Arms Race

by Nic Low

  Babe, let’s not stay too long.

  What? Why not?

  She’s getting drunk and maudlin. And she wants to fuck your brains out.

  What? I whispered. She’s older than my mum.

  Exactly. It’s embarrassing.

  We’re just talking about art.

  Please. You’re just stroking each other’s egos. I’d rather not sit and watch. And can you stop saying ‘wow’?

  So, Julie, Katherine butted in. What do you do?

  Lucy.

  Lucy. What do you do?

  I’m a doctor.

  A doctor, Katherine said. She poured herself another drink. That could be useful. I have a very good doctor. You know, they found the files belonging to Hitler’s doctors. They think he might have had syphilis. It would explain his insane genius.

  What? Lucy said. Are you trying to say the Holocaust was caused by syphilis? That’s so reductive. Besides, they had antibiotics in the forties. They could have cured him in a week.

  Sure, Katherine said. They could have cured him, but maybe he didn’t let them. Why kill your inspiration? Same for Brett Whiteley and Ralph Hotere. Same for Tracey Emin and the Guerilla Girls. I think they all chose to be diseased. What does that tell you?

  You think people wanted that? Lucy said, outraged. It’s one of the most painful conditions there is! Why would—

  Shush, Katherine said. Here we go.

  The waiter—no, the chef himself—swooped down with a covered silver platter. He lifted the lid, and a mushroom cloud of steam billowed towards the ceiling. Beneath, something moved on a bed of seaweed. A dismembered octopus, still twitching.

  Fresh meat! Katherine cried.

  She stabbed at the pile and came away with a small blue-white tentacle that curled itself round her chopsticks. She shook it off into her mouth and gave a grunt of pleasure. Ungh. Fuck yes. Come on, you two.

  I don’t know, I said.

  Don’t be shy, Katherine said. It won’t bite.

  I forked a slice of tentacle into my mouth. It was pungent and briny, shivering with escaping life. It was like biting off someone’s tongue while French kissing.

  Lucy ignored the food. She was staring at Katherine with a look of disgust. So you’re telling us a garden-variety STD makes people brilliant? she said. Or is this just some stupid story you feed to—

  Lucy, I said. She’s just kidding.

  You’re a doctor, Katherine said. You would want to treat it. But what if you could reap the benefits? What if you could manage it?

  Manage it? Lucy said. Manage your face falling off?

  Maybe it was worth it.

  Paralysis? Psychosis? For the sake of fucking art?

  The truth! Katherine crowed. Fucking art! If you want to make art you have to make sacrifices. You have to choose. Here, Nick, try this one.

  She picked out a choice tentacle and offered it across the table, not to my plate but to my mouth. I craned over. She dropped the twitching thing onto my tongue.

  Jesus! Lucy said. She leaped to her feet. Her cheeks were spotted with colour. I’ve had about enough of this. I’m sorry Nick, but she’s deranged. We’re going.

  Katherine was cackling with laughter. She could see I wanted to leave, and Lucy could see I wanted to stay. I sat, foolish with indecision, the octopus jerking in my mouth, until Lucy stormed from the booth. I half rose to go after her.

  Your girlfriend’s right, Katherine said. I am deranged. Blame the disease.

  But you’re kidding, aren’t you? Tell me you’re kidding.

  You say you want to be an artist, Katherine said. You say you want to know the secret to success. You can run after her now, live a good life, jerk off over the catalogues from other people’s MoMA retrospectives, die a nobody. Or you can stay and I’ll tell you the truth. Come here.

  She stretched across the table and pulled me close. In the gloom her eyes were black, with just the faintest sparkle.

  I’ll tell you the secret, she whispered. It’s not syphilis.

  It’s not?

  No. It’s a strain of syphilis. One very rare strain. That’s what makes you a genius.

  But—

  You don’t catch it by accident, Katherine said. It’s been passed down the generations, artist to artist. You’d be surprised who’s got it. But you have to want it badly. It means you’ll never have a proper family. You’ll never be part of normal society. You have to be prepared to go a bit crazy.

  This close, I caught a smell off her, something bitter and strange, and I was sure I could see the ravaged skin beneath her make-up. She raised a hand and caressed my cheek, and I was filled with horrified longing.

  You have to be trusted, she said with quiet intensity. Not just anyone gets it. These are the germs that lived in Louise Bourgeois. This is Dalí in your bloodstream. This is making love to Frida Kahlo. Imagine the things you’d dream. Imagine the things you’d paint. You’d be a genius. Imagine that.

  Imagine that, I whispered.

  Those who have the disease choose who gets it next, she said. She ran a thick, clammy finger across my lips.

  I choose you, she whispered. Fuck me, and it’s yours.

  PHOTOCOPY PLANET

  JORA CRADLED the book to his chest. He barely saw the rickshaws crammed with school children, or the camels bridled and loaded, or the veiled and laughing women flowing past. Through the dusty market and on up Fort Road he pressed the book close. He muttered to himself as he went.

  This time, please god, this time.

  Jora was charming in English and a ball-breaker in Hindi. He was short and fiery, and dressed like a rich Delhiwallah: a sharp grey suit, purple polo shirt, and small dark glasses that turned clear when he entered the lobby of his hotel. He’d had it built from honeyed sandstone like an old haveli. It was five storeys high, with twelve rooms, an open-air rooftop restaurant, and no guests.

  His nephew Raj, the tout, stood at the front desk with the day clerks, clustered mindlessly round a radio. They looked up with the faces of men short on sleep and pay. Jora didn’t care. They were all family. Without him they’d be hauling bricks in the villages. He brandished the book. It’s here, he cried. This time!

  The men grinned and left the desk and jostled him up the stairs, and floor by floor the whole staff of nephews and sisters and cousins crowded in behind. When Jora emerged into the restaurant on the roof he felt like a king leading his entourage. He placed the book on a table.

  Who will read? he said.

  They pushed forward Jora’s niece Nisha, a bright bird of a girl still in school. She took the book in her hands like it was a holy text, and leafed through the photocopied pages until she found the spot. A hush fell. The winter sun was clear and bright on her face.

  Lonely Planet India, she announced in a careful voice. Jaisalmer. Where To Stay. Hotel Rajasthan. Raja’s Palace. Sarkar Hotel. Swami Mansions.

  Well? Jora said.

  Nisha read the listings a second time. She checked the index. She couldn’t look at her un
cle.

  I’m sorry, Uncle-ji, she said quietly. Not this year.

  All eyes turned to Jora. A sour rage passed through him. He looked past their faces, past the medieval town tumbling down the slope to the desert sands beyond. With the loans he’d taken to build the hotel, they couldn’t afford another year of hoping.

  He picked up the guidebook. I will get us written into this book, he said.

  There were sceptical murmurs.

  How? cousin Sunil asked. The book comes from abroad.

  The bookwallah said it came from Delhi, Jora replied.

  But it’s written in England.

  Australia, Nisha said.

  No, Jora’s right, someone said. It’s Delhi we need.

  It was Raj, the tout. He came forward with his oiled black hair and sharp cowboy boots, and took the book from Jora’s hands. These are all photocopies, he said. They come from Delhi.

  Then I’ll go to Delhi, Jora said. I’ll find who prints them and I’ll make the sons of bitches put us in their book.

  Jora took a bus to Jodhpur station, then fought his way aboard a sleeper for the capital. At four in the morning he woke to a sandstorm blasting through the open-sided carriage. It seemed a bad sign. He’d grown up poor in Bandha, and he couldn’t read or write, and he covered his shame by bragging about all three. He was proud that an illiterate man could own a hotel. But how could an illiterate man get himself published in a book? He and his fellow passengers were coated in fine white desert sand. He wrapped his blanket round his face and drifted into gritty sleep.

  Outside Old Delhi Station, Jora hired an auto-rickshaw. He leaned from the open side of the vehicle to scan the road. It was early and freezing. Traffic ghosted through the smoke from last night’s rubbish fires.

  He found what he sought in Chandni Chowk. An old man unloaded books from the back of his bicycle, and there on his rug was the telltale blue of Lonely Planet.

  Baba, he called. Is your Lonely Planet real, or an Indian copy?

  The man looked offended. Sahib, all my books are real.

  Then I don’t want it.

  Wait. The man carried the book slowly to the rickshaw and put it in Jora’s hands. You mean is this book a real copy? Then you’re in luck, my friend.

  Jora smiled. How much?

  Sixty rupees.

  I’ll give you eighty if you tell me where you got it from.

  Jora spent the day following the guidebook across Delhi. The old bookwallah bought his copies from a stall in Khan Market, whose owners got them from a back-alley distributor. An hour arguing in the street with the stout Punjabi who ran the place and a small fortune in baksheesh got him directions to the warehouse. From there it was a short drive to the factory on the outskirts of Okhla Phase III.

  Jora stepped from the rickshaw and gazed up at the building. It was painted the same blue as the guidebooks, and from where he stood it seemed as big as a stadium. The guard waved him through the front gate without question. Jora walked down to the reception past a long line of pristine Mercedes and Audis. The drivers watched him pass.

  I’m here to see the manager.

  The tall receptionist gave him a sarcastic smile. I’m sure you are, sir. They’re about to start. Good luck.

  She pressed a button and the door at her back clicked open. Jora had no idea what she was talking about. He gave her a curt nod and went straight through, into a lobby with a strangely low ceiling and an elevator set in one wall. He chose the top floor. If he were manager, that’s where his office would be.

  He was staring at his tired face in the polished steel doors when they slid open. His reflection split in half to reveal a metal gangway suspended above an enormous factory floor. A vaulted ironwork ceiling arched overhead.

  Jora moved to the edge of the gangway and gripped the railing. Far below, rows of battered photocopiers, thousands of them, stretched off into the distance. An army of workers in blue overalls loaded cartridges and paper, or stood conversing in tight groups. The bustle called to mind a great railway station.

  You there! a rich, fruity voice cried. Last bets.

  Jora turned to see a small crowd gathered further along the walkway. They were drinking champagne and watching the preparations below. A man with a formidable moustache strode towards him. He had the same short stocky build as Jora, and when they were face to face Jora saw they wore identical glasses.

  I have business with the manager, Jora said.

  The man looked him up and down and paused, as if making a decision, then gave a small formal bow.

  I am the manager, he said. Business must wait. Any last bets?

  What are we betting on? Jora asked.

  We are betting on the copying of the Lonely Planet guide. Where are you from?

  I grew up in the poorest village in Rajasthan. But now I’m—

  Yes, the manager cut him off. You look like a village man. Which one?

  Jora stiffened. Jaisalmer will do.

  Jaisalmer it is. You are betting on page two hundred and twelve. Minimum bet five hundred rupees.

  Jora took his wallet and casually counted out ten thousand rupees. It was far more than he could afford. He had just enough left for the train home.

  The manager took the money and made a note in his book. Then he turned to the railing and pointed down to a group of workers in the vivid red turbans of Jaisalmer men.

  That is your row, the manager said. They have never won. Now, let us begin. He leaned over the railing and clapped his hands.

  An air-raid siren filled the factory. The workers below rushed into a vast and swirling choreography, as intricate as a North Korean spectacular. Chaos resolved itself into row upon perfect row, a worker standing to attention at each machine. Jora watched transfixed. Around him the betting crowd moved to the railing.

  At the end of the factory an official made his way across the floor. He stopped at the first copier in each row and handed its operator a white envelope.

  The originals, the manager said. Each row gets one page from the original guidebook to copy. Three hundred pages, three hundred rows.

  Once the envelopes were distributed a hush fell. The workers and the crowd fixed their total attention on the manager. He raised both arms above his head, then brought them swiftly down.

  Go!

  The little crowd roared, and at the start of each row the workers tore open their envelopes and thrust the precious originals into their machines. A mighty whirring clamour filled the factory like a flock of mechanical pigeons taking flight, and a jagged line of light flared across the roof. Jora raised a hand to shield his eyes.

  The first copies rolled from the machines; as in a baton race the next worker in each row seized the duplicate and fed it into his machine and made a copy, which was in turn taken up and copied by the next and so on, passing copies of copies of copies down the factory in a furious relay.

  The race passed beneath Jora’s feet and away to the south, where the machines were old and decrepit and soon began to choke and jam. The stench of toner filled the air. Repair teams raced along the rows, vanishing and
reappearing amid the steam and smoke. The strobing line of light that marked the progress of the race grew ragged as some rows fell behind and others surged ahead.

  At the front, the Jaisalmer row was neck and neck with a sleek Delhi team. Jora found himself gripping the rail and urging his desert cousins on.

  Go, you sons of bitches!

  At that, a woman leaned over the railing to cheer the Delhi team. She thrust one slender arm into the air, spilling champagne from her glass. The golden liquid, seemingly an extension of her glittering sari, rained down upon the last copier in the Delhi line. The machine stuttered and sizzled. The operator stumbled back. Across the floor Jaisalmer forged ahead. Their final machine spat out the final copy and the turbanned workers threw up their arms in victory.

  A win, cried the manager, a surprise win for two hundred and twelve!

  Jora cheered until he was hoarse. A Jaisalmer worker held up the final copy for all to see. It looked completely blank.

  When the noise died down the manager held out his hands. Ladies and gentlemen, that concludes the fifty-second copying of Lonely Planet India. The floor will now be closed for collation and binding. We will see you all next month.

  He turned to Jora, his mouth a thin displeased line. Follow me.

  At the end of the walkway the manager entered an office lined with oak. Framed first editions of Lonely Planet India hung around the walls. He sat at his desk, unlocked a drawer and counted out a very large sum of money. He shoved this across the table to Jora.

  So, the manager said. Business.

  Jora ignored the money. He was feeling good. He crossed one leg over the other and said, I want to change the guidebook.

  The manager smiled. Impossible, he replied.

  Jora said nothing. He let the silence grow.

  What do you want to change, the manager said, irritated.