with Justine?”
“We’re fighting, yes.”
“About Baby A?”
“No, about the recycling. What do you think?”
He tips his drink back, motions for me to follow suit.
“We were a happy couple, a happy family, can you imagine that?
Six months ago that was our status: happy. But then you show
up —”
“You can stop.”
“Oh, she won’t hear of it now. ‘Divorce me, then,’ she says.
‘Take me to court. We’re going to cooperate with them, it’s
the
right thing to do
. . .’ ”
“It’s a donation.” I swallow. “Nobody can force you.”
“So she thinks —ha!”
Mr. Harkonnen has finished his virgin sleep cocktail. Angrily,
he shakes the drained glass. His tongue darts around to catch the
last clear droplets. The tongue’s froggy orbit around the edge of
the glass seems many evolutionary leaps removed from the wounded
intelligence in Mr. Harkonnen’s black eyes.
“She thinks that one day
you will stop asking
.”
“But we will! When the neuroscientists figure out a way to
synthesize what she produces naturally . . .”
“Ha!”
For the duration of his laughing fit, Mr. Harkonnen stares down
at the bar with a face of social horror, the bulge-eyed
consternation of a man who is trying to discreetly cough up a bone
into a cloth napkin; eventually, he regains control of his
voice.
“And how old will my daughter be then?” he asks calmly. “Ten?
Twenty?”
She’ll be dead
. This thought is nothing I will. It
blows into and through me, part of a leaf-swirl of my worst fears.
To erase it, I imagine Baby A at twenty, laughing, a bright-eyed
college freshman.
“She’ll be a lot younger than ten, I bet. The scientists are
working around the clock —”
Mr. Harkonnen snaps for the bartender.
“We’d like to try one of your specials.”
“Of course. What is your desired State of Vigilance? Or Depth of
Sleep?” asks the bartender-pharmacist.
“Sleep for us, this time —”
The bartender-pharmacist winks at Mr. Harkonnen. With her tiny,
fox-perfect teeth, she tears a blank envelope.
Service is democratic, I gather, in a Night World. Nobody here
prescreens, or hands around eligibility questionnaires. The
bewigged bartender-pharmacist, smoothing her magenta bangs, is
happy to take our money. Eighty-four dollars for two drinks. Purple
powder seems to float inside the dark glass, coagulating into tiny
countries.
“You’ll be out cold,” I observe to Mr. Harkonnen.
He grins at a dim corner of the tent.
“So will you, though. Bottoms up.”
My body tenses, anticipating a second onrush of light. But three
sips in, and this time I feel like a bone on sand, powdery and
solid, too, and very still. Some protection is in the process of
repealing itself. This is scary at first, but soon its absence
feels like a relief. The heaviness of sentience, heavy history and
caution —the drink drains it away.
Shards are winking on the sand inside me and I find I have no
desire to collect them, to dig or to investigate. I am strangely
unbothered by the parched bar, the evaporating sea of reason, the
flecks of thoughts, their disconnection.
“This is a good one,” Mr. Harkonnen says. “Sort of limey. Do you
taste lime?”
It doesn’t last too long, that first hit of the soporific. A
second later, I sober up; the waves come back, and I’m myself
again, thinking my thoughts, albeit in a dangerously relaxed
state.
Somehow it seems we’re talking about Baby A.
“I manage the YMCA. Soccer, baseball. For every
boy, there is a season. I wanted a boy, until she came.” He smiles
down at the bar, squeezing his fists together; it’s a funny
gesture, and I wonder if he’s keeping something for or from
himself. “And then I forgot that I ever wanted different.”
Until who came?
“Abigail!” I blurt out.
Mr. Harkonnen lifts an eyebrow.
“Baby A,” I correct, looking down.
“You got privileges, huh? Teacher’s pet? What else do you know
about
“We’re fighting, yes.”
“About Baby A?”
“No, about the recycling. What do you think?”
He tips his drink back, motions for me to follow suit.
“We were a happy couple, a happy family, can you imagine that?
Six months ago that was our status: happy. But then you show
up —”
“You can stop.”
“Oh, she won’t hear of it now. ‘Divorce me, then,’ she says.
‘Take me to court. We’re going to cooperate with them, it’s
the
right thing to do
. . .’ ”
“It’s a donation.” I swallow. “Nobody can force you.”
“So she thinks —ha!”
Mr. Harkonnen has finished his virgin sleep cocktail. Angrily,
he shakes the drained glass. His tongue darts around to catch the
last clear droplets. The tongue’s froggy orbit around the edge of
the glass seems many evolutionary leaps removed from the wounded
intelligence in Mr. Harkonnen’s black eyes.
“She thinks that one day
you will stop asking
.”
“But we will! When the neuroscientists figure out a way to
synthesize what she produces naturally . . .”
“Ha!”
For the duration of his laughing fit, Mr. Harkonnen stares down
at the bar with a face of social horror, the bulge-eyed
consternation of a man who is trying to discreetly cough up a bone
into a cloth napkin; eventually, he regains control of his
voice.
“And how old will my daughter be then?” he asks calmly. “Ten?
Twenty?”
She’ll be dead
. This thought is nothing I will. It
blows into and through me, part of a leaf-swirl of my worst fears.
To erase it, I imagine Baby A at twenty, laughing, a bright-eyed
college freshman.
“She’ll be a lot younger than ten, I bet. The scientists are
working around the clock —”
Mr. Harkonnen snaps for the bartender.
“We’d like to try one of your specials.”
“Of course. What is your desired State of Vigilance? Or Depth of
Sleep?” asks the bartender-pharmacist.
“Sleep for us, this time —”
The bartender-pharmacist winks at Mr. Harkonnen. With her tiny,
fox-perfect teeth, she tears a blank envelope.
Service is democratic, I gather, in a Night World. Nobody here
prescreens, or hands around eligibility questionnaires. The
bewigged bartender-pharmacist, smoothing her magenta bangs, is
happy to take our money. Eighty-four dollars for two drinks. Purple
powder seems to float inside the dark glass, coagulating into tiny
countries.
“You’ll be out cold,” I observe to Mr. Harkonnen.
He grins at a dim corner of the tent.
“So will you, though. Bottoms up.”
My body tenses, anticipating a second onrush of light. But three
sips in, and this time I feel like a bone on sand, powdery and
solid, too, and very still. Some protection is in the process of
repealing itself. This is scary at first, but soon its absence
feels like a relief. The heaviness of sentience, heavy history and
caution —the drink drains it away.
Shards are winking on the sand inside me and I find I have no
desire to collect them, to dig or to investigate. I am strangely
unbothered by the parched bar, the evaporating sea of reason, the
flecks of thoughts, their disconnection.
“This is a good one,” Mr. Harkonnen says. “Sort of limey. Do you
taste lime?”
It doesn’t last too long, that first hit of the soporific. A
second later, I sober up; the waves come back, and I’m myself
again, thinking my thoughts, albeit in a dangerously relaxed
state.
Somehow it seems we’re talking about Baby A.
“I manage the YMCA. Soccer, baseball. For every
boy, there is a season. I wanted a boy, until she came.” He smiles
down at the bar, squeezing his fists together; it’s a funny
gesture, and I wonder if he’s keeping something for or from
himself. “And then I forgot that I ever wanted different.”
Until who came?
“Abigail!” I blurt out.
Mr. Harkonnen lifts an eyebrow.
“Baby A,” I correct, looking down.
“You got privileges, huh? Teacher’s pet? What else do you know
about
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