The Ambassador (23 page)

Marilyn stood up. ‘Here,’ she murmured. ‘Can you help me undo the zip on this dress?’

This could not be happening. Strether’s mind jarred and struggled. Fantasy made flesh: it appeared only in dreams, never in reality. He would wake up in a moment, his face wreathed in wicked smiles, reaching out for a caress that had vanished with the morning light. Stars like Marilyn Monroe were fantasies: that was their purpose, the reason they flitted past, two-dimensionally, on an oversize cinema screen. She was correct – the likeness was uncanny simply because it was no likeness, no copy, but absolutely the real thing. It was not her, but the manufacture of this – thing that was so creepy. And yet, as he gazed mistily at that swaying back, that superb backside and the shimmering black sequins over the haunches touched into flame by the shaded red lamps, his heart melted. No mechanical doll, this. A live human being, with every scrap of the vulnerability, no doubt, of the original whose psyche had been so fragile. With feelings, emotions. Hopes, even.

Strether’s arm trembled as he reached up. The metal was warm to the touch and he could feel the smooth, dewy flesh behind it. Then he dropped his hand.

‘No, I can’t.’

‘Oh, it’s not stuck again, has it? It’s always doing that. What a nuisance.’

‘No. It’s me – I can’t. Not tonight, anyway. Too much, too much. I’m sorry.’

Marilyn dropped to her knees beside him. ‘No, it’s me that should be sorry. I overdid it, didn’t I?’ Her breasts this time were against his legs, her lovely arms and creamy shoulders spread over his lap. Clumsily he tried to get her to stand. Then he knew what stopped him.

‘No, it’s not that. You are truly wonderful. But – I have a lady friend, and I guess I’m half in love with her. This’ – he gestured about him, at the empty bottle upside down in its ice bucket, another ready to open, the scattered food remains, the inviting bed –’this would take far too much explaining.’

‘But you don’t have to tell her’ Marilyn pouted. One strap had slipped sideways and Strether found himself gazing down a spectacular cleavage. The desire to put his hand down it and lift out a gorgeous breast was overwhelming.

‘I’d have to explain it to myself. My conscience. My dear,’ he added, as if mild affection would reduce the heady intimacy.

‘Well,’ Marilyn continued dubiously, perching on the
chaise-longue
, ‘we can just talk, if you’d prefer.’

‘Thank you.’ Strether found a handkerchief and mopped his brow. He hoped she would not notice or comment on the substantial erection her closeness had caused.

‘What would you like to talk about? I could tell you about my film career, and how I was voted Best Young Box Office Personality of 1953. That was my best time, I reckon. Or how I met Khrushchev – he stared and stared! I could sing you “Happy Birthday”, though I’m not in the proper dress for that – we checked your birthday and it’s not today, is it?’

The open, solicitous expression on her face touched Strether, who answered her with difficulty.

‘I can’t get over it. You’re right – you
are
Monroe. Except, come on,
you
never met Khrushchev. Not you personally. That’s just a line.’

Again that naughty giggle. ‘Yeah. I don’t even know who he was. Seen pictures of him – glad I didn’t have to kiss
him
.’

‘But I don’t get it. Wouldn’t you rather be yourself;”

‘But I
am
me. I’m not a person dressed up as me. This is me – this flesh, these legs, these bosoms. Pretty well, anyway.’

‘What do you mean?’

Marilyn tilted her head and frowned exquisitely. It made Strether’s heart turn over.

‘The body, that’s me. But my life’s been much easier than – hers. Nature versus nurture, in my case.’

Strether had heard that before, earlier in the day. ‘So, how are you different?’

‘Oh, for example. Marilyn was abandoned by her mother when she was eight and had a miserable time in foster homes. And she was – abused. And not believed. So her approach to men wasn’t simply inherited – it was learned. I had to learn it too. The behaviour, at least. Though it must have been genetic, up to a point: her own mother had mental breakdowns. I get badly depressed some days just as she did.’

‘You do? About being a clone?’ It slipped out. Strether could have bitten off his tongue. Marilyn went white.

‘I’m not a clone …’ The glowing head twisted and turned, then a tear slowly formed
and tilted over the lid and down one cheek. ‘Oh, why pretend? We all are. Not the circus – the Toys. That’s what we are. Clones.’

She flapped her hand at the curtain. ‘They’re outlandish, those human rubber creatures, yet they’re normal – born in a bed to a mother, not in a test-tube. We’re the freaks. You think so, don’t you? I can see it in your face. You don’t need to lie to me.’

Strether felt helpless. Her distress was quite genuine. Then she tossed that ravishing head with a loud snuffle and turned on her heel.

‘So: what if I am? Does that make me worthless?’

He offered his handkerchief but it was declined. She sniffed and wiped her eyes on the back of her hand, leaving a tragic smudge of mascara on the pearly cheekbone.

‘How many of you are there – I mean, how many Marilyns?’

‘Ten – no, nine at the moment. I’m Marilyn Six. One just retired. I’m next.’

He goggled. ‘I don’t get it. How old are you? Do you have to retire when you reach the age of her – death?’

‘No, no. In that case I’d have disappeared years ago. That’d be too expensive – they’d get only twenty years’ work out of us. I’m forty-six. We retire at fifty. That’s the rule for this model.’

‘What happens then?’

Marilyn’s face crumpled and the tears really began to flow. Mutely Strether offered the handkerchief once more; this time it was accepted. ‘I d-don’t know,’ Marilyn sobbed. ‘That’s what makes me so de-depressed. They vanish. Betty – that’s what we called the Marilyn who’s just gone – Betty promised she’d be in contact, and she hasn’t been. We’ve not seen hide nor hair of her.’

‘Do you have a nickname too?’ Strether was eaten with curiosity.

Marilyn nodded dumbly. ‘Y-yes. I’m Marty.’

‘Hi, Marty, pleased to meet you.’ Strether felt idiotic, but was relieved when Marilyn –
Marty
– bent forward and shook his hand. Her fingers were wet with her tears. It seemed safe at last to leave his chair and sit beside her. He put his arm round the heaving shoulders and hugged her. Like a brother.

‘You know, in a crazy sort of way, that makes it easier for me,’ he remarked quietly. She looked up from blowing her nose, uncertain whether that meant she had to resume the Marilyn pout. ‘I mean, I’m in my fifties, so you’re nearer my age than Marilyn was. I must say, you look superb. Wearing well, Marty.’

‘Thanks.’ She gulped, but the sobs were finished. ‘Fraying a bit at the edges. D’you know, I reckon Marilyn was jinxed by some of her doctors. I’m cloned from her gall bladder, yet there’s nothing wrong with mine. I reckon there wasn’t much wrong with hers, either, but some knife-merchant cut it out anyway for the publicity.’

‘Here, let me pour you a fresh glass.’ He lifted the champagne bottle. ‘Come on, let’s talk like mature people. My head’s bursting with questions. Would you answer a few for me?’

She sniffed again, hiccupped like an infant, then sipped the frothy wine. ‘Sure. You’re a gentleman. And an American, like she was. I love her, y’know? It feels like she was my mother. She never had children – she wanted them so much. Me neither – not allowed in this job.’ 

‘Do you have any choice about the job, Marty?’

‘You kidding?’ Her voice had resumed its sensual breathiness. That, at least, came naturally to her. ‘I’m bred for it. I only exist because the Toy Shop exists. It’s very successful, you know. We make terrific money. Live in top-rated furnished apartments. Hairdressers, clothes, holidays, all found. At least, as long as we’re fit for work.’

‘A high-class brothel? That’s what it is. Splendid, mind-bending. But no more. How do you feel about that?’ She shrugged. ‘I’m a very high-class tart. Look, Bill, it’s how we’re raised. From childhood, in the Toy Shop nursery. I’m
proud
to be who I am. I make Marilyn Monroe available to paying guests – most of whom aren’t half as darling as you – but it’s my role in life to make them happy in a
unique
and
positive
way. What’s wrong with that?’

Her justification was painfully close to that of the upper-caste NT, Fenton. Strether groaned inwardly.

Marty had regained the initiative and knew it. She gestured at his crotch, now detumescent. ‘You weren’t immune. And if you come another night, maybe I’ll persuade you.’

‘Will you get into trouble because I wouldn’t?’ he asked anxiously.

‘Silly boy,’ she laughed throatily. ‘Who’s to know? This box isn’t wired, I checked before you arrived. You can boast afterwards as much as you like. And no, I get paid the same, as long as I have customers.’

She rose and pushed the button to draw back the curtain. Musical snatches filtered into the box along with a brilliant green light. Above their heads in the recesses of the dome, six trapeze artists in white leather thongs clung upside down to their swings, flew in arcs and wheels, hands reaching out to clasp, hold and release. The breathtaking display of power and absolute trust, the sinewy limbs, the beauty of their strong bodies glistening with sweat, moved Strether more than he could say.

Marty’s voice was wistful. ‘Marilyn used to say she wanted to be an artist, not a freak. So that’s what I try to do – be an artist.’

He took her hand in his. ‘Marty, you’re an amazing woman,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t mean Marilyn, I mean you. But how do you cope – really? How does it feel to be exactly the same as another person? Even if you rationalise, by thinking of her as your mother?’

Marty sounded far away. ‘I’m not exactly the same. Nobody ever is. Like, I’m taller than Marilyn because we eat better. And the newest Marilyn, Debbie, our baby who was born last year, has those pale eyes which people prefer now. That’s a deliberate change, but it’s only fashion. And our upbringing ain’t the same, as I explained. Nobody beat me as a child, poor thing. My heart goes out to her, y’know?’

Strether nodded wordlessly. Marty continued, ‘And then, if you consider, no human being’s ever a replica of another. The fact that Debbie and I have virtually the same genes doesn’t stop us being two people. We both know about the existence of the other, see? So you work secretly on having a little bit of yourself inside that’s just –
you
. You differentiate, in private anyhow. Otherwise you could go nuts. In fact it’s harder for those models who are unique – they’ve nobody to talk it over with. Betty and I used to discuss it a lot. Oh, I do miss her.’

The trapeze artists had been replaced by a thundering band of clowns and acrobats in striped vests and oversized dungarees. Strether glanced past her and was reminded of the 
Bacchanale in Venice of which he had seen a video. He pointed at the spectacle.

‘We’re all performers, Marty, all seeking our identity. You seem to have a clearer idea than most people of who you are. I’ve never met a – a proper clone before. Not one who’d talk about it, anyhow. I keep being told it doesn’t happen.’

At this Marty’s eyes opened wide and the beautiful mouth broke into an unladylike hoot of laughter. ‘They’re having you on, Bill. It’s done all the time. Not for the upper castes – they take care to ensure they’re differentiated in the test-tube, in one or two cute details. Then they can breed again with impunity. But there are thousands of cloned toys in clubs like this throughout the world. Didn’t you realise?’

Strether was dumbstruck. Marty, her expression grim and upset now, pressed on. ‘Toys, human toys. Like Crufts with dogs. They can be a lot weirder than here. And – scary – you know what happens with interbreeding. Things can get nasty.’

The two held hands tightly as Strether shuddered. Below them the clowns were tumbling cartwheels, squawking grotesquely, in a mad parody of the acrobats.

Marty tipped her glass back and emptied it down her throat. ‘Clones are everywhere, Bill. Open your eyes. Security guards, identical, down to being brain-dead. Footballers, jockeys, popstars. Find an outstanding type and you can be sure there’ll be a dozen in a decade or two. The joke is, it takes years to bring them to maturity to start earning their keep. Whoever can speed up that process’ll make a fortune. So the money-men are forced to second-guess tastes far ahead, and often they get it wrong.’

‘Not in your case, though,’ Strether commented. At that she grinned and planted a chaste kiss on his cheek.

A pair of wild-eyed heads peered round the curtain: Matt Brewer and Dirk Cameron. Matt appeared to have a lady’s silver shoe jammed on his crew-cut. They winked at the Ambassador and Dirk made a crude remark. Both were then dragged from behind and vanished. Of Marius there was no sign.

He rose and stretched, reluctant and fascinated. ‘I think I should leave you in peace, Marty. But if I come back again, may I see you?’

‘Sure. And it’d be a pleasure, Bill.’ She treated him to a dazzling, incandescent smile and he took her in his arms, for a melting, precious moment. When he stepped back her eyes were brimming. ‘But don’t leave it too long.’ 

‘And that, Ambassador, is China.’

Colonel Mike Thompson swept his baton towards the shimmering distance. The sky was a steely white, as if it had never known night, or rain. The earth had an exhausted, drained appearance, testament to endless beating by a brutal sun. Marius and Strether squinted and shaded their eyes. On their shoulders and the crowns of their wide-brimmed hats, the heat was an oppressive blanket that threatened suffocation. The thin air made Strether pant.

‘Used to be a sea, this,’ the Colonel remarked. He and his guests walked slowly back to the hoverjeeps. Their soldier escorts, squatting in oblong patches of shade, jumped to their feet and. adjusted their Eurocorps blue berets. ‘Hard to credit. Same sand as on a beach. We often pick up sea-shells or fossils which are obviously aquatic. We’ve quite a collection back at base.’

Strether mopped his brow. His skin was sticky and itched; his mouth knew how a
dry-roasted
peanut felt. The temperature must be 50°C. ‘Shows you what climate change can do,’ he murmured.

The Colonel seemed to conserve energy by instinct. Strether envied the loping, rangy man in his forties whose body sat easily in his khaki shirt, whose skin was tanned like leather, the eyes behind their reflecting shades narrow and observant. ‘Meteorites caused this lot,’ the Colonel answered. ‘Not our fault, this time. D’you know, there’s enough carbon dioxide in the atmosphere to put global temperatures up another two degrees next century? One of the most durable compounds known. Shove it up there and it’ll last almost for ever.’

They were somewhere not easily identifiable, in the no man’s land between what had been the Russian Federation and the high steppes of the Chinese Republic. Strether and the Prince had landed by fastjet at Alma Ata. A sardonic poster in the airport foyer announced, ‘The end of civilisation is here. Get your shots at Dr Krapov’s clinic. American nurses.’ A short hop in a battered Mitsubishi 838 had brought them to the frontier town of Kashi. From the position of the sun, they had then headed east. The distant mountains were massive and had snow on their peaks. Beyond that, however, he was lost.

‘How long,’ Strether asked weakly as he climbed into the Colonel’s hoverjeep, ‘would a man last out here?’

The Colonel shoved the gearstick and pressed buttons. Mini-jet engines hummed and the vehicle rose a metre into the air, hovered in a whirling cloud then took off, skimming the dunes. Behind them the four escorts arranged themselves in formation, Marius perched in the foremost, which happened to have a female driver. ‘Sorry about the dust-storm,’ the Colonel said. ‘Latest model has a negative pressure filter, which keeps it at bay. Due for delivery next year. Now, your question? About four hours without water and shade, six with shade, though he could get hypothermic at night without shelter. With water and shelter, a fair while provided he doesn’t go mad.’

‘Christ managed forty days and forty nights.’

‘Not here, he didn’t. The Judean desert’s a lot more hospitable. You a believer?’

‘Of course. Most Americans are.’

The Colonel chuckled and glanced over his shoulder. Above the roar they could not
be overheard. ‘I am, too, in my own way. When you’ve seen as many dead bodies as I have, you do look for a meaning to life. But one doesn’t bleat about it.’

‘But the Union is officially God-fearing, isn’t it?’ Strether had learned to glean information wherever he could. ‘At a school I went to not long ago the head teacher said grace both before and after the meal.’

‘Yes. Absolutely. But what they actually believe is that the supreme being is mankind. They don’t have much time for a deity, nor much need of one.’ The tendons in the Colonel’s forearms knotted as he strained to keep the clumsy vehicle steady. ‘My theory is, people used to turn to priests to explain what they couldn’t understand or couldn’t control. Once mysteries are solved, and science brought reassurance – for example, ill-health’s virtually abolished through the genetic programme – then God is redundant. A lot of religious belief wasn’t much more than superstition, anyhow. Nothing more sophisticated has turned up in its place.’

Strether clung tightly to the side bars. ‘People still have spiritual needs. If that wasn’t so, why the queues at the Diana shrine and those miracles attributed to her? It’s more than a hundred years since she died. And churches like Westminster Abbey are full.’

‘Yeah, but it’s hardly a traditional outlet these days. New Age, Buddhist, Tao, Dianist, Bahai’i, they’re doing well. Love-ins, eat-ins, happy-clappy stuff. Everything but the guy you mentioned, Christ. Nobody’s keen on suffering now. Putting up with it’s not a virtue but a vice, or at least foolishness.’ The Colonel swept his baton out at the waves of dunes. The hoverjeep, driven one-handed, veered and rocked. ‘Out here, you see how insignificant we are. We don’t control anything. Somebody does, though, I’m sure of that. Anyway, I’m not an atheist – that’d be tempting fate, given what I do for a living. Here we are.’

Strether was glad to be out of England for a while, though he would not normally have chosen August to visit the troops at the front. But his relationship with Lisa had taken a sharp downturn, which had left him ashamed and bewildered.

He had not meant to tell her. Marius had joked that the visit to the Toy Shop would not have met with her approval. But by temperament Strether was an honest individual. He had wanted a wholesome, open liaison with her, not least to show her respect. To himself he could confess that such respect had been dented by his eagerness to visit the infamous nightclub. But the ferocity of her response had startled and confused him.

He had seen no reason to lie. One evening after supper in Lisa’s apartment near Porton Down she had asked, casually, whether he had yet managed to see any of London’s night-life. So the admission had slipped out, quite without intent. In that instant he knew he had made a big mistake.

‘You went
where
?’ she rounded on him.

‘The Toy Shop. It was Prince Marius’s idea.’

She had jumped to her feet and paced furiously up and down the living room, her image appearing and reappearing in the hologram mirror with the frown line ever deeper between her brows.

‘And you do everything that aristocratic idiot tells you? Have you no sense?’

‘He’s not an idiot, Lisa. He’s a highly intelligent and thoughtful man, and he’s a friend. And it wasn’t what you think.’

‘Oh? In what way? Which toy did you choose to play with, may I ask?’ 

He sat on the sofa, his drink untouched, aching with misery. ‘Marilyn Monroe, if you must know. And she was lovely.’

‘I’ll bet, Bill. And how old was she? Sixteen? Twenty?’

It dawned on him that Lisa was jealous. That emotion he could deal with. ‘No. She was older than you, Lisa. In fact she was worried about retirement – it’s compulsory at fifty. That’s what we talked about, mostly.’

‘You
talked
? And, forgive me asking, was that all you did?’ Lisa sat down suddenly. ‘Oh, Bill. I shouldn’t have said that. You’re a free agent. You can do what you like. It’s just that I thought – that is, you and I –’

He took her hand in his. The instinctive gesture reminded him of the last occasion he had sat like that, in the red plush-lined box at the Albert Hall. He squeezed Lisa’s fingers and stroked the soft skin of the inside of her forearm, as she liked him to.

‘We talked, Lisa. Nothing else. I promise. And that was because of you.’

Her hunched form relaxed a little. ‘But what was it like? Wasn’t it – spooky?’

He laughed shortly. ‘Lord, yes. Weird, wild. Yet she was Marilyn exactly, right down to the voice and moods. And that quality of innocence and basic decency. She had that, too. She was an amazing person.’

‘Of course she was Marilyn. She’s probably an exact copy. D’you think it’s only physical traits that are determined by our genes?’ Lisa’s brown eyes were blazing.

‘Lisa,’ Strether asked gently, ‘now that you know I didn’t
do
anything, what precisely do you object to? If I went there again, would you be angry with me? I wouldn’t want it to hurt our friendship. I’ve become – well, more than fond of you.’

‘I object – as a scientist – and as a woman, I suppose.’ Her voice grated. ‘Look, Bill, the genetic programme’s set up for the public good. The Toy Shop is not. It’s an aberration. It’s what you’d call – oh, damn.
Cloning
. Endless repetition for nothing more than the most degrading form of entertainment. It’s a prostitution of science, disgusting to people like me. Coarsening to those like yourself who patronise such establishments. You shouldn’t go there. You shouldn’t exploit those poor women.’

‘They clone men for it, too, Lisa,’ Strether responded bluntly. He paused. ‘She mentioned Crufts – what we’ve done to dogs for over a century. I saw a three-eared dog the other day. Two-headed ones will be next. We humans have a trivial side as well as a yearning for improvement, you know. That doesn’t make it wrong. She said it happens all over. You told me it didn’t, that it wasn’t allowed.’

‘Professionals like myself have always opposed it. No one of any distinction would work in those – factories.’ Her face was raised to his, her expression anxious. ‘D’you see how it cheapens my work? If those skills are spread about, unregulated, the whole business could get out of hand. No licenses like that were issued till twenty years ago. I was still at school, but others fought tooth and nail to stop it.’

‘She’s forty-six, Lisa,’ Strether replied gravely. ‘And she wasn’t the first. It’s been going on most of this century.’

‘It is
wrong
,’ Lisa insisted. ‘Just because there’s a demand, and the sensitivities of people like yourself get blunted enough to think it’s okay, doesn’t make it so. We shouldn’t play games with science. It has a nasty habit of jumping up and biting us.’

Strether had never seen himself as a philosopher. He did not want to lose Lisa; nor, it 
came to him silently, did he want to lose the right to see Marty again.

‘I dunno about that,’ he mused. ‘But I do know that in human advance you can never say,
This far and no further
. You scientists recognise no limits. If you see a horizon you go bounding towards it, even if the nay-sayers are calling “
Don’t
.” It isn’t knowledge itself that’s dangerous. It’s what’s done with it; and who’s to decide what’s good and bad about that? The Toy Shop seemed harmless enough to me. They’re members of the human race too. Not robots.’

‘They have no say in the matter,’ said Lisa brusquely. They’re brought up to it.’

‘And you’re not?’

‘Christ.’ Lisa rose and walked woodenly away from him.

Helplessly Strether reflected that one new skill he had acquired in Europe was that of reducing attractive women to tears. ‘Darn it, Lisa. We’re all programmed, I guess. Me too. I was brought up to be a cattleman, not an ambassador. I love what I do now, but some day I’ll go back to my wide-open skies and my horses. And perhaps –’ He stopped.

She stood still, her back to him. He could see her wiping her nose with a tissue. He had not intended to make a declaration, but the turn of events seemed to demand it.

‘Oh, Lisa. Don’t break my heart. I’m so very fond of you. I haven’t felt this way about any woman since my wife died. Maybe this is premature, but – would you consider it, in three or four years’ time, when I’ve finished my tour of duty here, – would you think of coming home with me?’

Lisa turned, her face set. ‘I’m sorry, Bill. ‘This isn’t the moment. Not when those problems have resurfaced at work. I’m worried sick, I tell you. And I’m still horrified – I keep seeing you in that sleazy hole. If it didn’t have any customers, it wouldn’t exist.’

Strether opened his mouth to retort, ‘Then neither would Marty,’ but thought better of it. There was no answer to an argument like that. Most of life – of his life – was a
marketplace
of willing buyers and suppliers. If nobody ate meat, his herds would not exist. They wanted it cheap so it was ranched in huge herds tended by a handful of microlight-riding cowboys. If dim fashion-followers like the woman on the tube filled their hours with novels instead of pets, then three-eared poodles and floppy kittens would never be born, or loved. If no one needed security then Rottweiler’s guards and ten thousand camera operatives would be unemployed. But Marty was as much a real human being as Lisa – of that much she had convinced him – and, however vulgar and lowlife, had been produced in much the same way. And, he suspected, was somewhat easier to deal with.

They had parted with a degree of coolness. Strether cursed himself that he had handled it so badly. Yet he also sensed that he had got away with something. Lisa had not asked him for a promise not to frequent the place again. Nor had she rejected him out of hand as the loving friend he ached to become. That blurted proposal lay on the table and could be resurrected by either party when the time was right. It had seemed wise, none the less, to take up the invitation to visit the frontier, and he had fled with a distinctly guilty sense of relief.

Both women, and the dilemmas they posed, would keep till his return.

The war rooms were situated in an ancient palace of red-brown stone. Around it had grown a plethora of prefabricated huts and concrete hangars and silos some ten storeys high, plastered with cryptic symbols and labelled with the Union flag in blue with gold stars. ‘EU’ in square 
white script was plastered over tracked vehicles, missile launchers and hoverjeeps, as if that might deter their loss or theft, The detritus of previous occupants was still detectable: on the doors were signs for Exit in French and Russian, and on the entrance portals were chipped carvings of Hindu gods, their chubby arms straining forlornly south towards India.

The Colonel, cheroot in hand, was highlighting locations on the screen map on the wall. A swarthy young adjutant kept notes. ‘Where you stood today, Ambassador, used to be China. Cold War maps call the area Chinese Turkestan. Base camp here is in one of those former USSR republics, Kazakhstan. End of the world – or roof of the world, depending on how you look at it.’