Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 20 (11 page)

Krishna looks back at Radha. He shakes his black hair out of his eyes and shrugs as if to say, “This is who I am.” Radha's husband has not left her yet, nor has Krishna's wife left him. This is why she and Krishna shouldn't be together. Or maybe why they are together.

Krishna pulls his flute from his pocket. It, too, glints in the sun. He plays a few notes of a walking song, brisk and steady. He kisses Radha again, this time on the cheek, then leaves for work. Radha turns to watch him go.

"Radha's passion for Krishna serves as a symbol of longing for the ultimate unification with God,” the prompt says. It reminds Radha of sex with Krishna. He's always been a bit sloppy, one of those boys who can get by on looks alone. It frustrates Radha, but she stays with Krishna, waiting. She knows that unification is an event in time, and that Radha is supposed to embody eternal wishing. Radha knows that unfulfilled passions are far sexier, and this is why she waits for Krishna.

Krishna doesn't herd cows anymore. He writes software. He herds bits of data. He is gentle, and even gods need jobs. Krishna keeps a long string of them, like misshapen beads. In this chapter of Krishnaware, he is in middle management. In this chapter, Radha works at the same company, but today is her day off. Some months ago, in a different chapter, she asked to be moved to another department. She works with clients now, people looking for a Religious Experience. Or is that Christina's job, Radha wonders. Sometimes it is hard for Radha to remember who she is; her memories curl and mingle like smoke from neighboring fires.

Radha wraps her hands around her cooling tea, ginger over the curry and cumin drifting from the next shop. She thinks about how she can have Krishna to herself. There will always be pretty gopi, other girls to distract him. There will always be Christina, waiting and jealous. Radha is ready to move beyond this experience. She had two problems. Now she has one plan: she has hacked herself into Krishnaware, turned off the safeties. Two or three of Christina's days will give Radha time to live; time enough to die happy. Her plan is this: she will steal Krishna.

Radha has five ideas for stealing Krishna. Five like the buttons on Christina's console, one for each finger. She fishes a piece of paper from her pocket, unfolds it on the table, and writes her five options again. These are the options the game will allow, after the hacking she has done.

Option #1: Clone him
. This way, Radha thinks, she can make him say he loves her. She would prefer to carry the zygote to term herself, even though it is more expensive. She wouldn't need his permission on the gray market.

Option #2: Murder-Suicide
. Even gods can die. You get to know these things when you know Krishna as well as Radha knows Krishna. Sometimes Krishna frustrates her so very much, and she can't change the way he is. She can only wait for him. This option is not so pretty. This is a bad option. She knows that this is not a real option.

Option #3: Get over Krishna
. She likes this option least, but she writes it anyway. Her husband has his own apartment now, his own life. Radha never liked him all that much. She is devoted to Krishna. This won't change. Radha draws a black line through this option.

Option #4: Take a trip together
. This would have to be far away from civilization. She is thinking beyond the solar system, or the new tourist hotel under the ocean. She might like to see the buggy-eyed, fanged fish. This would be an extended arrangement. It might be enough.

Option #5: Do Nothing.
Nothing different, anyway. This is always an option, in any situation, and usually the option people like the least. This is the option she decides every day. This, too, isn't a real option. She writes it down anyway, then crosses it off twice.

Radha waits for Krishna. She waited through his silly dragonslaying, his other wives and families. Krishna always returns to Radha. Radha is always waiting, changing like the weather.

Radha knows in some part of her mind that all the options will be chosen by other versions of Radha. Knowledge of this does not bother her too much. She picks an option for herself. She chooses the best option.

Radha and Krishna board the craft. It is a two-person resort shuttle. Radha has paid money, given notice to her work, programmed their destination. The details are sharp; everything seems so unreal when you leave one life for another. The ship rises and falls while they sleep, everything on autopilot. Radha wakes once and looks out the single window. She thinks she sees Saturn. She sighs in anticipation, then realizes that she has already arrived. Radha settles down again on the small cot and wraps her arms and legs around Krishna. He must know of her plan, her selfish plan, but he says nothing. He sleeps with his mouth open, legs twitching.

Later, as if in a dream, Radha feels the ship land, wonderfully far from everywhere, from everyone. She slips out from under Krishna's sleep-heavy arm. She goes to the control panels, long brown fingers finding and rubbing out the little computer brains. She leaves life support, lights, little else. This is her favorite hack, the hack that makes it possible to disable the ship, strand them together. It will be a long time before Krishnaware's automatic shut-off kicks in, a long time before anyone finds them.

When Krishna wakes, Radha explains the situation, leaving out the part about how she caused it. Krishna curses. He stands, then sits, moving around the cabin.

"I thought it would be different with you,” he says. He is tender, even when angry. “You were stronger than this. Better."

So he knew. Radha says nothing. She won't let him hurt her, not now.

"I'll reboot; won't lose much, but you, you stupid girl."

"Stop.” Radha cuts him off. They don't discuss her life outside the game; his life inside when she isn't in the ‘ware.

Krishna's gaze moves over Radha's frame, as if her motives were spelled out in the shape of her knees, the length of her forearms. He shrugs, admitting his complicity.

"You're sure there's only that foil-wrapped shit to eat?” He grimaces towards the emergency rations. Even gods like to eat.

"And plenty of it,” Radha says. She doesn't giggle, but she is smiling. It's not as if they
need
to eat.

Radha squeezes Krishna's hands, then picks up his flute from the bed. He accepts it, and plays a few notes. A new song. Radha pushes gently on his shoulders, and Krishna sits cross-legged on the floor. The song he plays is slow, melancholy, and tender. Radha opens his dhoti, raises her skirt, and makes love to him while he plays. The sex is better. She is happier now than she can ever remember.

This Radha spends her days locked into Krishna. If she remembers that her name was once Christina, when she first plugged into Krishnaware, it isn't important anymore. Radha entwines her arms around her Krishna.

This Radha has chosen her outcome, which is different from an option. In this ultimate unification with God, Radha forgets about her other self, the slumped body in its lonely apartment. Only a casing now, it fires neurons and excites nanos in Krishnaware, and Radha lives.

After a while, Krishna forgives her. He starts playing happy songs again, along with the sad and the sexy ones.

Krishna and Radha sit across from one another at the small table, or Radha sits on Krishna, or they lie in the small bed. The flute is between them, and when they finish talking, or eating, or sleeping, Krishna raises the flute to his lips. It is not the same tune as the one the rat catcher plays.

At the end of all of the Krishna stories, the god Krishna and the mortal Radha wander off together into the woods. Or maybe it is the desert.

[Back to Table of Contents]

William Smith

After a decade of “wearing the paper hat,” I finally discovered a cause worthy of my compulsive shopping, list-making, and intense need for curmudgeonly solitude. For two years now I've supported myself as an online bookdealer.

The following is a list of the high (and low) lights of my siftings through attics, trash heaps, and the treasured possessions of dead people.

1. Two signed Arthur Conan Doyle titles from his spititualist/fairy period. The books were nibbled and the autographs were cut from correspondence and pasted onto the flyleaves. Nice, but not great. Laid-in, though, was a flyer for a Doyle appearance at Carnegie Hall that brought nearly $1000 at auction (my best page rate to date).

2. Thirty years of the recorded phone conversations of a paranoid landlord. They spanned every home-recording format from reel to reel to CD-R. They were layered on every surface in the house. I wish I could've gotten these into the hands of an electronic musician or performance artist.

3. Declassified documents from Post-WWII Berlin all from the collection of a single diplomat/functionary. I still need to research these. I have them in a large container of things I don't understand now but hope to, someday.

4. An original Jack Kirby painting portraying Captain America (RIP) and the Red Skull done for a co-artist of Kirby's at DC in the seventies. This was the one that got away. Probably for the best because I would have mortgaged children for it.

5. A pile of biodegrading sex toys covered in black tar. Having already left my filth threshhold behind, I picked one up. They stuck together like a mobile and I sent a phonecam picture to my girlfriend. She didn't call the police, bless her heart.

6. Two childhood signatures of Dare Wright, author of the cult children's picture book
The Lonely Doll
. In bizarre sychronicity I had just purchased her biography a few days before. I'm accumulating a collection of Wright material to auction after the biopic comes out.

7. Cremains. In an unmarked can, under a pile of
TV Guides
, near a seat-sprung recliner and a collapsed bookcase.

8. A first edition, first state of
The Great Gatsby
marred by a phone number and grocery list inked on the flyleaf.

9. A thick album of postcards collected on a cross-country trip taken in the 1920s with three or four cards from every stop. I spent months selling these individually and learned that small towns are better than cities, buildings are better than nature, and fire gives birth to nostalgia.

10. A cat skeleton (I think) ..... or a big rat.

11. A room filled shoulder deep in damp stuffed animals. To a New York apartment dweller this is truly a miraculous thing.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Meghan McCarron

This is a story about marriage, monsters, and a labyrinth, not necessarily in that order.

The labyrinth was made of hedges, and it sat next door to our new house. It was left over from the estate that used to occupy the grounds, a sprawling, fanciful money pit that had been sold fast and cheap by the owner's heirs to our developer. The lots were still cluttered with cracked fountains, overgrown gardens and toppled statues. My husband, Oscar, raged about this at least once a week, especially about the “eyesore” next door, but I hardly noticed it until Phil moved in.

I hadn't known the labyrinth was, you know, available, but one morning a moving truck parked out front, and after the movers consulted what had to be a map, they started carting boxes in. I watched this mysterious parade from my window until I got antsy and put Slash, my dog, on his leash to do some on-site reconnaissance.

There was no sign of the movers, but a car pulled up as I was peering into the entrance. I booked, trying to pretend I was just out for a brisk walk, but a voice—sweet, tenor—stopped me.

"You're not just gonna run away, are you?"

I turned around and found myself face to face with a minotaur.

He was shorter than I would have expected and a bit more—human-y? He had the head of a bull, sure, but he wore a black suit and a skinny black tie, like he had decided to live
Pulp Fiction
.

"I'm Phil,” he said.

"Phil?” I said.

"It's easier to say than my real name."

"Try me."

Phil grunted something unintelligible. I tried to grunt it back and he started laughing.

"I think your dog would have done a better job,” Phil said. “And you are?"

"Your next-door neighbor, Jane. I assume this is your—house?"

"For the moment. The construction company hired me to do security,” Phil said.

"This is, like, the safest suburb in the whole city,” I said.

"Construction has a way of making things ..... unstable.” he said. “Jane. I'm sure the place is a mess right now—how about you come by tomorrow?"

"In there?” I said.

"It's easy. All you do is turn right."

"Not much of a labyrinth,” I said.

"Then I'll be sure to see you,” Phil said. He smiled when he said this. I had never seen a minotaur smile. It was weird and comforting at the same time. I liked it.

That night, Oscar made it home in time for dinner, and I had my usual three-course feast prepared. I had been working on the soup all afternoon.

"Mm,” he said. “Lentils."

I knew that I was supposed to feel pathetic, spending all afternoon cooking for my husband, waiting with baited breath to hear him say “Mm. Lentils.” But I didn't. I could get a job whenever I wanted. Well, if they didn't ask about the criminal record. But anyway. Better procrastination through gender roles.

"A minotaur moved into the labyrinth today,” I said.

"That's cool,” Oscar said. He was still engrossed in his soup.

"A minotaur, Oscar. His name is Phil. I've never even seen one before. Once we saw that pegasus—"

"I still think it was a fake,” Oscar said. “Is he Greek? Phil, I mean?"

"I dunno. Maybe he's French—a surrealist minotaur."

"Did he hit on you?"

"No, no. He's just ..... very modern,” I said.

For some reason, I thought it best not to mention “security,” to Oscar. He didn't trust the builder to begin with.

We polished off the sage-encrusted chicken and settled down with some homemade ice cream to watch
The L Word.
Oscar and I both get kind of randy after watching
The L Word,
and that night we went at it right there on the couch. I fell asleep on his chest afterwards; he poked me when I started drooling, and we went upstairs to bed.