She hopes this is so. She hopes that Zenia is not still hovering around, alone and lost, somewhere out there in the night.
After Roz takes Tony home she goes home herself, as fast as she can because she's worried sick, what if there's cocaine stashed all over her house, tucked into the tea leaves or the cookie jar in little plastic bags, what if she finds the place full of sniffer dogs and men named Dwayne, who will address her as ma'am and say they are just doing their jobs? She even runs a red light, not a thing she normally does, although everyone else seems to these days. She shucks her coat in the hall, kicks off her shoes, and goes on the hunt for Larry.
The twins are in the family room, watching a rerun of Star Trek.
"Greetings, Earthmom," says Paula.
"Maybe she isn't Mom," says Erin. "Maybe she's a Replicant."
"Hi, kids," says Roz. "It's way past your bedtime! Where's Larry?"
"Erla's done our homework," says Erin. "This is our reward."
"Mom, what's wrong?" says Paula. "You look like shit."
"It's old age," says Roz. "Is he home?"
"He's in the kitchen," says Erin. "We think."
"Eating bread and honey," says Paula.
"That's the Queen, stupid," says Erin. They giggle.
Larry is sitting on one of the high stools, at the kitchen counter, wearing jeans and a black T-shirt and bare feet, and drinking a bottle of beer. Across from him on another high stool is Boyce, neat in his suit; he's got a beer, too. When Roz walks into the room they both look up. They both seem equally anxious.
"Hi, Boyce," says Roz. "What a surprise! Is something wrong at the office?"
"Good evening, Ms. Andrews," says Boyce. "Not at the office, no."
"I have something to discuss with Larry," says Roz. "If you don't mind, Boyce."
"I think Boyce should stay," says Larry. He looks dejected, as if he's failed an exam: there must be something to Zenia's story. But what's Boyce got to do with it?
"Larry, I'm concerned," says Roz. "What are you into with Zenia?"
"Who?" Larry says, too innocently.
"I need to know," says Roz.
"I dream of Zenia in her light brown lair," Boyce murmurs as if to himself.
"She told you?" says Larry.
"About the drugs?" says Roz. "Oh God, it's true! If you've got any drugs in this house, I want them out of here, right now! So you were having a thing with her!"
"Thing?" says Larry.
"Thing, fling, whatever," says Roz. "Holy Moly, don't you know how old she was? Don't you know how vicious she was? Don't you know what she did to your father?"
"Thing?" says Boyce. "I don't think so."
"What drugs?" says Larry.
"It was only a few times," says Boyce. "He was experimenting. My nose aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense. Keats. He's given it up, as of now - right, Larry?"
"Then you weren't her dealer?" says Roz.
"Mom, it was the other way around," says Larry.
"But Charis saw you kissing her, right out on the street!" says Roz. She feels very weird, talking this way to her own son. She feels like a snoopy old crock.
"Kissing?" says Larry. "I never kissed her. She was whispering in my ear. She was telling me that we were being followed around by this deranged older woman. Maybe it looked like kissing, to Aunt Charis, because that woman was definitely her."
"Not kissing, but hissing," says Boyce. "Like 'not waving but drowning.' Stevie Smith."
"Boyce, shut up for a minute," says Larry irritably. They seem to know each other quite a lot better than Roz has assumed. She's thought they'd just met the one time, at the Father-Daughter Dance, and then a few nods at the office, as Larry came and went. Apparently not.
"But you went to her hotel room a lot," says Roz. "I know it for a fact!"
"It's not what you think," says Larry.
"You realize she's dead?" Roz says, playing her ace. "I just came from there, they just fished her out of the fountain!"
"Dead?" says Boyce. "Of what? A self-inflicted snakebite?"
"Who knows?" says Roz. "Maybe somebody threw her off the balcony."
"Maybe she jumped," says Boyce. "When lovely woman stoops to folly, and finds too late that men betray, they jump off balconies."
"I just hope to God you had nothing to do with it," says Roz to Larry.
Boyce says quickly, "He couldn't have, he was nowhere near her tonight. He was with me."
"I was trying to talk her out of it," says Larry. "She wanted money. I didn't have enough, and I could hardly ask you for some."
"Talk her out of what? Money for what?" says Roz. She's almost yelling.
"For not telling you," says Larry miserably. "I thought I could keep it secret. I didn't want to make things any worse - I thought you'd been upset enough, because of Dad, and everything."
"Judas Priest, for not telling me what?" shouts Roz. "You'll be the death of me!" She sounds exactly like her own mother. All the same, so sweet, Larry trying to protect her. He doesn't want to come home and find her flopping around on the kitchen floor, the way he did before. "Boyce," she says, more gently, "have you got a cigarette?"
Boyce, ever prepared, hands her the package and flicks his lighter for her. "I think it's time," he says to Larry.
Larry gulps, stares at the floor, looks resigned. "Mom," he says, "I'm gay."
Roz feels her eyes bugging out like those of a strangled rabbit. Why didn't she see, why couldn't she tell, what's the matter with her anyway? Nicotine grabs at her lungs, she really must quit, and then she coughs, and smoke billows from her mouth, and maybe she's about to have a premature heart attack! That's what she'll do, fall to the floor in a heap and let everyone else deal with this, because it's way beyond her.
But she sees the distress in Larry's eyes, and the appeal. No, she can handle it, if she can bite her tongue hard enough. It's just that she wasn't prepared. What's the right thing to say? I love you anyway? You're still my son? What about my grandchildren?
"But all those bimbos you put me through!" is what she comes out with. She's got it now: he was trying to please her. Trying to bring home a woman, like some kind of dutiful exam certificate, to show Mom. To show he'd passed.
"A man can but do his best," says Boyce. "Walter Scott."
"What about the twins?" Roz whispers. They are at a formative stage; how will she tell them?
"Oh, the twins know," says Larry, relieved that he's got at least one corner covered. "They worked it out pretty fast. They say it's cool." That figures, thinks Roz: for them, the fences once so firmly in place around the gender corrals are just a bunch of rusty old wire.
"Think of it this way," says Boyce affectionately. "You're not losing a son, you're gaining a son."
"I've decided to go to law school," says Larry. Now that the worst is over and Roz hasn't croaked or burst, he looks relieved. "We want you to help us decorate our apartment."
"Sweetie," says Roz, taking a deep breath, "I'd be glad to." It's not that she's prejudiced, and her own marriage wasn't such a terrific argument for heterosexuality, and neither was Mitch, and she just wants Larry to be happy, and if this is how he plans to do it, fine, and maybe Boyce will be a good influence and make him pick his clothes up off the floor and keep him out of trouble; but it's been a long day. Tomorrow she'll be genuinely warm and accepting. For tonight, hypocrisy will have to do.
"Ms. Andrews, you're the glass of fashion and the mould of form," says Boyce.
Roz spreads her hands wide, raises her shoulders, pulls down the corners of her mouth. "Tell me," she says. "What are my options?"
Men in overcoats come to visit. They want to know a lot of things about Zenia. Which of her three passports is real, if any. Where she actually came from. What she was doing.
Tony is informative, Charis vague; Roz is careful, because she doesn't want Larry involved. But she needn't have worried, because none of these men seems to be the least interested in Larry. What they are interested in is
Zenia's two packed suitcases, left neatly on the bed, one of them with eleven little plastic bags of white powder in them, or so they say. A twelfth bag was open, beside the phone. Not nose candy either: heroin, and ninety per cent pure. They look out from their immobile faces, their eyes like intelligent pebbles, watching for twinges, for hints of guilty knowledge.
They are also interested in the needle found on the balcony, they continue, and in the fact that Zenia died of an overdose before even hitting the water. Could she have been trying the stuff out, without knowing the unusual strength of what she was buying, or selling? There were track marks on her left arm, although they looked old. According to the overcoats, there have been more and more overdoses like that; someone is flooding the market with high-octane product, and even the experienced aren't prepared.
There were nobody's fingerprints on the needle, except Zenia's, they tell her. As for her swan dive into the fountain, she could have fallen. She was a tall woman, and the sheet-metal balcony railings were really too low for safety; standards should be improved. Such a thing is possible. If she'd been leaning over. On the other hand, the heroin could have been a plant. It might have been murder.
Or it might have been suicide, Tony tells them. She would like them to believe this. She tells them that Zenia may not have been a well person.
Of course, say the men in overcoats politely. We know about that. We found the prescriptions in her suitcase, we traced the doctor. Seems she had a fake health card as well as some fake passports, but the disease itself was real enough. Six months to live: ovarian cancer. But there was no suicide note.
Tony tells them there wouldn't have been: Zenia was not really the note-writing kind.
The men in overcoats look at her, their small eyes glinting with scepticism. They don't buy any of these theories, but they don't have another one, not one that holds water.
Tony sees how it will be: Zenia will prove too smart for the men in overcoats. She will outfox them, just as she's always outfoxed everyone else. She finds herself being pleased about this, elated even, as if her faith in Zenia - a faith she didn't realize she had - is being vindicated. Let them sweat! Why should everyone know everything? It's not as if there are no precedents: history teems with people who died in unclear ways.
Still, she feels honour-bound to report the conversation about Gerry Bull and Project Babylon, although it's not merely honour that impels her: she hopes very much that if Zenia was murdered it was by professionals, rather than by anyone she knows. The men tell her they are retracing Zenia's steps, as best they can, via her plane tickets; she has certainly been in some very odd places in the last little while. But there's nothing conclusive. They shake hands and depart, asking Tony to call them if she hears anything else. She says she will.
She's left facing the unlikely possibility that all three of Zenia's most recent stories - or parts of them, at least - may have been true. What if Zenia's cries for help really were cries for help, this time?
After the police are finished there is a cremation. Roz pays for it, because when she tracks down the lawyer, the one who arranged Zenia's funeral the first time around, he is quite annoyed. He takes it as a personal slight that Zenia has chosen to be alive all this time without consulting him about it. Her will was probated the first time around, not that there was anything to probate because she didn't leave an estate, only a small bequest to an orphanage near Waterloo that turned out not to exist any more, and on top of that he never got paid. So what do they expect from him?
"Nothing," says Roz. "It will all be taken care of."
"Well, what about it?" she says to Tony and Charis. "Looks like we got left holding the sack. She doesn't seem to have any relatives."
"Except us," says Charis.
Tony sees no point in contradicting her, because it is Charis's belief that everyone is related to everyone else through some kind of invisible root system. She says she will take charge of the ashes until the three of them can figure out something more suitable. She puts the canister with Zenia in it down in the cellar, in her box of Christmas tree decorations, wrapped up in red tissue paper, beside the gun. She doesn't tell West it is there, because this is a female matter.
OUTCOME
56
So now Zenia is History.
No: now Zenia is gone. She is lost and gone forever. She's a scattering of dust, blown on the wind like spores; she's an invisible cloud of viruses, a few molecules, dispersing. She will only be history if Tony chooses to shape her into history. At the moment she is formless, a broken mosaic; the fragments of her are in Tony's hands, because she is dead, and all of the dead are in the hands of the living.
But what is Tony to make of her? The story of Zenia is insubstantial, ownerless, a rumour only, drifting from mouth to mouth and changing as it goes. As with any magician, you saw what she wanted you to see; or else you saw what you yourself wanted to see. She did it with mirrors. The mirror was whoever was watching, but there was nothing behind the two-dimensional image but a thin layer of mercury.
Even the name Zenia may not exist, as Tony knows from looking. She's attempted to trace its meaning - Xenia, a Russian word for hospitable, a Greek one pertaining to the action of a foreign pollen upon a fruit; Zenaida, meaning daughter of Zeus, and the name of two early Christian martyrs; Zillah, Hebrew, a shadow; Zenobia, the third-century warrior queen of Palmyra in Syria, defeated by the Emperor Aurelian; Xeno, Greek, a stranger, as in xenophobic; Zenana, Hindu, the women's quarters or harem; Zen, a Japanese meditational religion; Zendic, an Eastern practitioner of heretical magic - these are the closest she has come.
Out of such hints and portents, Zenia devised herself. As for the truth about her, it lies out of reach, because - according to the records, at any rate - she was never even born.
But why bother, in this day and age - Zenia herself would say - with such a quixotic notion as the truth? Every sober-sided history is at least half sleight-of-hand: the right hand waving its poor snippets of fact, out in the open for all to verify, while the left hand busies itself with its own devious agendas, deep in its hidden pockets. Tony is daunted by the impossibility of accurate reconstruction.
Also by its futility. Why does she do what she does? History was once a substantial edifice, with pillars of wisdom and an altar to the goddess Memory, the mother of all nine muses. Now the acid rain and the terrorist bombs and the termites have been at it, and it's looking less and less like a temple and more and more like a pile of rubble, but it once had a meaningful structure. It was supposed to have something to teach people, something beneficial; some health-giving vitamin or fortune-cookie motto concealed within its heaped-up accounts, most of them tales of greed, violence, viciousness, and lust for power, because history doesn't concern itself much with those who try to be good. Goodness in any case is problematic, since an action can be good in intent but evil in result, witness missionaries. This is why Tony prefers battles: in a battle there are right actions and wrong actions, and you can tell them apart by who wins.
Still, there was once supposed to be a message. Let that be a lesson to you, adults used to say to children, and historians to their readers. But do the stories of history really teach anything at all? In a general sense, thinks Tony, possibly not.
Despite this she still plods on, still weaves together her informed guesses and plausible assumptions, still ponders over her scraps of fact, her potsherds and broken arrowheads and tarnished necklace beads, arranging them in the patterns she thinks they must once have made. Who cares? Almost nobody. Maybe it's just a hobby, something to do on a dull day. Or else it's an act of defiance: these histories may be ragged and threadbare, patched together from worthless leftovers, but to her they are also flags, hoisted with a certain jaunty insolence, waving bravely though inconsequently, glimpsed here and there through the trees, on the mountain roads, among the ruins, on the long march into chaos.
Tony is down in the cellar, in the middle of the night, because she doesn't feel lik
e sleeping. She's wearing her dressing gown and her wool work socks and her raccoon slippers, which are finally on their last legs, although they don't have any legs and the legs they are on are hers. One of them has lost a tail, and they now have only one eye between them. Tony has become used to having eyes on her feet, like the eyes the ancient Egyptians painted on the prows of their boats. They provide extra guidance - extra spirit guidance, you might say - a thing Tony is coming to believe she needs. Maybe when these slippers kick the bucket she will buy some other ones, other ones with eyes. There's a choice of animal: pigs, bears, rabbits, wolves. She thinks she will get the wolves.
Her sand-table map of Europe has been rearranged. Now it's the second decade of the thirteenth century, and what will later be France is being torn apart by religious wars. By this time it's no longer the Christians versus the Muslims: instead it's the Catholics versus the Cathars. The dualist Cathars held that the world was divided between the forces of good and the forces of evil, the spiritual and the material, God and the Devil; they believed in reincarnation, and had female religious instructors. Whereas the Catholics ruled out rebirth, thought women unclean, and held by force of logic that since God was by definition all-powerful, evil was ultimately an illusion. A difference of opinion that cost many lives, though there was more at stake than theology, such as who was to control the trade routes and the olive crops, and the women, who were getting out of hand.
Carcassonne, stronghold of Languedoc and the Cathars, has just fallen to the bloodthirsty Simon de Montfort and his brutal army of crusading Catholics, after a siege of fifteen days and a failure of the water supply. Full-spectrum killing ensued. Tony's main focus of interest is not Carcassonne, however, but Lavaur, which was attacked next. It resisted for sixty days under the leadership of the castle's chatelaine, Dame Giraude. After the town finally succumbed, eighty knights were butchered like pigs and four hundred Cathar defenders were burned alive, and Dame Giraude herself was thrown down a well by de Montfort's soldiers, with a lot of stones piled on top of her to keep her down. Nobility in war gets a name for itself, thinks Tony, because there is so little of it.