Mingolla broke contact and got up from the desk, went to the window. Pressed his forehead against the pane. The glass was cool and transmitted the vibration of the air-conditioner. He looked off at the distant city lights, thinking about the Christian girl, the holograph of Jesus walking around on her hand. It had always seemed that beyond that moment lay a beginning, but he had never been able to know it, to make it clear. Probably, he thought, it was just another glimmer of hope. Izaguirre stirred in his chair, and Mingolla realized he was delaying the inevitable. It wasn’t that he was troubled by what he had to do; he was simply weary of the procedure, of exposing himself over and over to the bad news about the human condition implicit in the fact that you could strip the mind to zero. He’d wait a few minutes more, he decided. A few minutes wouldn’t hurt. He pushed Izaguirre’s chair to the side and began emptying the desk drawers, wondering where the old man kept his drugs…
The swimming pool, blank and gleaming, with wavelets tapping the sides. Mingolla sat bolt upright, looked around, certain someone was sneaking up on him. But nobody was in sight. Voices from one of the rooms. A radio playing violin music. Gilbey and Jack still sleeping. He leaned back, stretching his legs, arranging his three visions of the future in chronological order. First the diner, the chat with the waitress; then the confrontation with Izaguirre, and then Love City. The aftermath of a hollow victory. He couldn’t understand how the picture drawn by the visions was compatible with the peace. Maybe they weren’t accurate. But he couldn’t bring himself to accept that. They felt real.
Gilbey shook himself, came to his knees, and, grateful for the interruption, Mingolla said, How ya doing?’
‘I was dreamin’,’ said Gilbey. ‘Dreamin’ ’bout the Farm.’
‘What ’bout it?’
‘Nothin’, just dreamin’.’ Gilbey sat cross-legged, stared at the rippling pod. ‘Y’know, it wasn’t so bad there… the Farm, I mean.’
‘It was a different bad than here.’
‘Yeah, I guess.’ Gilbey mumbled something else.
‘What’d you say?’
‘Didn’t say nothin’. I was gonna, but…’
‘You forgot, huh?’
‘Naw, I didn’t forget.’ Gilbey’s stare tracked around the courtyard, then settled on Jack. He bowed his head, rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I got it all right here to say… it’s all right here. But it just don’t fit into words.’
The emptiness of the palace’s main hall was scarcely compromised by the long tables that had been set up along the walls, bearing punchbowls and trays of sandwiches and pastries. Harsh white lights shone from the ceiling, giving the plastic the look of sweating blue flesh. Several hundred people were milling around, and the storytelling robot trundled back and forth, its Victorian drag striking an odd note among the celebrants, who were for the most part drably clothed. Speeches were given, proclaiming all present to be members of a single family dedicated to the principles invoked by the Peace of Panama… this a phrase much used during the evening. Piped-in music began to play, and Mingolla was persuaded to dance by a dwarfish Madradona woman, who smiled up at him with pointy-looking teeth, and whose torpedo-shaped breasts—confined by a tight red blouse—bumped against his belt buckle.
‘I’ve been dying to meet you,’ she said.
‘Looks like you made it just in time,’ he said.
She acted confused, then her smile returned. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you about our genetics program. Are you familiar with it?’
‘Nope.’ He maneuvered Dwarf Woman between couples. Clutzy dancers, all. Considering the significance of the party, it was—he thought—pretty fucking déclassé. Kind of a cross between a prom and a country club mixer.
‘Well…’ Dwarf Woman frowned at a Sotomayor man who had backed into her. ‘We’ve been hoping you’ll donate.’
‘Donate?’
‘You know… genetic material.’ Dwarf Woman put a girlish emphasis on the last words and tittered. ‘I apologize for being blunt, but I’m so excited by the prospect of blending the lines.’
‘Blending the lines, huh?’ The image of himself fathering generations of Mingolla-Madradonas and Mingolla-Sotomayors touched off a wave of giddy good humor in Mingolla. Tell you what,’ he said, laughing. ‘Why don’t you and me slip out back, and I’ll jerk off on ya. Maybe you can bottle it ’fore it dries.’
He’d expected an offended reaction, but Dwarf Woman dug her stubby fingers into his waist and kept smiling. It was an eerie screw-loose smile, and for a second he thought she might accept his proposition.
‘I’ve been warned about your iconoclastic tendencies.’ She said this in a dire tone as if warning him that she knew his secret. This is no joking matter.’
‘I can see that,’ he said. ‘I mean just from looking round the room, I can tell you people are in need of new blood. Especially you Madradonas. I never seen such twinky little fuckers. You could use a few height genes, right?’ He gave her a lascivious thrust of the hips. Yeah, sure. I can put a little length in your whatsitz.’
Dwarf Woman struggled to free herself, but Mingolla held her in a death grip, whirling her around. Crudity is hardly responsive,’ she said.
‘That’s me… hardly responsive.’ He bounced Dwarf Woman into a Madradona man who was dancing with a Sotomayor woman. ‘Oops,’ he said, and grinned.
‘Let me go!’ said Dwarf Woman.
‘Never,’ said Mingolla. ‘It’s just you and me from now on, shorty.’ He slung her into yet another couple and apologized, saying, Sorry, she stepped on my foot.’
‘I’m not going to forget this,’ she said venomously.
‘Me neither. God, what a night we’re gonna have! Somehow we’ll overcome the difference in height. Ever done it with ropes and pulleys?’ He hugged her even tighter. ‘Aw, babe! I can hardly wait till your teeny belly starts poppin’ out.’