Chagall, a matador portrait on black velvet. And for too much—”
“That enslaves me to my syndrome,” Xavier said. “It doesn’t cure me of it.”
“And,” Bari said, “couldn’t the repeated triggering of such untoward responses prove dangerous? Couldn’t they prompt a stroke or a heart attack?”
“Sure,” Dr. Nesheim said. “But I just don’t know enough to prescribe effective treatment. I’d like to study Xavier on a day-to-day basis, but he’d probably prefer to go on living as normally as possible, even if he has to make adjustments.”
“Adjustments! I’d have to cultivate a tolerance for stuff that I hate—every sort of self-expressive abomination spun out by our species!”
“There must be an alternative,” Bari said. “Couldn’t he retire for extended periods to a sensory-deprivation chamber? A closed room with no art, books, or music? To short-circuit the syndrome by depriving it of, you know, fuel?”
“It would short-circuit me . And destroy my career.”
“Maybe a couple of hours a day would be long enough to calm you biochemically and to keep the syndrome from kicking in.”
“Maybe not,” Xavier said. “And even if it would, I couldn’t live that way.”
“Which is wholly your choice,” Dr. Nesheim said. “I wish I had better news.”
“Maybe I could sue the folks who built Plant VanMeter.”
“That again,” Dr. Nesheim said. “You have no proof of their culpability.”
“I have a suspicion—the memory of a weird prickling all over my body. The knowledge that a guard at the plant didn’t want me around.”
“They seldom want civilians around, and with good reason, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know.”
“Allow me to keep you under observation. I’d treat you free of charge.”
“Forget that.”
“Xavier!” Bari said.
“I’m not a lab rat. If I’m not dying, I’m not dying. I don’t plan to will my living body to the medical profession.”
“Your choice,” said Dr. Nesheim.
To his secretary in the outer office, he spoke one word over the intercom, “ Next .”
16
“For Me There Is No Vulgarity”
That evening, Bari came to Xavier’s place for a candlelight dinner, dancing, and some tension-defusing love play. The Mick was on an overnight field trip with a metropolitan chapter of the Smite Them Hip & Thigh fan club, which had booked seven rows at a concert in Montgomery. And Dr. Nesheim had told Bari and Xavier that, if they took standard precautions, there was no reason Xavier’s elevated radioactivity level should keep them from making love.
Bari wore one of her own creations, a skintight acetate gown of emerald-green with sinuous cutouts and a helically winding zipper. Only a self-possessed woman as well built as Bari, Xavier understood, could wear such a dress, for on a shy, a lean, or even a vaguely chunky female, the same outfit would have looked crass, the cry for attention of an insecure deb or a streetwalker’s come-hither smirk. On Bari, though, the gown was as apt as a white fur in Stockholm.
“Whoo-ee,” Xavier said, taking her hands. “You’re ravishing.”
“ ‘ Whoo-ee’? ”
“What a dress. It’s . . . unique.”
“It owes a lot to Azzedine Alaïa. I love the way he defies bourgeois expectations without stooping to avant-garde silliness.” She turned, showing the dress, not her body. “A design Mama would’ve approved, but not one she’d’ve imagined wearing.” Bari shed her shearling gloves, dropped them on the sofa arm, sashayed into the kitchen. She started palm-fronding carrots, heedless of the incongruity of wielding a vegetable grater in such upscale garb.
Xavier, lust insinuating itself into his abstract admiration, tried to envision Pippa Wiedmeyer and Ivie Nakai, pretty young women, in this wolf-whistle dress—they could wear it if they acted tough rather than demure, for Bari’s gown had leather grommets on the knee-high hem, and the V-shaped strap lifting its bodice was made of
“That enslaves me to my syndrome,” Xavier said. “It doesn’t cure me of it.”
“And,” Bari said, “couldn’t the repeated triggering of such untoward responses prove dangerous? Couldn’t they prompt a stroke or a heart attack?”
“Sure,” Dr. Nesheim said. “But I just don’t know enough to prescribe effective treatment. I’d like to study Xavier on a day-to-day basis, but he’d probably prefer to go on living as normally as possible, even if he has to make adjustments.”
“Adjustments! I’d have to cultivate a tolerance for stuff that I hate—every sort of self-expressive abomination spun out by our species!”
“There must be an alternative,” Bari said. “Couldn’t he retire for extended periods to a sensory-deprivation chamber? A closed room with no art, books, or music? To short-circuit the syndrome by depriving it of, you know, fuel?”
“It would short-circuit me . And destroy my career.”
“Maybe a couple of hours a day would be long enough to calm you biochemically and to keep the syndrome from kicking in.”
“Maybe not,” Xavier said. “And even if it would, I couldn’t live that way.”
“Which is wholly your choice,” Dr. Nesheim said. “I wish I had better news.”
“Maybe I could sue the folks who built Plant VanMeter.”
“That again,” Dr. Nesheim said. “You have no proof of their culpability.”
“I have a suspicion—the memory of a weird prickling all over my body. The knowledge that a guard at the plant didn’t want me around.”
“They seldom want civilians around, and with good reason, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know.”
“Allow me to keep you under observation. I’d treat you free of charge.”
“Forget that.”
“Xavier!” Bari said.
“I’m not a lab rat. If I’m not dying, I’m not dying. I don’t plan to will my living body to the medical profession.”
“Your choice,” said Dr. Nesheim.
To his secretary in the outer office, he spoke one word over the intercom, “ Next .”
16
“For Me There Is No Vulgarity”
That evening, Bari came to Xavier’s place for a candlelight dinner, dancing, and some tension-defusing love play. The Mick was on an overnight field trip with a metropolitan chapter of the Smite Them Hip & Thigh fan club, which had booked seven rows at a concert in Montgomery. And Dr. Nesheim had told Bari and Xavier that, if they took standard precautions, there was no reason Xavier’s elevated radioactivity level should keep them from making love.
Bari wore one of her own creations, a skintight acetate gown of emerald-green with sinuous cutouts and a helically winding zipper. Only a self-possessed woman as well built as Bari, Xavier understood, could wear such a dress, for on a shy, a lean, or even a vaguely chunky female, the same outfit would have looked crass, the cry for attention of an insecure deb or a streetwalker’s come-hither smirk. On Bari, though, the gown was as apt as a white fur in Stockholm.
“Whoo-ee,” Xavier said, taking her hands. “You’re ravishing.”
“ ‘ Whoo-ee’? ”
“What a dress. It’s . . . unique.”
“It owes a lot to Azzedine Alaïa. I love the way he defies bourgeois expectations without stooping to avant-garde silliness.” She turned, showing the dress, not her body. “A design Mama would’ve approved, but not one she’d’ve imagined wearing.” Bari shed her shearling gloves, dropped them on the sofa arm, sashayed into the kitchen. She started palm-fronding carrots, heedless of the incongruity of wielding a vegetable grater in such upscale garb.
Xavier, lust insinuating itself into his abstract admiration, tried to envision Pippa Wiedmeyer and Ivie Nakai, pretty young women, in this wolf-whistle dress—they could wear it if they acted tough rather than demure, for Bari’s gown had leather grommets on the knee-high hem, and the V-shaped strap lifting its bodice was made of
Similar Books
