Hopscotch (19 page)

He went to the door, shouted for his receptionist to get them something to drink, but when she returned a moment later carrying a tray, he scolded her for interrupting their important meeting. He had already launched into a new train of thought.

Though words poured from the publicity specialist like water thundering down a waterfall, Garth didn't sense any depth. “But you're not saying anything about the art
itself.
How do we make sure we get it in front of the right people?”

Stradley came to a complete stop and fixed him with a surprisingly severe gaze. “Who are you to select the
right
people, Garth? I'm not going to pick and choose who might understand or enjoy this work, and you shouldn't, either. Don't get all snooty. We put F
RUSTRATION
in front of as many people as we can, and let them sort it out. That's what I'm best at.”

Stradley continued without even taking a breath. “Listen, Garth, your exhibit is not safe, but it is profound. You've learned some things about humanity, and portrayed your insights in a compelling way. You provide a punch of reality to people who are probably too afraid to experience it themselves—and that's exactly how I plan to promote you!”

He circled his desk one more time and came back to stand in front of the free-form chairs. Snatching one of the untouched drinks from the tray, Stradley gulped it down. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at the two men, as if challenging them. “Are you guys ready to work? We've got a lot to do if you want to be ready for the big debut of F
RUSTRATION
.”

They both gave a resounding yes. Garth felt as if he had just plunged into white-water rapids in a kayak, but he was delighted, too. He was having the time of his life.

36

Arthur poked delicately
at the remaining Madonna lilies in Teresa's basket. Their scent had been changed to a bright spearmint, like an air freshener. “Okay, bend closer so you can see the details. Lots of things to notice.”

Teresa scooted over to the ragged man on the cool fountain rim. Arthur nudged open the soft white flower. “Look at how everything fits. The petals surround the anthers and the stigma, where the slightest brush of a bee's foot will distribute the pollen grains.” He touched the anthers and came away with a smear of yellow dust. “A grain of pollen travels down the pollen tube and fertilizes the seeds inside this receptacle.” He turned the lily over so she could see the green sepals embracing the petals. “This part becomes the seed pod.”

He handed her the flower. Teresa cupped it in her hands.

“Now look at the cut end of the stem, see the tiny straws. Each one is a fluid vessel to carry nutrients from the roots, like plumbing and electrical conduits in a skyscraper, or the circulatory system in your own body.”

Day after day, she came to the old man, usually when she finished her flower-delivery rounds. Arthur didn't want anything from her, didn't have an agenda. He just enjoyed the conversation and attention, and Teresa learned everything she could. “Oh, Arthur, you've made the world so much more complicated.”

“I hope that's a good thing.” His smile warmed her heart.

She clasped his bony wrist. “It's more interesting that way. I'm ashamed at how I never noticed what was right there in front of me.” She hesitated, never having asked about his past. “How do you know so much? Were you some sort of doctor or surgeon . . . before?”

Arthur gave a high and hoarse laugh, which degenerated into an alarming spate of coughing. When he had recovered, he looked at Teresa with amusement. He gestured to the tall buildings that ringed the plaza. “No, no—I used to work in those skyscrapers. I was just a plumbing engineer.”

Another day, Arthur took her inside one of the buildings, showed her the ancient keycode for a maintenance entrance. “These are areas the general public doesn't see, but that's where you'll find the most fascinating things, the systems that keep everything running.”

They slipped along dimly lit passages between walls, access shafts, and hatchways. They ducked under a thick black pipe and followed as it ran along syncrete blocks before turning left and plunging through an opening in a wall.

“I didn't even know these places existed,” Teresa said, breathless.

“Nobody understands the whole picture,” Arthur said. He tapped a water pipe with his fingernail, making a dull sound. “The city, this building, even your own body—the closer you look, the more complex it becomes. Like fractals. You never get to the bottom of it all.”

The echoing passageways were lit by harsh glow tiles not designed for the comfort of human eyes. The air smelled dank in the untraveled tunnels. Creatures stirred in the shadows, spiders and crickets and mice.

“I used to map and maintain the water systems inside this building, all seventy-eight stories of it.” Arthur moved with a spring in his step she had not seen before. He seemed to forget his aches and pains, his poor health. “It's good to revisit my old stomping grounds, especially with an eager pupil at my side.”

He rattled off statistics relating to the building, pointing out minute details she would never have noticed. He explained the intricate conduits, power connections, and overflow systems.

“I had a lot of time to myself down here. A lot of time to think. When I understood how this building worked, I realized how much it reminded me of the human body—structural supports like bones, plumbing like a circulatory system, electrical conduits like nerves, thermostats and optical sensors and alarm systems like our senses.” The old man lowered his voice. “But even the greatest networks inside the mightiest skyscrapers can't truly compare to the elegant complexity of the human body.”

Arthur held up his gnarled right hand. “I finally got it through my head that the fluid-flow pathways in my little finger, designed by the pressures of evolution or by God Himself, far surpass any system that centuries of human engineering has managed to construct. We're just . . . amateurs at this.”

He led her up a narrow metal staircase that paralleled an elevator shaft. Teresa listened to his labored breathing as he clomped higher and higher. With a humming rattle, an enclosed elevator car whisked past them and a counterweight shuttled upward in an opposite shaft.

Arthur rested on the steps. “When I found that discarded copy of
Gray's Anatomy,
it seemed like a sign. I abandoned my work and took to living as best I could on my own limited resources. I needed more time to study.”

Teresa held herself back, trying not to push him faster than he wanted to go, but Arthur climbed level after level, driven from within. “You must have made up your mind before then never to hopscotch.”

Arthur finally paused at a landing. “It'll take me a century just to understand
this
hunk of flesh. Why should I make the problem more difficult by stepping inside someone else's guts and muscles?” He inspected his scrawny bicep with renewed interest.

“But aren't you curious about other people? Their perspectives, their sensations?” Teresa had been in so many different physiques, so many men and women—strong and weak, beautiful and average. She had noticed a host of differences, but also an underlying
sameness.

“Okay, I could be healthier, more energetic—but at whose expense? Every body has a given life span, like a warranty, and if I take good care of mine, maybe I can extend its service lifetime.” He shrugged. “Regardless, I'm satisfied with the body I was given at birth. No regrets.”

Later, Teresa helped him back out into the sunlight, away from the skyscraper's maintenance corridors. Arthur looked bone weary, his feet dragging and his shoulders slumped. The fresh air seemed to do him no good. He urged her to be off, to complete more deliveries for the day. “Go. I don't want you to get in trouble on my account.”

Teresa hugged him gently, afraid she might break his old body. “I'm worried about you, Arthur. You need to rest.”

He waved her off. “Okay, I'll take a nap. Don't worry—I'll be fine.”

She left him at the fountain, hurrying to pick up another load of bouquets for the afternoon deliveries. The old man was too tired to watch her go.

37

Still achy and dizzy,
glad to be away from Mordecai Ob's mansion, Eduard made his way to Garth's big exhibition. He felt worse each day, and his mouth always tasted awful. But even if he'd been on his deathbed, Eduard would have found some way to make it to his friend's opening. He wouldn't have missed it even if he had to steal a body to get there.

F
RUSTRATION
. Now that was a familiar concept.

Accompanied by an immaculately uniformed Inspector Daragon Swan, the Bureau Chief had left his estate earlier for the show. Ob clearly wanted to keep a master/servant distance between himself and his body-caretaker, though, and suggested that Eduard find his own way.
No problem.

He followed the huge signs and a swirl of people. Animated shooting stars and insistent arrows in the sidewalks guided pedestrians to the show. Ahead, under floating spotlights, Eduard saw the gallery building surrounded by a web of intersecting lasers that diffracted and sparkled through a dance of water-fans. Arches and cyber-Greek columns braced an ornate doorway through which people filed.

How much had all this cost? He couldn't believe the extravagant support Ob had invested here. The aloof Bureau Chief must have plenty of confidence in Garth.

Invitations were checked, celebrities welcomed by name. Holding his VIP pass in hand, Eduard worked his way through the crowd. A redheaded woman in a voluminous pink dress jostled his arm, and he winced at the surprising ripples of pain. Taking a deep breath, he blocked his aches and pushed forward. He had lived through far greater pain in his life, and he would damned well put on a good show for Garth's big night.

Inside, the floor's synthetic semiprecious stones were polished to a luster that Egyptian pharaohs had only dreamed of. Attendees in the outer foyer sipped from fluted glasses of champagne or nibbled hors d'oeuvres. Rich patrons had rented fine bodies for the evening, some dressed so gaudily they appeared to be on exhibit themselves.

Bureau Chief Mordecai Ob wore an exquisite tuxedo, standing beside Garth, who looked greatly out of his depth. Ob beamed with pride, as if taking credit for the exhibition—which he could, in a way, since it had been his patronage, his important connections and possibly even bribe money that had generated the intense buzz necessary to launch Garth into stardom.

From the cavernous lobby, a line of spectators worked its way toward the main exhibit room. A doorway on the other side of the showroom let out a stream of wavering people who had completed their circuit of the F
RUSTRATION
exhibit. Most were visibly moved, their expressions stony or fallen, some openly weeping.

Seeing this, Eduard felt honored and filled with joy for his friend, though Garth hadn't seen him yet. He took a deep breath, finding strength inside. Chin up, he entered the mass of well-dressed people, searching for Teresa in the crowd.

“You should have seen Garth's first show,” Pashnak said to Stradley, his voice strong and pleased. “I think I was the only person who bought anything. Total disaster.”

The hype-meister beamed at the turnout in the exhibition hall. “Well, he didn't have me to help him out last time. It's not enough for an artist just to do good work. Someone has to convince the masses that it's good. Someone has to sell it—otherwise nobody sees it.”

Pashnak nodded. “This is
great
work, Mr. Stradley, and you did a remarkable job bringing people in here to experience it. Once word gets around about F
RUSTRATION
, Garth will never have publicity problems again.”

Stradley shrugged. “Never underestimate the short attention span of the consumer base, especially in the artistic community.” He snagged a glass of champagne. “I hate this stuff, but it's tradition.” He took a gulp, grimaced at the fizz, then finished off the bubbly drink. “This is my favorite part of a star's career, the first big break. You can never re-create that adrenaline rush, though they try. Heaven knows they try. It's pathetic to watch later on.”

From a tray, he plucked a cracker spread with salmon mousse, continuing to talk while he crunched. “Even with Chief Ob's assistance, I have to admit I'm amazed at how easy it was to get publicity for Garth—the right
kind
of publicity, too. I was able to make perfect connections. My e-nouncements popped to the top of the stack, and media attention magically appeared. I wish all my hype worked like that. If I was superstitious, I'd say COM
wanted
to help this kid.”

Pashnak surveyed the crowd, maintaining a professional smile. “Garth deserves it, Stradley. You don't know how long he's worked for this.”

“And I don't care, either. For every Garth Swan who makes it, a thousand others work just as hard with just as much talent . . . and remain wanna-bes for the rest of their miserable lives.” He flashed another professional smile—Stradley was good at that. “Me, I enjoy the
challenge,
the battle to create a new star. For Garth, it was almost too simple!”

“I'm not complaining.” Pashnak continued to survey the crowd, greeting people he was supposed to recognize—famous socialites, politicians—but who could ever be sure which body was which? “My God, that's Teresa!” he said under his breath and left the hype-meister to graze the hors d'oeuvres by himself.

Blinded by adrenaline and praise, Garth extricated himself from Mordecai Ob. Seeing Eduard, he fought through the press of people, dodging autograph hunters and paparazzi who worked with triangulating cameras to catch the artist in full holo. He embraced Eduard in an exuberant bear hug, so excited that he didn't even notice his friend's pained reaction. “You believe all of this? Is it real, or am I just hallucinating? At the moment, I'm so frazzled that Pashnak had to tie my shoes for me.”

Around them, camera crews caught the entire encounter. Eduard patted the big blond man on the back. “It's real enough, Garth. You'll be able to see it again and again on all the newsnets if you do a topic search. No problem.” He made a comical face for one of the imagers.

Pashnak hurried up to them, leading Teresa. Laughing, Garth warmly hugged her. “You know, I'm getting used to you in this body. Big eyed and innocent looking. It suits you after all.”

“Good, because this is where I'm going to stay.” She looked with concern at Eduard's haggard appearance, but before she could say anything, Garth gestured toward the inner exhibition room.

“Have you two been through yet? Come, let me take you to the front of the line. I want you to see what I've been trying to do for so many years. Maybe this'll convince you that I wasn't crazy all along.”

Teresa chuckled. “Oh, Garth, we've all been crazy in our lives, don't you think?”

“You can say that again,” Eduard said.

As soon as Garth had escorted them into the inner chamber, Pashnak and the reporters dragged the artist away again. “Sorry, Garth. Mr. Ob insists.” With a wave, the blond artist vanished back into the swirl of people.

Now Teresa stood next to Eduard, lowering her voice. “You look terrible.” She ran a loving hand along his face, like a concerned mother. “I can see shadows all around you.”

“I'll be all right, Teresa.”

She huffed. “You'd never let
me
get away with an answer like that.”

He walked ahead into the experience room, seeking refuge in the darkness. “I've already run my own scans but couldn't find any disease, any virus. No known toxins, poisons.” Eduard shrugged, then scowled at the sharp pain in his shoulder. “Still, I think . . . my boss might be doing something in my body.”

She looked across the faces in the crowd, seeing where Garth was shaking the hand of a statuesque woman in a dazzling formal dress. The Bureau Chief smiled beside him, as if basking in the artist's glow. “Mr. Ob seems like such a generous person. Look at how much he's helped Garth.”

“Tell that to his other three trainers—if you can find them. Everyone who's had this job before me has disappeared.”

Alarmed, she took his arm. Her unfortunate experiences with Rhys had taught her not to trust people as much as she wanted to. “Oh, Eduard—maybe you need to leave that job? Have you talked to Daragon?”

He responded with a sharp laugh. “Daragon thinks Mordecai Ob is God, and after tonight Garth would probably agree. No, this is something I need to take care of myself, and I'd rather not just walk away from this job.”

She grabbed his hand before they could disappear into the dim exhibit. Behind them, people pushed forward, urging them on. “Eduard, you've never been good at asking for help. Promise you'll come to me if there's ever anything I can do for you. I owe you enough already, don't you think?”

Eduard placed a gentle finger on her lips to stop further protests. He noticed with alarm that his hand was trembling. “You don't owe me anything.” He kissed her gently on the forehead. “Teresa, I promise. I'm not hiding anything from you—I just don't know the answer myself yet.”

He took her hand and drew her farther into the exhibit. “This is Garth's night. Let's be happy for him.”

Outside the gallery, keeping away from the bright lights, Daragon watched it all, enjoying Garth's success. Tonight, Mr. Ob was with him, separate from the Bureau, probably imagining a different life for himself, how it might have been if he'd been a successful artist instead of the BTL Chief.

Daragon strode along the edge of the crowd as if his job were to maintain order at the show. People gave way, letting him move unhindered around the perimeter of the exhibition building, past the water-fans and lasers. Before the opening, accompanying Chief Ob, Daragon had seen the exhibit in a special showing with Garth, Stradley, Pashnak, and several VIPs. Nothing in the auditorium, though, could give him more pleasure than to see the attention his friend had finally received.

As he watched the ebb and flow of people, he noticed how many of the guests departed looking contemplative, uncertain, disturbed. Some chuckled nervously, some remained silent, hurrying to their hoverlimos. A few smiled wistfully, shaking their heads. Yes, Garth's work had touched them, all right.

“Congratulations, my friend,” he said quietly.

Then he saw Eduard and Teresa standing near one of the exits, deep in conversation, both excited and moved. Noticing him, Teresa rushed forward to take his hand. “Oh, Daragon, come inside with us! Garth would be so happy to see you.”

“He came with Mr. Ob,” Eduard pointed out.

“I've already talked with him and seen the show. It's better if I keep a low profile out here.” Daragon felt very self-conscious in his uniform. “I know how intimidating my presence can be.”

Teresa let out a sparkling laugh. “You don't intimidate us.”

“I doubt the people who came to see Garth's art would feel the same way. I don't want to cast any shadow, not on this night of all nights.” He looked toward the doors. “But I had to be here.”

From behind his shadowed eyes, Eduard forced a smile. “Just to keep an eye on your friends? Watching over us?”

“To make sure nothing goes wrong. As always.”

As quickly as he could, Daragon found an excuse to go. He walked away from the lights and music, leaving his friends behind.