“Before we continue, I just want to clarify the one stipulation that I’m sure has been a sticking point for many before me. The fact that…”
“You can never leave?”
“That one, yes.”
“Our residents find security in certainty. I can bring anything I like here, to the island, but nothing gets out. Nothing, and no one. A prison, some have called it, but one that allows for utter freedom of expression. I should think you especially would find this liberating, given that your own work has been so restricted, curtailed, and banned outright.”
“What about the rest of the world? Don’t you wonder if you’re robbing them of something essential? Something they might miss?”
“Does the world deserve them, Mr. Milston? Would that world miss you?”
Milston, sitting very still, said nothing more.
“Shall we?”
They rose and walked along the pier, once more back to a silent silver capsule.
The rest of the day was spent in the company of an extraordinary variety of extraordinary people—poets, painters, planners, programmers. At sunset they joined a party being held in a plaza by the sea. Milston mingled and the Patron disappeared, but Samira soon found him and introduced him to still more of the colony’s residents. The composer did not attend the fete, but he was there in spirit with a brooding score that made them all laugh, eliciting frequent snide remarks.
“Please tell me you are a new composer,” said an elderly woman with reflective pupils, but then she stopped his mouth with a finger. “No, don’t! For now, let us leave some mystery. There is little enough of that here, though each new arrival brings the hope of it.” And she gave him a wine-soaked kiss, with an expertly placed but feeble grasp at his crotch, which cost him nothing to endure.
It was full tropic dark but still early when the Patron found him in the crowd, and pulled him aside once more. “Mr. Milston, I have given you a full day of my time. This is all I can offer a prospective resident, I’m afraid. In the morning, we either put you on a plane and you never hear from me again, or you wake to begin your new life here. If the former, I very much enjoyed meeting you, and I regret but respect your decision. If the latter, then you may sleep in as late as you wish. There will be plenty of time for further orientation, and I promise you, I will enjoy following your work, and look forward to learning from the master. Now, your suite is ready if you are.”
They rode a silver car in silence through a landscape of artfully illuminated fountains and pools. Guests walked among the trees, watching the car pass, as if wondering what choice he had reached. But there had never really been any choice to make. When the car stopped before the bungalow where the day’s tour had begun, he shook the Patron’s hand and said, “I appear to be jet-lagged, apologies if I have not quite been myself. I’m sure I’ll feel better after a night’s rest. Can we meet again sometime tomorrow afternoon?”
“Perfect,” said the Patron. “I’ll leave instructions that you are not to be disturbed. Good night. And welcome. You’ve made a splendid choice.”
The silver car whispered away.
The house was small, but it had all the comforts and conveniences. He unpacked his suitcases and put his clothes away; found a bottle of very old whisky and a box of very young cigars, but these were not what tempted him. He went out onto the terrace and gazed over the gardens. He was braced and waiting for the aimless soundtrack to make one more offensive squawk when, suddenly, it stopped. The sounds of island night crept in. It was bliss. The landscape was sparingly painted with light, evocative as a dream. He saw hints of buildings through the trees, the glow of ornamental ponds, white coral pillars, miles and miles of gardens. A distant spire that must have belonged to the composer, now retired for the night. In the absence of music he felt he could finally think, could finally imagine what might take its place, what this garden truly needed.
“The finest, fullest flowering,” the Patron had stated, and indeed it was true. The place was in full bloom. But every garden needed pruning, and a blossom deserved to be lopped before its prime had passed, before its petals fell.
He set his black bag on the table, thinking of tools he had always wanted but never bothered to acquire, never daring to think he might get to use them. But that could come later. For now, he had all he needed to get started.
He took out his prize set of shears, edges gleaming, of pristine surgical steel.
I’ll begin with that composer’s horrible, hideous, ragged-nailed fingers, he thought, looking off toward the dark house of sound, imagining notes that were very sweet indeed.
“The Finest, Fullest Flowering” copyright 2016 by Marc Laidlaw. First appeared online at Nightmare Magazine, June 2016.
AFTERWORD
One of the most famous techniques in film is the “dolly zoom” Alfred Hitchcock invented for use in Vertigo. At several key moments in the movie, while the camera pulls away from Jimmy Stewart, the lens zooms in. The angles skew, the mind boggles, the eponymous Vertigo ensues.
Reading back through all my short fiction, seeing it gathered in one place, moving through it quickly as I compose it in the frame of this book, I have frequently experienced a kind of “time zoom” vertigo. Apart from my writing, there’s not much else to cling to when I get dizzy. A story-obsessed lad of the Sixties, I find it suddenly fifty years later, and I’m still thinking of myself first and foremost as a writer, still wanting to be an always better one.
It’s what I’ve done. It’s what I do. I can’t see myself stopping.
My thanks to all those who have been with me along the way, sharing advice, encouragement, support. My editors, my teachers in school and out of it, my friends, my family.
And thanks especially to my readers.
BOOKS BY MARC LAIDLAW
Dad’s Nuke
Neon Lotus
Kalifornia
The Orchid Eater
The 37th Mandala
400 Boys and 50 More
Copyright
Freestyle Press
“Write like yourself, only more so.”
ISBN: 978-1-5323-1422-3
This ebook edition published in 2016 by Marc Laidlaw
Copyright © 2016 by Marc Laidlaw
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