She said, “By the way, the Rehab Center phoned this morning.”
Macy looked up, and in the same instant Hamlin awoke and did something to his heartbeat, something, transient and painful, that made him gasp and clap his hand to his breastbone.
“I said, the Rehab Center phoned—”
“I heard you.” Macy coughed. “Wait a second. Hamlin acting up.” He shot a furious thought downward. Let me be. Knock it off. The pain subsided. Macy said, “Who was it?”
“A woman doctor with an Italian name.”
“Ianuzzi.”
“That’s the one. She wanted to know why you hadn’t shown up for your therapy yesterday. After making a special early appointment and everything.”
“What did you tell her?” he asked.
Hopes suddenly soaring. His previous identity has surfaced and is trying to take him over, Dr. Ianuzzi. A terrible struggle going on inside him. Oh, is that so, Miss Moore? How unexpected. But we can handle it, of course. We’ll have our mobile ego-smashing unit on the spot at seven o’clock sharp. Three quick bursts of rays from the egotron machine, beamed up from the street, and that’ll be the end of Mr. Nat Hamlin for once and all, oh, yes, oh, yes. Tell Mr. Macy not to worry about a thing. Thank you for giving me the details, Miss Moore.
Lissa very far away. Dreamy. Macy said again, more sharply, “What did you tell her?”
“I didn’t tell her anything.”
“What?”
“She called at a bad time for me. I don’t even know why I answered. I couldn’t make much sense out of what she was asking me until afterward.”
“So you just hung up?”
“No, I talked, more or less. I said I didn’t know much about why you missed your appointment. Or where you were at the moment.” A distant shrug. “I guess I was pretty foggy.”
“Jesus, Lissa, you had a chance to help me, and you blew it! You could have told her the whole story!”
She said, “Didn’t you tell me that Hamlin threatened to kill you if you brought the Rehab Center into the picture?”
“That’s right. But he wouldn’t have known it if you had given them the story while I was at work. It was a perfect chance. And you blew it. You blew it.”
“Sorry.” But not very.
“If they phone again, will you do things right?”
“What do you want me to tell them?”
“The straight story. Hamlin coming back. And especially the part about his saying he’ll stop my heart if I go near a Rehab Center. Make sure they know he means it. How I set out to go there, how he knocked me down at the Greenwich terminal. You won’t forget that part of it?”
“Maybe you better call them yourself.”
“I told you, I can’t. Hamlin monitors everything I think or say. The moment I pick up the phone, he’ll have his clutches on my—”Jesus! Another twinge in the chest Clammy invisible fingers tweaking the aorta. A cough. A gasp. A slow shivering recovery. Lissa watching, unconcerned. “There,” Macy said finally. “He just did it. To let me know he’s tuned in.”
“What good is having them know, though, if he’ll kin you if they try to help you?”
“At least they’ll know. Maybe they have a remote-control way of dealing with situations like this. Maybe they can sneak up on him somehow. They’ve got their tricks. It can’t hurt to have them realize what’s happened. Provided they’re aware of the risks involved for me. You won’t forget that part?”
“If they call,” Lissa said vaguely, “I’ll try to tell them everything. I’ll try.” She didn’t sound too sure of it.
In the night, fragmentary episodes of not-quite-night-mare, slippery bulletins issued by the psychic underground. Oddly unfrightening moments out of an unremembered past arriving on top deck for the sleeper’s inspection and enlightenment. Bucolic scenes: the arrest, the arraignment, the detention center, the courthouse, the trial, the verdict, the sentence. Keep your fucking hands off me, I told you I’d go peacefully!
Lights flashing in his eyes. A hovereye camera practically touching his nose. Viewers around the world enjoying the spectacle. See the famed doer of abominations! Watch justice triumph! Death to the enemies of chastity! A jury of twelve honest computers and true.
Sweartotellthetruththewholetruthnothingbutthetruth. IdoIdoIdoIdo. See the sobbing witnesses! Observe their haunted, vindictive faces! What memories of obscene violations blaze in their souls? Yes, that’s the man, he’s the one! I’d know him anywhere. The courtroom silent. Your honor, I ask permission to enter as evidence the taped record of the defendant’s intrusion into the home of Maria Alicia Rodriguez on the night of—Red light flickering on the lawyerboard. Objection! Objection! Commotion. Denied. Prosecution may proceed.
On the wallscreen the defendant appears, bent on rape. Had he but known he was performing for a camera, he would have been ever so much more stylish about it. Up onto the windowledge, hup! Pry the window open. Hands cold; this miserable winter weather. Yes. Inside. The trembling victim. And the camera descends to get a good view of the action. If they were so concerned about chastity, why did they let him consummate the rape? A good question for the victim to ask. But of course it was all taped automatically; not till later did anyone realize that the hovereye had caught the mad rapist at his trade. White thighs gleaming in the moonlight. Wiry black bush, almost blue. Push. Push. Wham!
Will the defendant please rise. Nathaniel James Hamlin you have heard the verdict of your peers. This court now declares you guilty on eleven counts of aggravated assault fourteen counts of unsolicited carnal entry five counts of third-degree sodomy seven counts of irremediable psychic injury seventeen counts of violation of marital propriety seven counts of first-degree illicit proximity nine counts of eleven counts of sixteen counts of.
The sleeper becomes restless. Let us perhaps turn our attention to happier times. The artist at work in his splendid studio, cascades of spring sunlight pouring through the grand window. Cleverly constructing the armature for the latest masterpiece. First comes the all-encompassing vision, you understand, the sense of the work as a wholeness, without which it is impossible to begin. This hits you like a bolt of lightning; if it comes any other way, don’t trust it. Afterward it’s just plonking drudgery, a lot of soldering. I wouldn’t bother except that I have to. It’s the first moment, the white light falling out of heaven, that makes it all worthwhile.
But of course any shithead phony can say he has inspirations. Can he realize them? I can. You build the armature, see, which means you have to crap around with relays and solenoids and connectors and power-shunts and gate-nexuses and such. You calculate the atmospherics you want; a computer gives you the ionization tables, but then you have to make the corrections yourself, intuitively. You do the lighting. Then you put the skin on. Throughout the whole business you never lose sight of the initial impulse, which is, item one, a matter of form, of the actual goddam shape of the piece, and, item two, a matter of psychological insight, of the particular movement of the spirit you mean to express. Now you know as much about my working methods as I do. You want to know more, buy one of my pieces and take it apart.
The scene changes. At the gallery now, we are watching the elite of the art world scrambling to buy his 2002 output; that was the year of the phallic miniatures, they walk, they talk, they jerk off, eight grand apiece, every distinguished creator is entitled to have his little black jest. Sold like hotcakes. Better than hotcakes: did you ever buy a hotcake in your life? The hotcake market is extremely depressed these days.