HYDRA
ARENA.
The stands were nearly
full, though the show didn’t start for half an hour. Bode estimated
the place seated around five thousand. He gazed around the arena
and noticed little things—a popcorn box flattened and grayed with
shoe grime, a soda vendor with flies pestering his mess of
dreadlocks. He got a knowing stare from an old woman with a pierced
lip and cheeks draped like stage curtains. She blew a small bubble
with her gum.
The pool was aboveground,
circular, maybe thirty feet in diameter. Its sides were glass, and
the gold muntins between the panes looked like the tension casings
on a drum. Spectators in the first few rows could watch the show
through the glass, and everyone else got an aerial view of the
action. Four massive video screens offered alternate
vantages.
Once again, the Haze was
failing to make the world blur, and once again he wasn’t sure if
that was good or bad. He kept surfacing from what should have been
an unbroken dream, gasping in confusion, seeking a shore that
seemed just out of reach.
I want to see. I want to
know.
He and Kilroy had box seats
five rows up, so they could see the top of the pool, but they could
also watch through the glass if they chose. Kilroy had dressed Bode
in a suit. Literally dressed him, positioning him like a doll as
he’d put on his socks, buttoned his shirt, tied his tie. Bode had
endured the humiliation quietly, pretending his mind was
adrift.
Kilroy had his program open
and was leafing through it. Bode glanced at the list of acts and
was drawn to the finale title: THE BOY OF THE WATER IN HIS LAST ACT
ON EARTH.
“ Emily McCullough.” Kilroy
pointed to the name of the Hydra Arena’s director. “I knew her,
once upon a time. I didn’t realize we’d made similar career
choices.”
Many people recognized
Kilroy and came to shake his hand. Just as many recognized Bode.
Bode shook hands numbly, signed autographs, and posed for pictures
until the show began.
The opening act was a
synchronized swimming number. It featured two men and two women.
The girls’ bodies had been painted red and the boys’ bodies blue,
and when they linked in the center of the pool to form a rotating
pinwheel, the wheel turned purple, and plumes of paint streamed
from the performers’ skin, inking the turquoise water. It was quite
impressive, though Bode’s thoughts kept drifting. A dark bird
streaked across the gray sky. He heard laughter in the row above
him.
“ Really, there is nothing
inspired about the sex,” Kilroy remarked as they watched the two
pairs fuck in unison. “If it weren’t taking place in the water, it
would be nothing unusual at all.”
The other spectators seemed
bored too—fanning themselves with programs and chatting through the
performance.
The second act was a fairy
tale in which a villager set out with a net to catch a mermaid. The
young woman playing the mermaid wore a tail that had such detailed
scale work and moved so realistically Bode wondered how it could be
a costume. But once again, the sex was dull. Bode ended up looking
away for most of it.
An unpleasant third act
featured water boxing, and the crowd paid more attention to this
one. Two young men punched each other until blood streamed from
their lips and noses into the water, where each drop broke apart
and spread slowly. Bode curled his lip, dread warping itself into
anger as cartilage smashed and men grunted and blood whorled around
them. The water was up to their chests, and they couldn’t dart
forward or back. Sprays burst upward with each arm
movement.
Bode watched the close up
shots on the video screen. One of the men staggered back with a
splash as the other punched him in the ear. The puncher had a
tattoo on his cheek of a wolf dragging its trap-caught hind leg.
Bode tensed. Don’t hit him. Stop hitting
him, you fucker.
“ Bode,
sit back ,
and don’t snarl.” Kilroy nudged him.
Bode turned toward Kilroy,
still snarling. I hate you. You fucker, I
hate you.
ARENA.
The stands were nearly
full, though the show didn’t start for half an hour. Bode estimated
the place seated around five thousand. He gazed around the arena
and noticed little things—a popcorn box flattened and grayed with
shoe grime, a soda vendor with flies pestering his mess of
dreadlocks. He got a knowing stare from an old woman with a pierced
lip and cheeks draped like stage curtains. She blew a small bubble
with her gum.
The pool was aboveground,
circular, maybe thirty feet in diameter. Its sides were glass, and
the gold muntins between the panes looked like the tension casings
on a drum. Spectators in the first few rows could watch the show
through the glass, and everyone else got an aerial view of the
action. Four massive video screens offered alternate
vantages.
Once again, the Haze was
failing to make the world blur, and once again he wasn’t sure if
that was good or bad. He kept surfacing from what should have been
an unbroken dream, gasping in confusion, seeking a shore that
seemed just out of reach.
I want to see. I want to
know.
He and Kilroy had box seats
five rows up, so they could see the top of the pool, but they could
also watch through the glass if they chose. Kilroy had dressed Bode
in a suit. Literally dressed him, positioning him like a doll as
he’d put on his socks, buttoned his shirt, tied his tie. Bode had
endured the humiliation quietly, pretending his mind was
adrift.
Kilroy had his program open
and was leafing through it. Bode glanced at the list of acts and
was drawn to the finale title: THE BOY OF THE WATER IN HIS LAST ACT
ON EARTH.
“ Emily McCullough.” Kilroy
pointed to the name of the Hydra Arena’s director. “I knew her,
once upon a time. I didn’t realize we’d made similar career
choices.”
Many people recognized
Kilroy and came to shake his hand. Just as many recognized Bode.
Bode shook hands numbly, signed autographs, and posed for pictures
until the show began.
The opening act was a
synchronized swimming number. It featured two men and two women.
The girls’ bodies had been painted red and the boys’ bodies blue,
and when they linked in the center of the pool to form a rotating
pinwheel, the wheel turned purple, and plumes of paint streamed
from the performers’ skin, inking the turquoise water. It was quite
impressive, though Bode’s thoughts kept drifting. A dark bird
streaked across the gray sky. He heard laughter in the row above
him.
“ Really, there is nothing
inspired about the sex,” Kilroy remarked as they watched the two
pairs fuck in unison. “If it weren’t taking place in the water, it
would be nothing unusual at all.”
The other spectators seemed
bored too—fanning themselves with programs and chatting through the
performance.
The second act was a fairy
tale in which a villager set out with a net to catch a mermaid. The
young woman playing the mermaid wore a tail that had such detailed
scale work and moved so realistically Bode wondered how it could be
a costume. But once again, the sex was dull. Bode ended up looking
away for most of it.
An unpleasant third act
featured water boxing, and the crowd paid more attention to this
one. Two young men punched each other until blood streamed from
their lips and noses into the water, where each drop broke apart
and spread slowly. Bode curled his lip, dread warping itself into
anger as cartilage smashed and men grunted and blood whorled around
them. The water was up to their chests, and they couldn’t dart
forward or back. Sprays burst upward with each arm
movement.
Bode watched the close up
shots on the video screen. One of the men staggered back with a
splash as the other punched him in the ear. The puncher had a
tattoo on his cheek of a wolf dragging its trap-caught hind leg.
Bode tensed. Don’t hit him. Stop hitting
him, you fucker.
“ Bode,
sit back ,
and don’t snarl.” Kilroy nudged him.
Bode turned toward Kilroy,
still snarling. I hate you. You fucker, I
hate you.
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