Child Garden (22 page)

'Rolfa,' she heard herself whisper. 'Rolfa. Where are you?'

She walked towards the tunnel. On her left was a walled courtyard. She walked through the gap in its surrounding wall, and the sound was louder, harsher. Milena saw no one. She walked around the edge of the courtyard, peering into corners, hoping to see a niche or hidden doorway. The voice seemed to lead her, hovering in the air, a few steps in front of her.

Virgil Street was lined with arched gateways. Milena walked slowly, as if on thin ice, her breath held. She found herself knocking politely on one of the gates. It slid sideways on runners. A Tyke was holding it open, a boy with his shirt off. There were other boys, swarming over the body of a coach. The coach was painted white with a red cross and the boys were working on the leather straps of its suspension. They were coachbuilders for the hospital estate, working after school.

'That singing,' said Milena. 'Do you hear it? Do you know where it's coming from?'

The boys wiped the grease from their hands onto rags. They had tough adult faces on tiny bodies, and they wanted to show how adult they were. They pulled on shirts, lifted up their alcohol lamps, and stepped out into the street. Milena walked backwards as they advanced, as if into a cloud of the singing. The sound distracted her. The notes went wild and strange and ugly. Suddenly the tunnel was full of the sound of laughter, a wild, bitter, sarcastic hooting. Milena spun on her heel, expecting to see Rolfa looming over her shoulder. There was no one.

'Can't tell where it's coming from,' said one of the boys.

'What's in there?' Milena asked, pointing to the other gates.

'Hospital gear,' the boys shrugged. They brought their lamps and opened the doors. Milena smelled clean linen, and walked between the racks. The sound of singing dimmed as they walked further into the warehouse. Milena ducked under one arch, and saw more neat and tidy shelving. Rolfa would never be here, she thought. As if the spirit of the place were inimical, the sound of the singing seemed to fade altogether.

Milena walked back out into the street. There the sound of singing wafted around her, like mosquitoes. One of the boys was kneeling on the ground, his ear over a grate. 'Could be coming from here,' he said. With a jerk of his head, he indicated the drains below the street.

Another boy stepped forward from the coachworks with a crowbar. Neatly, he lifted up the grate. Milena saw metal bars down the side of the entrance forming a ladder.

'We'll go down,' offered the boys. Milena shook her head. She climbed down into the drains. The boys passed her a light.

There was a sound of water, a trickle, a dripping. Did Milena hear the sound of wet footsteps running? 'Rolfa!' Milena called. 'Rolfa!' Her own voice came back to her, very close, from against the low walls. She held up the torch and saw the bricks, encrusted with salts. The singing seemed to come from both before and behind her. The notes went raw, howling, as if a dog were crying to the moon.

Milena climbed back up. The boys took the lamp and her arms and helped her.

'It's everywhere,' said one of the boys, with a shivering chuckle.

'Maybe it's a ghost,' said one of them.

'Hassan!' protested one of the Tykes, and elbowed him to be quiet. They were all slightly unnerved.

'That's exactly what it is,' said Milena. 'A ghost.'

The old Rolfa would never have sung like this. She would have had too much respect for the music. This voice was angry, angry at the whole idea of music.

'Thanks, lads,' she said. 'You go on in. I'll just wait here for a while.'

'Need help, we're there,' said the one called Hassan, and the boys clustered together, and went back to their work. The gate slid shut behind them, and the golden light of the alcohol lamp was shut away.

The singing voice broke. It cheered raucously. 'Yaaaayyyy! Whoopeee!' Then it screamed a long, harsh howl that seemed to be the sound of flesh tearing. Sounds like that could ruin a voice for good.

Then Milena heard it, like a cough right next to her ear. 'Tuh!' said

the voice, the shudder-chuckle. Then it was still. Milena stood in the darkness that was now complete. 'Rolfa?' she

asked the darkness. 'Rolfa. Where are you? Rolfa, it's me. Please come

out and see me. People are worried about you. Everyone is worried

about you. Please?' There was no answer. Milena took a swig from the whisky bottle.

Then she turned to leave. She stopped and left the whisky bottle

behind, propped up against the wall of Virgil Street. She left it behind

in case Rolfa wanted it. Finally, in her room at the Shell, she fell asleep. She woke up the next morning, late, with a hangover. The room

smelled of sunlight and whisky. I've got to get looking, she thought. Then she thought: no, you don't. She's alive, Milena, and that must

be an end to it. You can't take care of her any more. You've got other

people to think of now. You've got the new company to get organised.

Other people than Rolfa depend on you now. Jacob came in. It was not his usual time. 'Hello, Milena,' he said, his voice and manner shy and gentle. 'Hiya, Jake,' said Milena. And he held out a card with gold edging. Milena jumped forward

from her bed and took it from him. The card said:

dear fish:

well rolfas back with us now — she came home last night — but she's not too well — what did you people DO to her? zoe well shes hopping mad — looks like a toad in a toga
—
i tell her its just rolfa done herself another injury — so we all are taking care of her now and i knew you ud like to know that so i wrote this i will say that i now suppose me and her father will have another up and downer over this — i want rolfa just to rest a bit and then ask her real carefully what she wants to do now — if she says sing well let her sing
—
her father sees it as another chance to mould her his way — seems thats what most people try to do to young ones — treat them like clay and make them over — most of the trouble in this world comes from trying to make other people over just like you people and your viruses which have made my great big lump of daughter so sick — im going crazy with this leg of mine — just itching to get back down south and out of South Ken — all people do here is add up their money
— all day long —
on their little machines — you ud think they ud come to a total sooner or later at least and give their poor finger tips a rest — me i want the continent south — ice and walruses are sane at least

i dont know how bad things are for you — but listen — fifteen years from now you will still be able to tell people the story of the day of the dogs — it will be the funniest thing that ever happened to you — thats what you do with things like that
—
make them funny
—
some day i will tell you my stories about rolfas father !!!!!!!

listen you write me sometime too — i never had a squidge for a friend and it might be nice to know how you can stand it

yours

hortensia patel

hey — i dont know your name — ill just give this to my little gal behind the door and see if she can get it to you

Smile, thought Milena. She makes me smile. Just like Rolfa did. 'Jake, can you stay a moment?' Milena asked. 'I'm going to write an answer now.' Jacob nodded yes. He sat in comfortable silence. The unvarying formulae were no longer necessary.

Milena wrote on the back of the card.

I
don't
know how I stand being a Squidge, either. My name is Milena but for some reason, people have started to call me Ma. Thanks for letting me know. Tell Zoe I'm sorry.

Milena signed it, love. Jacob smiled with beatific approval and then left.

On the windowsill there was the great grey book. Milena reached forward for it and it seemed to dump itself in her lap. FOR AN AUDIENCE OF VIRUSES it said. Oh, Rolfa. What does that mean? Milena looked at the tiny, tiny notes cowering between the lines as if they were trying to hide. Most of them were in red, but whenever anyone was quoted, the notes were in black. What does that mean, Rolfa?

The Comedy and its mysteries were all that was left, all she had. Milena picked up the great grey book, put it under her arm, and went to visit the Zookeeper.

'Well Ms Shibush,' the Zookeeper said, his smile grim. He had a terrible cold. He spoke like a rusty hinge and his joints had swollen. 'That was a day to remember.'

'I'm sorry,' she whispered.

'There has been a letter of protest from the Family. And we have responded with a letter of apology.'

'She's back home now,' said Milena.

'Ah,' said the Zookeeper. He couldn't turn his neck. It was as if everything about him were grinding to a halt. 'Have we lost her music, then?'

'They will stop her coming back to us. They blame us for making her so ill,' said Milena.

'Perhaps,' said the Zookeeper, with a uncomfortable shift. 'If so much virus was necessary, it is no bad tiling that she stays at home.'

'We have destroyed her.' Milena stated the worst possible case, as if saying it would make it untrue.

'Then this has been a tragedy,' said the Zookeeper.

No, it wasn't.

'We still have this,' said Milena, and held up the Comedy.

'It is not orchestrated,' said the Zookeeper.

'It can be orchestrated,' said Milena.

His eyes narrowed. 'You are not exactly in favour, Ms Shibush,' he warned her.

'I don't matter,' replied Milena.

The Minister's gaze was watery, and he kept blinking. 'How many hours of music is it?'

There were one hundred cantos lasting a half hour each. Milena had hummed them to herself. 'Fifty hours,' she replied.

'Mozart's entire oeuvre is longer,' he said. 'So is all of Wagner's work, but not by much. Who could orchestrate 50 hours of someone else's music?'

'I don't know.'

'Who could? Who would want to? How would they be paid? It's impossible.'

'No, it's not,' said Milena.

The gaze of the Minister, heavy as lead, was also weighted with warning. 'It is impossible,' he said again.

Milena had been holding back, holding in. It now seemed to her to be angry at what had happened, or to grieve too deeply, would somehow be ungrateful to life. She had learned newer, even higher standards of behaviour. Self-love would not let her slip.

'I don't remember much about being a child,' said Milena the director. She spoke very calmly. 'But I do remember that I could not catch any virus at all. That meant I knew nothing. I had to read to catch up. People tried to tell me there were no books. I found some. I read them, just to keep up with the other children. I read Plato when I was six years old. I read Chao Li Song when I was eight. I am telling you, sir, that it is never wise to say that anything is impossible.'

The Minister sat still for a moment, and then said, 'We know about you, you know. We were wondering when you would show up.'

Milena the director's mind went blank for a moment.

'Doesn't it strike you as strange that you were never Read? We knew you were resistant to the virus. That interested us. We wanted to see how you would turn out.' The Minister sighed, and hid his eyes. 'Go on then, Ms Shibush. Go on, and try.' His hand came away from his eyes. Through the swollen flesh and teary film his eyes were full of wariness and sympathy and an assurance that she would fail. 'Do what you can. I have no doubt that you have further surprises in store for us.'

Right.

'Who?' Milena asked. 'Who at the Zoo can orchestrate music?'

Nothing is impossible.

Milena remembered looking out of the window of the Bulge at the Earth below. The sky was black, like velvet, and the Earth was like polished brass. It was sunset and the Earth reflected the fire. The sea was smooth and burnished, and the clouds were pink and orange, skimming the surface of the ocean. The cloud shadowed the sea, and the sea reflected the light that came from underneath the clouds. It was a network of light, a system of exchange.

The Bulge had docked, meeting its larger sister in space. Kissing, the procedure was called — two mouths were sealed together. There was a hiss of air.

'Hello,' said a voice just behind Milena.

Milena reared back from the window in surprise. She launched herself from the floor, and suddenly saw her feet rear up over her head. Why are they doing that? she wondered mildly. She somersaulted into flesh and bone. Someone's elbows were rammed into her ribs. Milena reared up and over him. That's the ceiling, she thought as she plunged into it. The ceiling was soft and warm, and gave with her weight, enveloping her in its chamois embrace. Then it flung her out, back down towards the floor.

This isn't supposed to happen, she thought. I'm supposed to be trained for weightlessness. Then she remembered. The training was a virus. She had been resistant to that as well.