Lust Page 8

  Twenty years before, at the end of the film, Michael stood up and drove back to the condo in Oceanside and told his father, ‘I’m going back home tomorrow.’ His father said nothing. He just stared up at him from the sofa. Michael still remembered his father’s crew cut and his fathomless eyes, full of hatred.

  Like the old actor said: the past is a chasm, don’t look down.

  Michael stood looking down in his own sitting room, wearing a trenchcoat and fedora. Fancy dress again.

  Weeeellllllll, he thought. It was fun and I always was good at acting.

  Uh-huh. And you didn’t come and you didn’t have a hard-on so the sex was acting too. She was about as far from the real as you can get. So when do you get real, Michael? How? You don’t even know how, do you? You just keep repeating your youth. And it wasn’t even a happy youth, Michael.

  Do people I copy really know it?

  Michael remembered Tony. The real Tony had some kind of sense of what his copy had done. It was one thing to hurt a fictional character. It was another thing to harm someone real. Michael had no business experimenting on people without being able to assess the extent of the trauma he might be inflicting.

  But he couldn’t test it first, because he couldn’t call up anyone without being able to assess the damage, etc, etc. And it was not the sort of thing he could test on chickens, unless he was about to make the unwelcome discovery that he lusted after livestock. So how could he gauge what it was like to have a copy made of you? Michael spent a day in an experimental hall of mirrors, until that metaphor gave him his method.

  He checked himself into the Hotel Chez Nous. He approached the front desk with some trepidation. He thought that Tarzan would have left the sheets covered in body makeup. Explaining that would be embarrassing.

  The clerk was French and had irritating nostrils; they looked as if they were flaring in disgust at an unpleasant odour. He took Michael’s card, and once he had come up on the screen said smoothly, ‘Welcome back, Mr Blasco.’ It seemed there was no record of Max Factor on the linen. The clerk asked the screen, ‘Your usual room, sir?’

  It was indeed the usual room. It was so usual Michael could not be sure if it really was the same room or not.

  His stomach felt feathery, as if he had missed breakfast. He was, he realized, a little bit afraid of what he was going to do next. He started unbuttoning his shirt, knowing it was a delaying tactic. Every episode was a delaying tactic. He should just forget all of it, go to Alaska Street to get his rocks off and hope the whole thing would go away.

  But then he would never know what this thing had come for.

  Look, how can it hurt you? How can it hurt you, that is, any more than you have hurt yourself? Just do it and then you’ll know, and that will help you decide to forget it, write it off. Just do it.

  Michael called up a copy of himself.

  The air wavered, parting to admit the newcomer. He was tall and stocky at the same time. You only noticed on the second glance that he was not fat, but really quite muscular: the hair on the arms disguised the definition.

  Immediately, Michael felt sympathy for him. There was an air of caged and baffled decency about him, a slight scowl, a hopeful smile. In fact, he was not at all bad-looking, what Michael called a black Celt: slightly sallow skin, a heavy beard and black eyes.

  Michael fancied himself. It’s a well-known syndrome, and it had afflicted Michael far worse than most: daughters meeting their long-lost fathers for the first time; sisters and brothers separated at birth meeting on a course. There are two great triggers for sexual desire: extreme but complementary genetic difference, or extreme genetic similarity. You either find someone completely different to complete the genetic puzzle, or someone who is kindred.

  So here he was, dragged back to the seat of his neuroses: himself.

  ‘Oh,’ said Michael and Michael together.

  Then they both chuckled shyly and looked down at their shoes in unison.

  ‘Um,’ they said in unison, embarrassed. They looked up at each other and two pairs of black eyes sunk into each other.

  ‘Oops,’ they said, understanding each other perfectly. They wanted to fuck themselves.

  With that unspoken agreement, they both began to undress. Love finds faults endearing. For the first time ever, Michael saw that he only combed his rich black unruly hair in front. The back of his head was practically in dreadlocks. The back of one trouser leg was tucked into the top of his socks. He looked back around and it was true of him, too. Oh well, he was a bachelor.

  The Angel turned back to face him, and viewed as a stranger, he stirred Michael’s heart with forgiveness for what it means to be human. Here was a man of 38 winters, crepe paper around the corner of his eyes, and it was not until you held him that you realized all that flesh was solid. Somebody should tell him about his choice of knickers. And socks. The white Y-fronts were slipped to one side, and there was a penis that was in no way as tiny as Michael thought: it had a nice round head that was beginning to swell and weep.

  ‘What…’ they both began, and broke off, with a chuckle and a shrug. They were going to ask: what now? They didn’t need to.

  A lover who really understands you? Who really knows what you are thinking?

  Michael had not felt such a surge of desire since he was sixteen years old: heedless and irresistible. With no discussion, they were pulled towards each other, to embrace, in the French sense of the term: to kiss.

  Suddenly his copy jerked his head aside, lips pressed shut. He was frightened of AIDS. It was insulting, disappointing and childish.

  The original Michael said, ‘We can hardly give each other something we don’t already have.’

  And immediately there was a sense of parting, very slight like a tangerine being peeled. They were no longer exactly one. Their histories were now very slightly different.

  ‘That’s true,’ said the copy, trying to look amused. He was stiff and awkward, and gave Michael a peck on the lips. Did Michael feel a slight echo somewhere, like a double image? Did he not very slightly feel his own lips peck someone else’s, while they themselves were being kissed?

  ‘Sorry,’ the copy said and gave Michael a little cajoling shake. ‘Old habits die hard.’ He planted another chaste kiss on Michael’s cheek. Michael felt a falling away. He let his own penis drop, and looked down and saw his copy, thrashing uselessly away at himself.

  That was always the pattern. He’d start out well, with a promising swelling, gallons of lubricant, and then the sudden irretrievable collapse.

  ‘We’re not going to be much use to each other are we?’ the original Michael said.

  ‘We could just cuddle,’ said his copy, hopefully. Michael had done enough cuddling. He looked at his own body and asked it: why? It’s a beautiful body, everything else about it works.

  ‘Shall we try again?’ Michael asked himself.

  ‘OK,’ chuckled the copy, weakly. It was lie, Michael knew. He was ashamed and now simply wanted to escape. This Michael was an amazingly disheartening sexual partner. But Michael was determined to persevere, for both their sakes.

  It is a very strange thing to kiss yourself. There is no change of taste, and you know exactly what the tongue will do, how it will respond. I’d never realized, thought Michael, how useful my lips are. I hated my fat lips. But they’re great for kissing.

  If only this Angel would move them.

  Michael leaned back and looked at himself. He was surprised at how angry he felt. He had been moved, roused, and then let down. It felt like rejection, it felt personal. He made a soft fist and gave his partner a gentle, chiding thump. There was a distant disturbance in his own shoulder, as if someone had thrown a pebble into a pool some distance away.

  ‘Now you know how other people feel,’ said his copy, something dark and steely creeping into his own eyes.

  ‘Oh, Jesus, let’s sit down,’ said Michael. They sat next to each other on the bed. His partner looked defeated, mournful. Michael put an a
rm around his shoulder to comfort him, and they lay side by side, comrades rather than lovers.

  Michael changed the subject. ‘You feel anything? From me?’

  ‘A kind of a buzz.’

  ‘It wouldn’t hurt you, would it?’

  The copy scowled. ‘I don’t think I would know what it was.’

  ‘I just wanted to know if I could hurt people.’

  The Angel sighed. ‘It would give them a turn if they showed up at your flat and met themselves by mistake.’

  ‘I’ll remember that.’

  They turned and looked into each other’s faces, like brothers, like friends. They both had the same dark eyes, and his copy’s eyes were black and sad. Do I always look this mournful having sex? Isn’t sex supposed to be fun?

  The Angel asked, ‘Do you have any idea how we got this way?’

  The focus of Michael’s vision seemed to shift and he saw something in the face, and jumped up, and scuttled away. ‘Jesus Christ, you look just like Dad!’

  Michael turned back around, and the bed was empty. Even the baggy Y-fronts had gone.

  Can Angels do work?

  Back at work, Ebru asked Michael, ‘Where do you go in the afternoons?’

  Her smile was rueful, teasing, an evident mise-en-scène. Because her eyes were saying: you’re supposed to be running this place.

  ‘Lunch,’ replied Michael. ‘Why, was there a problem?’

  She was leaning as if relaxed across her desk. She sprawled. It was a difficult posture to read, because it seemed friendly but was also disrespectful.

  Her voice drawled; she sounded sleepy. ‘The University called. You were supposed to be teaching a course today.’

  Oh shit, oh no, of course, it’s Thursday.

  Ebru looked bored. ‘What could I do? I told them you would call when you got back.’

  ‘Oh, Jees, was it Professor Dennis? Oh darn. OK. I’ll give her a call.’

  ‘Could you leave me with your number please where you will be when you go out?’

  ‘Yeah sure. I’ll get a mobile, so you can call me.’

  Michael jerked forward, wanting to escape. Ebru had more to say. ‘The grant application forms have been on your desk for a week. I just wanted to make sure you knew they were there.’ Michael had to apply for funds for the next stage of research; they were to teach the chicks tasks such as pushing buttons for food. The aim was to keep the facility going, so the University could rent it out for other projects. The aim was that Michael would eventually make himself some kind of Director.

  ‘Right, yes. I’ve been meaning to get to that.’

  ‘Emilio was saying that he has not been told the file names for the control group slides. This means he has fallen behind on his data entry and filing.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Michael. ‘A lot on my plate.’

  Ebru dismissed it, as if sleepy. ‘I wasn’t chasing you.’

  Oh yes you were.

  Alone in his windowless office, Michael told himself: you have been neglecting your job.

  It had been just over three weeks since the episodes began. There had been five afternoons at the Chez Nous, four with Johnny and one with himself. They had moved from late winter into spring. How did he think people would not notice?

  There was a Fridge full of frozen, unfiled slides. How could he ask people to work for him? People who were on short-term contracts, which meant they could not get a mortgage. How could he ask them to work punctiliously, perfectly, as science demanded?

  And, oh shit, he was also supposed to be writing a phase paper on the difference between Windows NT and Unix for his MSc in Computer Science. It was due next Monday. He’d done nothing about it.

  Michael hung his head, and then lowered it into his hands from shame.

  God, he found himself asking, why have you done this to me?

  God, in the form of the painted brick wall, could not answer, or rather, decided not to, or rather, couldn’t be bothered.

  Well, the wall seemed to say, on its own behalf if not God’s, I’m just a wall and not very interesting, but I am the life you have chosen. You put yourself in this office with these slides and files and papers and coursework and you’d better get on with it.

  Michael needed to talk to someone. He had no one to talk to, most especially not his staff, his lover, or their friends. All his friends were Phil’s friends.

  ‘Help,’ he said in a small voice that was not meant to be heard.

  ‘Hiya,’ said a voice that poised somewhere in mid-Atlantic. Something white moved in the corner of his eye.

  His Angel was sitting on the corner of the desk, wearing his white lab coat. His smile was mild and his eyes faded; he looked detached.

  Michael saw himself. I have good feelings for people, but I don’t connect. So they don’t always know that.

  ‘Hiya,’ Michael said. ‘I’ve been neglecting things.’

  ‘You have a miracle to deal with. Ah. I think you’ll find that most people who have one of those find it’s a full-time job. I mean, Phil Dick just saw pink lights, and look how long that took to sort out.’

  Michael’s face shook itself with unexpected tears, like a dog getting out of water. He certainly didn’t feel that unhappy. The reaction didn’t seem to link to any emotion until he spoke, vehemently.

  ‘I didn’t want an extra full-time job. I didn’t ask for this. What is it for, what I am supposed to do with it, and why, why me?’

  The Angel looked back, big and kindly and powerless. ‘I know less than you do.’

  Michael apologized, his default mode. ‘I’m sorry, this isn’t easy for you either.’

  ‘I don’t matter. I’m not real.’ The Angel managed to say that with a smile. ‘Why don’t you let me help?’

  It took a while for the anger to be stilled. The Angel kept talking.

  ‘I know what you know. I can do just as good a job as you can. We’ve got a backlog. Why don’t you stay here and do the accounts or whatever? I’ll go to the Fridge and do the slides.’

  What a wonderful idea. Michael chuckled. ‘It’ll be like the Shoemaker and the Elves.’

  ‘Let’s wait until tonight,’ said the Angel. ‘That way no one will see you in two places at the same time. We don’t want to give anyone a heart attack.’

  ‘Can we talk afterwards?’ Michael asked. He felt the same yearning he would for a lover.

  ‘Sure, baby.’

  That was what Michael always used to say to Phil. When they were young and in love.

  So he filled in the form for the second stage of their research grant, and wrote the first draft of the accompanying business case. Michael’s career plan was simple. He would keep using the lab for further research projects until his own reputation was established and then let out the secure facility for other projects. At 5.00 PM he was able to bustle into Ebru’s office, fluttering papers.

  ‘Well, here we go. This is the business case for the grant. First draft. Can you read it for me, make any comments. Oh. I also know nothing about the admin costs, so could you run off a 104 on the office expenses.’

  Ebru was still watchful, languid. ‘It’s five o’clock. Do you need it this instant?’

  ‘Not right now, of course. Close of play tomorrow for the comments. I’ll need the 104 sometime tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I can do that for you,’ she said airily, gathering up her bag. No, she seemed to say, I am not working late to make up for your lost time. She smiled a hazy, hooded smile at him, and gave him a dinky little wave with the tips of her fingers. ‘Good night. See you tomorrow.’ Faultlessly polite. The draft was left on her desk.

  He was left standing alone in the room. I have really pissed her off.

  It was 5.03 and there was absolutely no one there. They had all gone home. Who would work late if the boss wasn’t there?

  The whole universe has burst its bonds in order to put you in this position. Impossible things are happening, and they are screwing up your life, and nothing in your intelle
ctual or emotional history has prepared you for them.

  And you have allowed yourself to become alone.

  His only friend was literally himself.

  Michael went into the cold room. There was his other self, big and happy, a cheerful anorak singing old Wham! songs. ‘Bad boys…’ The Angel was merry in his work. He turned around smiling, the smile coming from being usefully employed and suffering no doubts. When Michael smiled his eyes went tiny and narrow, almost closed, and that in turn made him look a bit like a Chinese Santa Claus.

  ‘Just started,’ said the Angel, cheerfully. His breath came out as vapour; frost settled on his eyebrows. ‘Things really aren’t that bad. Emilio’s been good, he’s using a temporary naming convention, which we might as well accept. And everything’s been labelled, in boxes. It just needs to be put away properly.’

  The Angel pulled open a drawer. There were the first of his slides, label side up and out, in neat rows. ‘There’s only about an hour’s work.’

  Things really weren’t that bad. Relief was like a pillow. Michael settled into it. The work would be done, he would apologize to Emilio, and amends would be made. It would be all right.

  ‘I’ll be back then.’ Michael kept the need out of his voice.

  Back in his office, there were 37 e-mails needing answers. They were mostly from the University, agendas or minutes attached, or new curriculum proposals. He went through picking the most important first. His professor had written three days ago, asking if the project was progressing well.

  Michael defaulted to apologies. Sorry, I’ve been in the grip of applying for grants. Wouldn’t it be great if someone just said, fine, here’s all the money you need in one go? We could put it in the bank and use the interest for the project as well. But the project is going fine, great. A lot of data to work through.

  There was an invitation to speak at a conference, with a carefully worded guarantee of security. ‘We realize your work is controversial. We will make sure that only nominated delegates can attend, so all questioning will be on the methodology and preliminary results.’ This was exactly the kind of fallout Michael had wanted from the research: increased profile, keynote addresses, publications, and acknowledgement, if only from a very few people worldwide. Michael accepted the invitation, feeling suddenly that all was right with the world.