Glimmering (19 page)
Authors: Elizabeth Hand
Leonard tossed something at one of the technicians. A moment later a haze of feedback filled the room.
Trip cleared his throat, took a few practice steps in front of the screen. “You’re a photographer, huh?” he asked, trying to sound casual.
Leonard disappeared behind a huge black lens. “Sociocultural pathologist, actually.”
Trip stared blankly. “Photography’s dead,” Leonard went on. There was a series of soft clicks, a faint humming from one of the more dangerous-looking tripods. “
Everything’s
dead. The world needs an undertaker. Atlantis sinks, Pompeii burns—I’m
there
. I’m doing some stuff for Blue Antelope now. You know
them
, right? All you little Xian apocalypse nuts. Portfolio called Vanishing Act. Last month I got this thing in Ruwenzori. Dwarf otter-shrew, gorgeous. I’ve got some proofs here, check ’em out—”
Everything’s
dead. The world needs an undertaker. Atlantis sinks, Pompeii burns—I’m
there
. I’m doing some stuff for Blue Antelope now. You know
them
, right? All you little Xian apocalypse nuts. Portfolio called Vanishing Act. Last month I got this thing in Ruwenzori. Dwarf otter-shrew, gorgeous. I’ve got some proofs here, check ’em out—”
He grabbed yet another bag, pulled out a folder, and handed it to Trip. Clear plastic sleeves held Cibachrome prints of a small lithe brown animal emerging from a stream. Its most distinguishing feature was a bristling mass of whiskers around a bulbous nose.
Leonard peered over his shoulder and sighed. “
Micropotamogale ruwenzori.
Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Micropotamogale ruwenzori.
Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Trip glanced up to see if he was joking. “It looks like a rat,” he said.
“It’s not. See its nose?” Leonard’s finger stabbed at a print. “It works like a hydrofoil, sniffs out little crabs and things in the water. This is the last one, probably—that’s why I was there. Blue Antelope’s filed a lawsuit—there’s a big fight going on, whether it should be put in a lab so they can save its genoprint or just leave it there. In case another one shows up.”
He laughed and turned to the next photo, showing a fan-shaped array of bones with shreds of flesh between them, like a desiccated leaf. “That’s a horseshoe bat. Or was.
Rhinolophus ruwenzori.
Another interesting nose. I was a little late for that one. Fortunately I have a patron who prefers them that way. Dead, I mean.
Really
the last of their kind.”
Rhinolophus ruwenzori.
Another interesting nose. I was a little late for that one. Fortunately I have a patron who prefers them that way. Dead, I mean.
Really
the last of their kind.”
Trip grimaced. “But they’re so ugly.” He looked up and saw Leonard staring at him, his green-flecked eyes narrowed.
“No, darling,” Leonard said in a very soft voice. Carefully he put aside the portfolio, then took Trip’s chin in his hand and pulled him forward, until he was only inches from Leonard’s face. Trip swallowed. He glanced out of the corner of his eyes to see if the technicians were watching, but they stared raptly at their monitors. Leonard’s fingers traced the outline of the cross branded upon his forehead, then his jaw, lingering on the soft hollow of his cheeks.
“You’ve got it all wrong, Trip,” he murmured. “They’re not ugly. They’re the most beautiful things in the world. But you and I—”
His fingers tightened. The nails dug into Trip’s flesh until the boy cried out, trying to twist away. “—you and I, Trip?
We’re dirt.
”
We’re dirt.
”
Trip could feel his jawbone shift beneath Leonard’s grip, his teeth grinding together like misplaced gears. “
Just dirt,
” Leonard repeated, his tone dreamy. Trip flailed helplessly, until Leonard wrenched his hand away.
Just dirt,
” Leonard repeated, his tone dreamy. Trip flailed helplessly, until Leonard wrenched his hand away.
“
Caput mortuum,
” he whispered. For an instant his gaze rested upon the portfolio. Then he turned and strode back to the waiting cameras. Trip caught his breath, gasping.
Caput mortuum,
” he whispered. For an instant his gaze rested upon the portfolio. Then he turned and strode back to the waiting cameras. Trip caught his breath, gasping.
One of the technicians glanced over his shoulder with a questioning look. Trip got to his feet and started for the door, head throbbing with pain and rage.
“What? Did I hurt you?” Leonard called after him.
Trip stopped. “
Yes.
” he spit, rubbing his chin.
Yes.
” he spit, rubbing his chin.
Leonard smiled. “Good,” he said, raising a camera to his face. “Now get the fuck over here, and let’s do our job.”
Trip hesitated. “Come on, Trip, don’t be an asshole,” called Leonard. “Meter’s running. Don’t blow it, okay?”
He did the shoot. The afternoon passed in a haze of heat and burning dust from the halogen lamps. The constant click and whir of recording equipment was like the buzz of locusts. He felt dizzy, not a little sick. His jaw ached, his head. But the pain seemed to spur him in front of the camera. After a few stiff minutes he moved antically through the small studio, neatly avoiding bundled cables and Leonard’s bags. A technician replaced the music with something atonal and clamorous, that faded into somber gongs and chanting, the high-pitched singing of frogs set to the hollow boom of djembe drums.
Trip recognized the frog part. It had been a surprise dance hit a year ago, a melancholy amphibian
chant du cygne
recorded in a remote part of Quebec, where there were still a few spring peepers left. Their wistful music gave way once again to gongs. Trip began to move more artfully, recalling the graceful hands of the Javanese dancer on television.
chant du cygne
recorded in a remote part of Quebec, where there were still a few spring peepers left. Their wistful music gave way once again to gongs. Trip began to move more artfully, recalling the graceful hands of the Javanese dancer on television.
“
I will give you the morning star
,” he sang, his voice rising in counterpoint to the gamelan. “
I will bring you the end of the end. The end of the end
. . .”
I will give you the morning star
,” he sang, his voice rising in counterpoint to the gamelan. “
I will bring you the end of the end. The end of the end
. . .”
He pulled his shirt off, ran his hands across his sweat-streaked chest, toyed with the cross on its gold chain. He shut his eyes and thought of the blond girl on a bed strewn with lilacs, her fine hair tangled in his mouth. He danced and sang, songs from his album, new songs he had only thought of and never written down, songs he hadn’t sung since he was on a ramshackle school bus crossing the Kennebec. Finally, after hours had passed and the room was littered with cameras like spent ammunition, Leonard Thrope announced, “Okay. That’s enough.”
Trip sank onto his haunches. He was breathing hard, but he felt exhilarated, better than he had felt in days; since before he met the blond girl. “Okay,” he said, panting, and grinned.
For some minutes he sat there. Leonard rewound film into canisters and plugged tapes and discs into a monitor, scanning them before shoving them into a leather carryall. A technician tossed Trip some bottled water.
“That was cool,” the technician said. It was the first time he had spoken all afternoon. “You want to see what I’ve done so far?”
Trip rose, but the technician motioned him back. “No, stay there—”
One hand glided across the keyboard. The other slowly turned a small projecting lens. Out of nowhere a figure appeared, crouching on the floor. Trip gasped. The figure stood and began to sing. The technician smiled.
“I possess the keys of hell and death, I will give you the morning star . . . ”
It was Trip himself, of course. But not the Xian Trip, with his haunted eyes and the cross hanging from a gold chain about his neck. Instead the analogue was that of an Indonesian Baris dancer, barefoot and wearing a sort of brocade loincloth stiff with gold and crimson beads. Its hair was lost beneath a dizzyingly ornate headdress that rose pagodalike from its skull. The face was Trip’s, but no longer human: it had become a mask the color of new leaves, through which Trip’s blue eyes glowed. The figure moved as Trip had, but impossibly fast. As it spun and pirouetted, gold flecked the air, and little flames licked at its heels.
Trip stared, aghast. “How—how—”
“Wait, I’ll give you some music.” The technician reached for the keyboard and the monotonous tones of a gamelan rang out, the same four notes repeated in time with the figure’s singing. “It’s an icon—we just scan your image, right? And then—”
“No!” Trip glanced around for Leonard, but the photographer sat cross-legged on the floor, scribbling on film canisters. “I know how it works! I mean, how’d you
know
,” he said agitatedly, gesturing at his demonic shadow. “To make it look like
that
.”
know
,” he said agitatedly, gesturing at his demonic shadow. “To make it look like
that
.”
The technician shrugged. “Stock footage. Just pulled it out of some file. I dunno, the music I guess, it reminded me of something. But this isn’t
final
—”
final
—”
His tone indicated that Trip was an idiot for thinking so. “—we’re just fooling around here. The master’ll go to New York; they’ll dub it in their studio. This is just the playback.”
He turned and switched the sound off, began conferring with his mate at the console. Trip sank back onto the floor. Above him his phantom double silently whirled and crouched within its golden cloud. An analogue; an icon.
“Pretty intense, huh?”
Trip didn’t look up when he heard Leonard behind him. “I’ve seen them before,” he said sullenly. In fact he had only seen an IT recording once, in Dallas, when during a few unchaperoned hours Jerry dragged him to a skin show in Deep Ellum.
“I meant watching yourself.” Leonard scraped the stool across the floor and perched on it. “
I
think it’s kind of a trip—”
I
think it’s kind of a trip—”
He laughed. “—
Trip.
I do it whenever I can,” he added confidingly. His eyes were fixed on the singer’s shining twin. “It makes for a pretty amazing fuck.”
Trip.
I do it whenever I can,” he added confidingly. His eyes were fixed on the singer’s shining twin. “It makes for a pretty amazing fuck.”
Trip felt himself blushing. “Not a
fuck
, exactly,” Leonard went on in a lower voice, “I mean, with an icon there’s nothing actually
there
; but—”
fuck
, exactly,” Leonard went on in a lower voice, “I mean, with an icon there’s nothing actually
there
; but—”
His hand moved. Trip froze, terrified that Leonard was going to touch him, but instead Leonard began to stroke his own upper thigh, smoothing the stiff folds in his cracked leather trousers and probing a small rent near his groin. His gaze was fixed on Trip’s doppelgänger, its blank masked face, arms drawing arabesques in the glittering air.
“It’s really beautiful,” Leonard breathed, his tone for once without mockery. A ridiculous anger fought through Trip’s unease.
I’m
really beautiful
! he thought. “That mask looks stupid,” he lied.
really beautiful
! he thought. “That mask looks stupid,” he lied.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Leonard replied, his voice catching. Trip tried to force himself not to look but failed: he glanced over and saw the outline of Leonard’s swollen cock, a sheen of smooth red skin through the rip in the leather. “People are so obsessed with masks now, I think the mask is what
makes
it—”
makes
it—”
Leonard let his breath out in a shuddering sigh. He stood, crossed the room, walking right through Trip’s double, and crouched beside one of his leather carryalls. Trip closed his eyes.
Go
, he ordered himself.
They have the recording, what the hell are you still doing here
, GO!—
, he ordered himself.
They have the recording, what the hell are you still doing here
, GO!—
He jumped when someone touched his shoulder.
“Here.” It was Leonard, hand outstretched. In his palm he held two emerald-green capsules. “One’s for you.”
“Wh-what is it?” But he knew what it was.
“IZE.” Leonard lowered himself beside him. “It heightens the whole IT experience—oh for Christ’s sake, don’t look at me like that!”
“I’m not taking it,” Trip said.
“Look, it’s practically legal, approval is pending from the fucking FDA, okay? It’ll just—
relax
you—”
relax
you—”
“I’m not—”
“Look, Trip—you know that everyone who sees this disc is going to be on IZE, right? I mean, who do you think this stuff is
for
? Don’t you think you should have
some
fucking idea of what your audience is seeing? Jesus!” Leonard shook his head. “You think this is like Reefer Fucking Madness, right? Well, it’s
not
—it just relaxes the inhibitors in your brain. So you, like, register the IT stuff as
real
, get it? You’re watching
Macbeth
or something, but you no longer have this perceptual curtain drawn between you and what you’re seeing—you’re
part
of it.”
for
? Don’t you think you should have
some
fucking idea of what your audience is seeing? Jesus!” Leonard shook his head. “You think this is like Reefer Fucking Madness, right? Well, it’s
not
—it just relaxes the inhibitors in your brain. So you, like, register the IT stuff as
real
, get it? You’re watching
Macbeth
or something, but you no longer have this perceptual curtain drawn between you and what you’re seeing—you’re
part
of it.”
“No,” Trip repeated. “Look, I better go . . .”
“Wait.” Leonard grabbed him. “Millions of people are going to see this—
hundreds
of millions. And this is just a demo, Trip—Agrippa’s going to want you to do more. A
lot
more. You owe it to them, at least, to have some vague fucking idea of just what it is you’re doing. By the time your single’s out, these are going to be like aspirin—”
hundreds
of millions. And this is just a demo, Trip—Agrippa’s going to want you to do more. A
lot
more. You owe it to them, at least, to have some vague fucking idea of just what it is you’re doing. By the time your single’s out, these are going to be like aspirin—”
He raised his palm, so that Trip could see the ampoules: each emerald cone as long as the first joint of his little finger, with a tiny needlelike projection emerging from the cone’s apex. “It doesn’t make you
high
or anything,” Leonard explained. Behind him Trip’s analogue froze, then began moving backwards, faster and faster, until it was a golden blur of legs and hands. “It just increases the amount of calcium entering some of your nerve terminals—calcium, right?
Not
a scary drug—and it boosts the production of gamma-aminobutyric acid, this neurotransmitter that inhibits anxiety and—stuff. And, well, then it helps create these new neural pathways within the various areas of the visual cortex. You get your visual stimuli coming in through the retina, processed through all these neurocellular layers of the visual cortex; but then the stimuli sort of get rerouted into
other
parts of the brain, like the limbic system. All the inhibitory mechanisms that would normally tell you that this is just like, a
video
, are overruled. So you get this incredible emotional response to what you’re seeing. It’s like the reverse of this weird thing called blindsight—people who are totally blind, but they can still process visual information because parts of their brain respond to stimuli, even though they’re not aware of it.”
high
or anything,” Leonard explained. Behind him Trip’s analogue froze, then began moving backwards, faster and faster, until it was a golden blur of legs and hands. “It just increases the amount of calcium entering some of your nerve terminals—calcium, right?
Not
a scary drug—and it boosts the production of gamma-aminobutyric acid, this neurotransmitter that inhibits anxiety and—stuff. And, well, then it helps create these new neural pathways within the various areas of the visual cortex. You get your visual stimuli coming in through the retina, processed through all these neurocellular layers of the visual cortex; but then the stimuli sort of get rerouted into
other
parts of the brain, like the limbic system. All the inhibitory mechanisms that would normally tell you that this is just like, a
video
, are overruled. So you get this incredible emotional response to what you’re seeing. It’s like the reverse of this weird thing called blindsight—people who are totally blind, but they can still process visual information because parts of their brain respond to stimuli, even though they’re not aware of it.”
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