Something awful.
Benjamin said one word, very low; Amelie thought it was, “Leave.”
Roch turned away like a whipped child and lurched to the door.
Before he left he turned and pointed a trembling finger down at Amelie. He looked as if he was about to burst into tears.
“You,” he said. “You …cunt …”
And then fled.
And Amelie turned to look at Benjamin, and understood all at once what had happened:
He wasn’t Benjamin right now.
He was John.
He looked down at her in that way she hated, a mixture of pity and condescension at the back of his eyes. He started to say something—it might have been “I’m sorry.”
“Get out,” Amelie said. She was embarrassed, hurt, humiliated—she couldn’t stand him looking at her. “Just leave.”
His eyes lingered a moment longer. Then he nodded.
He went back to the bedroom for a shirt and a jacket, and then he left … but he stopped on the way out and picked up something that had slipped off the lamp-stand during his fight with Roch. It looked like a scrap of paper, Amelie thought … with maybe a phone number written on it.
3
It was near midnight when John called.
Susan had eaten dinner at the hotel coffee shop and had come back to her room to read, hiding from this strange city in the pages of a book. She had a Joyce Carol Oates novel and a Travis McGee mystery, both from the paperback rack in the lobby. She loved to read, and after her father’s death she had thought about giving up the sciences and starting over as an English major. She decided against it for a couple of reasons. Her taste in reading was way too catholic—she read Faulkner and Stephen King with approximately equal relish. And she was afraid of destroying the pleasure she took in these books. Susan was not analytical about fiction; she had been twelve years old before she understood that books had writers, that they had to be manufactured, somehow, like shoes. Better not to inquire too closely into cherished illusions… They were fragile.
Tonight the Joyce Carol Oates seemed a little too architectural; she slipped into the welcoming embrace of Travis McGee. Old Travis had mellowed a lot in his later books. He had more second thoughts these days. She liked that.
With the drapes open she curled up in bed, propped up with pillows behind her and a view of the city lights running north to the horizon. She was three chapters into the book and inclining toward sleep when the phone rang.
She picked it up expecting Dr. Kyriakides, but it was late for him to be calling; she couldn’t place the voice at first.
“John Shaw,” he said.
Well—obviously. But he sounded younger on the phone. You couldn’t see his eyes; his eyes were ancient.
Susan struggled to assemble her thoughts. “I’m glad you called—”
“I think you’re right,” he said. “I think we should talk.”
“I agree. Uh, maybe we can get together tomorrow?”
“You’re at the Carlton ?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll meet you in the lobby. Is noon all right?”
“Of course—sure—”
“See you there.”
And then the line went dead, and she was left sleepy and amazed, staring at the receiver in her hand.
She rode the elevator down at five minutes to noon the next morning and found him waiting.
He was standing by a marble pillar, dressed in worn Levis, track shoes, and a blue windbreaker over a T-shirt, with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets. Susan moved toward him with her heart beating hard, as his head swiveled owlishly and his eyes focused in on her.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t think I did a very good job yesterday. I didn’t know how to start.”
“You’re in a tough position,” John said. “The messenger with bad news.”
“Plus—I guess I was a little frightened.”
He smiled. “Of me?”
She laughed, but it was true. She had been frightened. Still was. But it was easier now, at least a little. “Where do we go for lunch?”
“Depends. I don’t have a lot of cash. Are you on an expense account?”
“It’s paid for.”
“By Max?”
“Ultimately.”
“Well, there’s a decent Japanese restaurant around the block. I’m sure Max can afford it.”
“Sounds fine,” Susan said.
She had never eaten Japanese food but didn’t want to admit it. The atmosphere in the restaurant was traditionaclass="underline" koto music and waitresses in tight kimonos. She felt somewhat gauche, lost among the rice paper screens; she let John order for her.
The waitress brought miso soup in a wooden bowl. No spoons—apparently you were supposed to pick up the bowl like a cup. John said, “You’re not used to this.”
She forced a smile. “Redondo Beach WASP. We never ate anything more challenging than Mexican. I remember a lot of TV dinners.”
“The main course is tempura. Nothing scary. Unless you have a problem with shrimp?”
“No, that’s fine. You know, I learned to eat Cantonese and Szechuan in college. Just never got around to Japanese.”
John turned his attention to the soup. He ate meticulously, Susan observed; almost mechanically. When the bowl was empty he pushed it aside and ignored it. “Max knows I’m ill.”
Straight to the point, Susan thought. “He suspected it.”
“Is he still working with prenatal growth regulators?”
“Not officially.”
“But on his own?”
“Some animal research.”
“Out of curiosity, I wonder, or guilt?”
Susan frowned. “I’m sorry?”
He waved his hand—never mind.
The waitress brought sashimi on wooden plates. “Thank you,” Susan said. The waitress bowed and returned a “Thank you.”
“It might be easier,” John said, “if you just told me what you know about me. We can begin there.”
But it was a tall order:What kind of monster do you think I am? Susan told him what Dr. Kyriakides had explained to her—that John was the product of a clandestine research project conducted in the fifties. Before his birth he had received an intrauterine cocktail of cortical growth regulators, human hormones Dr. Kyriakides had isolated under a classified government grant. The purpose of the research was to produce a superior human being, specifically in the neocortical functions—the most highly evolved functions, such as intelligence.
John’s smile was fixed. “ ‘Highly evolved’—sounds like Max. He told you all this?”
“At greater length. And with more breastbeating.”
“He does feel guilty.”
“I have the impression he always did.”
“Did he mention that his ‘government grant’ was by way of a client operation of the CIA? That his name came up twice in the Church Committee hearings?”
“Yes. He says they were funding everything in those days—LSD at McGill, exotic botany at Harvard. Postwar insanity.”
“Did he also mention that he was the closest thing to a father I had for the first several years of my life?”