I was better than she was, thought Milena. Oh God. She’s angry because I was better than she was.
The impulse was to make it up to her. ‘Look, if I damaged it in any way, I’m sorry.’
‘I don’t know whether you’ve damaged…’ Thrawn broke off. She began to cry. ‘My beautiful, new machine!’
Why did I say that? wondered Milena. Why did I just give her an opening? What am I apologising for?
‘Look, let’s just find out if it’s damaged, first. Is it damaged? What could I have done to it?’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Thrawn, wiping her face, angrily. ‘But you just ripped through it, as if you were angry with it or something.’
‘I sincerely doubt I damaged it. Isn’t that what it’s meant to be used for?’
‘You don’t know anything about it!’ exclaimed Thrawn, she leant over the machine, patted it. It had a mirrored surface. Her own, straggly face was reflected back at her. ‘Look,’ she said standing up, taking a deep breath as if she were being amazingly tolerant, controlling rage. ‘There is a lot more to this than just ramming yourself through the machine. Focus? Do you know anything about focus at all? I don’t know what it was you were supposed to be showing me there, but it was a jumbled mess! The trees were upside down, the flowers were all over the place. That was supposed to be a garden? You’ve got to have a bit of discipline, Milena.’
The woman who prided herself on being wild looked anxiously over her machine, holding her hair back. She shook her head, and stepped into the focal point. She tried to imagine. All that happened was the room about them, the light, heaved and shifted. It was as if the walls and furniture, the bleak emptiness of the place melted.
‘I think you have, you know. I think you’ve fried the focus!’ Thrawn’s voice became a screech.
‘Just look at something in the room. Something real, and see if that comes out,’ advised Milena.
Thrawn turned to her. The eyes were burning.
And Milena was in the room twice. She stood on the floor, as if she were there perfectly placed, feet on the floor. There was even a shadow on the shabby throw-rug.
‘OK,’ said Milena, soothing. ‘OK, so there’s nothing wrong with the equipment.’
‘Just with the people in it,’ said Thrawn. Suddenly the image of Milena was standing on its head. This imaged Milena was dumpy. The fat on her hips sagged downwards towards her face. Her tongue lolled out of her head, the size of a cow’s and the eyes rolled. She started to bounce about the room on her head.
‘You see, Milena. The whole point is to place the image exactly where you want it. It’s a specialised skill, Milena, and you just do not have it. It’s really very sad, the way you keep trying to push yourself into this specialist area with no skills at all. It’s as if you can’t admit for a moment that anyone could be better than you at something.’
‘You’re talking about yourself, Thrawn,’ said Milena, quietly.
The eyes were turned on her again.
And suddenly Milena was blind.
‘I can take light out of anywhere in this room.’ said Thrawn, out of the absolute blackness. ‘I can Reform it, or place it somewhere else. Right now, all the light in your eyes is being focused outside your head. The area I am taking it from is very precisely that of your retina.’
Milena moved her head. There was a flickering of light. Then darkness again.
‘That is what I mean by focus, Milena.’
Milena moved again, and this time the darkness followed her. ‘Of course, I could take all the light in this room and focus it on your retina, instead.’
The room was restored. Thrawn stood arms folded, jaw thrust out. ‘That might burn your retinas out,’ Thrawn said, succinctly. ‘Now get out of here, and don’t let me catch you messing around with my equipment again.’
‘It’s not your equipment. It belongs to the Zoo.’
‘It belongs to the Zoo,’ repeated Thrawn, in a mocking imitation. ‘It belongs to the person who uses it and who has responsibility for it and that is me. Clear enough for you?’
‘There’s no talking to you when you’re like this.’ said Milena and turned, and fled. She closed the purple door behind her, her heart pumping. Only when she was away from Thrawn, could Milena realise her own anger. That’s it, Thrawn, she told the purple door. That’s it, you’ve done it. We finish this show, and then I get someone else. There is no reason why I should put up with this when no one else will.
Milena turned and trooped down the Coral steps, making as much noise with her feet as she could. That machine belongs to everybody, there will be other people who will learn to use it, and the very next show, you’re dumped, you’re ditched.
The thought calmed Milena, until she reached the street.
‘Ahi,’ said a Tyke, standing up, holding out red scarves for sale.
‘No,’ said Milena.
The Tyke pursued her. It was fat and dirty and bundled in woollens, and its voice was piercing and high. Milena could not even tell what sex it was. ‘Look, lovely scarf, beautiful scarf, for the lady, very cheap, and very warm in winter.’
‘Go away!’ shouted Milena, and threw off the Tyke’s light touch. Marx and Lenin! Do they see me coming? Milena glared at the child, still feeling a throbbing in her heart.
The child shrugged. ‘Go freeze, then,’ said the child. ‘And take it out on someone else.’ The Tyke spun around and walked away, feeling in a pocket for a pipe. Horses trotted past, making a clatter. Milena felt even smaller, weaker.
Someone has just threatened to burn out my eyes. Milena was shivery, feverish, tears beginning. She stood still in the street, a hand clamped across her forehead. How could I let her? How could I let her do that to me? How could I stand there and do nothing?
She needs a Reading, thought Milena. She began to walk again, still driving her feet down against the pavement. I never thought I’d say it, but she needs to be Read, and wiped, and to start all over again, as a decent human being. And I need to be wiped too, for putting up with it. Why? Why do I do it?
They both were a tangle, tangled in each other.
It was a long walk back to the Shell. The sun was shining, crisp, bright and cold.
Well, thought Milena, consoling herself. At least I learned one good thing. I have a talent. I never thought I had a talent. Just a small one.
I can imagine flowers.
The sister Bulge smelled of rosemary and sage. A bay tree grew out of its walls, and a current of air made its leaves rustle. The Bulge could commandeer its own genes and grow other forms of life, out of itself, out of memory. It grew garden herbs; it grew the flesh of chickens. It lactated orange juice.
‘May I offer you a drink, Ms Shibush?’ offered Mike Stone, Astronaut.
‘Oh, don’t bother, please,’ said Milena. She was mortified. She had thrown up all over him and dislocated his shoulder and he was still being so nice. If only he wasn’t so polite, she thought. If only he would get angry, I wouldn’t have to feel so awful.
Mike Stone kept smiling. Even his teeth looked tense. ‘The circulatory system behaves differently under conditions of weightlessness.’ He informed her. ‘Dehydration may sometimes result. It is advisable to drink plenty of fluids.’
Milena relented. ‘Then thank you very much, I’d love a whisky.’
Mike Stone’s smile did not slip. ‘I’m afraid I have no alcoholic beverages. Would you care for an orange juice?’
‘Yes, yes, that will be fine,’ said Milena. ‘Thank you.’
‘Right-o-rooty,’ said Mike Stone.
Right-o-rooty? Milena began to see the humour of the situation. It had indeed been quite an introduction. Oh God, she thought, I’m going to laugh. I’m going to go into one of those silly giggling fits where you can’t stop laughing.