Noir (12 page)

“That’s all right.” The bishop followed him to the damp cement steps that led up to the street. “I shouldn’t even have charged you. It was a pleasant break for me.” He gestured toward the computer terminal. “From my usual routine.”

The bishop caught McNihil’s jacket sleeve, just as he was about to emerge into the nocturnal city. “You know,” said the bishop, “it’s not too late.”

McNihil looked back at him. “For what?”

“For your confession. I’ve got the hang of it now. Of doing it in person, I mean.” The bishop raised himself up, gazing deep into McNihil’s eyes. “It’d be good for you.”

“No, it wouldn’t.” McNihil shook his head. A chilling night wind sifted between the buildings’ unlit shapes. “You’re wrong. It’s too late. It was too late a long time ago.”

“I wonder …” The bishop had already started to draw back down the cellar steps; his form merged with the hole’s shadows. “What you see …”

“When?” He knew he shouldn’t ask, but didn’t stop himself.

“When you look in the mirror,” whispered the bishop. “What do you see?”

The figure disappeared down the steps. McNihil regarded the empty space for a moment, then turned and walked away.

T
ell me a story,” said the professional child.

The man sitting by himself—in fact, the only other person on the train—looked up. It seemed to take a little while for him to focus on her, as though there was something wrong with his eyes.

“All right,” said the man after a moment. “How about a Bible story?”

“That’d be fine.” The professional child flounced the ruffly skirt of her party dress over her bare, red-chapped knees. She dangled her shiny black Mary Janes above the train’s littered floor as she sat in the seat next to him. “Whatever you like.” The man looked lonely and a little sad.
He needs
, the professional child thought,
what I have
. “Go ahead.”

This is the story he told her.

“‘
¹
A
ND IT CAME TO PASS
,’” he said, “‘A
S THEY JOURNEYED FROM THE EAST, THAT THEY FOUND A PLAIN IN THE LAND OF
C
ALIFORNIA, AND THEY DWELT THERE
.

“‘
²
A
ND THEY CALLED IT THE LAND OF ORANGES, BECAUSE THAT FRUIT WAS OF PLENTITUDE THERE, AND FREE FOR THE PLUCKING AND EATING
.’”

“You’re making this up,” said the professional child.

The man shook his head. “It’s all true. ‘
³
A
ND SO PLENTEOUS WAS THE GOLDEN FRUIT, AND SO DIZZYING THE GOLDEN SUNSHINE, THAT THE PEOPLE SAID
, “W
HY SHOULDST NOT ALL THINGS BE AS FREE AS THESE
? E
SPECIALLY TO US, WHO ARE SO DESERVING
. W
HY SHOULDST WE PAY FOR THAT WHICH WE WANT
?”’”

“You’re right.” The child scowled darkly; she’d been stiffed a couple of times in her career. “People
always
say that.”

“‘
⁴
S
O THE PEOPLE OF THE LAND OF ORANGES SENT OUT TO THE PEOPLES OF ALL THE OTHER LANDS, AND SAID UNTO THEM
, “G
IVE US THAT WHICH WE WANT, AND PUT IT ON OUR TAB
.”

“‘
⁵
T
HEY SAID
, “G
IVE US, AND YOU SHALL HAVE OUR SACRED PROMISE THAT WE WILL PAY FOR ALL THESE THINGS
. Y
OU CAN TRUST US
.”’”

“Yeah, sure,” said the professional child.

“‘
⁶
A
ND SOON
,’” continued the man on the train, “‘
THE PEOPLE OF THE LAND OF ORANGES HAD PARKS AND LARGE HOUSES, WITH GARAGES OF MANY DOORS; AND THEY HAD BOAT HARBORS AND MULTILANE FREEWAYS AND FIBER-OPTIC CABLES ROOTED THROUGH THE EARTH, SO THAT THEY MIGHT CONVERSE WITH EACH OTHER AND ORDER MORE THINGS FROM ON-LINE CATALOGS
.

“‘
⁷
A
ND THEY BUILT WALLS AROUND THEIR HOUSES, AND GATES WITH TWENTY-FOUR-HOUR MANNED SECURITY, SO THAT THEY MIGHT NOT HAVE TO SEE ANYONE OTHER THAN THEMSELVES
. A
ND THEY DID LOOK AT EACH OTHER, AND SMIRKED AND SAID
, “A
RE WE NOT EXCEEDINGLY FINE IN OUR EYES AND
G
OD’S EYES
?”’”

“Then what happened?”

“‘
⁸
A
ND THEN THE PEOPLES OF THE OTHER LANDS CAME TO THE PEOPLE OF THE LAND OF ORANGES, AND THEY DIDST HAVE THE BILL IN THEIR HANDS, FOR ALL THE PARKS AND THE FINE BIG HOUSES AND THE BOAT HARBORS AND THE BOATS THEREIN
.

“‘
⁹
A
ND THE PEOPLE OF THE OTHER LANDS DIDST SAY
, “T
HIS IS HOW MUCH YOU OWE, AND THIS IS WHEN YOU SAID YOU’D PAY UP
.”

“‘
¹⁰
A
ND THE PEOPLE OF THE LAND OF ORANGES DIDST QUAKE BEHIND THEIR GATED WALLS, AND GREW ANGRY, NOT BECAUSE THEY COULD NOT PAY BUT BECAUSE THEY DID NOT
WANT
TO PAY
.’” The man slowly shook his head, playacting a storyteller’s weary disgust.

“‘
¹¹
A
ND THE PEOPLE OF THE LAND OF ORANGES SAID TO THE PEOPLE OF THE OTHER LANDS
, “W
E WILL NOT PAY
. W
HY SHOULDST WE
? W
E ARE TOO FINE AND NOBLE AND TOO CONNECTING WONDERFUL TO HAVE TO PAY A BILL LIKE THAT
. Y
OU CANST TAKE YOUR BILL AND SHOVE IT
.”’”

The professional child’s brow creased. “Bastards.”

“‘
¹²
A
ND THE PEOPLE OF THE OTHER LANDS, WHO’D PAID FOR ALL THE PARKS AND HOUSES AND BOAT HARBORS, VERY CALMLY SAID
, “A
LL RIGHT
. H
AVE IT YOUR WAY
. B
UT THERE WILL BE CONSEQUENCES
.”

“‘
¹³
A
ND THE PEOPLE OF THE LAND OF ORANGES LOOKED AT EACH OTHER AND SMIRKED SOME MORE, AND SAID
, “W
HAT CONSEQUENCES CAN WE POSSIBLY SUFFER
? F
OR IS NOT OUR GOD A GOD OF GREED, AND ARE WE NOT HIS CHILDREN
? H
E’LL LOOK OUT FOR US
.” A
ND THEY DIDST WIPE THEIR ASSES WITH THEIR BONDS OF THEIR SACRED PROMISES
.’”

“Yeah,” said the professional child, “I think I know the people you’re talking about.”

The man waited a moment before continuing, in a lower, spookier voice. “‘
¹⁴
B
UT THE SKIES DIDST DARKEN OVER THE LAND OF ORANGES, AND THE EARTH GREW SOUR AND DIED, SENDING FORTH ONLY DEAD THINGS
.

“‘
¹⁵
A
ND THE TIDES CEASED TO ROLL IN THE HARBORS, AND THE SHIT AND WASTE FROM THE SEWERS MIRED THE BOATS AMIDST THE DEAD AND ROTTING FISH
.

“‘
¹⁶
A
ND THE GATES RUSTED AND FROZE IN THE WALLS AROUND THE FINE HOUSES, SEALING IN THE PEOPLE OF THE LAND OF ORANGES
. W
HICH WAS NO GREAT LOSS, FOR BY THEN THEY HAD BECOME DEAD THINGS, LIVING—SORT OF—IN A DEAD PLACE
.

“‘
¹⁷
A
ND THE PEOPLE OF THE OTHER LANDS DIDST SAY TO ONE ANOTHER
, “T
HAT’S HOW IT GOES
. T
HEY BROUGHT IT ON THEMSELVES
. W
HEN YOU DON’T PAY, YOU CAN’T PLAY
.”

“‘
¹⁸
A
ND THE PEOPLE OF THE OTHER LANDS HAD DEAD OF THEIR OWN AMONGST THEM, AND THEY DIDST SAY
, “N
OW WE HAVE SOMEPLACE TO SEND THEM
.”

“‘
¹⁹
A
ND SO THEY DID
.’”

The man fell silent, eyes closed, head tilted back.

“Is that it?”

Raising one eyelid, the man glanced over at the professional child, then nodded.

“Well,” she said, “it’s not a
great
story. And I don’t think it’s
really
from the Bible. Is it?”

The man shrugged. “Depends upon whose Bible you’re talking about.”

“But it must mean something important to you, huh? Or otherwise you wouldn’t have told it to me.”

“That’s true, at least.”

“So?” The professional child smoothed her frilly skirt above her knees, and waited.

He didn’t need any more prompting than that. The man shifted in the seat, reaching into the back pocket of his trousers for his wallet.

This sucks
, thought McNihil as he gazed out the train’s window.
I would rather in heaven be
. That just didn’t seem to be an option these days.

Having that conversation with the Bishop of North America (and Central America by Proxy) must have put him in a religious frame of mind. So that making up Bible stories came easily. The little bit of time spent storytelling just now with the professional child had been marginally satisfying, in a melancholy way. McNihil and his wife, when she’d been alive, had never put in for a childbearing license, and now it was too late. Her ova had been harvested long ago and sold to pay off some tiny fraction of her debt load. So for him, a bit of child exposure, even from one whose eyes had been as ancient and cold as a DynaZauber exec’s, had been worth it.

“‘
²⁰
A
ND INTO THAT LAND
—’” McNihil murmured another piece of the story to himself; there was no one to overhear him in the train. “‘T
O CONVERSE WITH THE DEAD, THAT HE MIGHT LEARN OF THEM THAT WHICH WOULD BE TO HIS PROFIT, NAY, SURVIVAL; TO THAT REGION OF THE DEAD CAME A STILL-LIVING MAN, WHO HAD COME THERE BEFORE MANY TIMES ON SIMILAR ERRANDS
. B
UT IN THIS TIME, THE LIVING MAN’S THOUGHTS WERE OF RELUCTANT NATURE
. S
O THAT HE DID SAY TO HIMSELF
, “
C
HRIST AL-CONNECTING-MIGHTY, I DON’T WANT TO BE DOING THIS
…”’”

But such petition
, thought McNihil,
availeth not
.

Rattling on the poorly maintained tracks, the train made slow progress across the blighted landscape. Slow and southward, leaving the ill-defined outskirts of True Los Angeles behind. There had been a time—McNihil had seen the photos, watched the videos—when L.A. had merged seamlessly with the densely suburbanized zones below it, like a corpse on the slab of God the Mad Doctor, a somewhat living thing stitched together by arteriosclerotic freeways. All flowers die eventually, though, even the ones that are already toxic, and the black blooms wither and curl up on their black stems.

McNihil looked out the window, his breath against the glass, and saw ashes and the charred skeletons of buildings, steel girders twisted by the heat of long-extinguished fires, rows of square, empty eye sockets staring past fields of jewel-like glittering broken glass. A grid of streets remained embossed on the deathscape, with the cracked emblems and nonsense words of what had been backlit plastic signage on tottering or spine-snapped poles, all transformed into an idiot language by having melted into one another. The logo of a defunct international hamburger chain merged with the trademark of what had been the West Coast’s largest retail purveyor of automobile tires, the resultant muddle sliding into the blinded facade of an abandoned full-service Church-&-Shop™, the combination seeming to promise seminutritious grease and small plastic toys served as a holy sacrament inside a steel-belted radial. Overall, the air looked and smelled—it seemed to seep through the solid glass and into McNihil’s nostrils—as if the smoke from the ancient fires had never dissipated, the ocean winds no longer rolling over the petroleum-striped beaches, the clouds heavy and listless above the waves too sullen to crest. The air had yellowed and turned rancid, becoming some sort of breathable cheese, a substance accumulating on one’s alveoli like the stuff found at the bottom of backed-up drains.

This was the one zone where McNihil’s vision matched up perfectly with exterior hard reality. The black-and-white movies inside his eyes might just as well have leaked out and congealed, thick and heavy, on the dark landscape.

He turned away from the window at his side and glanced around the interior of the train. The perceived aspects of the world outside had permeated the train as well. Empty, the seats’ torn vinyl extruded dirty-gray stuffing like infected tongues across the narrow floor’s mounds of
rubbish. Spray-can
placa
, even more stylized than the previous century’s glory-days tags in the prescrub New York subways, flowed across walls, seats, windows, and the more permanent strata of trash, as though some judging angel had crashed a party gone badly wrong. McNihil couldn’t read the scrawled, looping words; he’d always found third-generation Huichol slang in Cyrillic characters somewhat beyond him.
Mene mene tekel upharsin
—he wouldn’t have been surprised if that was how it translated, given the nature of the territory they had entered.
Weighed in the balance
, thought McNihil glumly,
and tossed out
.

The meter-high graffiti included a psychotic drawing that didn’t need to be translated. In rapidly shaded Day-Glo, the artist had sketched a malevolently grinning skull, complete with dangling bony vertebrae for a throat. Some minimal animation had even been done, if that term could be applied to a depiction of corpse pieces. Enough sulfurous daylight slid in through the windows on the opposite side to trigger the paint’s remaining shutter-pixels, cycling the image through its program of one empty bone-orbit closing and reopening in a leering wink. The skull’s white forehead was splintered open, with uprooted male genitalia thrust through the chasm; a drop of bloodied semen sparkled and faded, over and over, like a false and deceptive pearl.

McNihil didn’t know, and didn’t care, whether the skull was the vanished artist’s self-portrait or an iconic
homage
to the passing landscape’s ruling deity. He was going down to see and to talk to his dead wife. Slumping lower in the seat, he folded his arms across his chest, though there was no chill in the air. On the contrary: the climate just south of L.A. was an unvarying hell, unbroken by either grace or rain.

“Don’t forget the mesolimbic dopamine system,” said a little voice right behind his ear.

He turned and saw no one. Which was all right with McNihil; he preferred the occasional random auditory hallucination to sharing a train car with the low-level businesspersons encountered farther north along the Gloss’s edge. Those could creep him out the most; he hated watching them busy in their seats, as they worked with the muscles and nerve endings from their brows to their chins converted to interfaces for their built-in databases and spreadsheets. A trainful of those types looked like a clinic for terminal Bell’s palsy victims, all of them winking and grimacing and twitching away. Some of them, McNihil had always suspected, were frauds, poor bastards who’d gotten downsized out of
their jobs but kept up their fronts regardless, going through endless facial spasms to give the impression of productive labor.