDN’T hear it here!***

  MICAH’S DILEMMA:

  Micah returned to the Arkadie mid-afternoon. “They really are unhappy. I certainly hope Howard can get them back on track.”

  I smoothed plastic sealer over a freshly carved rock. “The run-through?”

  “Awful.”

  “Even Mali?”

  “Like a black hole, sucking up all the energy in the room. The emotional arc collapsed before the end of Act One and the play never made it out from under. One thing for sure: if Mali doesn’t perform, the piece will never get off the ground. How’s it going here?”

  “Slowly.” We’d done the best we could to fix the curve of the backdrop, and Margaret and Peter had nearly finished surfacing the deck. The pinkish natural color of the material made the undulating rise from front to back resemble a patched-together human body melting into the stage. But the vanishing trick was a gaping hole downstage center. Two days before our first technical rehearsal and Sean still hadn’t sent back our regular crew.

  Micah put on his work clothes and settled in beside us.

  I always looked forward to the week or so spent in the theatre opening a show. It was a tense, exciting time of high energy and quick camaraderie; a time of miracles, of watching a show unfold like a hatching butterfly and take flight.

  Not this time. I took up a new block of foam, cutting in the steplike layers of broken shale. What a sorry group we were: Micah and Margaret working with the concentration of the dead, Jane no conversationalist since her breakdown. Peter had finally abandoned his run-on stand-up comedy due to lack of response. Cris was unsure whether or not he should talk to me and was therefore talking to nobody. I certainly wasn’t talking to him. A grim and silent crew indeed. Only Songh remained cheerful, humming tunelessly as he shaped plastic mesh into rock forms for the back wall. But then, Songh was probably a little in love. When Mark walked in, Songh’s whole body reoriented itself like a blossom to the light.

  Mark trotted down the aisle, a sheaf of papers under one arm, a pen over his ear. He headed straight for Micah.

  “Micah, I need a favor.”

  I recalled a certain boyishness in Mark and wondered where it had gone. We’d called it charming, but when it left, the charm was still there, a kind of golden light about him. Weary, frowning Micah thawed visibly as Mark presented his case. This guy, I decided, was born to convince people of things.

  “Yes, yes,” replied Micah. “I shouldn’t be asking any of you to work extra hours at a time like this.”

  “Oh yes, sir, you must. And they will. Otherwise I’d ask you to me lend all of them.” Mark held out his hand.

  Micah shook it, then watched after him bemused.

  “Songh! You’re reassigned. Let’s go!” Mark stopped to ruffle my hair. “Taking one of your workers, G.”

  “We should be out there with you.”

  “I got enough. Micah needs you more.”

  “What’s the count?”

  “Forty-one hundred. We’ve posted every possible notice board, every greenroom and gallery that’ll let us, and I’ve got nineteen people out there working it door to door. Even, can you believe it, Yolanda!”

  “You’re amazing. Hope they’re being careful.”

  “They are. Security’s threatening to arrest curfew breakers now.” He squatted close beside me. It was like having a whirlwind settle down for a chat. “Listen, there’s, um, some nasty gossip about. You all right?”

  “Kinda confused, but actually, I think I am.”

  “Good. Got to tell you something Sam said to me.”

  “Sam?” Even the name made me start.

  “About the Outside.” Mark hugged my shoulder and rose. “When we have time.”

  “When’s that going to be?”

  He laughed and hurtled away with Songh in tow.

  During a break, I checked the petition we’d posted on the shop notice board. It was gone. The corner pins imprisoned two ragged scraps of paper. I hurried through a hall full of laughing ladies and gentlemen in powdered wigs and gold embroidery, so cheerful you’d have thought there was a party going on instead of a final dress before the night’s first preview. In the greenroom, I nosed around the actors’ call-board, pretending interest in the monitors broadcasting the rehearsal. This petition was still in place. Even had a few names on it, over which someone had scrawled in red, “CLOSE THE DOOR!”

  It no longer scared me to find this so close to home. It made me angry, the deep, slow kind of rage that fuels determination, that rises when a longtime dream is being threatened—no, defiled. My Harmony. My artists’ sanctuary. I stalked back to the shop and pinned up two new petition sheets where the old one had been.

  Back in Theatre Two, Louisa Pietro’s manic energy was stirring up the emotional murk. She perched on a crate and shook her fists while Micah worked. “Howie can talk concept all he damn wants, it won’t do a bit of good without a set to focus on!”

  Micah nodded, fastening a bit of flooring into place.

  Margaret laughed, deep and cajoling, her arm sunk up to her shoulder in a slot in the deck. “C’mon, Lou, you’ve focused just fine on less scenery than this.” She tightened a bolt, then extricated her arm and the tool. “ ‘Course, you swore about it like a damn Outsider—”

  “And I’m swearing now. Enough of this gloom. Micah, I’m taking you to dinner. Maybe get you drunk enough to make it up with Sean.”

  She didn’t understand. Nobody did. I didn’t.

  Micah had done everything he could. He’d found extra money for more labor. He’d called in markers to supply that labor. He’d kep
t Howie out of the theatre, closed down his studio, dedicated his staff and the labor of his own hands to getting the show built. None of this made any visible impression on Sean, and without Sean behind you, things just really didn’t happen in the Arkadie shop. The only move left to Micah was to stop short, declare that he could not work this way, and threaten to quit.

  Why didn’t he?

  Because Micah could never desert a show.

  And it seemed that’s what Sean wanted, for Micah to make himself the weapon with which Sean could bludgeon the Arkadie’s management.

  So Micah, badger stubborn, kept working, waiting for the confrontation that never came. For his sake, so did we.

  Downstage center, the empty hole in the deck drew things into itself like a whirlpool: tools, stray materials, too often nearly one of us. We finally dragged an old platform out of stock to cover it up. Sean wasn’t even bothering with basic safety.

  Sean.

  What would it take to turn him around?

  Micah reappeared very late from his dinner with Lou, having shared at least one good bottle of wine. He watched us sculpt for a while, then paced upstage to stare with restless melancholy at the backdrop. When I looked for him next, he was down center, gazing at the platform over the hole in the deck as if it concealed the blackest sort of void.

  I wiped glue off my hands and went to join him. “Good dinner?”

  “Delicious.”

  “Where’d you eat?”

  “Fishko’s, on the square.”

  “Hope you two didn’t talk about this the whole time.”

  Micah laughed, a short, unamused burst. “Lou saw Crossroads last night.”

  We stared at the covered hole together for a bit. Finally I decided, no point in small talk here at the chasm’s edge. “Why’s he doing this to us, do you suppose?”

  I didn’t catch him by surprise. I never caught Micah by surprise. Only Sean had managed to do that.

  “I don’t know,” he replied sadly.

  “Couldn’t you… I mean… isn’t there something?”

  Micah looked at me gravely. “Not you too.”

  Shamed, I murmured, “No, it’s just… I should be helping better but I can’t, if I don’t understand why.”