The World Jones Made

  “Another round?” Nina asked, with wan cheerfulness. She got hold of the waiter and reordered. “Max, you look like you’re going to die on us.”

  With an effort, Kaminski raised his shaggy head. “Madame,” he answered, “leave a man something.”

  The evening was coming to a close; people were beginning to filter out of the bar, back up the stairs to the street level. On the raised platform the man and woman had reappeared, removed their clothing, and once more were going through their dance. Cussick scarcely noticed them; sinking into gloomy contemplation, he sat dully sipping his drink, distantly aware of the murmur of voices, the thick opaqueness of the air. When the floor show ended, the major bulk of the audience got up and began pushing toward the exit. Already, the room was half-empty. From the street stairs a blast of frigid early-morning air swirled down, chilling the people still sitting at their tables.

  “It’s late,” Cussick said.

  Across from him, Nina’s face flitted with panic. “They’re not closing for a long time,” she protested pathetically. “And in the back they don’t close at all. Dance with me again, before we go.”

  Cussick shook his head. “Sorry, honey. I’d fall over.”

  Nina was on her feet. “Max, will you dance with me?”

  “Sure,” Kaminski said. “I’ll do anything. Enjoy ourselves in the time left.” Holding her clumsily by the arm, he half-led, half-dragged her through the departing people, to the front of the room. There, a few sodden couples swayed back and forth. The two hermaphrodites, now both women, were dancing calmly with male patrons. Presently, tired of that, they switched sexes, became men, and wandered among the tables looking for female partners.

  Sitting at his table, Cussick said: “Can they control it?”

  Tyler sipped her drink. “Probably. It’s quite an art.”

  “It’s depraved.”

  One by one the lights dimmed out. When next Cussick looked he saw Kaminski slumped over at a table, no longer dancing. Where, then, was Nina? For a time he couldn’t locate her; then he identified her familiar blonde hair. She was dancing with one of the hermaphrodites, face glazed with desperate excitement. Arm around her, the slender young man danced dispassionately, expertly.

  Before Cussick knew it, he was on his feet. “Wait here,” he told Tyler.

  Gathering up her purse and coat, Tyler started after him. “We better not get separated.”

  But Cussick could think only of Nina. His wife and the hermaphrodite were walking hand-in-hand through what instinct told him was the entrance to the still-functioning back rooms. Pushing a group of loitering couples aside, he followed. For an instant he waded through a dense darkness and then he was standing in a deserted corridor. Head down, he ran blindly forward. Around a turn, he stopped short.

  Nina, leaning against the wall, a glass in her hand, was talking intently to the hermaphrodite. Her blonde hair was a disarranged cascade. Her body slumped with fatigue, but her eyes still flashed, bright and feverish.

  Striding up to her, Cussick said: “Come on, honey. We have to go.” He was dimly aware that Tyler and Kaminski had followed him.

  “You go ahead,” Nina said, in a strained, metallic voice. “Go on. Take off.”

  “What about you?” he demanded, shocked. “What about Jack?”

  “The hell with Jack,” she said, in sudden agony. “The hell with everything—with your whole world. I’m not going back—I’m staying here. If you want me, for God’s sake stay with me.”

  The hermaphrodite turned slightly and said to Cussick: “Mind your own business, chum. In this world, everybody does what he wants.”

  Cussick reached out, grabbed hold of the creature’s shirt, and lifted him from his feet. The hermaphrodite was amazingly light; he struggled and twisted, and in an instant had slid out of Cussick’s hands. Stepping back, the hermaphrodite flowed into a female. Her eyes mocking, she danced lithely away from him.

  “Go ahead,” she gasped. “Hit me.”

  Nina had turned and started off down the corridor. The hermaphrodite, noticing, quickly hurried after her, an eager expression on her face. As the creature followed Nina down the hall to a side door, Tyler slipped up close and caught hold of her. With an expert motion, Tyler twisted the creature around and yanked her arm back in a paralyzing lock. The hermaphrodite instantly flowed into the figure of a man. Cussick stepped forward and socked him on the jaw. Without a sound, the hermaphrodite sank down, totally unconscious, and Tyler released him.

  “She’s gone,” Kaminski said, balancing himself with an effort. Other people were hurrying up; the hermaphrodite’s partner appeared, clapped his hands in horror, and dropped down fearfully to paw at his inert companion.

  Glancing around, Tyler said rapidly to Cussick: “She’s familiar with this place. If you expect her to leave with you, you’ll have to talk her into it.” Urgently, she gave him a shove. “Get going.”

  He found her almost at once. She had crept from the corridor into a side room, a blind alley with only one entrance. There, he cornered her, slammed the door and locked it after him. Nina crouched in the corner, frail and pitiful, eyes bright with fear, trembling and gazing mutely up at him.

  The room was simple, hygienically clean in its ascetic purity. The curtains, the position of the furniture, told him the unbearable truth; only Nina could have arranged this room. This was her room. Her imprint, her image, was stamped on every inch of it.

  There were noises outside. Kaminski’s hoarse growl swelled up: “Doug, you in there?”

  He stepped outside into the hall and confronted Kaminski and Tyler. “I found her. She’s all right.”

  “What are you going to do?” Tyler asked.

  “Stay here. You two better go. Can you find your way out?”

  “Certainly,” Tyler said, understanding. Taking hold of Kaminski she led him back a step. “Good luck. Come on, Max. There’s nothing we can do here.”

  “Thanks,” Cussick said, standing firmly planted in front of the door. “I’ll see you later, both of you.”

  Kaminski, protesting and bewildered, retreated at the insistence of the slim girl holding tightly to his arm. “Give me a call,” he mumbled. “When you get back; when you’re out of here. So I’ll know you’re okay.”

  “I’ll do that,” Cussick said. “Don’t forget your package.” He stood a moment, until the two of them had disappeared along the hall. Then he turned and re-entered the room.

  On the bed, Nina was sitting up slightly, her head against the wall, legs drawn up, feet tucked under her. She smiled up weakly at him. “Hello,” she said.

  “Feel better?” He locked the door and came toward her. “They left; I sent them off.”

  Sitting down on the edge of the bed he asked: “This is your room, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” She didn’t look directly at him.

  “How long?”

  “Oh, not long. A week, maybe. Ten days.”

  “I don’t really understand. You want to be here with these people?”

  “I wanted to get away. I couldn’t stand that damn little apartment . . . I wanted to be on my own, do something. It’s so hard to explain; some of it I don’t understand, myself. It’s like the stealing—I just felt I had to stand up.”

  “That’s why you brought us all here, then. It meant nothing until you could show it to us.”

  “I suppose so. Yes, I guess you’re right. I wanted you to see it, so you’d know. So you’d see I had somewhere to go . . . not dependent on you. Not helpless, tied to your world. Outside in the main bar I got scared . . . I took the heroin to get my nerve.” She smiled a little. “It’s such a mess.”

  He bent over her, holding onto her hands. Her skin was cold and faintly moist. “You’re not scared now, are you?”

  “No,” she managed. “Not with you here.”

  “We’ll stay here tonight,” he told her. “That’s what you want?”

  She nodded forlornly.

  “Then tomorrow
morning we’ll go back?”

  Twisting, she answered painfully: “Don’t ask me. Don’t make me say. I’m afraid to say, now.”

  “All right.” It hurt, but he didn’t press for an answer. “We can decide tomorrow, after we have a good sleep and breakfast. After we get all this stuff out of our systems. This poison—this rot.”

  There was no answer. Nina had fallen into a partial doze; eyes shut, she lay resting against the wall, chin down, body relaxed.

  For a long time Cussick sat immobile. The room grew cold. Outside, in the hall, there was only silence. His watch told him it was four-thirty. Presently he bent down and slid off Nina’s shoes. He placed them on the floor by the bed, hesitated, and then unfastened the snaps of her dress. The dress was intricately held together; it took him some time. Twice, she woke slightly, stirred, and sank back into sleep. At last the dress came apart; he maneuvered one section over her head, laid it over the back of a chair, lifted her hips, and struggled the remaining part away from her.

  It was surprising how really small she was. Without the ornate, expensive dress, she seemed unusually bare, defenseless, open to injury. It was impossible to feel rancor toward her. He pulled up the blankets around her shoulders and tucked them under her chin. Her heavy blonde hair spilled out over the wool fabric, thick honey streaks against the checkered pattern of red and black. Smoothing her hair back from her eyes, he seated himself beside her on the bed.

  For an endless time he sat, his mind blank, gazing into the shadows of the room. Nina slept fitfully; now and then she turned, twisted, made faint unhappy sounds. Struggling in an invisible darkness, she fought lonely battles, without him, without anybody. In the final analysis, each of them was cut off from the other. Each of them suffered alone.

  Towards morning, he became aware of a distant, muffled sound: a noise coming from a long way off. For a time he paid no attention; the noise beat uselessly against his dulled consciousness. And then, finally, he identified it. A human voice, harsh and loud, a voice he recognized. Stiffly, shaking with cold, he got up from the bed and made his way to the door. With infinite care he unlocked it and stepped out into the chill, deserted corridor.

  The voice was the voice of Jones.

  Cussick walked slowly down the corridor. He passed closed doors and side passages, but saw nobody. It was five-forty A.M.; the sun was beginning to show. Through an open window at the end of the hall he caught a glimpse of bleak, gray sky, as remote and hostile as gun-metal. As he walked, the voice grew louder. All at once he turned a corner and found himself facing a great storeroom.

  It wasn’t Jones, not really. It was a tape recording. But the presence, the vital, cruel spirit, was there. In rows of chairs, men and women sat intently listening. The storeroom was filled with bales, boxes, huge packages heaped everywhere. The corridor had carried him to a totally different building; it linked various establishments, a variety of businesses. This was the loading stage of a commercial house.

  On the wall were plastered posters. As he stood in the doorway listening to the furious, impassioned voice, he realized that this was an official meeting hall. This was a before-dawn gathering; these were working people, coming together before their work-day began. At the far end, where the speakers blared, hung Jones’ emblem, the crossed flasks of Hermes. Scattered through the groups were various uniforms of the Patriots United organizations: both the women’s and youth groups, armbands, badges and insignia. In a corner lounged two helmeted Security police: the meeting was no secret. The meetings were never secret: there was no necessity.

  Nobody interfered with Cussick as he made his way back up the corridor. Now the building was beginning to stir; outside, rumbling commercial trucks were beginning to load and unload. He found Nina’s room and entered.

  She was awake. As he turned from the door she sat up, eyes wide. “Where did you go? I thought—”

  “I’m back. I heard sounds.” The distant snarl of Jones’ voice was still audible. “That.”

  “Oh.” She nodded. “Yes, they’re meeting. That’s part of this. My room.”

  “You’ve been working for them, haven’t you?”

  “Nothing important. Just folding papers and writing addresses. The sort of thing I used to do. Giving out information. Publicity, I guess you’d call it.”

  Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Cussick picked up his wife’s purse and opened it. Papers, cards, lipstick, a mirror, keys, money, a handkerchief . . . he poured everything out onto the bed. Nina watched quietly; she had pulled herself up to sit leaning on one bare elbow. Cussick pawed through the contents of the purse until he came to what he wanted. “I was curious,” he said. “The specific grade and date.”

  Her membership card in Patriots United was dated February 17, 2002. She had been a member for eight months, since before Jack was born. Code symbols with which he was familiar identified her as a full-time worker, at a fairly responsible level.

  “You’re really involved in this,” he commented, shoveling the contents back into the purse. “While I’ve been busy, you’ve been busy, too.”

  “There’s a lot of work,” she agreed faintly. “And they need money. I’ve been able to help there, too. What time is it? It’s about six, isn’t it?”

  “Not quite.” He lit a cigarette and sat smoking. Amazingly, he was collected and rational. He was conscious of no emotion. Maybe it would come later. Maybe not. “Well?” he said. “I suppose it’s too early to leave here.”

  “I’d like to sleep some more.” Her eyelids drooped; she yawned, stretched, smiled at him hopefully. “Could we?”

  “Sure.” He stubbed out his cigarette and began unlacing his shoes.

  “It’s sort of exciting,” Nina said wistfully. “Like an adventure—the two of us here, the locked door, the secrecy. Don’t you agree? I mean, it’s not—stale. Routine.” As he stood by the bed unbuttoning his shirt, she went on: “I get so bored, so darn tired of the same thing, day after day. The drab ordinary life; a married woman with a baby, a frowsy housewife. It’s not worth living . . . don’t you feel that? Don’t you want to do something?”

  “I have my work.”

  Saddened, she answered: “I know.”

  He clicked off the light and approached her. White, cold sunlight filtered into the darkened room, past the edges of the window shade. In the stark luminosity, his wife’s body was clearly-etched. She pushed the covers aside for him; at some time or other she had taken off the rest of her clothes, got out of bed and neatly hung her dress up in the closet. Her shoes, her stockings, her underclothes were gone, probably into dresser drawers. Moving aside for him, Nina reached out hungrily, arms avid, demanding.

  “Do you think,” she said tensely, “this will be the last time?”

  “I don’t know.” He was conscious only of fatigue; gratefully, he eased himself down onto the bed, hard and narrow as it was. Nina covered him over, smoothed the wool blankets tenderly down around him. “This is your little private bed?” he asked, with a trace of irony.

  “It’s sort of—like in the Middle Ages,” she answered. “Just this little room, just the single bed—like a cot. The dresser and wash stand. Chastity, poverty, obedience . . . a sort of spiritual cleansing, for me. For all of us.”

  Cussick didn’t try to think about it. The sensual, orgiastic vice of the earlier evening, the drugs and liquor and floor show, the degenerate spectacle—and now this. It made no sense. But there was a pattern, a meaning beyond logic. It fitted.

  Pale shoulders, bare and lovely, pressed tight against his. Her lips parted, eyes large, Nina gazed up at him, suffused with the melting closeness of love. “Yes,” she whispered, searching his face, trying to see into him, seeking to understand what he thought and felt. “I love you so damn much.”

  He said nothing. He touched his lips to the burning torrent of honey-flaming hair that spilled out onto the pillow and blankets. Again and again she clutched at him, clung mutely to him, tried to hold onto him. But he was alread
y slipping away. He turned on his side, remained for a time, his hand on her throat, by her ear, fingers touching her.

  “Please,” Nina whispered fiercely. “Please don’t leave me.”

  But there was nothing he could do. He was slipping further and further away from her . . . and she was leaving him, too. Locked in each other’s arms, bare bodies pressed together, they were already a universe apart. Separated by the ceaseless muffled metallic drumming of the man’s voice that beat against the walls from a long way off, the never-ending harsh mutter of words, gestures, speeches. The untiring din of an impassioned man.

  11

  THE NEWS WENT the rounds. Cussick didn’t have to tell anybody; they all knew. It was only a month later, in the middle of November, when Tyler called him—unexpectedly, without advance warning. He was at his desk, surrounded by reports and incoming data. The call came by routine interoffice vidphone, so he wasn’t prepared for it.

  “Sorry to bother you,” Tyler’s animated image said, without preamble. She was at her desk, too; past her small, uniformed figure rested an electric typewriter and a neatly-organized office. Dark eyes large and serious, she held up a data tape that had been processed to her. “I see that your wife is being reclassified under her maiden name. We’re supposed to identify her as Nina Longstren.”

  “That’s right,” Cussick agreed.

  “Do you want to tell me what happened? I haven’t seen you since that night.”

  “I’ll meet you somewhere after work,” he told her. “Wherever you want. But I can’t talk now.” He pointed to the mountain of work heaped on his desk. “I know I don’t have to explain.”

  He met her on the wide front steps of the main Security building. It was seven o’clock in the evening; the chill winter sky was pitch-black. In a heavy fur-lined coat, Tyler stood waiting for him, hands deep in her pockets, a wool kerchief tied around her short black hair. As he came down the concrete steps toward her, she emerged from the shadows, a cloud of moist breath hovering like a halo around her, icy particles glittering on the fur collar of her coat.