No cashier’s check for $32,000. No journal. Not a scribbled word.
In the infinite wait, he replays everything. All day long he saw her drowning. Yet he turned his back on her for who knows how long, to make his call. Left her alone in a fetid room with cable TV and all the toxins of the dial. Abandoned her to twenty-four-hour headlines, “The Pursuit of Happiness.” She had no antibodies for the dark. No practiced resistance.
He watches her, stretched out peacefully on her bed—almost a sane escape. He bargains, ready to accept anything in science’s arsenal. Cloning. Genetic editing. Yes to it all. Anything but this. He prays to something he doesn’t believe in, begging that she might already have visited a Chicago clinic and harvested.
He can do nothing for her but revise. And he has time to rework entire world anthologies. In the scene he keeps returning to, all the principals assemble in her hospital room. Aunt and uncle, brother, scientists, legal counsel. The group comes to a decision: posthumous reproduction. Try the whole experiment again, in vivo.
He promises God that if she lives, he’ll become another person.
A noise pounds on the air. It descends on the room, slicing and beating. The pulsed assault homes in on Stone until he grasps: the ambulance is airborne.
By the time the helicopter lands in a bare corner of the parking lot, every soul in the remote motel turns out to spectate. The newlywed couple, now vaguely criminal. An elderly pair in crumpled bathrobes. A four-year-old trying to break from his mother’s clutches toward the swinging blades. The motel manager, his finger in a beaten-up volume, his glasses dangling from a lanyard around his neck as he gazes out on the fulfillment of old prophecies.
The paramedics climb from the craft. Stone is out his door, both hands waving. They blow past him in a few steps, a minor obstacle. Everything is uniforms, straps, chrome, electronics, pumps and masks, clipboards and signatures and flashing protocols. Unthinkable capital, thrown at saving a single life.
And as the two med techs strap Thassa into the mobile sling bed, her eyes open. The world gives her nothing to focus on. Her gaze swims at random through the atmosphere, before snagging on Stone. It locks there, even as her bearers port her out the motel room door. Her eyes say, Why is this happening? They say, Forgive me. They say, Stone: Hajar: Please come with.
He stands in the parking lot in the cluster of onlookers, watching the helicopter lift back into the air. The metal insect shrinks away until it is nothing but strobing lights against the seamless night, the blink of an awful species that will succeed ours.
The figure strolls down the hill, growing. But for a long time, Tonia Schiff will be unable to tell anything. Mood, health, mental state: impossible to determine. Not until the figure reaches the café will Tonia even be sure it’s Thassadit Amzwar.
Greatly changed, of course. How could she not be? She descends deliberately—sure-footed mountain Kabyle. Her head cranes, measuring the shops and crowds and markets all around her. At home in the chaos of this day: that’s how Schiff will describe it in her film.
She’s in a loose yellow blouse over a long jade skirt. Her hair is scarved; she looks like a fifties fashion photographer stepping from a top-down Chevy. When she comes within singing distance of the table, her face breaks camouflage. But her smile checks now, to see who might be watching. “Miss Schiff. Tonia. Imagine seeing you again. Imagine!”
They hug, as if they’ve known each other forever. As if they ever knew each other. The waiter descends on them as soon as Thassa sits. He starts in French, but she switches him to Arabic. They talk, an end-of-term quiz that becomes a game show that mutates to a sass match that ends in the waiter’s departure in grinning salute.
Schiff sits back, at sea. “What was all that?”
Can there be more amused embarrassment? “Getting coffee. Welcome to the Maghreb.”
Maybe Schiff will almost understand: the smaller the transaction, the longer the needed parley. I slow her down, let her come into her film the back way, through the suq of endless negotiation.
Tonia switches to French. The whole point of giving her a Brussels childhood. She asks how things stand, back over the border.
The spirit lifts her hands to her shoulders, searching for words large enough to say what is happening again, chez nous. “It’s Algeria. When we hit bottom, we keep digging.”
But the journalist deserves a more detailed answer, and the Algerian gives her one. She lists the week’s death count, says where the attacks occurred, guesses how long the bedlam will likely last this time. She has no hope that her country will escape its inheritance anytime soon. The future has no cure.
“It’s nice to escape for a little,” Thassa says. “Sane here, in this country.” She points to the west. “How long do you suppose that imaginary line through those mountains will make any difference?”
She’s a different person in French—broader and more nimble. The ecstasy is gone now, the untouchable buoyancy muted. What’s left to take its place can at best be called ease. Yet something in her still seems to Schiff ready to go as exuberant as ever, later in this life. Or early in the next.
Thassa asks about Schiff’s trip, but she doesn’t quite hear the reply. She’s looking across the dusty street, at a shirtless boy sitting on a three-legged stool talking to a yellow bird he pins gently between two fingers.
“How are my friends?” she asks. The words are so mild they hardly seem a question.
It strikes Schiff that she could say anything at all. “They’re well, I think.”
“Mister Stone? Candace? Did they get married?”
“I think they will.”
“Good.” Thassa nods to herself. “They must get married. Helping to raise Jibreel could cure Russell.”
Schiff follows the other’s gaze across the street: an empty stool on a sun-splashed sidewalk. She turns back to Thassa and tells her why she’s come.
She tries to describe her film in progress. She starts with the funding, as if the signed donors and secured grants prove the project’s pedigree. But as she gives her sales talk, running through the storyboards, she’s crushed once again by the gap between bright seed and brute germination.
That gap will kill her, but there’s nowhere else to live. She muddles on, hoping that a few choice words might animate the limp thing. Her goal is simple, when it comes down to it: a film about what happens next. The coming age of molecular control, “The Child of Choice” . . .
As Schiff talks, the Algerian comes alive. Play comes back into that face, the kind of light that only art releases. Now Thassa is all questions: How are you shooting it? What gear will you use? Where did you find the archival material? How about hand-drawn compositing?
For a moment, Schiff thinks her pitch might be easier than she ever dreamed. Then Thassa stops cold, on some future memory.
“But why are you making this?”
Schiff reddens and looks about the café for the waiter to rescue her. The one question she prepped for, and still she’s worthless. How can she name her late-onset need? “I thought I might figure that out as I go.”
Thassa laughs again, tomorrow’s child. “Of course. How else?” She looks up at the mountains, resigned to desire. “Of course you must put me in your film. You have my permission. My blessing. Whatever you came to get from me.”
Schiff takes the calculated gamble. Her downside risk is next to nothing now. She feels under her chair for her shoulder bag. She reaches in and pulls out the digital-video camera.
The Amzwar smile breaks free, matching North Africa’s noon. “Oh, Miss Schiff! You know that’s not possible anymore.” She’s in no way reluctant. In fact, her face is willing, if only film could still record her.
Schiff has long expected the answer, but still she deflates: condemned to nonfiction, no creation allowed. But not quite surrendering yet, she says, “Let me show you something.” She flips open the camera’s viewer and rewinds several weeks, finding the shot she’s after. She hands the device to T
hassa.
On the tiny screen, a brown infant girl in a lime jumper takes three speedy all-fours strides, then hoists herself vertical on the leg of a coffee table. She swells with her dazzling triumph over gravity. She squeals in ecstasy and cuts loose, releasing the table leg to tear across the open frontier of carpet. Two steps in, she slams into nothing, comes to a splendidly unplanned stop, and drops seat-first to earth. She sits, stunned by the setback, on the threshold of howling. Instead, she breaks out into gales of untouchable laughter. Her head swivels around the room, already planning her next bone-jarring break into unknown regions.
Thassa studies the shot, her face up close to the three-inch screen. “Mine?” she asks.
Schiff considers the question. Who is anyone’s? But even her long pause is already an answer.
The infant scoots off again for another go at the table leg, the world’s greatest amusement ride. The camera bobs up for a moment, to shoot the reaction of three adults, laughing in reflected joy. One of the faces is familiar—a Donatello still successfully refuting his sixty years. Thassa’s brows pinch in comprehension. She grasps the experiment and nods.
“Are there others? Brothers and sisters?”
“Soon.”
“Her father? Her . . . birth mother?”
“No one you know.”
Feelings fight for Thassa’s face. Anxiety. Bliss. Other related strains. She switches off the device and sets it down.
“Did they rewrite?”
The journalist in Schiff wants to say: Does it matter if they did, this time? They will, in one or another test market, in some country, somewhere, soon. That’s a story no story can deflect. Schiff says nothing at all. Chooses to.
“Is she happy?”
At last an easy one. Schiff grins in pain. “Yes.” Happy as any new toddler, up on two legs for the first time.
And how long might that last? That question, too, is part of the privately funded study.
Schiff makes to retrieve the camera, but Thassa grabs it back. “One more look? If you don’t have to rush anywhere?” She peeks again. Life is out of the crib, and will not be held back by anything so crude as accident.
Thassa keeps rewinding the shot, looking for some denouement. And how does she feel, in the teeth of the evidence? I can’t yet see. I look closer, the whole point of having been out anywhere tonight. I look, and try to decide no more than God.
I watch her fondle the camera for a moment, then slide it back across the table to the filmmaker. Just down the hill, back toward the market, a vendor sings out a marvelous sinew of melody. Another, younger voice mimics him, a whole step higher. The song is a sales pitch, something perishable, yogurt or fruit or fresh bread that will keep only until today’s end. The contest of tenors crescendos and ascends. The dozen patrons of the café share stoic grins. Thassa pushes back her hair and shakes her head.
“Make your film. Tell everything. Tell them my genes had no cure that this place couldn’t break.”
They sit in silence for a long time. But the reporter has one more bribe. “Listen! I brought you some things.” She dives back in the bag and fetches two small books. She hands them across to the apparition, a last temptation from life and the living.
Thassa takes them, and now her face full-flowers into that girl I first saw one night in a tired classroom in a city on the shores of a sea-sized inland lake. She takes the book of Tamazight poems and opens it on a surge of memory. Her lips tighten on the surprise twist of plot. “Perfect. Bless you. I will take this with me.”
She looks past the open page to see the other volume. “Non. C’est
pas vrai!” She knows this book. Make Your Writing Come Alive. She reaches out with her left hand, afraid to touch the thing. She flips the pages at random. Ink annotations fill the margins—eager notes and glosses that now seem like the black box of a plane shot out of the sky.
She looks up, her eyes sparking. All might still be well. Yes may yet have the last word, even from across this uncrossable chasm.
“It’s not mine,” she says. “Give it to Russell. He will need this.”
I will need much more. Endless, what I’ll need. But I’ll take what I’m given, and go from there.
She slips the book back across the space between them. But just as Schiff takes it, the text disappears. Neither woman, I guess, will even flinch. The next to vanish off the table will be the camera, then the poems, leaving only their two half-finished teas, a condiments rack, and a menu.
As the two look on, the menu’s French fades. The Arabic follows it into white. So, too, do the sounds from the air around the café, until the only language running through the nearby streets is the one that existed in these parts long before the arrival of writing.
Then the menus and the tea and the condiments dematerialize. Then the filmmaker’s bag. Then the filmmaker herself vanishes back into documentary, banished to nonfiction.
And I’m here again, across from the daughter of happiness as I never will be again, in anything but story. The two of us sit sampling the afternoon’s slow changes, this sun under which there can be nothing new. She’s still alive, my invented friend, just as I conceived her, still uncrushed by the collective need for happier endings. All writing is rewriting.
The air here is tinged with new scents, or old ones I’d forgotten. These smells are the reason I’ve traveled out here, alone. And I am, for once, ready to try on anything the story might permit. What else can I do for her, except defy my type? Happiness, the scientist says, is not a reward for virtue. Happiness is the virtue.
She looks across at me. She always knew it would end like this, that I would follow her into this next new place. She smiles and shakes her head, as if to claim once more that fate has no power over anything crucial. Which it never really does, if I could just remember. What we have been is as nothing; what we will be is ever beyond us. But what kind of story would ever end with us?
The time for deciding is after you’re dead. I have no choice; delight pours out of me. “How are you?” I ask. “How do you feel?” She answers in all kinds of generous ways. And for a little while, before this small shared joy, too, disappears back into fact, we sit and watch the Atlas go dark.
Richard Powers, Generosity: An Enhancement
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