Transcription
The mother steered the car off the street into a small yard, enclosed by wire mesh. There was an anti-parking sign fixed to a fence, but she stopped the car facing it, beside the only other car present. When we got out, the ground was hard and cracked in many places. Josie became her cautious walk beside the father towards a brick building overlooking the yard. And perhaps because of the uneven ground, the father took her arm.
The mother, standing at the car, watched this and didn't move for a moment. Then, to my surprise, she came up to me and took my own arm, and we began to walk together, as though an imitation of the father and Josie. There were no other adjoining buildings to either side, and I designated it a building rather than a house because the brickwork was unpainted and dark. Fire escapes rose up in zigzags. There were five stories, ending at a flat rooftop. And I had the permission, the impression, the reason they, there were no neighbor buildings, so because something unfortunate had happened and they'd had to clear, be cleared away by the overhaul men.
As I stepped over the cracks, the mother leaned closer to me. "Clara," she said quietly, "remember Mr. Capaldi will want to ask you some questions. In fact, he may have quite a few. You answer them, okay, honey?" It was the first time she'd called me honey. I replied, "Yes, of course." And then the brick building was there before us, and I saw that each window had within it a graph paper pattern. There was a door at ground level, beside two trash cans, and when Josie and the father reached it, they turned and waited, as though it was up to the mother to lead us in. Seeing this, she let go of me and went up to the door by herself. She stood there quite still for a moment, then pressed the door button. "Henry," she said into the wall speaker, "we're here."
The interior of Mr. Capaldi's house was nothing like its outside. In his main room, the floors were almost the same shade of white as his huge walls. Powerful spotlights fixed to the ceiling shone down on us, making it hard to look up without being dazzled. There were very little furniture. There was very little furniture for such a large space: one large black sofa, and in front of it, a low table on which Mr. Capaldi had laid out two cameras and their lenses. The low table, like the glass display trolley in our store, had wheels to allow it to move smoothly across the floor. "Henry, we don't want Josie getting tired," the mother was saying. "Maybe we can get started." "Of course," Mr. Capaldi waved towards the far corner, where the two charts were fixed side by side to the wall. I could see on each chart many ruled lines crisscrossing at various angles. A light metal chair had been left in front of the charts, and also a tripod stand lamp. Just now, the tripod stand lamp wasn't switched on, and the far corner looked dark and lonely. Josie and the mother gazed toward it apprehensively. Then Mr. Capaldi, perhaps noticing, touched something on the low table, and the tripod stand lamp came to life, briefly illuminating the entire corner but creating new shadows.
"This will be totally relaxed," Mr. Capaldi said. He had a balding beer head and a beard that almost hit his mouth. I estimated 52 years old. His face was constantly on the brink of smiling. "Nothing strenuous, so if Josie's ready, maybe let's get started." "Josie, if you'd care to come this way."
"Henry, wait," the mother said, her voice echoing in the space. "I was hoping to see the portrait first." "What you've done so far, of course," Mr. Capaldi said, "though you must understand it's still work in progress, and it's not always easy for a lay person to understand the way these things slowly take shape." "I'd like to take a look all the same." "I'll take you up, in fact. Chrissy, you know you don't need my permission, you're the boss here." "It's kind of scary," Josie said, "but I'd like to take a peek too." "Uh, uh, honey, I promised Mr. Capaldi you wouldn't see anything yet." "I tend to agree," Mr. Capaldi said. "If you don't mind, Josie, in my experience, if the subject sees a portrait too early, things get messy. I need you to remain totally unself-conscious."
"Unself-conscious about what, exactly?" the father asked, his voice loud and echoing. He kept on his raincoat even though Mr. Capaldi had invited twice for him to take, hang it on one of the pegs inside the entrance. He had now drifted towards the charts and was studying them with a frown. "What I mean, Paul, is that if the subject, in this case Josie, becomes too self-conscious, she may start posing unnaturally. That's all I was meaning." The father kept staring at the wall charts, then he shook his head in the same way he had in the car.
"Henry," the mother said, "may I go now to your studio, see what you've been doing?" "Of course. Follow me." Mr. Capaldi led the mother over to a metal staircase rising to a balcony. I watched their ascending feet through the gaps between the steps. Arriving on the balcony, Mr. Capaldi pressed a keypad beside a purple door. There was a short hum, and they both went in. The purple door closed behind them, and I went to the black sofa where Josie was sitting. I wanted to make a humorous remark to relax her, but the father spoke first from the illuminated corner.
"I guess the idea, animal, is that you get photographed over and over in front of these charts." He stepped in closer. "See these measurements marked along every line?" "You know, Dad," Josie said, "Mom told us you were cool about coming today, but maybe it wasn't such a great idea. We could have met up somewhere else, done something different." "Don't worry, we'll do nothing else late. We'll do something else later, something better than this." Then he turned and smiled at her gently. "This portrait, let's say it gets finished. What bothers me is that I won't get to have it with me because your mom will want it with her." "You could come see me anytime," Josie said. "It could be like your excuse to come more often." "Look, Josie, I'm sorry the way everything's turned out. I wish I could be with you more, a lot more." "That's okay, Dad. It's all working out now. Hey, Clara, what do you think of my dad here? Not such a crazy, huh?"
"It's been a great pleasure to meet Mr. Paul," the father went on, looking at the charts as though I hadn't spoken, making a pointing gesture towards a detail. When at last he turned to face me, his eyes had lost their smiling folds. "Pleasure to meet you too, Clara," he said. Then he looked at Josie. "Tell you what, animal, let's get done with all this as quickly as possible, then just the two of us, we can go somewhere, get something to eat. There's a place I'm thinking you'd like." "Yeah, sure, if that's okay with Mom and Clara." She turned to look over her shoulder, and just at that moment, up on the balcony, the purple door opened, and Mr. Capaldi came out. He called back into the studio through the doorway, "You're welcome to stay in there as long as you want." "I'd better go and get, uh, see to Josie," I heard the mother's voice say something. Then she too came out onto the balcony. She had lost her usual straight-backed posture, and Mr. Capaldi extended a hand as though ready to catch her if she fell over. "You okay there, Chrissy?"
The father put the mother. Pushed past Mr. Capaldi and stared down, started down the steps, holding onto the rail. Midway down, she paused to push back her hair, then she came back down the rest of the way. "So, what do you think?" Josie asked with anxious eyes. "It's okay," the mother said. "It'll be okay. Paul, you want to see it? Go ahead." "Maybe in just a minute," the father said. "Capaldi, I'd appreciate you getting finished with us quickly today. I want to take Josie out for coffee and cake." "That's okay, Paul. We have everything under control." "You're sure you're okay there, Chrissy?" "I'm fine," the mother said, but she hurried to reach the black sofa.
"Josie," Mr. Capaldi said, "just before we do this, what I'd really like is for Clara here to do me a little favor. I have a small assignment for her. I was thinking maybe she could be getting on with it while we were taking the photos. That okay?" "Fine by me," Josie said, "but you should ask Clara." But Mr. Capaldi now addressed the father. "Paul, maybe as a fellow scientist, you'll agree with me. I believe AFs have so much more to give us than we currently appreciate. We shouldn't fear their intellectual powers; we should learn from them. AFs have so much to teach us." "I was an engineer, never a scientist. I think you know that. In any case, AFs were never in my territory." Mr. Capaldi shrugged and, raising a hand to his beard, appeared to be checking its texture. Then he turned to me, saying, "Clara, I've been devising a survey for you, a kind of questionnaire. It's up there on the screen, ready to go. If you wouldn't mind completing it, I'd be so grateful."
Before I could say anything, the mother said, "It's a good idea, Clara. Give you something to do while Josie gets through her sitting, of course." "I'd be happy to help." "Thanks. It's nothing difficult, I swear. In fact, what I'd like, Clara, is for you to make no special effort. The whole thing works best if you respond spontaneously." "I understand. They're not even questions as such, but why don't we just go up there, and I'll show you folks." "Josie, this won't take a minute. I'll get Clara settled, then come right back down. Josie, you look so well today." "This way, Clara." I thought he might take me also to the purple door, but we went to the opposite side of the room, where a different metal staircase climbed to its own section of balcony. Mr. Capaldi went up first, then I followed, taking each step carefully. When I glanced back down, I saw Josie, the mother, and the father looking up at us, the mother still seated on the black sofa. I waved towards Josie, but no one below moved. Then Josie called up, "Be good, Clara."
"This way, please, Clara." The balcony was narrow, made from the same dark metal as the staircase. Mr. Capaldi was holding open a glass door leading into a small room, even smaller than Josie's ensuite, dominated by a padded desk chair facing a screen. "Please sit down in there. I'll, it's all waiting for you." I seated myself with a white wall at my shoulder, beneath the narrow, between, beneath the screen was a narrow ledge offering three control devices. The room wasn't large enough for Mr. Capaldi to come in too, so the glass door remained open while he gave me his instructions, reaching over sometimes to manipulate the devices. I listened to him carefully, even though I became aware that below, the mother and the father were once again using tense voices. Behind Mr. Capaldi's words, I heard the mother saying, "No one's insisting you stay, Paul. It's not consistent." "The father says, 'I'm merely pointing out the inconsistency.' 'I'm not trying to be in be consistent; I'm just trying to find a way forward for us.' 'Why make it harder than it is, Paul?'"
"Paul," beside me, Mr. Capaldi laughed, broke off from his instructions, and said, "Oh my, looks like I'd better go down there and referee you all." "Straight here, Clara. Thank you. Everything's quite clear. I appreciated it. Anything puzzles you, please call down." When he closed the door, it actually nudged my shoulder, but I could see sufficiently through its glass to watch Mr. Capaldi descending beneath the balcony level. Then I allowed my gaze to go beyond, across the empty air, over to the opposite balcony and the purple door from which the mother had recently emerged.
I began Mr. Capaldi's questionnaire. Sometimes a question would come on the screen as writing; at other times, there were shifting diagrams, or the screen would darken and sounds with many layers emerged from the speakers. A face, Josie's, the mother's, a stranger's, would appear then vanish. At first, short responses of around 12 digits and symbols were appropriate, but as the questions grew more complex, I found myself giving longer answers, some running to over a hundred digits and symbols. All the time, the voices from below remained tense, but with the glass door closed, I could no longer hear the words.
Halfway through my assignment, I caught movement through the glass and saw on the opposite balcony Mr. Capaldi leading the father up into it. I continued my assignment, but having grasped its general purpose, I no longer needed to give it much attention and was able to watch the father nervously drawing the raincoat around him, approaching the purple door. He had his back to me, and I was looking through frosted glass, so I couldn't be sure, but he looked as though he'd become suddenly ill. But Mr. Capaldi on the balcony beside him seemed unconcerned, smiling and talking cheerfully. Then he reached up the keypad to the keypad beside the purple door. From inside my cubicle, I couldn't hear the unlocking hum, but the next time I glanced their way, the father had gone inside, and Mr. Capaldi was leaning in through the doorway, saying something. Then I saw Mr. Capaldi move suddenly backward, and the father came out, and though I couldn't be sure through the frosted glass, he looked no longer ill but filled with a new energy. He seemed not to mind that he'd almost knocked Mr. Capaldi aside and started down the metal steps at reckless speed. Mr. Capaldi, watching him, shook his head as a parent would do when a child has a tantrum in a store, then closed the purple door.
The images on the screen were changing even ever faster now, but my tasks remained obvious, and after several minutes without losing focus, I pushed partially ajar the glass door beside me. I could then hear more clearly the voices below. "What you're emphasizing here, Paul," Mr. Capaldi was saying, "is how any work we do brands us. That's your point, am I right?" "It brands us, and sometimes brands us unjustly." "That's a very smart way of misunderstanding my point, Capaldi." "Paul, come on," the mother said. "I'm sorry, Capaldi, if this sounds impolite, but frankly, I think you're deliberately misconstruing what I'm saying." "No, Paul, you're genuine, genuinely not coming through here. There are always ethical choices around my any work." "That's true, whether we get paid for it or we don't." "That's very considerate of you, Capaldi." "Paul, come on," the mother said again. "Henry's just doing what we asked him, no more, no less. It's no wonder, Capaldi, Henry, sorry, a guy like you would struggle to understand what I'm saying here."
I pushed back my chair on its casters, rose, and passed through the glass door onto the balcony. I'd already established that the balcony was a regular circuit, touching all four walls. Now, choosing the rear half of it, I kept close to the white wall, taking care not to cause the metal mesh to ring under my feet or to cross spotlight beams in any way that would create moving shadows. Below, I reached the purple door unnoticed and keyed in the code I'd observed twice already. There came the usual short hum, but this too went unnoticed by those below. I was then inside Mr. Capaldi's studio and closed the door behind me. The room was L-shaped, the section before me turning a corner into an extension beyond the normal boundary of the board building. Leading towards this corner were two counters attached to each wall, busy with shapes, fabrics, small knives, and tools, but I had no time to focus on these and went on towards the corner, remembering to tread cautiously because the floor was still of the same metal mesh. I turned the corner of the L and saw Josie there, suspended in the air. She wasn't very high; her feet were at the height of my shoulders, but because she was leaning forward, arms outstretched, fingers spread, she seemed to be frozen in the act of falling. Little beams illuminated her from various angles, forbidding her and any refuge. Her face was very like that of the real Josie, but because there was at the eyes no kind smile, the upward curve of her lips gave her an expression I'd never seen before. The face looked disappointed and afraid. Her clothes weren't real clothes but made from thin tissue paper to approximate a t-shirt on her top half, a loose, loose-fitting shorts on the lower. The tissue was pale yellow and translucent, and under the sharp lighting made this Josie's arms and legs look all the more fragile. Her hair had been tied back in the manner the real Josie wore it on her ill days, and this was the one detail that failed to convince. The hair had been made from a substance I'd never seen on any AF, and I knew that that Josie wouldn't be happy with it.
Having made my observations, my intention was to return to the cubicle before my absence from it was noted. I walked carefully back past the two work counters and opened the purple door a small way. It made the usual humming noise, but I could tell from the voices below that no one had heard it. I could tell too that the mood was now even more filled with tension. "Paul," the mother's voice was almost shouting, "you've been determined to make this difficult from the start." "Come on, Josie," the father said, "let's go right now." "But Dad, Josie, we leave right now. Believe me, I know what I'm doing." "I don't think you do," the mother said. And Mr. Capaldi said over her, "Paul, come on, take it easy. If there's been a misunderstanding, I take full responsibility and I apologize." "How much more information do you need, anyway?" the father asked, and now he was shouting too, but that could perhaps have been because he was moving across the floor. "I'm surprised you're not requesting a blood sample, Paul." "Be reasonable," the mother said. The father and Josie were saying something at the same time, but then Mr. Capaldi said over them, "It's okay, Chrissy, let him go. Let them go. Let them go. It doesn't change anything." "Mom, why don't I go with Dad just now? Then at least you can all stop yelling. If I stay here, it's just going to get worse." "I'm not angry at you, honey, I'm angry at your father. He's the child here." "Come on, animal, let's go. I'll see you later, Mom." "Okay, see you. Mr. Capaldi, let them go, Chrissy. Just let them go."
When the entrance door closed behind them, its sound echoed all around the building. I remembered then that the car belonged to the mother and wondered if the father had money for a taxi to take him and Josie to where he now intended them to go. It felt a little strange Josie hadn't thought to take me with her, but the mother was still there, and I remembered the day we'd gone to Morgan's Falls. I stepped out onto the balcony now, making no effort to conceal myself or to soften my steps. Leaning over the steel rail, I saw the mother had sat down where earlier Josie had been sitting, on the metal chair in front of the car charts. Mr. Capaldi came across the floor till he was directly below me, and I could see the top of his bald head but not his expression. He then continued to walk slowly towards the mother, as if slowness were a mark of his kindness, and stopped beside the tripod stand lamp. "I can see her having misgivings," he said in a new, soft voice. "Let me tell you, I've seen this kind of thing happen many times before, and it's the ones who stick with it, keep faith, who win out." "Damn right, I'm having misgivings. You mustn't let Paul sway you. Remember, you've thought this through, and he hasn't." "Paul is confused." "It's not Paul! To hell with Paul! It's that, that portrait up there!" As she said this, she glanced up in my direction and saw me. She stared past the dazzle of the ceiling lights, and then Mr. Capaldi also turned and looked up at me. Then he looked at the mother questioningly. The mother continued to gaze at me, her hands now raised to her forehead. "Okay, Clara," she said finally, "come on down."
As I descended the metal steps, I was interested to see that instead of anger, the mother showed anxiety. I crossed the floor but stopped while still several strides away. It was Mr. Capaldi who spoke first. "What do you think, Clara? Am I doing a good job?" "She resembles Josie quite accurately." "Then I guess that's a yes. By the way, Clara, how did you get on them with the survey?" "I completed it." "Then I'm grateful for your cooperation. And you stored the data safely?" "Yes, Mr. Capaldi." "My responses were stored." There was a silence while the mother continued to stare at me from her chair, and Mr. Capaldi from behind his tripod light. I realized they were waiting for me to say something further, so I continued. "It's a pity Josie and the father have left. Mr. Capaldi's work on the portrait may be temporarily impeded." "It's okay," he said. "Not a serious setback." "I need to hear," the mother said, "I need to hear, Clara, what you think about what you saw. I apologize for examining the portrait without permission, but in the circumstances, I felt it best to do so." "Okay," the mother said, and again I saw she was fearful rather than angry now. "Tell us what you thought, or rather, tell us what you think you saw up there."
I'd suspected for some time that Mr. Capaldi's portrait wasn't a picture or a sculpture but an AF. I went in to confirm my speculation. Mr. Capaldi has done an accurate job of catching Josie's outward appearance, though perhaps the hips should be a little narrower." "Thank you," Mr. Capaldi said. "I'll bear that in mind. It's still a work in progress." The mother suddenly lowered her face into her hands, letting her hair hang over them. Mr. Capaldi turned to her with an expression of concern but didn't move from his spot. The mother wasn't crying, though, and she said through her hands, her voice mumbled, "Maybe Paul's right. Maybe this whole thing's been a mistake." "Chrissy, you mustn't lose faith." She brought her head back up, and her eyes were now angry. "It's not a matter of faith, Henry. Why are you so [ __ ] sure I'll be able to accept that an AF up there, however well you do her? It didn't work with Sal, why will it work with Josie?" "What we did with Sal is no comparison. We've been through this, Chrissy. What we made with Sal was a doll, a bereavement doll, nothing more. We've come a long way, a long way since then. What you have to understand is this: the new Josie won't be an imitation; she really will be Josie, a continuation of Josie." "You want me to believe that?" "Do you believe that?" "I do believe it with everything I'm worth. I believe it. I'm glad Clara went in there and looked. We need her on board now. We needed that for a long time because it's Clara who will make the difference, make it very, very different this time around. You have to keep faith, Chrissy. You can't weaken now." "But will I believe in it when the day comes? Will I really?" "Excuse me," I said. "I'd like to say there's a chance you'll never need the new Josie. The present one may become healthy. I believe there's a good chance of this. I'll need, of course, the opportunity, the chance to make it so. But since you're so distressed, I'd like to say this now: if ever there comes such a sad day and Josie is obliged to pass away, I'll do everything in my power." Mr. Capaldi is correct. It won't be like the last time with Sal because this time you'll have me to help. I now understand why you've asked me at every step to observe and learn. Josie, I hope the very sad day will never come, but if it does, then I'll use everything I've learned to train the new Josie up there to be as much like the former one as possible."
"Clara," the mother said in a firmer voice, and suddenly she'd become partitioned into many boxes, far more than at the friend's apartment when the father had first come in. In several of the boxes, her eyes were narrow, while in others, they were wide open and large. In one box, there was room only for a single staring eyeball. I could see parts of Mr. Capaldi at the edge of some boxes, so I was aware that he'd raised his hand into the air in a vague gesture. "Clara," the mother was saying, "you've made your deductions well, and I'm grateful for what you've just said, but there's something you need to hear." "No, Chrissy, not yet." "Why not? Why the hell not? You said yourself we need Clara on board, that she's the one who'll make the difference." There was this moment of silence, then Mr. Capaldi said, "Okay, if that's how you want it. Tell her." "Clara," the mother said, "we came here today, the main reason. It wasn't so Josie could sit more. We came here because of you." "I understand," I said. "I understood about the survey. It was to test how well I've come to know Josie, how well I understand how she makes her decisions and why she has her feelings. I think the results will show I'm well able to train the Josie upstairs, but I say again, it's wrong to give up hope."
"You still don't quite understand," Mr. Capaldi said, although he was standing there before me, his voice seemed to come, although he was standing there before me, his voice seemed to come from the edges of my vision because all I could see still were the mother's eyes. "Let me explain to her, Chrissy. It'll be easier coming from me." "Clara, we're not asking you to train the new Josie; we're asking you to become her. That Josie you saw up there, as you noticed, is empty. If the day comes, I hope it doesn't, but if it does, we want you to inhabit that Josie up there with everything you've learned." "You wish me to inhabit her?" "Chrissy chose you carefully with that in mind. She believed you to be the best one equipped to learn Josie, not just superficially, but deeply, entirely. Learn her till there's no difference between the first Josie and the second." "Henry's telling you this now," the mother said, and suddenly she was no longer partitioned like it was carefully planned, but it was never like that. I didn't even know if I believed any of this would work. Maybe once I believed it could, but seeing the portrait up there, I don't know anymore. "So you see what you, what's being asked of you, Clara," Mr. Capaldi said. "You're not being required simply to mimic Josie's outward behavior; you're being asked to continue her. For Chrissy, and for everyone who loves Josie." "But is that going to be possible?" the mother said. "Could she really continue Josie for me?" "Yes, she can," Mr. Capaldi said. "And now Clara has completed the survey up there, I'll be able to give you scientific proof of it, proof she's already well on her way to accessing quite comprehensively all of Josie's impulses and desires. The trouble is, Chrissy, you're like me. We're both sentimental. We can't help it. Our generation still carry the old feelings. A part of us refuses to let go, the part that wants to keep believing there's something unreachable inside of each of us, something that's unique and won't transfer. But there's nothing like that; we know that now. You know that. For people our age, it's hard to, it's a hard one to let go. We have to let it go, Chrissy. There's nothing there, nothing inside Josie that's beyond the Clara's of this world to continue. The second Josie won't be a copy; she'll be the exact same, and you'll have every right to love her just as you love Josie now. It's not faith you need; only rationality. I had to do it. It was tough, but now it works for me just fine, and it'll work for you."
The mother stood up and began walking across the room. "You might be right, Henry, but I'm too tired to think anymore, and I need to talk to Clara, talk with her alone." "I'm sorry things got messy here." She went to where she left her bag hanging from one of the entrance hooks. "I'm really glad Clara knows," Mr. Capaldi said, in fact, "I'm relieved." He was following behind the mother, as if reluctant to be left alone. "Clara," the date may possibly highlight where you, the data may possibly highlight where you still need to put in a little more effort, but I'm glad we can speak openly." "Come on, Clara, let's go." "So, Chrissy, we're still okay about all this?" "We're fine, but I need a break from it now." She touched Mr. Capaldi's shoulder, then we left through the main entrance, where he'd hurried to, which he'd hurried to open for us. He followed us to the elevator and gave a cheerful wave before the doors closed. On the descent, the mother took her oblong from her bag and stared at it. She put it away again as the door, elevator doors opened, and we walked out across the cracked concrete from where the sun was making its evening patterns through the wire fences. I thought there might be a chance Josie and father would be, the father would be waiting there for us, but there was nobody. Only a tree shadow falling through across the mother's car and the sounds of the city nearby. "Clara, honey, get in the front."
But when we were seated side by side, looking through the windshield at the anti-parking sign, the mother didn't start the car. I looked at Mr. Capaldi's building, the sun's patterns on its wall and its fire escapes, and I thought it curious the building could be so dirty on the outside. The mother was again looking at her oblong. "They've gone to a burger place. Josie, Josie says she's fine and that he's fine too. I hope they're enjoying themselves. I've things to say to you, but let's get out of this place." When we drove out of the yard into the neighborhood, we had to stop for a lady on a basket bicycle crossing our path. We stopped again a few minutes later under a long arm traffic signal, even though there were no other cars in sight. Soon after the signal changed, we passed a large brown building set back from the sidewalk with no windows at all but with a large central chimney. Then we moved through an underbridge area full of shadows, puddles, and jump skaters. We emerged out in the sun's pattern beside a building with a hiring now sign, and soon we were among pedestrians and the wall had sidewalk had small trees. Eventually, the mother's slowed, then stopped beside a sign saying "We Grind Our Own Beef." The other cars had to pass noisily around us, but there was no anti-parking sign. Through the windshield, we could see another underbridge area in front of us, and the cars that passed us were forming a line to enter it. "This is the place. They're inside there," she said. "Paul does have a point. They need to be by themselves sometimes, just them. They need that. We shouldn't always be with them, you see that, Clara?" "Of course. She misses her father. That's natural. So let's just sit out here for a while." Up ahead, the signal color changed, and we watched the cars move into the darkness beneath the bridge.
"This must all be a shock for you," she said. "You must have questions." "I think I understand." "Oh, you understand? You understand what I'm asking of you, and it is me asking, not Capaldi, and not Paul. In the end, it's me. That's who it comes down to. I'm asking you to make this work because if it happens, if it comes again, there's going to be no other way for me to survive. I came through it with Sal, but I can't do it again. So I'm asking you, Clara, do your best for me. They told me in the store you were remarkable. I've watched you enough to know that may be true. If you set your mind to it, then who knows? It might work, and I'll be able to love you." We didn't look at each other but kept gazing out through the windshield. Beside me on my side, an apron man had emerged from the "Grind Our Own Beef" building and was sweeping, sweeping the sidewalk.
"I don't blame Paul. He's entitled to his feelings. After Sal," he said, "we shouldn't risk it. So what if Josie didn't get lifted? Plenty of kids aren't. But I could never have that for Josie. I could never, I could never have that for Josie. I wanted the best for her. I wanted her to have a good life. You understand, Clara? I called it, and now Josie's sick because of what I decided. You see how it feels for me?" "Yes." "I'm sorry." "Feeling sorry is not what I'm asking of you. I'm asking you to do what's within your power, and I think what it'll mean for you, and think what it'll mean for you. You'll be loved like nothing else in the world. Maybe one day I'll take up with another man, who knows, but I promise you, I'll never love him the way I love you. You'll be Josie, and I'll always love you over everything else. So do it for me. I'm asking you to do it for me. Continue Josie for me. Come on, say something."
"I did wonder if I were to continue Josie, if I were to inhabit the new Josie, then what would happen to all this?" I raised my arms in the air, and for the first time, the mother looked at me. She glanced at my face, then down on my legs, then she looked away and said, "What does it matter? That's just fabric. Look, there's something else you might consider. Maybe it doesn't mean so much to you, me loving you, but here's something else. That boy, Rick. I can see he's something to you." "Don't speak." "Let me speak. What I'm saying is that Rick worships Josie, always has done. If you continue Josie, you'll have not just me, you'll have not just me, but him. What will it matter that he's not lifted? We'll find a way to live together, away from everything. We'll stay out there, just ourselves, away from all this. You, me, Rick, his mother, if she wants it. It could work, but you have to pull it off. You have to learn Josie in her entirety. You hear me, honey?" "Until now," I said, "until just now, I believed it was my duty to save Josie, to make her well, but perhaps this is a better way." The mother turned in her seat, slowly reached out her arms, and started to hug me. There was car equipment separating us, which made it hard for her to embrace me fully, but her eyes were closed in just the way they were when she and Josie rocked gently during a long embrace, and I felt her kindness sweeping through me.
The drivers wishing to enter the underbridge area were annoyed at having to pass around the mother's car. Many gave me unfriendly stares as they went past, even though they could see I was a passenger and not responsible. My concern, however, wasn't the passing cars or their unfriendly drivers, but what was going on at that moment inside the "Grind Our Own Beef." I had my mind not been momentarily filled by the mother's words and her embrace, I might have been able to dissuade her from going inside, but no sooner had the embrace finished, and despite her remarks about Josie and the father needing time to themselves, she'd suddenly vanished from my side, slamming the car door behind her. As the minutes went by, I recalled the tense moments in Mr. Capaldi's building and wondered if, despite the discourtesy, my own arrival inside the "Grind Our Own Beef" might be required in order to divert proceedings from scenes of similar upset for Josie. But before I could decide, the father appeared on the sidewalk on the other side of my window. He pointed the key device at the car, and when nothing happened, examined it more closely, then pressed again. This time, there were release noises around me, and the mother must have locked me in, or the mother must have locked me in. Walking around to the traffic side, he quickly entered the car. He settled himself in the driving seat but hardly glanced my way, staring instead towards the underbridge area. Then he placed a hand on the steering wheel and began drumming his fingers on it. "Amazing how she still has this vehicle," he said. "I helped her choose it. For a while, she was keen on a German car, but I told her this one would be more dependable. Well, I wasn't wrong. At least it outlasted me."
"Since Mr. Paul is an expert engineer," I said, "he must be very good at advising when choosing cars." "Not really. Car engines were never my field," he went on, touching the steering wheel now with some sadness. "Are Josie and the mother about to come out?" I asked. "What? Oh, no, no, they're not. I don't think they'll come out anytime soon." Then he said, "In fact, Christy suggested I drive off somewhere. She wants me far away while she talks more with Josie." He sounded less angry than in Mr. Capaldi's building. Indeed, he was almost dreamy. "To be honest, I wasn't happy when Christy came in. You'd think I wouldn't be pleased her interrupting like that, but the truth is, Josie and I weren't exactly having a lighthearted conversation. In fact, I was in a tight spot." Look, at last he looked at me. "I'm sorry if I behaved badly towards you. I have a feeling I may have been impolite." "Please don't worry. I now understand very well why Mr. Paul may have been reluctant to greet me warmly. I've never been good at, well, relating to your kind. You have to excuse me." "No, I don't mind Christy breaking in on us because Josie was in the middle of asking some tough questions, and I had no idea, no idea at all how to answer her. No fool, that Josie." He looked out again to the underbridge area and went on drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "After that visit, I wanted us to have a relaxing time, a coffee, something to eat, but then she asked me, since Capaldi is trying to help us, as I've been claiming, why do I hate him so much?" "How did Mr. Paul reply?" "I've always been useless at lying to her, so I guess I was, you know, pre-barricading, and I knew she could see right through me. That was when Christy came in." "Does Josie suspect about, about this plan? The one in case she has to pass away?" "I don't know. Maybe she suspects it but doesn't dare look at it. But she's no fool. All these tough questions, why was I so against someone doing her portrait? Well, let Chrissy have a go at answering." Suddenly, he placed the key device into the ignition slot. "We've been instructed to get lost for a while until, to be precise," he looked at his watch, "5:45. Then we're to rendezvous at this sushi place, all of us apparently: Josie, Chrissy, the neighbors too. So unless you want to sit in a parked car for an hour, I suggest we drive around." He started the engine, but the traffic light had become so extended we couldn't move yet. I put on the safety belt and waited. Then the lights came, changed up, and the car lurched forward. Shadow and light patterns moved all around us. Then we came out from the underbridge area into an avenue of tall brown wind buildings. We drove past a large creature with numerous limbs and eyes, then, even as I watched, a crack appeared down its center as it divided itself. I realized it had been all along two separate people, a runner and a dog-walking woman moving in opposite directions who for an instant happened to be passing one another. Then came a store with a sign saying "Eat In, Take Out," and in front of it, a lost baseball cap on the sidewalk.
"Was there anything special, any place special you wanted to go?" the father asked. "Josie mentioned something about your old store. She said we passed it earlier today." As soon as I heard him say this, I recognized the opportunity it presented and exclaimed, "Oh, yes!" Then, controlling myself, I said more quietly, "If you don't mind, I'd very much like that." "She was saying it may not be there anymore, that it might have moved on. I'm not certain. Even so, if Mr. Paul could take us to the area, it would make me very happy." "Fine, we've time to kill." At the next intersection, he turned to the right, saying as he did so, "I wonder how Chrissy's getting on. What they're talking about right now. Maybe she managed to change the topic." There was now more traffic, and we moved slowly behind other vehicles. The sun was sometimes visible, but he was already getting out quite low, and the tall buildings often blocked his view. The sidewalks were busy with office workers at the end of their work, and we passed a man on a ladder doing something to a shiny red notice that said "Rotisserie Chicken." The pedestrian crossings and tow-away zone signs went by, and I could sense we were coming nearer to the store.
"Can I ask you something?" the father said. "Yes, of course." "I think Josie still, Laura is still largely in the dark, but I don't know about you. How much you'd guessed before, how much you found out today? Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me what you do know." "Before I visited Mr. Capaldi today," I said, "I'd suspected some things but had been ignorant of many others. But now, after the visit, I can understand Mr. Paul's unease and I can understand his initial coldness towards me." "I apologize for that. So they explained it all to you? How you fit into the picture?" "Yes, I believe they told me everything." "And what do you think? Do you suppose you can pull it off, perform this role?" "It won't be easy, but I believe if I continue to observe Josie carefully, it will be within my abilities." "Then let me ask you something else. Let me ask you this: Do you believe in the human heart? I don't mean simply the organ, obviously. I'm speaking in the poetic sense. The human heart. Do you think there is such a thing, something that makes each of us a special individual? And if we just suppose that there is, then don't you think, in order to truly learn Josie, you'd have to learn not just her mannerisms, but what's deeply inside her? Wouldn't you have to learn her heart?" "Yes, certainly." "And that would be difficult? No, something beyond even your wonderful capabilities, because an impersonation wouldn't do, however skillful. You'd have to learn her heart and learn it fully, or you'll never become Josie in any sense that matters."
A public bus had stopped beside some abandoned fruit boxes. As the father steered around it, the car behind us made angry horn noises, then there were more angry horns, but these were further away and not aimed at us. "The heart you speak of," I said, "it might indeed be the hardest part of Josie to learn. It might be like a house with many rooms. Even so, a devoted AF, given time, could walk through each of these rooms, studying them carefully in turn, until they became like her own home." The father sounded our horn at a car trying to enter the traffic line from a street, but then, "Suppose you stepped into one of the rooms," he said, "and discovered another little room within it? And inside that room, another room still? Rooms within rooms within rooms. Isn't that how it might be, trying to learn Josie's heart? No matter how long you wandered through these rooms, wouldn't there always be others you'd not entered?" I considered this for a moment, then said, "Of course, a human heart is bound to be complex, but it must be limited. Even if Mr. Paul is talking in the poetic sense, there'll be an end to what there is to learn. Josie's heart may well resemble a strange house with rooms inside rooms, but if there were the best way to save Josie, then I do my utmost, and I believe there's a good chance I'd be able to succeed."
For the next few minutes, we drove without talking. Then, as we passed a building saying "Nail Boutique" and immediately after it, a row of peeling poster walls, he said, "According to Josie, your old store is in this district." This might have been so, but the surroundings weren't yet familiar to me. "I said to him, Mr. Paul has spoken very frankly. Perhaps now he'd allow me, in turn, to speak frankly." "Feel free." "My old store wasn't the true reason I asked you to drive into this district. No. When we came this way earlier today, not far from the store, we passed a machine. It was being used by overhaul men, and it was creating terrible pollution." "Okay, go on." "It's not easy to explain, but it's very important. Mr. Paul, no, now believes what I'm about to say. This machine must be destroyed. That's the real reason I asked to be driven here. It must be somewhere nearby. It's easily identified because it has the cootings on its body, the name Cootings. It has three funnels, and each of them emits terrible pollution." "And you want to find this machine now?" "Yes, and to destroy it because..."
It causes pollution. It's a terrible machine. I was leaning forward already, looking left and right. And how exactly do you intend to destroy it?
I'm not certain. That is why I wish to be frank with Mr. Paul. I'm requesting his help. Mr. Paul is an expert engineer, as well as an adult. You're asking me how to vandalize a machine? But first, we must find it. For instance, please, may we turn down this street? I can't turn here. It's a one-way. I don't like pollution any more than you do, but isn't this taking things a little far?
I'm unable to explain further, but Mr. Paul must trust me. It's very important for Josie's sake, for her health. How is this going to help Josie? I'm sorry, I'm not able to explain. Mr. Paul has to trust me. If we can only find the Kuding's machine and destroy it, I believe it will lead to Josie's full recovery. Then it won't matter about Mr. Capaldi or about his portrait, or how well I'll be able to learn Josie.
The father considered this. "All right," he said eventually. "Let's at least give this a try. You last saw this thing where did you say?" We continued to move, and I spotted the RPO building, the fire escapes building behind, beside it. Rapidly approaching us, the sun, the sun was falling behind them in the familiar way, and then we were passing the store itself. I saw again the colored bottles display and the recessed lighting notice, but I was so concerned I'd missed the Cootings machine, I hardly gave them attention.
As we went over the pedestrian crossing, the father said, "I'm wondering if this street's taxis only. Look at them everywhere." This turning, perhaps? Please, if possible. The Kuding's machine hadn't been where I'd seen it earlier, and as the streets grew unfamiliar again, I gazed in every direction. The sun sometimes shone brightly through the gaps between buildings, and I wondered if he was wishing to encourage me, or simply watching and monitoring, monitoring my progress.
When we turned into yet another street, and there was again no sign of the Cootings machine, my growing panic may have become obvious because the father said, in a kinder voice than he used so far towards me, "You really believe this, don't you, Josie? Or you really believe this, don't you? That this will help Josie?"
"Yes, yes, I do."
Something seemed to change in him. He sat forward, and then, like me, he was looking left and right with urgent eyes. "Hope," he said. "Damn thing never leaves you alone." He shook his head almost resentfully, but there was now a new strength about him. "Okay. A vehicle, you say? One used by construction workers? It has wheels, but I don't think it's a vehicle as such. It needs to be towed everywhere it goes. It has 'Coatings' written on its body and is pale yellow." He glanced at his watch. "The construction guys may have finished for the day. Let me try a few things."
The father began to drive more skillfully. We left behind the other vehicles, the passerbys, the storefronts, and entered the smaller streets, shaded by windowless buildings and large walls bright with cartoon writing. Sometimes the father would stop, reverse, then steer slowly down narrow spaces beside wire mesh fences, on the other side of which we could observe parked trucks and dirty cars. "See anything?" Whenever I shook my head, he'd make the car lurch forward again in a way that made me anxious. We'd strike a fire hydrant or the corner of a building as we turned sharply around it. We looked into more yards, and once we entered between two crookedly open gates, even though there was a sign hanging from one saying "Strictly No Admittance," and drove around a yard filled with vehicles, stacked crates, and a construction crane at the far end. But there was still no Cootings machine.
And the father then took us into a shadow neighborhood with broken sidewalks and lonely passers-by. He steered into another narrow lane, the site of looming "Floors for Lease" building, and beside, behind this building, was yet another yard bound by wire mesh fencing. "There, Mr. Paul. There it is." The father jerked, stopped the car. The yard was on my side, so I placed my head right against the window, and behind me, the father was adjusting in a seat to see better. "That one there, with the funnels? Yes. We found it."
I didn't take my gaze from the Cootings machine while the father reversed the car slowly. Then we stopped once more. "The main entrance has a chain on it," he said, "but the side entrance there, yes, the side small entrance is open. A passerby could enter on foot." I released the safety belt and was about to get out, but then felt the father's arm, hand on my arm. "I wouldn't go in there until you've decided exactly what you intend to do. It all looks ramshackle, but you never know. There may be alarms. There may be surveillance. We, you may not have time to stand and think."
"Yes, you're right. And you, quite, sir? Are you quite certain you have the correct machine?"
"Quite certain. I can see it clearly from here, and there's no doubt. And disabling, you say, will help Josie?"
"Yes."
"So, how do you propose to go about doing that?"
I stared at the Kuding's machine, sitting near the center of the yard, separated from the other parked vehicles. The sun was falling between two silhouetted buildings in the dis-mid distance, overlooking the yard. His rays weren't, for the moment, blocked by either building, and the edges of the parked vehicles were shining.
"I feel very foolish," I said finally.
"No, it's not so easy," the father said. "On top of which, what you're proposing could count as criminal damage. Yes. However, if the people up in those high windows over there happen to cease anything, I'm sure they'd be happy to see the Kuding's machine destroyed. They'd know just what an awful machine it is."
"That may be so, but how do you propose to do it?"
The father was now leaning back in a seat, one arm quite relaxed on the wheel, and I had the impression he'd already arrived at a possible solution, but for some reason was holding back from revealing it.
"Mr. Paul is an expert engineer," I said, turning to face him directly. "I was hoping he'd be able to think of something."
But the father kept gazing through the window at the yard. "I couldn't explain it to Josie earlier in the cafe," he said. "I couldn't explain to her why I hate Capaldi so much, why I can't bring myself to be civil towards him. But I'd like to try and explain it to you, Clara, if you don't mind."
His switch of subject was highly unwelcome, but anxious not to lose his good will, I said nothing and waited.
"I think I hate Capaldi because, deep down, I suspect he may be right. That what he claims is true. That science has now proved beyond doubt there's something so unique about, there's nothing so uni-unique about my daughter. Nothing that our modern tools can't excavate, copy, and transfer. That people have been living with one another all this time, centuries, loving and hating each other, and all on a mistaken premise, a kind of superstition. We kept going while we didn't know any better. That's how Capaldi sees it, and there's a part of me that fears he's right. Chrissy, on the other hand, isn't like me. She may not know it yet, but she'll never let herself be persuaded if the moment ever comes. Never mind how well you play your part, Clara. Never mind how much she wishes it to work. Chrissy just won't be able to accept it. She's too old-fashioned. Even if she knows she's going against the science and the math, she still won't be able to do it. She just won't stretch that far. But I'm different. I have a kind of coldness inside me she lacks. Perhaps it's because I'm an expert engineer, as you put it. This is why I find it so hard to be civil around people like Capaldi when they do what they do, say what they say. It feels like they're taking from me what I hold most precious in this life. Am I making sense?"
"Yes, I understand Mr. Paul's feelings." I let a few seconds go by, then continued. "It seems, then, from everything Mr. Paul says, that it's even more important that what Mr. Capaldi proposes is never put to the test. If we can make Josie healthy, than the portrait, my learning her, none of it will matter. So I ask you again, please advise me how I might destroy the Cootings machine. I have a feeling Mr. Paul has an idea how we might do it."
"Yes, a possibility has occurred to me, but I was hoping a better idea might come along. Unfortunately, it's looking like that isn't going to happen. Please tell me something may change at any moment and this opportunity will pass."
"Okay, well, here it is. That machine will contain inside it a Sylvester broad generation unit. Middle market, fuel-efficient, and robust enough, but with no real protection. It means that machine, that machine can stand any amount of dust, smoke, rain. But if anything, let's say with a high acrylamide content, gets inside its system, for example, a PEG9 solution, it wouldn't be able to handle it. It would be like putting gasoline into a diesel engine, except a lot worse. If you introduced it, PEG9 in there, it would rapidly polymerize. The damage is likely to be terminal."
"PEG9 solution? Yes. Does Mr. Paul know how we might now obtain PEG9 solution at short notice?"
"As it happens, I do," he went on, looking at me for a second, then said, "You'll be carrying a certain quantity of PEG9 there, inside your head. I see. I believe there's usually a small cavity just there, at the back of the head where it meets the neck. This isn't my area of expertise. Capaldi would know much more, but my guess is that you could afford to lose a small amount of PEG9 without it significantly affecting your well-being."
"If, if we were able to extract the solution from me, would there be sufficient to do? Would that be sufficient to destroy the Cootings machine?"
"This really isn't my area, but my guess is that you might be carrying approximately 500 milliliters. Even half of that should be sufficient to incapacitate a middle-market machine such as that one. Having said that, I have to empathize, emphasize, I'm not advocating we'd go down that road. Anything that jeopardizes your abilities could jeopardize Capaldi's plan, and Chrissy wouldn't want that."
My mind was filled with great fear, but I said, "But Mr. Paul believes if we could extract the solution, we could destroy the Cootings machine."
"Yes, that's what I believe. Is it possible Mr. Paul has suggested this course not only to destroy the Kootings machine, but also to damage Clara, and thus Mr. Capaldi's plan?"
"That very thought did cross my mind too, but if I really wanted to damage you, Clara, I think there are far simpler ways. Truth is, you've started me hoping again. Hoping that you might, that you say what you say might be for real."
"How would we extract the solution?"
"Just a small incision below the ear. Either ear would do. We'd require a tool, something with a sharp edge or point. We need only to pierce the outer layer. Beyond that, well, there should be a small valve I can loosen and tighten back up with my fingers." He'd been searching through the mother's car's glove compartment while saying this, and he now produced a plastic bottle of water. "Okay, this will do as a cat to catch the solution. And here, it's not ideal, but here's a tiny screwdriver." If I sharpened the edge a little more, he trailed off, holding the tool up to the light. "After that, it's just a case of walking over there and carefully pouring the solution down one of the nozzles. We should have used the central one. It's likely to connect directly to the Sylvester unit."
"Will I lose my abilities?"
"As I said, your overall performance shouldn't be greatly impaired, but this isn't my area. There may be some effects on your cognitive abilities, but since your essential energy source is solar, you shouldn't be affected to any significant degree." He lowered the window on his side and, holding out the plastic bottle, emptied the water out onto the ground outside. "This is your call, Clara. If you want, we can just drive away from here. We have another, let me see, 20 minutes before our rendezvous with the rest of the party."
I stared at the yard again through the wire mesh fencing, trying to control my fear. My view of it from the car had remained unpartitioned, and the sun was still watching from between the two silhouette buildings.
"You know, Clara," he said, "I don't even know what this is about, but I want what's best for Josie, exactly the same as you. So I'm willing to grasp at any chance that comes our way."
I turned to him with a smile and nodded. "Yes," I said. "Then let's try."