《Station Eleven》


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    THE KING STOOD in a pool of blue light, unmoored. This was act 4 of King Lear, a winter night at the Elgin Theatre in Toronto. Earlier in the evening, three little girls had played a clapping game onstage as the audience entered, childhood versions of Lear¡¯s daughters, and now they¡¯d returned as hallucinations in the mad scene. The king stumbled and reached for them as they flitted here and there in the shadows. His name was Arthur Leander. He was fifty-one years old and there were flowers in his hair.


    ¡°Dost thou know me?¡± the actor playing Gloucester asked.


    ¡°I remember thine eyes well enough,¡± Arthur said, distracted by the child version of Cordelia, and this was when it happened. There was a change in his face, he stumbled, he reached for a column but misjudged the distance and struck it hard with the side of his hand.


    ¡°Down from the waist they are Centaurs,¡± he said, and not only was this the wrong line but the delivery was wheezy, his voice barely audible. He cradled his hand to his chest like a broken bird. The actor portraying Edgar was watching him closely. It was still possible at that moment that Arthur was acting, but in the first row of the orchestra section a man was rising from his seat. He¡¯d been training to be a paramedic. The man¡¯s girlfriend tugged at his sleeve, hissed, ¡°Jeevan! What are you doing?¡± And Jeevan himself wasn¡¯t sure at first, the rows behind him murmuring for him to sit. An usher was moving toward him. Snow began to fall over the stage.


    ¡°The wren goes to¡¯t,¡± Arthur whispered, and Jeevan, who knew the play very well, realized that the actor had skipped back twelve lines. ¡°The wren ¡­¡±


    ¡°Sir,¡± the usher said, ¡°would you please ¡­¡±


    But Arthur Leander was running out of time. He swayed, his eyes unfocused, and it was obvious to Jeevan that he wasn¡¯t Lear anymore. Jeevan pushed the usher aside and made a dash for the steps leading up to the stage, but a second usher was jogging down the aisle, which forced Jeevan to throw himself at the stage without the benefit of stairs. It was higher than he¡¯d thought and he had to kick the first usher, who¡¯d grasped hold of his sleeve. The snow was plastic, Jeevan noted peripherally, little bits of translucent plastic, clinging to his jacket and brushing against his skin. Edgar and Gloucester were distracted by the commotion, neither of them looking at Arthur, who was leaning on a plywood column, staring vacantly. There were shouts from backstage, two shadows approaching quickly, but Jeevan had reached Arthur by now and he caught the actor as he lost consciousness, eased him gently to the floor. The snow was falling fast around them, shimmering in blue-white light. Arthur wasn¡¯t breathing. The two shadows¡ªsecurity men¡ªhad stopped a few paces away, presumably catching on by now that Jeevan wasn¡¯t a deranged fan. The audience was a clamor of voices, flashes from cell-phone cameras, indistinct exclamations in the dark.


    ¡°Jesus Christ,¡± Edgar said. ¡°Oh Jesus.¡± He¡¯d dropped the British accent he¡¯d been using earlier and now sounded as if he were from Alabama, which in fact he was. Gloucester had pulled away the gauze bandage that had covered half his face¡ªby this point in the play his character¡¯s eyes had been put out¡ªand seemed frozen in place, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.


    Arthur¡¯s heart wasn¡¯t beating. Jeevan began CPR. Someone shouted an order and the curtain dropped, a whoosh of fabric and shadow that removed the audience from the equation and reduced the brilliance of the stage by half. The plastic snow was still falling. The security men had receded. The lights changed, the blues and whites of the snowstorm replaced by a fluorescent glare that seemed yellow by comparison. Jeevan worked silently in the margarine light, glancing sometimes at Arthur¡¯s face. Please, he thought, please. Arthur¡¯s eyes were closed. There was movement in the curtain, someone batting at the fabric and fumbling for an opening from the other side, and then an older man in a gray suit was kneeling on the other side of Arthur¡¯s chest.


    ¡°I¡¯m a cardiologist,¡± he said. ¡°Walter Jacobi.¡± His eyes were magnified by his glasses, and his hair had gone wispy on the top of his head.


    ¡°Jeevan Chaudhary,¡± Jeevan said. He wasn¡¯t sure how long he¡¯d been here. People were moving around him, but everyone seemed distant and indistinct except Arthur, and now this other man who¡¯d joined them. It was like being in the eye of a storm, Jeevan thought, he and Walter and Arthur here together in the calm. Walter touched the actor¡¯s forehead once, gently, like a parent soothing a fevered child.


    ¡°They¡¯ve called an ambulance,¡± Walter said.

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    The fallen curtain lent an unexpected intimacy to the stage. Jeevan was thinking of the time he¡¯d interviewed Arthur in Los Angeles, years ago now, during his brief career as an entertainment journalist. He was thinking of his girlfriend, Laura, wondering if she was waiting in her front-row seat or if she might¡¯ve gone out to the lobby. He was thinking, Please start breathing again, please. He was thinking about the way the dropped curtain closed off the fourth wall and turned the stage into a room, albeit a room with cavernous space instead of a ceiling, fathoms of catwalks and lights between which a soul might slip undetected. That¡¯s a ridiculous thought, Jeevan told himself. Don¡¯t be stupid. But now there was a prickling at the back of his neck, a sense of being watched from above.


    ¡°Do you want me to take a turn?¡± Walter asked. Jeevan understood that the cardiologist felt useless, so he nodded and raised his hands from Arthur¡¯s chest and Walter picked up the rhythm.


    Not quite a room, Jeevan thought now, looking around the stage. It was too transitory, all those doorways and dark spaces between wings, the missing ceiling. It was more like a terminal, he thought, a train station or an airport, everyone passing quickly through. The ambulance had arrived, a pair of medics approaching through the absurdly still-falling snow, and then they were upon the fallen actor like crows, a man and a woman in dark uniforms crowding Jeevan aside, the woman so young she could¡¯ve passed as a teenager. Jeevan rose and stepped back. The column against which Arthur had collapsed was smooth and polished under his fingertips, wood painted to look like stone.


    There were stagehands everywhere, actors, nameless functionaries with clipboards. ¡°For god¡¯s sake,¡± Jeevan heard one of them say, ¡°can no one stop the goddamn snow?¡± Regan and Cordelia were holding hands and crying by the curtain, Edgar sitting cross-legged on the floor nearby with his hand over his mouth. Goneril spoke quietly into her cell phone. Fake eyelashes cast shadows over her eyes.


    No one looked at Jeevan, and it occurred to him that his role in this performance was done. The medics didn¡¯t seem to be succeeding. He wanted to find Laura. She was probably waiting for him in the lobby, upset. She might¡ªthis was a distant consideration, but a consideration nonetheless¡ªfind his actions admirable.


    Someone finally succeeded in turning off the snow, the last few translucencies drifting down. Jeevan was looking for the easiest way to exit the scene when he heard a whimper, and there was a child whom he¡¯d noticed earlier, a small actress, kneeling on the stage beside the next plywood pillar to his left. Jeevan had seen the play four times but never before with children, and he¡¯d thought it an innovative bit of staging. The girl was seven or eight. She kept wiping her eyes in a motion that left streaks of makeup on both her face and the back of her hand.


    ¡°Clear,¡± one of the medics said, and the other moved back while he shocked the body.


    ¡°Hello,¡± Jeevan said, to the girl. He knelt before her. Why had no one come to take her away from all this? She was watching the medics. He had no experience with children, although he¡¯d always wanted one or two of his own, and wasn¡¯t exactly sure how to speak to them.


    ¡°Clear,¡± the medic said, again.


    ¡°You don¡¯t want to look at that,¡± Jeevan said.


    ¡°He¡¯s going to die, isn¡¯t he?¡± She was breathing in little sobs.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± He wanted to say something reassuring, but he had to concede that it didn¡¯t look good. Arthur was motionless on the stage, shocked twice, Walter holding the man¡¯s wrist and staring grimly into the distance while he waited for a pulse. ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡±


    ¡°Kirsten,¡± the girl said. ¡°I¡¯m Kirsten Raymonde.¡± The stage makeup was disconcerting.


    ¡°Kirsten,¡± Jeevan said, ¡°where¡¯s your mom?¡±


    ¡°She doesn¡¯t pick me up till eleven.¡±


    ¡°Call it,¡± a medic said.


    ¡°Who takes care of you when you¡¯re here, then?¡±


    ¡°Tanya¡¯s the wrangler.¡± The girl was still staring at Arthur. Jeevan moved to block her view.


    ¡°Nine fourteen p.m.,¡± Walter Jacobi said.


    ¡°The wrangler?¡± Jeevan asked.


    ¡°That¡¯s what they call her,¡± she said. ¡°She takes care of me while I¡¯m here.¡± A man in a suit had emerged from stage right and was speaking urgently with the medics, who were strapping Arthur to a gurney. One of them shrugged and pulled the blanket down to fit an oxygen mask over Arthur¡¯s face. Jeevan realized this charade must be for Arthur¡¯s family, so they wouldn¡¯t be notified of his death via the evening news. He was moved by the decency of it.

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    The fallen curtain lent an unexpected intimacy to the stage. Jeevan was thinking of the time he¡¯d interviewed Arthur in Los Angeles, years ago now, during his brief career as an entertainment journalist. He was thinking of his girlfriend, Laura, wondering if she was waiting in her front-row seat or if she might¡¯ve gone out to the lobby. He was thinking, Please start breathing again, please. He was thinking about the way the dropped curtain closed off the fourth wall and turned the stage into a room, albeit a room with cavernous space instead of a ceiling, fathoms of catwalks and lights between which a soul might slip undetected. That¡¯s a ridiculous thought, Jeevan told himself. Don¡¯t be stupid. But now there was a prickling at the back of his neck, a sense of being watched from above.


    ¡°Do you want me to take a turn?¡± Walter asked. Jeevan understood that the cardiologist felt useless, so he nodded and raised his hands from Arthur¡¯s chest and Walter picked up the rhythm.


    Not quite a room, Jeevan thought now, looking around the stage. It was too transitory, all those doorways and dark spaces between wings, the missing ceiling. It was more like a terminal, he thought, a train station or an airport, everyone passing quickly through. The ambulance had arrived, a pair of medics approaching through the absurdly still-falling snow, and then they were upon the fallen actor like crows, a man and a woman in dark uniforms crowding Jeevan aside, the woman so young she could¡¯ve passed as a teenager. Jeevan rose and stepped back. The column against which Arthur had collapsed was smooth and polished under his fingertips, wood painted to look like stone.


    There were stagehands everywhere, actors, nameless functionaries with clipboards. ¡°For god¡¯s sake,¡± Jeevan heard one of them say, ¡°can no one stop the goddamn snow?¡± Regan and Cordelia were holding hands and crying by the curtain, Edgar sitting cross-legged on the floor nearby with his hand over his mouth. Goneril spoke quietly into her cell phone. Fake eyelashes cast shadows over her eyes.


    No one looked at Jeevan, and it occurred to him that his role in this performance was done. The medics didn¡¯t seem to be succeeding. He wanted to find Laura. She was probably waiting for him in the lobby, upset. She might¡ªthis was a distant consideration, but a consideration nonetheless¡ªfind his actions admirable.


    Someone finally succeeded in turning off the snow, the last few translucencies drifting down. Jeevan was looking for the easiest way to exit the scene when he heard a whimper, and there was a child whom he¡¯d noticed earlier, a small actress, kneeling on the stage beside the next plywood pillar to his left. Jeevan had seen the play four times but never before with children, and he¡¯d thought it an innovative bit of staging. The girl was seven or eight. She kept wiping her eyes in a motion that left streaks of makeup on both her face and the back of her hand.


    ¡°Clear,¡± one of the medics said, and the other moved back while he shocked the body.


    ¡°Hello,¡± Jeevan said, to the girl. He knelt before her. Why had no one come to take her away from all this? She was watching the medics. He had no experience with children, although he¡¯d always wanted one or two of his own, and wasn¡¯t exactly sure how to speak to them.


    ¡°Clear,¡± the medic said, again.


    ¡°You don¡¯t want to look at that,¡± Jeevan said.


    ¡°He¡¯s going to die, isn¡¯t he?¡± She was breathing in little sobs.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± He wanted to say something reassuring, but he had to concede that it didn¡¯t look good. Arthur was motionless on the stage, shocked twice, Walter holding the man¡¯s wrist and staring grimly into the distance while he waited for a pulse. ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡±


    ¡°Kirsten,¡± the girl said. ¡°I¡¯m Kirsten Raymonde.¡± The stage makeup was disconcerting.


    ¡°Kirsten,¡± Jeevan said, ¡°where¡¯s your mom?¡±


    ¡°She doesn¡¯t pick me up till eleven.¡±


    ¡°Call it,¡± a medic said.


    ¡°Who takes care of you when you¡¯re here, then?¡±


    ¡°Tanya¡¯s the wrangler.¡± The girl was still staring at Arthur. Jeevan moved to block her view.


    ¡°Nine fourteen p.m.,¡± Walter Jacobi said.


    ¡°The wrangler?¡± Jeevan asked.


    ¡°That¡¯s what they call her,¡± she said. ¡°She takes care of me while I¡¯m here.¡± A man in a suit had emerged from stage right and was speaking urgently with the medics, who were strapping Arthur to a gurney. One of them shrugged and pulled the blanket down to fit an oxygen mask over Arthur¡¯s face. Jeevan realized this charade must be for Arthur¡¯s family, so they wouldn¡¯t be notified of his death via the evening news. He was moved by the decency of it.

 Page 4

    Jeevan stood and extended his hand to the sniffling child. ¡°Come on,¡± he said, ¡°let¡¯s find Tanya. She¡¯s probably looking for you.¡±


    This seemed doubtful. If Tanya were looking for her charge, surely she would have found her by now. He led the little girl into the wings, but the man in the suit had disappeared. The backstage area was chaotic, all sound and movement, shouts to clear the way as Arthur¡¯s procession passed, Walter presiding over the gurney. The parade disappeared down the corridor toward the stage doors and the commotion swelled further in its wake, everyone crying or talking on their phones or huddled in small groups telling and retelling the story to one another¡ª¡°So then I look over and he¡¯s falling¡±¡ªor barking orders or ignoring orders barked by other people.


    ¡°All these people,¡± Jeevan said. He didn¡¯t like crowds very much. ¡°Do you see Tanya?¡±


    ¡°No. I don¡¯t see her anywhere.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± Jeevan said, ¡°maybe we should stay in one place and let her find us.¡± He remembered once having read advice to this effect in a brochure about what to do if you¡¯re lost in the woods. There were a few chairs along the back wall, and he sat down in one. From here he could see the unpainted plywood back of the set. A stagehand was sweeping up the snow.


    ¡°Is Arthur going to be okay?¡± Kirsten had climbed up on the chair beside him and was clutching the fabric of her dress in both fists.


    ¡°Just now,¡± Jeevan said, ¡°he was doing the thing he loved best in the world.¡± He was basing this on an interview he¡¯d read a month ago, Arthur talking to The Globe and Mail¡ª¡°I¡¯ve waited all my life to be old enough to play Lear, and there¡¯s nothing I love more than being on stage, the immediacy of it ¡­¡±¡ªbut the words seemed hollow in retrospect. Arthur was primarily a film actor, and who in Hollywood longs to be older?


    Kirsten was quiet.


    ¡°My point is, if acting was the last thing he ever did,¡± Jeevan said, ¡°then the last thing he ever did was something that made him happy.¡±


    ¡°Was that the last thing he ever did?¡±


    ¡°I think it was. I¡¯m so sorry.¡±


    The snow was a glimmering pile behind the set now, a little mountain.


    ¡°It¡¯s the thing I love most in the world too,¡± Kirsten said, after some time had passed.


    ¡°What is?¡±


    ¡°Acting,¡± she said, and that was when a young woman with a tear-streaked face emerged from the crowd, arms outstretched. The woman barely glanced at Jeevan as she took Kirsten¡¯s hand. Kirsten looked back once over her shoulder and was gone.


    Jeevan rose and walked out onto the stage. No one stopped him. He half-expected to see Laura waiting where he¡¯d left her in front-row center¡ªhow much time had passed?¡ªbut when he found his way through the velvet curtains, the audience was gone, ushers sweeping and picking up dropped programs between rows, a forgotten scarf draped over the back of a seat. He made his way out into the red-carpet extravagance of the lobby, careful not to meet the ushers¡¯ eyes, and in the lobby a few remnants of the audience still lingered but Laura wasn¡¯t among them. He called her, but she¡¯d turned off her phone for the performance and apparently hadn¡¯t turned it back on.


    ¡°Laura,¡± he said, to her voice mail, ¡°I¡¯m in the lobby. I don¡¯t know where you are.¡±


    He stood in the doorway of the ladies¡¯ lounge and called out to the attendant, but she replied that the lounge was empty. He circled the lobby once and went to the coat check, where his overcoat was among the last few hanging in the racks. Laura¡¯s blue coat was gone.


    Snow was falling on Yonge Street. It startled Jeevan when he left the theater, this echo of the plastic translucencies that still clung to his jacket from the stage. A half dozen paparazzi had been spending the evening outside the stage door. Arthur wasn¡¯t as famous as he had been, but his pictures still sold, especially now that he was involved in a gladiatorial divorce with a model/actress who¡¯d cheated on him with a director.


    Until very recently Jeevan had been a paparazzo himself. He¡¯d hoped to slip past his former colleagues unnoticed, but these were men whose professional skills included an ability to notice people trying to slip past them, and they were upon him all at once.


    ¡°You look good,¡± one of them said. ¡°Fancy coat you got there.¡± Jeevan was wearing his peacoat, which wasn¡¯t quite warm enough but had the desired effect of making him look less like his former colleagues, who had a tendency toward puffy jackets and jeans. ¡°Where¡¯ve you been, man?¡±

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    Jeevan stood and extended his hand to the sniffling child. ¡°Come on,¡± he said, ¡°let¡¯s find Tanya. She¡¯s probably looking for you.¡±


    This seemed doubtful. If Tanya were looking for her charge, surely she would have found her by now. He led the little girl into the wings, but the man in the suit had disappeared. The backstage area was chaotic, all sound and movement, shouts to clear the way as Arthur¡¯s procession passed, Walter presiding over the gurney. The parade disappeared down the corridor toward the stage doors and the commotion swelled further in its wake, everyone crying or talking on their phones or huddled in small groups telling and retelling the story to one another¡ª¡°So then I look over and he¡¯s falling¡±¡ªor barking orders or ignoring orders barked by other people.


    ¡°All these people,¡± Jeevan said. He didn¡¯t like crowds very much. ¡°Do you see Tanya?¡±


    ¡°No. I don¡¯t see her anywhere.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± Jeevan said, ¡°maybe we should stay in one place and let her find us.¡± He remembered once having read advice to this effect in a brochure about what to do if you¡¯re lost in the woods. There were a few chairs along the back wall, and he sat down in one. From here he could see the unpainted plywood back of the set. A stagehand was sweeping up the snow.


    ¡°Is Arthur going to be okay?¡± Kirsten had climbed up on the chair beside him and was clutching the fabric of her dress in both fists.


    ¡°Just now,¡± Jeevan said, ¡°he was doing the thing he loved best in the world.¡± He was basing this on an interview he¡¯d read a month ago, Arthur talking to The Globe and Mail¡ª¡°I¡¯ve waited all my life to be old enough to play Lear, and there¡¯s nothing I love more than being on stage, the immediacy of it ¡­¡±¡ªbut the words seemed hollow in retrospect. Arthur was primarily a film actor, and who in Hollywood longs to be older?


    Kirsten was quiet.


    ¡°My point is, if acting was the last thing he ever did,¡± Jeevan said, ¡°then the last thing he ever did was something that made him happy.¡±


    ¡°Was that the last thing he ever did?¡±


    ¡°I think it was. I¡¯m so sorry.¡±


    The snow was a glimmering pile behind the set now, a little mountain.


    ¡°It¡¯s the thing I love most in the world too,¡± Kirsten said, after some time had passed.


    ¡°What is?¡±


    ¡°Acting,¡± she said, and that was when a young woman with a tear-streaked face emerged from the crowd, arms outstretched. The woman barely glanced at Jeevan as she took Kirsten¡¯s hand. Kirsten looked back once over her shoulder and was gone.


    Jeevan rose and walked out onto the stage. No one stopped him. He half-expected to see Laura waiting where he¡¯d left her in front-row center¡ªhow much time had passed?¡ªbut when he found his way through the velvet curtains, the audience was gone, ushers sweeping and picking up dropped programs between rows, a forgotten scarf draped over the back of a seat. He made his way out into the red-carpet extravagance of the lobby, careful not to meet the ushers¡¯ eyes, and in the lobby a few remnants of the audience still lingered but Laura wasn¡¯t among them. He called her, but she¡¯d turned off her phone for the performance and apparently hadn¡¯t turned it back on.


    ¡°Laura,¡± he said, to her voice mail, ¡°I¡¯m in the lobby. I don¡¯t know where you are.¡±


    He stood in the doorway of the ladies¡¯ lounge and called out to the attendant, but she replied that the lounge was empty. He circled the lobby once and went to the coat check, where his overcoat was among the last few hanging in the racks. Laura¡¯s blue coat was gone.


    Snow was falling on Yonge Street. It startled Jeevan when he left the theater, this echo of the plastic translucencies that still clung to his jacket from the stage. A half dozen paparazzi had been spending the evening outside the stage door. Arthur wasn¡¯t as famous as he had been, but his pictures still sold, especially now that he was involved in a gladiatorial divorce with a model/actress who¡¯d cheated on him with a director.


    Until very recently Jeevan had been a paparazzo himself. He¡¯d hoped to slip past his former colleagues unnoticed, but these were men whose professional skills included an ability to notice people trying to slip past them, and they were upon him all at once.


    ¡°You look good,¡± one of them said. ¡°Fancy coat you got there.¡± Jeevan was wearing his peacoat, which wasn¡¯t quite warm enough but had the desired effect of making him look less like his former colleagues, who had a tendency toward puffy jackets and jeans. ¡°Where¡¯ve you been, man?¡±

 Page 6

    ¡°Tending bar,¡± Jeevan said. ¡°Training to be a paramedic.¡±


    ¡°EMS? For real? You want to scrape drunks off the sidewalk for a living?¡±


    ¡°I want to do something that matters, if that¡¯s what you mean.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, okay. You were inside, weren¡¯t you? What happened?¡± A few of them were speaking into their phones. ¡°I¡¯m telling you, the man¡¯s dead,¡± one of them was saying, near Jeevan. ¡°Well, sure, the snow gets in the way of the shot, but look at what I just sent you, his face in that one where they¡¯re loading him into the ambulance¡ª¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what happened,¡± Jeevan said. ¡°They just dropped the curtain in the middle of the fourth act.¡± It was partly that he didn¡¯t want to speak with anyone just now, except possibly Laura, and partly that he specifically didn¡¯t want to speak with them. ¡°You saw him taken to the ambulance?¡±


    ¡°Wheeled him out here through the stage doors,¡± one of the photographers said. He was smoking a cigarette with quick, nervous motions. ¡°Medics, ambulance, the whole nine yards.¡±


    ¡°How¡¯d he look?¡±


    ¡°Honestly? Like a fucking corpse.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s botox, and then there¡¯s botox,¡± one of them said.


    ¡°Was there a statement?¡± Jeevan asked.


    ¡°Some suit came out and talked to us. Exhaustion and, wait for it, dehydration.¡± Several of them laughed. ¡°Always exhaustion and dehydration with these people, right?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d think someone would tell them,¡± the botox man said. ¡°If someone would just find it in their hearts to pull one or two of these actors aside, be like, ¡®Listen, buddy, spread the word: you¡¯ve got to imbibe liquids and sleep every so often, okay?¡¯ ¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid I saw even less than you did,¡± Jeevan said, and pretended to receive an important call. He walked up Yonge Street with his phone pressed cold to his ear, stepped into a doorway a half block up to dial Laura¡¯s number again. Her phone was still off.


    If he called a cab he¡¯d be home in a half hour, but he liked being outside in the clear air, away from other people. The snow was falling faster now. He felt extravagantly, guiltily alive. The unfairness of it, his heart pumping faultlessly while somewhere Arthur lay cold and still. He walked north up Yonge Street with his hands deep in the pockets of his coat and snow stinging his face.


    Jeevan lived in Cabbagetown, north and east of the theater. It was the kind of walk he¡¯d have made in his twenties without thinking about it, a few miles of city with red streetcars passing, but he hadn¡¯t done the walk in some time. He wasn¡¯t sure he¡¯d do it now, but when he turned right on Carlton Street he felt a certain momentum, and this carried him past the first streetcar stop.


    He reached Allan Gardens Park, more or less the halfway point, and this was where he found himself blindsided by an unexpected joy. Arthur died, he told himself, you couldn¡¯t save him, there¡¯s nothing to be happy about. But there was, he was exhilarated, because he¡¯d wondered all his life what his profession should be, and now he was certain, absolutely certain that he wanted to be a paramedic. At moments when other people could only stare, he wanted to be the one to step forward.


    He felt an absurd desire to run into the park. It had been rendered foreign by the storm, all snow and shadows, black silhouettes of trees, the underwater shine of a glass greenhouse dome. When he was a boy he¡¯d liked to lie on his back in the yard and watch the snow coming down upon him. Cabbagetown was visible a few blocks ahead, the snow-dimmed lights of Parliament Street. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He stopped to read a text message from Laura: I had a headache so I went home. Can you pick up milk?


    And here, all momentum left him. He could go no farther. The theater tickets had been intended as a romantic gesture, a let¡¯s-do-something-romantic-because-all-we-do-is-fight, and she¡¯d abandoned him there, she¡¯d left him onstage performing CPR on a dead actor and gone home, and now she wanted him to buy milk. Now that he¡¯d stopped walking, Jeevan was cold. His toes were numb. All the magic of the storm had left him, and the happiness he¡¯d felt a moment earlier was fading. The night was dark and filled with movement, snow falling fast and silent, the cars parked on the street swelling into soft outlines of themselves. He was afraid of what he¡¯d say if he went home to Laura. He thought of finding a bar somewhere, but he didn¡¯t want to talk to anyone, and when he thought about it, he didn¡¯t especially want to be drunk. Just to be alone for a moment, while he decided where to go next. He stepped into the silence of the park.

 Page 7

    ¡°Tending bar,¡± Jeevan said. ¡°Training to be a paramedic.¡±


    ¡°EMS? For real? You want to scrape drunks off the sidewalk for a living?¡±


    ¡°I want to do something that matters, if that¡¯s what you mean.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, okay. You were inside, weren¡¯t you? What happened?¡± A few of them were speaking into their phones. ¡°I¡¯m telling you, the man¡¯s dead,¡± one of them was saying, near Jeevan. ¡°Well, sure, the snow gets in the way of the shot, but look at what I just sent you, his face in that one where they¡¯re loading him into the ambulance¡ª¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what happened,¡± Jeevan said. ¡°They just dropped the curtain in the middle of the fourth act.¡± It was partly that he didn¡¯t want to speak with anyone just now, except possibly Laura, and partly that he specifically didn¡¯t want to speak with them. ¡°You saw him taken to the ambulance?¡±


    ¡°Wheeled him out here through the stage doors,¡± one of the photographers said. He was smoking a cigarette with quick, nervous motions. ¡°Medics, ambulance, the whole nine yards.¡±


    ¡°How¡¯d he look?¡±


    ¡°Honestly? Like a fucking corpse.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s botox, and then there¡¯s botox,¡± one of them said.


    ¡°Was there a statement?¡± Jeevan asked.


    ¡°Some suit came out and talked to us. Exhaustion and, wait for it, dehydration.¡± Several of them laughed. ¡°Always exhaustion and dehydration with these people, right?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d think someone would tell them,¡± the botox man said. ¡°If someone would just find it in their hearts to pull one or two of these actors aside, be like, ¡®Listen, buddy, spread the word: you¡¯ve got to imbibe liquids and sleep every so often, okay?¡¯ ¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid I saw even less than you did,¡± Jeevan said, and pretended to receive an important call. He walked up Yonge Street with his phone pressed cold to his ear, stepped into a doorway a half block up to dial Laura¡¯s number again. Her phone was still off.


    If he called a cab he¡¯d be home in a half hour, but he liked being outside in the clear air, away from other people. The snow was falling faster now. He felt extravagantly, guiltily alive. The unfairness of it, his heart pumping faultlessly while somewhere Arthur lay cold and still. He walked north up Yonge Street with his hands deep in the pockets of his coat and snow stinging his face.


    Jeevan lived in Cabbagetown, north and east of the theater. It was the kind of walk he¡¯d have made in his twenties without thinking about it, a few miles of city with red streetcars passing, but he hadn¡¯t done the walk in some time. He wasn¡¯t sure he¡¯d do it now, but when he turned right on Carlton Street he felt a certain momentum, and this carried him past the first streetcar stop.


    He reached Allan Gardens Park, more or less the halfway point, and this was where he found himself blindsided by an unexpected joy. Arthur died, he told himself, you couldn¡¯t save him, there¡¯s nothing to be happy about. But there was, he was exhilarated, because he¡¯d wondered all his life what his profession should be, and now he was certain, absolutely certain that he wanted to be a paramedic. At moments when other people could only stare, he wanted to be the one to step forward.


    He felt an absurd desire to run into the park. It had been rendered foreign by the storm, all snow and shadows, black silhouettes of trees, the underwater shine of a glass greenhouse dome. When he was a boy he¡¯d liked to lie on his back in the yard and watch the snow coming down upon him. Cabbagetown was visible a few blocks ahead, the snow-dimmed lights of Parliament Street. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He stopped to read a text message from Laura: I had a headache so I went home. Can you pick up milk?


    And here, all momentum left him. He could go no farther. The theater tickets had been intended as a romantic gesture, a let¡¯s-do-something-romantic-because-all-we-do-is-fight, and she¡¯d abandoned him there, she¡¯d left him onstage performing CPR on a dead actor and gone home, and now she wanted him to buy milk. Now that he¡¯d stopped walking, Jeevan was cold. His toes were numb. All the magic of the storm had left him, and the happiness he¡¯d felt a moment earlier was fading. The night was dark and filled with movement, snow falling fast and silent, the cars parked on the street swelling into soft outlines of themselves. He was afraid of what he¡¯d say if he went home to Laura. He thought of finding a bar somewhere, but he didn¡¯t want to talk to anyone, and when he thought about it, he didn¡¯t especially want to be drunk. Just to be alone for a moment, while he decided where to go next. He stepped into the silence of the park.

 Page 8

    2


    THERE WERE FEW PEOPLE LEFT at the Elgin Theatre now. A woman washing costumes in Wardrobe, a man ironing other costumes nearby. An actress¡ªthe one who¡¯d played Cordelia¡ªdrinking tequila backstage with the assistant stage manager. A young stagehand, mopping the stage and nodding his head in time to the music on his iPod. In a dressing room, the woman whose job it was to watch the child actresses was trying to console the sobbing little girl who¡¯d been onstage when Arthur died.


    Six stragglers had drifted to the bar in the lobby, where a bartender mercifully remained. The stage manager was there, also Edgar and Gloucester, a makeup artist, Goneril, and an executive producer who¡¯d been in the audience. At the moment when Jeevan was wading into the snowdrifts in Allan Gardens, the bartender was pouring a whisky for Goneril. The conversation had turned to informing Arthur¡¯s next of kin.


    ¡°But who was his family?¡± Goneril was perched on a barstool. Her eyes were red. Without makeup she had a face like marble, the palest and most flawless skin the bartender had ever seen. She seemed much smaller offstage, also much less evil. ¡°Who did he have?¡±


    ¡°He had one son,¡± the makeup artist said. ¡°Tyler.¡±


    ¡°How old?¡±


    ¡°Seven or eight?¡± The makeup artist knew exactly how old Arthur¡¯s son was, but didn¡¯t want to let on that he read gossip magazines. ¡°I think he maybe lives with his mother in Israel, maybe Jerusalem or Tel Aviv.¡± He knew it was Jerusalem.


    ¡°Oh, right, that blond actress,¡± Edgar said. ¡°Elizabeth, wasn¡¯t it? Eliza? Something like that.¡±


    ¡°Ex-wife number three?¡± The producer.


    ¡°I think the kid¡¯s mother was ex-wife number two.¡±


    ¡°Poor kid,¡± the producer said. ¡°Did Arthur have anyone he was close with?¡±


    This provoked an uncomfortable silence. Arthur had been carrying on an affair with the woman who looked after the child actresses. Everyone present knew about it, except the producer, but none of them knew if the others knew. Gloucester was the one who said the woman¡¯s name.


    ¡°Where¡¯s Tanya?¡±


    ¡°Who¡¯s Tanya?¡± the producer asked.


    ¡°One of the kids hasn¡¯t been picked up yet. I think Tanya¡¯s in the kids¡¯ dressing room.¡± The stage manager had never seen anyone die before. He wanted a cigarette.


    ¡°Well,¡± Goneril said, ¡°who else is there? Tanya, the little boy, all those ex-wives, anyone else? Siblings, parents?¡±


    ¡°Who¡¯s Tanya?¡± the producer asked again.


    ¡°How many ex-wives are we talking about here?¡± The bartender was polishing a glass.


    ¡°He has a brother,¡± the makeup artist said, ¡°but I can¡¯t remember his name. I just remember him saying he had a younger brother.¡±


    ¡°I think there were maybe three or four,¡± Goneril said, talking about the ex-wives. ¡°Three?¡±


    ¡°Three.¡± The makeup artist was blinking away tears. ¡°But I don¡¯t know if the latest divorce has been finalized.¡±


    ¡°So Arthur wasn¡¯t married to anyone at the time of ¡­ he wasn¡¯t married to anyone tonight?¡± The producer knew this sounded foolish but he didn¡¯t know how else to phrase it. Arthur Leander had walked into the theater just a few hours ago, and it was inconceivable that he wouldn¡¯t walk in again tomorrow.


    ¡°Three divorces,¡± Gloucester said. ¡°Can you imagine?¡± He was recently divorced himself. He was trying to think of the last thing Arthur had said to him. Something about blocking in the second act? He wished he could remember. ¡°Has anyone been informed? Who do we call?¡±


    ¡°I should call his lawyer,¡± the producer said.


    This solution was inarguable, but so depressing that the group drank for several minutes in silence before anyone could bring themselves to speak.


    ¡°His lawyer,¡± the bartender said finally. ¡°Christ, what a thing. You die, and they call your lawyer.¡±


    ¡°Who else is there?¡± Goneril asked. ¡°His agent? The seven-year-old? The ex-wives? Tanya?¡±


    ¡°I know, I know,¡± the bartender said. ¡°It¡¯s just a hell of a thing.¡± They were silent again. Someone made a comment about the snow coming down hard, and it was, they could see it through the glass doors at the far end of the lobby. From the bar the snow was almost abstract, a film about bad weather on a deserted street.


    ¡°Well, here¡¯s to Arthur,¡± the bartender said.


    In the children¡¯s dressing room, Tanya was giving Kirsten a paperweight. ¡°Here,¡± she said, as she placed it into Kirsten¡¯s hands, ¡°I¡¯m going to keep trying to reach your parents, and you just try to stop crying and look at this pretty thing ¡­,¡± and Kirsten, teary-eyed and breathless, a few days shy of her eighth birthday, gazed at the object and thought it was the most beautiful, the most wonderful, the strangest thing anyone had ever given her. It was a lump of glass with a storm cloud trapped inside.

 Page 9

    2


    THERE WERE FEW PEOPLE LEFT at the Elgin Theatre now. A woman washing costumes in Wardrobe, a man ironing other costumes nearby. An actress¡ªthe one who¡¯d played Cordelia¡ªdrinking tequila backstage with the assistant stage manager. A young stagehand, mopping the stage and nodding his head in time to the music on his iPod. In a dressing room, the woman whose job it was to watch the child actresses was trying to console the sobbing little girl who¡¯d been onstage when Arthur died.


    Six stragglers had drifted to the bar in the lobby, where a bartender mercifully remained. The stage manager was there, also Edgar and Gloucester, a makeup artist, Goneril, and an executive producer who¡¯d been in the audience. At the moment when Jeevan was wading into the snowdrifts in Allan Gardens, the bartender was pouring a whisky for Goneril. The conversation had turned to informing Arthur¡¯s next of kin.


    ¡°But who was his family?¡± Goneril was perched on a barstool. Her eyes were red. Without makeup she had a face like marble, the palest and most flawless skin the bartender had ever seen. She seemed much smaller offstage, also much less evil. ¡°Who did he have?¡±


    ¡°He had one son,¡± the makeup artist said. ¡°Tyler.¡±


    ¡°How old?¡±


    ¡°Seven or eight?¡± The makeup artist knew exactly how old Arthur¡¯s son was, but didn¡¯t want to let on that he read gossip magazines. ¡°I think he maybe lives with his mother in Israel, maybe Jerusalem or Tel Aviv.¡± He knew it was Jerusalem.


    ¡°Oh, right, that blond actress,¡± Edgar said. ¡°Elizabeth, wasn¡¯t it? Eliza? Something like that.¡±


    ¡°Ex-wife number three?¡± The producer.


    ¡°I think the kid¡¯s mother was ex-wife number two.¡±


    ¡°Poor kid,¡± the producer said. ¡°Did Arthur have anyone he was close with?¡±


    This provoked an uncomfortable silence. Arthur had been carrying on an affair with the woman who looked after the child actresses. Everyone present knew about it, except the producer, but none of them knew if the others knew. Gloucester was the one who said the woman¡¯s name.


    ¡°Where¡¯s Tanya?¡±


    ¡°Who¡¯s Tanya?¡± the producer asked.


    ¡°One of the kids hasn¡¯t been picked up yet. I think Tanya¡¯s in the kids¡¯ dressing room.¡± The stage manager had never seen anyone die before. He wanted a cigarette.


    ¡°Well,¡± Goneril said, ¡°who else is there? Tanya, the little boy, all those ex-wives, anyone else? Siblings, parents?¡±


    ¡°Who¡¯s Tanya?¡± the producer asked again.


    ¡°How many ex-wives are we talking about here?¡± The bartender was polishing a glass.


    ¡°He has a brother,¡± the makeup artist said, ¡°but I can¡¯t remember his name. I just remember him saying he had a younger brother.¡±


    ¡°I think there were maybe three or four,¡± Goneril said, talking about the ex-wives. ¡°Three?¡±


    ¡°Three.¡± The makeup artist was blinking away tears. ¡°But I don¡¯t know if the latest divorce has been finalized.¡±


    ¡°So Arthur wasn¡¯t married to anyone at the time of ¡­ he wasn¡¯t married to anyone tonight?¡± The producer knew this sounded foolish but he didn¡¯t know how else to phrase it. Arthur Leander had walked into the theater just a few hours ago, and it was inconceivable that he wouldn¡¯t walk in again tomorrow.


    ¡°Three divorces,¡± Gloucester said. ¡°Can you imagine?¡± He was recently divorced himself. He was trying to think of the last thing Arthur had said to him. Something about blocking in the second act? He wished he could remember. ¡°Has anyone been informed? Who do we call?¡±


    ¡°I should call his lawyer,¡± the producer said.


    This solution was inarguable, but so depressing that the group drank for several minutes in silence before anyone could bring themselves to speak.


    ¡°His lawyer,¡± the bartender said finally. ¡°Christ, what a thing. You die, and they call your lawyer.¡±


    ¡°Who else is there?¡± Goneril asked. ¡°His agent? The seven-year-old? The ex-wives? Tanya?¡±


    ¡°I know, I know,¡± the bartender said. ¡°It¡¯s just a hell of a thing.¡± They were silent again. Someone made a comment about the snow coming down hard, and it was, they could see it through the glass doors at the far end of the lobby. From the bar the snow was almost abstract, a film about bad weather on a deserted street.


    ¡°Well, here¡¯s to Arthur,¡± the bartender said.


    In the children¡¯s dressing room, Tanya was giving Kirsten a paperweight. ¡°Here,¡± she said, as she placed it into Kirsten¡¯s hands, ¡°I¡¯m going to keep trying to reach your parents, and you just try to stop crying and look at this pretty thing ¡­,¡± and Kirsten, teary-eyed and breathless, a few days shy of her eighth birthday, gazed at the object and thought it was the most beautiful, the most wonderful, the strangest thing anyone had ever given her. It was a lump of glass with a storm cloud trapped inside.

 Page 10

    In the lobby, the people gathered at the bar clinked their glasses together. ¡°To Arthur,¡± they said. They drank for a few more minutes and then went their separate ways in the storm.


    Of all of them there at the bar that night, the bartender was the one who survived the longest. He died three weeks later on the road out of the city.


    3


    JEEVAN WANDERED ALONE IN Allan Gardens. He let the cool light of the greenhouse draw him in like a beacon, snowdrifts halfway to his knees by now, the childhood pleasure of being the first to leave footprints. When he looked in he was soothed by the interior paradise, tropical flowers blurred by fogged glass, palm fronds whose shapes reminded him of a long-ago vacation in Cuba. He would go see his brother, he decided. He wanted very much to tell Frank about the evening, both the awfulness of Arthur¡¯s death and the revelation that being a paramedic was the right thing to do with his life. Up until tonight he hadn¡¯t been certain. He¡¯d been searching for a profession for so long now. He¡¯d been a bartender, a paparazzo, an entertainment journalist, then a paparazzo again and then once again a bartender, and that was just the past dozen years.


    Frank lived in a glass tower on the south edge of the city, overlooking the lake. Jeevan left the park and waited awhile on the sidewalk, jumping up and down for warmth, boarded a streetcar that floated like a ship out of the night and leaned his forehead on the window as it inched along Carlton Street, back the way he had come. The storm was almost a whiteout now, the streetcar moving at a walking pace. His hands ached from compressing Arthur¡¯s unwilling heart. The sadness of it, memories of photographing Arthur in Hollywood all those years ago. He was thinking of the little girl, Kirsten Raymonde, bright in her stage makeup; the cardiologist kneeling in his gray suit; the lines of Arthur¡¯s face, his last words¡ª¡°The wren ¡­¡±¡ªand this made him think of birds, Frank with his binoculars the few times they¡¯d been bird-watching together, Laura¡¯s favorite summer dress which was blue with a storm of yellow parrots, Laura, what would become of them? It was still possible that he might go home later, or that at any moment she might call and apologize. He was almost back where he¡¯d started now, the theater closed up and darkened a few blocks to the south. The streetcar stopped just short of Yonge Street, and he saw that a car had spun out in the middle of the tracks, three people pushing while its tires spun in the snow. His phone vibrated again in his pocket, but this time it wasn¡¯t Laura.


    ¡°Hua,¡± he said. He thought of Hua as his closest friend, though they rarely saw one another. They¡¯d tended bar together for a couple of years just after university while Hua studied for his MCAT and Jeevan tried unsuccessfully to establish himself as a wedding photographer, and then Jeevan had followed another friend to Los Angeles to take pictures of actors while Hua had gone off to medical school. Now Hua worked long hours at Toronto General.


    ¡°You been watching the news?¡± Hua spoke with a peculiar intensity.


    ¡°Tonight? No, I had theater tickets. Actually, you wouldn¡¯t believe what happened, I¡ª¡±


    ¡°Wait, listen, I need you to tell me honestly, will it send you into one of your panic attacks if I tell you something really, really bad?¡±


    ¡°I haven¡¯t had an anxiety attack in three years. My doctor said that whole thing was just a temporary stress-related situation, you know that.¡±


    ¡°Okay, you¡¯ve heard of the Georgia Flu?¡±


    ¡°Sure,¡± Jeevan said, ¡°you know I try to follow the news.¡± A story had broken the day before about an alarming new flu in the Republic of Georgia, conflicting reports about mortality rates and death tolls. Details had been sketchy. The name the news outlets were going with¡ªthe Georgia Flu¡ªhad struck Jeevan as disarmingly pretty.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got a patient in the ICU,¡± Hua said. ¡°Sixteen-year-old girl, flew in from Moscow last night, presented with flu symptoms at the ER early this morning.¡± Only now did Jeevan hear the exhaustion in Hua¡¯s voice. ¡°It¡¯s not looking good for her. Well, by midmorning we¡¯ve got twelve more patients, same symptoms, turns out they were all on the same flight. They all say they started feeling sick on the plane.¡±


    ¡°Relatives? Friends of the first patient?¡±


    ¡°No relation whatsoever. They all just boarded the same flight out of Moscow.¡±


    ¡°The sixteen-year-old ¡­?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think she¡¯ll make it. So there¡¯s this initial group of patients, the Moscow passengers. Then this afternoon, a new patient comes in. Same symptoms, but this one wasn¡¯t on the flight. This one¡¯s just an employee at the airport.¡±

 Page 11

    In the lobby, the people gathered at the bar clinked their glasses together. ¡°To Arthur,¡± they said. They drank for a few more minutes and then went their separate ways in the storm.


    Of all of them there at the bar that night, the bartender was the one who survived the longest. He died three weeks later on the road out of the city.


    3


    JEEVAN WANDERED ALONE IN Allan Gardens. He let the cool light of the greenhouse draw him in like a beacon, snowdrifts halfway to his knees by now, the childhood pleasure of being the first to leave footprints. When he looked in he was soothed by the interior paradise, tropical flowers blurred by fogged glass, palm fronds whose shapes reminded him of a long-ago vacation in Cuba. He would go see his brother, he decided. He wanted very much to tell Frank about the evening, both the awfulness of Arthur¡¯s death and the revelation that being a paramedic was the right thing to do with his life. Up until tonight he hadn¡¯t been certain. He¡¯d been searching for a profession for so long now. He¡¯d been a bartender, a paparazzo, an entertainment journalist, then a paparazzo again and then once again a bartender, and that was just the past dozen years.


    Frank lived in a glass tower on the south edge of the city, overlooking the lake. Jeevan left the park and waited awhile on the sidewalk, jumping up and down for warmth, boarded a streetcar that floated like a ship out of the night and leaned his forehead on the window as it inched along Carlton Street, back the way he had come. The storm was almost a whiteout now, the streetcar moving at a walking pace. His hands ached from compressing Arthur¡¯s unwilling heart. The sadness of it, memories of photographing Arthur in Hollywood all those years ago. He was thinking of the little girl, Kirsten Raymonde, bright in her stage makeup; the cardiologist kneeling in his gray suit; the lines of Arthur¡¯s face, his last words¡ª¡°The wren ¡­¡±¡ªand this made him think of birds, Frank with his binoculars the few times they¡¯d been bird-watching together, Laura¡¯s favorite summer dress which was blue with a storm of yellow parrots, Laura, what would become of them? It was still possible that he might go home later, or that at any moment she might call and apologize. He was almost back where he¡¯d started now, the theater closed up and darkened a few blocks to the south. The streetcar stopped just short of Yonge Street, and he saw that a car had spun out in the middle of the tracks, three people pushing while its tires spun in the snow. His phone vibrated again in his pocket, but this time it wasn¡¯t Laura.


    ¡°Hua,¡± he said. He thought of Hua as his closest friend, though they rarely saw one another. They¡¯d tended bar together for a couple of years just after university while Hua studied for his MCAT and Jeevan tried unsuccessfully to establish himself as a wedding photographer, and then Jeevan had followed another friend to Los Angeles to take pictures of actors while Hua had gone off to medical school. Now Hua worked long hours at Toronto General.


    ¡°You been watching the news?¡± Hua spoke with a peculiar intensity.


    ¡°Tonight? No, I had theater tickets. Actually, you wouldn¡¯t believe what happened, I¡ª¡±


    ¡°Wait, listen, I need you to tell me honestly, will it send you into one of your panic attacks if I tell you something really, really bad?¡±


    ¡°I haven¡¯t had an anxiety attack in three years. My doctor said that whole thing was just a temporary stress-related situation, you know that.¡±


    ¡°Okay, you¡¯ve heard of the Georgia Flu?¡±


    ¡°Sure,¡± Jeevan said, ¡°you know I try to follow the news.¡± A story had broken the day before about an alarming new flu in the Republic of Georgia, conflicting reports about mortality rates and death tolls. Details had been sketchy. The name the news outlets were going with¡ªthe Georgia Flu¡ªhad struck Jeevan as disarmingly pretty.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got a patient in the ICU,¡± Hua said. ¡°Sixteen-year-old girl, flew in from Moscow last night, presented with flu symptoms at the ER early this morning.¡± Only now did Jeevan hear the exhaustion in Hua¡¯s voice. ¡°It¡¯s not looking good for her. Well, by midmorning we¡¯ve got twelve more patients, same symptoms, turns out they were all on the same flight. They all say they started feeling sick on the plane.¡±


    ¡°Relatives? Friends of the first patient?¡±


    ¡°No relation whatsoever. They all just boarded the same flight out of Moscow.¡±


    ¡°The sixteen-year-old ¡­?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think she¡¯ll make it. So there¡¯s this initial group of patients, the Moscow passengers. Then this afternoon, a new patient comes in. Same symptoms, but this one wasn¡¯t on the flight. This one¡¯s just an employee at the airport.¡±

 Page 12

    ¡°I¡¯m not sure what you¡¯re¡ª¡±


    ¡°A gate agent,¡± Hua said. ¡°I¡¯m saying his only contact with the other patients was speaking with one of them about where to board the hotel shuttle.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± Jeevan said. ¡°That sounds bad.¡± The streetcar was still trapped behind the stuck car. ¡°So I guess you¡¯re working late tonight?¡±


    ¡°You remember the SARS epidemic?¡± Hua asked. ¡°That conversation we had?¡±


    ¡°I remember calling you from Los Angeles when I heard your hospital was quarantined, but I don¡¯t remember what I said.¡±


    ¡°You were freaked out. I had to talk you down.¡±


    ¡°Okay, I guess I do remember that. But look, in my defense, they made it sound pretty¡ª¡±


    ¡°You told me to call you if there was ever a real epidemic.¡±


    ¡°I remember.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve admitted over two hundred flu patients since this morning,¡± Hua said. ¡°A hundred and sixty in the past three hours. Fifteen of them have died. The ER¡¯s full of new cases. We¡¯ve got beds parked in hallways. Health Canada¡¯s about to make an announcement.¡± It wasn¡¯t only exhaustion, Jeevan realized. Hua was afraid.


    Jeevan pulled the bell cord and made his way to the rear door. He found himself glancing at the other passengers. The young woman with groceries, the man in the business suit playing a game on his cell phone, the elderly couple conversing quietly in Hindi. Had any of them come from the airport? He was aware of all of them breathing around him.


    ¡°I know how paranoid you can get,¡± Hua said. ¡°Believe me, you¡¯re the last person I¡¯d call if I thought it was nothing, but¡ª¡± Jeevan banged the palm of his hand on the door¡¯s glass pane. Who had touched the door before him? The driver glared over his shoulder, but let him out. Jeevan stepped into the storm and the doors swished shut behind him.


    ¡°But you don¡¯t think it¡¯s nothing.¡± Jeevan was walking past the stuck car, wheels still spinning uselessly in the snow. Yonge Street was just ahead.


    ¡°I¡¯m certain it isn¡¯t nothing. Listen, I have to get back to work.¡±


    ¡°Hua, you¡¯ve been working with these patients all day?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m fine, Jeevan, I¡¯ll be fine. I have to go. I¡¯ll call you later.¡±


    Jeevan put the phone in his pocket and walked on through the snow, turned south down Yonge Street toward the lake and the tower where his brother lived. Are you fine, Hua my old friend, or will you be fine? He was deeply unsettled. The lights of the Elgin Theatre just ahead. The interior of the theater was darkened now, the posters still advertising King Lear, with Arthur gazing up into blue light with flowers in his hair and the dead Cordelia limp in his arms. Jeevan stood for a while looking at the posters. He walked on slowly, thinking of Hua¡¯s strange call. Yonge Street was all but deserted. He stopped to catch his breath in the doorway of a store that sold suitcases and watched a taxi ease its way slowly down the unplowed street, the storm caught in its headlights, and this vision, snow in lights, transported him back for a moment into the stage-effect storm of the Elgin Theatre. He shook his head to dispel the image of Arthur¡¯s blank stare and moved on in an exhausted daze, through the shadows and orange lights under the Gardiner Expressway to Toronto¡¯s glassy southern edge.


    The snowstorm was wilder down on Queens Quay, wind cutting across the lake. Jeevan had finally reached Frank¡¯s building when Hua called again.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been thinking about you,¡± Jeevan said. ¡°Is it really¡ª¡±


    ¡°Listen,¡± Hua said, ¡°you have to get out of the city.¡±


    ¡°What? Tonight? What¡¯s going on?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, Jeevan. That¡¯s the short answer. I don¡¯t know what¡¯s going on. It¡¯s a flu, that much is obvious, but I¡¯ve never seen anything like it. It is so fast. It just seems to spread so quickly¡ª¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s getting worse?¡±


    ¡°The ER¡¯s full,¡± Hua said, ¡°which is a problem, because at this point half of the ER staff are too sick to work.¡±


    ¡°They got sick from the patients?¡±


    In the lobby of Frank¡¯s building, the night doorman flipped through a newspaper, an abstract painting of gray and red lit up on the wall above and behind him, doorman and painting reflected in streaks on the polished floor.


    ¡°It¡¯s the fastest incubation period I¡¯ve ever seen. I just saw a patient, she works as an orderly here at the hospital, on duty when the first patients started coming in this morning. She started feeling sick a few hours into her shift, went home early, her boyfriend drove her back in two hours ago and now she¡¯s on a ventilator. You get exposed to this, you¡¯re sick within hours.¡±

 Page 13

    ¡°I¡¯m not sure what you¡¯re¡ª¡±


    ¡°A gate agent,¡± Hua said. ¡°I¡¯m saying his only contact with the other patients was speaking with one of them about where to board the hotel shuttle.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± Jeevan said. ¡°That sounds bad.¡± The streetcar was still trapped behind the stuck car. ¡°So I guess you¡¯re working late tonight?¡±


    ¡°You remember the SARS epidemic?¡± Hua asked. ¡°That conversation we had?¡±


    ¡°I remember calling you from Los Angeles when I heard your hospital was quarantined, but I don¡¯t remember what I said.¡±


    ¡°You were freaked out. I had to talk you down.¡±


    ¡°Okay, I guess I do remember that. But look, in my defense, they made it sound pretty¡ª¡±


    ¡°You told me to call you if there was ever a real epidemic.¡±


    ¡°I remember.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve admitted over two hundred flu patients since this morning,¡± Hua said. ¡°A hundred and sixty in the past three hours. Fifteen of them have died. The ER¡¯s full of new cases. We¡¯ve got beds parked in hallways. Health Canada¡¯s about to make an announcement.¡± It wasn¡¯t only exhaustion, Jeevan realized. Hua was afraid.


    Jeevan pulled the bell cord and made his way to the rear door. He found himself glancing at the other passengers. The young woman with groceries, the man in the business suit playing a game on his cell phone, the elderly couple conversing quietly in Hindi. Had any of them come from the airport? He was aware of all of them breathing around him.


    ¡°I know how paranoid you can get,¡± Hua said. ¡°Believe me, you¡¯re the last person I¡¯d call if I thought it was nothing, but¡ª¡± Jeevan banged the palm of his hand on the door¡¯s glass pane. Who had touched the door before him? The driver glared over his shoulder, but let him out. Jeevan stepped into the storm and the doors swished shut behind him.


    ¡°But you don¡¯t think it¡¯s nothing.¡± Jeevan was walking past the stuck car, wheels still spinning uselessly in the snow. Yonge Street was just ahead.


    ¡°I¡¯m certain it isn¡¯t nothing. Listen, I have to get back to work.¡±


    ¡°Hua, you¡¯ve been working with these patients all day?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m fine, Jeevan, I¡¯ll be fine. I have to go. I¡¯ll call you later.¡±


    Jeevan put the phone in his pocket and walked on through the snow, turned south down Yonge Street toward the lake and the tower where his brother lived. Are you fine, Hua my old friend, or will you be fine? He was deeply unsettled. The lights of the Elgin Theatre just ahead. The interior of the theater was darkened now, the posters still advertising King Lear, with Arthur gazing up into blue light with flowers in his hair and the dead Cordelia limp in his arms. Jeevan stood for a while looking at the posters. He walked on slowly, thinking of Hua¡¯s strange call. Yonge Street was all but deserted. He stopped to catch his breath in the doorway of a store that sold suitcases and watched a taxi ease its way slowly down the unplowed street, the storm caught in its headlights, and this vision, snow in lights, transported him back for a moment into the stage-effect storm of the Elgin Theatre. He shook his head to dispel the image of Arthur¡¯s blank stare and moved on in an exhausted daze, through the shadows and orange lights under the Gardiner Expressway to Toronto¡¯s glassy southern edge.


    The snowstorm was wilder down on Queens Quay, wind cutting across the lake. Jeevan had finally reached Frank¡¯s building when Hua called again.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been thinking about you,¡± Jeevan said. ¡°Is it really¡ª¡±


    ¡°Listen,¡± Hua said, ¡°you have to get out of the city.¡±


    ¡°What? Tonight? What¡¯s going on?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, Jeevan. That¡¯s the short answer. I don¡¯t know what¡¯s going on. It¡¯s a flu, that much is obvious, but I¡¯ve never seen anything like it. It is so fast. It just seems to spread so quickly¡ª¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s getting worse?¡±


    ¡°The ER¡¯s full,¡± Hua said, ¡°which is a problem, because at this point half of the ER staff are too sick to work.¡±


    ¡°They got sick from the patients?¡±


    In the lobby of Frank¡¯s building, the night doorman flipped through a newspaper, an abstract painting of gray and red lit up on the wall above and behind him, doorman and painting reflected in streaks on the polished floor.


    ¡°It¡¯s the fastest incubation period I¡¯ve ever seen. I just saw a patient, she works as an orderly here at the hospital, on duty when the first patients started coming in this morning. She started feeling sick a few hours into her shift, went home early, her boyfriend drove her back in two hours ago and now she¡¯s on a ventilator. You get exposed to this, you¡¯re sick within hours.¡±

 Page 14

    ¡°You think it¡¯s going to spread outside the hospital ¡­?¡± Jeevan was having some difficulty keeping his thoughts straight.


    ¡°No, I know it¡¯s outside the hospital. It¡¯s a full-on epidemic. If it¡¯s spreading here, it¡¯s spreading through the city, and I¡¯ve never seen anything like it.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re saying I should¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m saying you should leave now. Or if you can¡¯t leave, at least stock up on food and stay in your apartment. I have to make some more calls.¡± He hung up. The night doorman turned a newspaper page. If it had been anyone other than Hua, Jeevan wouldn¡¯t have believed it, but he had never known a man with a greater gift for understatement. If Hua said there was an epidemic, then epidemic wasn¡¯t a strong enough word. Jeevan was crushed by a sudden certainty that this was it, that this illness Hua was describing was going to be the divide between a before and an after, a line drawn through his life.


    It occurred to Jeevan that there might not be much time. He turned away from Frank¡¯s building and passed the darkened coffee shop on the pier, the tiny harbor filled with snow-laden pleasure boats, into the grocery store on the harbor¡¯s other side. He stood just inside for a beat, blinking in the light. Only one or two other customers drifted through the aisles. He felt that he should call someone, but who? Hua was his only close friend. He¡¯d see his brother in a few minutes. His parents were dead, and he couldn¡¯t quite bring himself to talk to Laura. He would wait until he got to Frank¡¯s, he decided, he¡¯d check the news when he got there, and then he¡¯d go through the contacts on his phone and call everyone he knew.


    There was a small television mounted above the film development counter, showing closed-captioned news. Jeevan drifted toward it. Shots of a broadcaster standing outside Toronto General in the snow, white text scrolling past her head. Toronto General and two other local hospitals had been placed under isolation. Health Canada was confirming an outbreak of the Georgia Flu. They weren¡¯t releasing numbers at this time, but there had been fatalities and more information would be forthcoming. There were suggestions that Georgian and Russian officials had been somewhat less than transparent about the severity of the crisis there. Officials requested that everyone please try their best to stay calm.


    Jeevan¡¯s understanding of disaster preparedness was based entirely on action movies, but on the other hand, he¡¯d seen a lot of action movies. He started with water, filled one of the oversized shopping carts with as many cases and bottles as he could fit. There was a moment of doubt on the way to the cash registers, straining against the weight of the cart¡ªwas he overreacting?¡ªbut he was committed, he¡¯d decided, too late to turn back. The clerk raised an eyebrow.


    ¡°I¡¯m parked just outside,¡± Jeevan said. ¡°I¡¯ll bring the cart back.¡± The clerk nodded, tired. She was young, early twenties probably, with dark bangs that she kept pushing out of her eyes. He forced the impossibly heavy cart outside and half-pushed, half-skidded through the snow at the exit. There was a ramp down into a small parklike arrangement of benches and planters. The cart gained speed on the incline, bogged down in deep snow and slid sideways into a planter.


    It was eleven twenty. The supermarket closed in forty minutes. He was imagining how long it would take to bring the cart up to Frank¡¯s apartment, to unload it, the time required for explanations and tedious reassurances of sanity before he could return to the grocery store for more supplies. Could there be any harm in leaving the cart here for the moment? There was no one on the street. He called Hua on his way back into the store.


    ¡°What¡¯s happening now?¡± Jeevan moved quickly through the store while Hua spoke. Another case of water¡ªJeevan was under the impression that one can never have too much¡ªand then cans and cans of food, all the tuna and beans and soup on the shelf, pasta, anything that looked like it might last a while. The hospital was full of flu patients and the situation was identical at the other hospitals in the city. The ambulance service was overwhelmed. Thirty-seven patients had died now, including every patient who¡¯d been on the Moscow flight and two ER nurses who¡¯d been on duty when the first patients came in. Jeevan was standing by the cash register again, the clerk scanning his cans and packages. Hua said he¡¯d called his wife and told her to take the kids and leave the city tonight, but not by airplane. The part of the evening that had transpired in the Elgin Theatre seemed like possibly a different lifetime. The clerk was moving very slowly. Jeevan passed her a credit card and she scrutinized it as though she hadn¡¯t just seen it five or ten minutes ago.

 Page 15

    ¡°You think it¡¯s going to spread outside the hospital ¡­?¡± Jeevan was having some difficulty keeping his thoughts straight.


    ¡°No, I know it¡¯s outside the hospital. It¡¯s a full-on epidemic. If it¡¯s spreading here, it¡¯s spreading through the city, and I¡¯ve never seen anything like it.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re saying I should¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m saying you should leave now. Or if you can¡¯t leave, at least stock up on food and stay in your apartment. I have to make some more calls.¡± He hung up. The night doorman turned a newspaper page. If it had been anyone other than Hua, Jeevan wouldn¡¯t have believed it, but he had never known a man with a greater gift for understatement. If Hua said there was an epidemic, then epidemic wasn¡¯t a strong enough word. Jeevan was crushed by a sudden certainty that this was it, that this illness Hua was describing was going to be the divide between a before and an after, a line drawn through his life.


    It occurred to Jeevan that there might not be much time. He turned away from Frank¡¯s building and passed the darkened coffee shop on the pier, the tiny harbor filled with snow-laden pleasure boats, into the grocery store on the harbor¡¯s other side. He stood just inside for a beat, blinking in the light. Only one or two other customers drifted through the aisles. He felt that he should call someone, but who? Hua was his only close friend. He¡¯d see his brother in a few minutes. His parents were dead, and he couldn¡¯t quite bring himself to talk to Laura. He would wait until he got to Frank¡¯s, he decided, he¡¯d check the news when he got there, and then he¡¯d go through the contacts on his phone and call everyone he knew.


    There was a small television mounted above the film development counter, showing closed-captioned news. Jeevan drifted toward it. Shots of a broadcaster standing outside Toronto General in the snow, white text scrolling past her head. Toronto General and two other local hospitals had been placed under isolation. Health Canada was confirming an outbreak of the Georgia Flu. They weren¡¯t releasing numbers at this time, but there had been fatalities and more information would be forthcoming. There were suggestions that Georgian and Russian officials had been somewhat less than transparent about the severity of the crisis there. Officials requested that everyone please try their best to stay calm.


    Jeevan¡¯s understanding of disaster preparedness was based entirely on action movies, but on the other hand, he¡¯d seen a lot of action movies. He started with water, filled one of the oversized shopping carts with as many cases and bottles as he could fit. There was a moment of doubt on the way to the cash registers, straining against the weight of the cart¡ªwas he overreacting?¡ªbut he was committed, he¡¯d decided, too late to turn back. The clerk raised an eyebrow.


    ¡°I¡¯m parked just outside,¡± Jeevan said. ¡°I¡¯ll bring the cart back.¡± The clerk nodded, tired. She was young, early twenties probably, with dark bangs that she kept pushing out of her eyes. He forced the impossibly heavy cart outside and half-pushed, half-skidded through the snow at the exit. There was a ramp down into a small parklike arrangement of benches and planters. The cart gained speed on the incline, bogged down in deep snow and slid sideways into a planter.


    It was eleven twenty. The supermarket closed in forty minutes. He was imagining how long it would take to bring the cart up to Frank¡¯s apartment, to unload it, the time required for explanations and tedious reassurances of sanity before he could return to the grocery store for more supplies. Could there be any harm in leaving the cart here for the moment? There was no one on the street. He called Hua on his way back into the store.


    ¡°What¡¯s happening now?¡± Jeevan moved quickly through the store while Hua spoke. Another case of water¡ªJeevan was under the impression that one can never have too much¡ªand then cans and cans of food, all the tuna and beans and soup on the shelf, pasta, anything that looked like it might last a while. The hospital was full of flu patients and the situation was identical at the other hospitals in the city. The ambulance service was overwhelmed. Thirty-seven patients had died now, including every patient who¡¯d been on the Moscow flight and two ER nurses who¡¯d been on duty when the first patients came in. Jeevan was standing by the cash register again, the clerk scanning his cans and packages. Hua said he¡¯d called his wife and told her to take the kids and leave the city tonight, but not by airplane. The part of the evening that had transpired in the Elgin Theatre seemed like possibly a different lifetime. The clerk was moving very slowly. Jeevan passed her a credit card and she scrutinized it as though she hadn¡¯t just seen it five or ten minutes ago.

 Page 16

    ¡°Take Laura and your brother,¡± Hua said, ¡°and leave the city tonight.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t leave the city tonight, not with my brother. I can¡¯t rent a wheelchair van at this hour.¡±


    In response there was only a muffled sound. Hua was coughing.


    ¡°Are you sick?¡± Jeevan was pushing the cart toward the door.


    ¡°Good night, Jeevan.¡± Hua disconnected and Jeevan was alone in the snow. He felt possessed. The next cart was all toilet paper. The cart after that was more canned goods, also frozen meat and aspirin, garbage bags, bleach, duct tape.


    ¡°I work for a charity,¡± he said to the girl behind the cash register, his third or fourth time through, but she wasn¡¯t paying much attention to him. She kept glancing up at the small television above the film development counter, ringing his items through on autopilot. Jeevan called Laura on his sixth trip through the store, but his call went to voice mail.


    ¡°Laura,¡± he began. ¡°Laura.¡± He thought it better to speak to her directly and it was already almost eleven fifty, there wasn¡¯t time for this. Filling another cart with food, moving quickly through this bread-and-flower-scented world, this almost-gone place, thinking of Frank in his twenty-second-floor apartment, high up in the snowstorm with his insomnia and his book project, his day-old New York Times and his Beethoven. Jeevan wanted desperately to reach him. He decided to call Laura later, changed his mind, and called the home line while he was standing by the checkout counter, trying to avoid making eye contact with the clerk.


    ¡°Jeevan, where are you?¡± Laura sounded slightly accusatory. He handed over his credit card.


    ¡°Are you watching the news?¡±


    ¡°Should I be?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a flu epidemic, Laura. It¡¯s serious.¡±


    ¡°That thing in Russia or wherever? I knew about that.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s here now. It¡¯s worse than anyone thought. I¡¯ve just been talking to Hua. You have to leave the city.¡± He glanced up in time to see the look the checkout girl gave him.


    ¡°Have to? What? Where are you, Jeevan?¡± He was signing his name on the slip, struggling with the cart toward the exit, where the order of the store ended and the frenzy of the storm began. It was difficult to steer the cart with one hand. There were already five carts parked haphazardly between benches and planters, dusted now with snow.


    ¡°Just turn on the news, Laura.¡±


    ¡°You know I don¡¯t like to watch the news before bed. Are you having a panic attack?¡±


    ¡°What? No. I¡¯m going to my brother¡¯s place to make sure he¡¯s okay.¡±


    ¡°Why wouldn¡¯t he be?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not even listening. You never listen to me.¡± Jeevan knew this was a petty thing to say in the face of a probable flu pandemic, but couldn¡¯t resist. He plowed the cart into the others and dashed back into the store. ¡°I can¡¯t believe you left me at the theater,¡± he said. ¡°You just left me at the theater performing CPR on a dead actor.¡±


    ¡°Jeevan, tell me where you are.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m in a grocery store.¡± It was eleven fifty-five. This last cart was all grace items: vegetables, fruit, bags of oranges and lemons, tea, coffee, crackers, salt, preserved cakes. ¡°Look, Laura, I don¡¯t want to argue. This flu¡¯s serious, and it¡¯s fast.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s fast?¡±


    ¡°This flu, Laura. It¡¯s really fast. Hua told me. It¡¯s spreading so quickly. I think you should get out of the city.¡± At the last moment, he added a bouquet of daffodils.


    ¡°What? Jeevan¡ª¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re healthy enough to get on an airplane,¡± he said, ¡°and then you¡¯re dead a day later. I¡¯m going to stay with my brother. I think you should pack up now and go to your mother¡¯s place before everyone finds out and the roads get clogged up.¡±


    ¡°Jeevan, I¡¯m concerned. This sounds paranoid to me. I¡¯m sorry I left you at the theater, I just really had a headache and I¡ª¡±


    ¡°Please turn on the news,¡± he said. ¡°Or go read it online or something.¡±


    ¡°Jeevan, please tell me where you are, and I¡¯ll¡ª¡±


    ¡°Just do it, Laura, please,¡± he said, and then he hung up, because he was at the checkout counter for the last time now and the moment to talk to Laura had passed. He was trying so hard not to think about Hua.


    ¡°We¡¯re about to close,¡± the clerk said.


    ¡°This is my last time through,¡± he told her. ¡°You must think I¡¯m a nut.¡±

 Page 17

    ¡°Take Laura and your brother,¡± Hua said, ¡°and leave the city tonight.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t leave the city tonight, not with my brother. I can¡¯t rent a wheelchair van at this hour.¡±


    In response there was only a muffled sound. Hua was coughing.


    ¡°Are you sick?¡± Jeevan was pushing the cart toward the door.


    ¡°Good night, Jeevan.¡± Hua disconnected and Jeevan was alone in the snow. He felt possessed. The next cart was all toilet paper. The cart after that was more canned goods, also frozen meat and aspirin, garbage bags, bleach, duct tape.


    ¡°I work for a charity,¡± he said to the girl behind the cash register, his third or fourth time through, but she wasn¡¯t paying much attention to him. She kept glancing up at the small television above the film development counter, ringing his items through on autopilot. Jeevan called Laura on his sixth trip through the store, but his call went to voice mail.


    ¡°Laura,¡± he began. ¡°Laura.¡± He thought it better to speak to her directly and it was already almost eleven fifty, there wasn¡¯t time for this. Filling another cart with food, moving quickly through this bread-and-flower-scented world, this almost-gone place, thinking of Frank in his twenty-second-floor apartment, high up in the snowstorm with his insomnia and his book project, his day-old New York Times and his Beethoven. Jeevan wanted desperately to reach him. He decided to call Laura later, changed his mind, and called the home line while he was standing by the checkout counter, trying to avoid making eye contact with the clerk.


    ¡°Jeevan, where are you?¡± Laura sounded slightly accusatory. He handed over his credit card.


    ¡°Are you watching the news?¡±


    ¡°Should I be?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a flu epidemic, Laura. It¡¯s serious.¡±


    ¡°That thing in Russia or wherever? I knew about that.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s here now. It¡¯s worse than anyone thought. I¡¯ve just been talking to Hua. You have to leave the city.¡± He glanced up in time to see the look the checkout girl gave him.


    ¡°Have to? What? Where are you, Jeevan?¡± He was signing his name on the slip, struggling with the cart toward the exit, where the order of the store ended and the frenzy of the storm began. It was difficult to steer the cart with one hand. There were already five carts parked haphazardly between benches and planters, dusted now with snow.


    ¡°Just turn on the news, Laura.¡±


    ¡°You know I don¡¯t like to watch the news before bed. Are you having a panic attack?¡±


    ¡°What? No. I¡¯m going to my brother¡¯s place to make sure he¡¯s okay.¡±


    ¡°Why wouldn¡¯t he be?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not even listening. You never listen to me.¡± Jeevan knew this was a petty thing to say in the face of a probable flu pandemic, but couldn¡¯t resist. He plowed the cart into the others and dashed back into the store. ¡°I can¡¯t believe you left me at the theater,¡± he said. ¡°You just left me at the theater performing CPR on a dead actor.¡±


    ¡°Jeevan, tell me where you are.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m in a grocery store.¡± It was eleven fifty-five. This last cart was all grace items: vegetables, fruit, bags of oranges and lemons, tea, coffee, crackers, salt, preserved cakes. ¡°Look, Laura, I don¡¯t want to argue. This flu¡¯s serious, and it¡¯s fast.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s fast?¡±


    ¡°This flu, Laura. It¡¯s really fast. Hua told me. It¡¯s spreading so quickly. I think you should get out of the city.¡± At the last moment, he added a bouquet of daffodils.


    ¡°What? Jeevan¡ª¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re healthy enough to get on an airplane,¡± he said, ¡°and then you¡¯re dead a day later. I¡¯m going to stay with my brother. I think you should pack up now and go to your mother¡¯s place before everyone finds out and the roads get clogged up.¡±


    ¡°Jeevan, I¡¯m concerned. This sounds paranoid to me. I¡¯m sorry I left you at the theater, I just really had a headache and I¡ª¡±


    ¡°Please turn on the news,¡± he said. ¡°Or go read it online or something.¡±


    ¡°Jeevan, please tell me where you are, and I¡¯ll¡ª¡±


    ¡°Just do it, Laura, please,¡± he said, and then he hung up, because he was at the checkout counter for the last time now and the moment to talk to Laura had passed. He was trying so hard not to think about Hua.


    ¡°We¡¯re about to close,¡± the clerk said.


    ¡°This is my last time through,¡± he told her. ¡°You must think I¡¯m a nut.¡±

 Page 18

    ¡°I¡¯ve seen worse.¡± He¡¯d scared her, he realized. She¡¯d heard some of his phone calls, and there was the television with its unsettling news.


    ¡°Well, just trying to prepare.¡±


    ¡°For what?¡±


    ¡°You never know when something disastrous might happen,¡± Jeevan said.


    ¡°That?¡± She gestured toward the television. ¡°It¡¯ll be like SARS,¡± she said. ¡°They made such a big deal about it, then it blew over so fast.¡± She didn¡¯t sound entirely convinced.


    ¡°This isn¡¯t like SARS. You should get out of the city.¡± He¡¯d only wanted to be truthful, perhaps to help her in some way, but he saw immediately that he¡¯d made a mistake. She was scared, but also she thought he was insane. She stared flatly at him as she rang up the final few items and a moment later he was outside in the snow again, a goateed young man from the produce department locking the doors behind him. Standing outside with seven enormous shopping carts to transport through the snow to his brother¡¯s apartment, soaked in sweat and also freezing, feeling foolish and afraid and a little crazy, Hua at the edge of every thought.


    It took the better part of an hour to push the shopping carts one at a time through the snow and across his brother¡¯s lobby and then maneuver them into the freight elevator, for unscheduled use of which Jeevan had to bribe the night doorman, and to move them in shifts up to the twenty-second floor. ¡°I¡¯m a survivalist,¡± Jeevan explained.


    ¡°We don¡¯t get too many of those here,¡± the doorman said.


    ¡°That¡¯s what makes it such a good place for this,¡± Jeevan said, a little wildly.


    ¡°A good place for what?¡±


    ¡°For survivalism.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± the doorman said.


    Sixty dollars later Jeevan was alone outside his brother¡¯s apartment door, the carts lined up down the corridor. Perhaps, he thought, he should have called ahead from the grocery store. It was one a.m. on a Thursday night, the corridor all closed doors and silence.


    ¡°Jeevan,¡± Frank said, when he came to the door. ¡°An unexpected pleasure.¡±


    ¡°I ¡­¡± Jeevan didn¡¯t know how to explain himself, so he stepped back and gestured weakly at the carts instead of speaking. Frank maneuvered his wheelchair forward and peered down the hall.


    ¡°I see you went shopping,¡± Frank said.


    4


    THE ELGIN THEATRE was empty by then, except for a security guard playing Tetris on his phone in the lower lobby and the executive producer, who¡¯d decided to make the dreaded phone call from an office upstairs. He was surprised when Arthur¡¯s lawyer answered the phone, since after all it was one a.m., although of course the lawyer was in Los Angeles. Did entertainment lawyers normally work until ten p.m. Pacific? The producer supposed their corner of the legal profession must be unusually competitive. He relayed the message of Arthur¡¯s death and left for the night.


    The lawyer, who had been a workaholic all his life and had trained himself to subsist on twenty-minute power naps, spent two hours reviewing Arthur Leander¡¯s will and then all of Arthur Leander¡¯s emails. He had some questions. There were a number of loose ends. He called Arthur¡¯s closest friend, whom he¡¯d once met at an awkward dinner party in Hollywood. In the morning, after a number of increasingly irritable telephone exchanges, Arthur¡¯s closest friend began calling Arthur¡¯s ex-wives.


    5


    MIRANDA WAS ON the south coast of Malaysia when the call came through. She was an executive at a shipping company and had been sent here for a week to observe conditions on the ground, her boss¡¯s words.


    ¡°On the ground?¡± she¡¯d asked.


    Leon had smiled. His office was next to hers and had an identical view of Central Park. They¡¯d been working together for a long time by then, over ten years, and together they¡¯d survived two corporate reorganizations and a relocation from Toronto to New York. They weren¡¯t friends exactly, at least not in the sense of seeing one another outside of the office, but she thought of Leon as her friendliest ally. ¡°You¡¯re right, that was an odd choice of words,¡± he¡¯d said. ¡°Conditions on the sea, then.¡±


    That was the year when 12 percent of the world¡¯s shipping fleet lay at anchor off the coast of Malaysia, container ships laid dormant by an economic collapse. By day, the massive boats were gray-brown shapes along the edge of the sky, indistinct in the haze. Two to six men to a vessel, a skeleton crew walking the empty rooms and corridors, their footsteps echoing.


    ¡°It¡¯s lonely,¡± one of them told Miranda when she landed on a deck in a company helicopter, along with an interpreter and a local crew chief. The company had a dozen ships at anchor here.

 Page 19

    ¡°I¡¯ve seen worse.¡± He¡¯d scared her, he realized. She¡¯d heard some of his phone calls, and there was the television with its unsettling news.


    ¡°Well, just trying to prepare.¡±


    ¡°For what?¡±


    ¡°You never know when something disastrous might happen,¡± Jeevan said.


    ¡°That?¡± She gestured toward the television. ¡°It¡¯ll be like SARS,¡± she said. ¡°They made such a big deal about it, then it blew over so fast.¡± She didn¡¯t sound entirely convinced.


    ¡°This isn¡¯t like SARS. You should get out of the city.¡± He¡¯d only wanted to be truthful, perhaps to help her in some way, but he saw immediately that he¡¯d made a mistake. She was scared, but also she thought he was insane. She stared flatly at him as she rang up the final few items and a moment later he was outside in the snow again, a goateed young man from the produce department locking the doors behind him. Standing outside with seven enormous shopping carts to transport through the snow to his brother¡¯s apartment, soaked in sweat and also freezing, feeling foolish and afraid and a little crazy, Hua at the edge of every thought.


    It took the better part of an hour to push the shopping carts one at a time through the snow and across his brother¡¯s lobby and then maneuver them into the freight elevator, for unscheduled use of which Jeevan had to bribe the night doorman, and to move them in shifts up to the twenty-second floor. ¡°I¡¯m a survivalist,¡± Jeevan explained.


    ¡°We don¡¯t get too many of those here,¡± the doorman said.


    ¡°That¡¯s what makes it such a good place for this,¡± Jeevan said, a little wildly.


    ¡°A good place for what?¡±


    ¡°For survivalism.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± the doorman said.


    Sixty dollars later Jeevan was alone outside his brother¡¯s apartment door, the carts lined up down the corridor. Perhaps, he thought, he should have called ahead from the grocery store. It was one a.m. on a Thursday night, the corridor all closed doors and silence.


    ¡°Jeevan,¡± Frank said, when he came to the door. ¡°An unexpected pleasure.¡±


    ¡°I ¡­¡± Jeevan didn¡¯t know how to explain himself, so he stepped back and gestured weakly at the carts instead of speaking. Frank maneuvered his wheelchair forward and peered down the hall.


    ¡°I see you went shopping,¡± Frank said.


    4


    THE ELGIN THEATRE was empty by then, except for a security guard playing Tetris on his phone in the lower lobby and the executive producer, who¡¯d decided to make the dreaded phone call from an office upstairs. He was surprised when Arthur¡¯s lawyer answered the phone, since after all it was one a.m., although of course the lawyer was in Los Angeles. Did entertainment lawyers normally work until ten p.m. Pacific? The producer supposed their corner of the legal profession must be unusually competitive. He relayed the message of Arthur¡¯s death and left for the night.


    The lawyer, who had been a workaholic all his life and had trained himself to subsist on twenty-minute power naps, spent two hours reviewing Arthur Leander¡¯s will and then all of Arthur Leander¡¯s emails. He had some questions. There were a number of loose ends. He called Arthur¡¯s closest friend, whom he¡¯d once met at an awkward dinner party in Hollywood. In the morning, after a number of increasingly irritable telephone exchanges, Arthur¡¯s closest friend began calling Arthur¡¯s ex-wives.


    5


    MIRANDA WAS ON the south coast of Malaysia when the call came through. She was an executive at a shipping company and had been sent here for a week to observe conditions on the ground, her boss¡¯s words.


    ¡°On the ground?¡± she¡¯d asked.


    Leon had smiled. His office was next to hers and had an identical view of Central Park. They¡¯d been working together for a long time by then, over ten years, and together they¡¯d survived two corporate reorganizations and a relocation from Toronto to New York. They weren¡¯t friends exactly, at least not in the sense of seeing one another outside of the office, but she thought of Leon as her friendliest ally. ¡°You¡¯re right, that was an odd choice of words,¡± he¡¯d said. ¡°Conditions on the sea, then.¡±


    That was the year when 12 percent of the world¡¯s shipping fleet lay at anchor off the coast of Malaysia, container ships laid dormant by an economic collapse. By day, the massive boats were gray-brown shapes along the edge of the sky, indistinct in the haze. Two to six men to a vessel, a skeleton crew walking the empty rooms and corridors, their footsteps echoing.


    ¡°It¡¯s lonely,¡± one of them told Miranda when she landed on a deck in a company helicopter, along with an interpreter and a local crew chief. The company had a dozen ships at anchor here.

 Page 20

    ¡°They can¡¯t just relax out there,¡± Leon had said. ¡°The local crew chief¡¯s not bad, but I want them to know the company¡¯s on top of the situation. I can¡¯t help but picture an armada of floating parties.¡±


    But the men were serious and reserved and afraid of pirates. She talked to a man who hadn¡¯t been ashore in three months.


    That evening on the beach below her hotel, Miranda was seized by a loneliness she couldn¡¯t explain. She¡¯d thought she knew everything there was to know about this remnant fleet, but she was unprepared for its beauty. The ships were lit up to prevent collisions in the dark, and when she looked out at them she felt stranded, the blaze of light on the horizon both filled with mystery and impossibly distant, a fairy-tale kingdom. She¡¯d been holding her phone in her hand, expecting a call from a friend, but when the phone began to vibrate she didn¡¯t recognize the number that came up on the screen.


    ¡°Hello?¡± Nearby, a couple was conversing in Spanish. She¡¯d been studying the language for the past several months, and understood every third or fourth word.


    ¡°Miranda Carroll?¡± A man¡¯s voice, almost familiar and very British.


    ¡°Yes, with whom am I speaking?¡±


    ¡°I doubt you¡¯ll remember me, but we met briefly some years ago at a party at Cannes. Clark Thompson. Arthur¡¯s friend.¡±


    ¡°We met again after that,¡± she said. ¡°You came to a dinner party in Los Angeles.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± he said. ¡°Yes, of course, how could I forget.¡­¡± Of course he hadn¡¯t forgotten, she realized. Clark was being tactful. He cleared his throat. ¡°Miranda,¡± he said, ¡°I¡¯m afraid I¡¯m calling with some rather bad news. Perhaps you should sit down.¡±


    She remained standing. ¡°Tell me,¡± she said.


    ¡°Miranda, Arthur died of a heart attack last night.¡± The lights over the sea blurred and became a string of overlapping halos. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry. I didn¡¯t want you to find out on the news.¡±


    ¡°But I just saw him,¡± she heard herself say. ¡°I was in Toronto two weeks ago.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s hard to take in.¡± He cleared his throat again. ¡°It¡¯s a shock, it¡¯s ¡­ I¡¯ve known him since I was eighteen. It seems impossible to me too.¡±


    ¡°Please,¡± she said, ¡°what more can you tell me?¡±


    ¡°He actually, well, I hope you won¡¯t find it disrespectful if I suggest he may have found this fitting, but he actually died onstage. I¡¯m told it was a massive heart attack in the fourth act of King Lear.¡±


    ¡°He just collapsed ¡­?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m told there were two doctors in the audience, they came up onstage when they realized what was happening and tried to save him, but there was nothing anyone could do. He was declared dead on arrival at the hospital.¡±


    So this is how it ends, she thought, when the call was over, and she was soothed by the banality of it. You get a phone call in a foreign country, and just like that the man with whom you once thought you¡¯d grow old has departed from this earth.


    The conversation in Spanish went on in the nearby darkness. The ships still shone on the horizon; there was still no breeze. It was morning in New York City. She imagined Clark hanging up the receiver in his office in Manhattan. This was during the final month of the era when it was possible to press a series of buttons on a telephone and speak with someone on the far side of the earth.


    6


    AN INCOMPLETE LIST:


    No more diving into pools of chlorinated water lit green from below. No more ball games played out under floodlights. No more porch lights with moths fluttering on summer nights. No more trains running under the surface of cities on the dazzling power of the electric third rail. No more cities. No more films, except rarely, except with a generator drowning out half the dialogue, and only then for the first little while until the fuel for the generators ran out, because automobile gas goes stale after two or three years. Aviation gas lasts longer, but it was difficult to come by.


    No more screens shining in the half-light as people raise their phones above the crowd to take photographs of concert stages. No more concert stages lit by candy-colored halogens, no more electronica, punk, electric guitars.


    No more pharmaceuticals. No more certainty of surviving a scratch on one¡¯s hand, a cut on a finger while chopping vegetables for dinner, a dog bite.


    No more flight. No more towns glimpsed from the sky through airplane windows, points of glimmering light; no more looking down from thirty thousand feet and imagining the lives lit up by those lights at that moment. No more airplanes, no more requests to put your tray table in its upright and locked position¡ªbut no, this wasn¡¯t true, there were still airplanes here and there. They stood dormant on runways and in hangars. They collected snow on their wings. In the cold months, they were ideal for food storage. In summer the ones near orchards were filled with trays of fruit that dehydrated in the heat. Teenagers snuck into them to have sex. Rust blossomed and streaked.

 Page 21

    ¡°They can¡¯t just relax out there,¡± Leon had said. ¡°The local crew chief¡¯s not bad, but I want them to know the company¡¯s on top of the situation. I can¡¯t help but picture an armada of floating parties.¡±


    But the men were serious and reserved and afraid of pirates. She talked to a man who hadn¡¯t been ashore in three months.


    That evening on the beach below her hotel, Miranda was seized by a loneliness she couldn¡¯t explain. She¡¯d thought she knew everything there was to know about this remnant fleet, but she was unprepared for its beauty. The ships were lit up to prevent collisions in the dark, and when she looked out at them she felt stranded, the blaze of light on the horizon both filled with mystery and impossibly distant, a fairy-tale kingdom. She¡¯d been holding her phone in her hand, expecting a call from a friend, but when the phone began to vibrate she didn¡¯t recognize the number that came up on the screen.


    ¡°Hello?¡± Nearby, a couple was conversing in Spanish. She¡¯d been studying the language for the past several months, and understood every third or fourth word.


    ¡°Miranda Carroll?¡± A man¡¯s voice, almost familiar and very British.


    ¡°Yes, with whom am I speaking?¡±


    ¡°I doubt you¡¯ll remember me, but we met briefly some years ago at a party at Cannes. Clark Thompson. Arthur¡¯s friend.¡±


    ¡°We met again after that,¡± she said. ¡°You came to a dinner party in Los Angeles.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± he said. ¡°Yes, of course, how could I forget.¡­¡± Of course he hadn¡¯t forgotten, she realized. Clark was being tactful. He cleared his throat. ¡°Miranda,¡± he said, ¡°I¡¯m afraid I¡¯m calling with some rather bad news. Perhaps you should sit down.¡±


    She remained standing. ¡°Tell me,¡± she said.


    ¡°Miranda, Arthur died of a heart attack last night.¡± The lights over the sea blurred and became a string of overlapping halos. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry. I didn¡¯t want you to find out on the news.¡±


    ¡°But I just saw him,¡± she heard herself say. ¡°I was in Toronto two weeks ago.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s hard to take in.¡± He cleared his throat again. ¡°It¡¯s a shock, it¡¯s ¡­ I¡¯ve known him since I was eighteen. It seems impossible to me too.¡±


    ¡°Please,¡± she said, ¡°what more can you tell me?¡±


    ¡°He actually, well, I hope you won¡¯t find it disrespectful if I suggest he may have found this fitting, but he actually died onstage. I¡¯m told it was a massive heart attack in the fourth act of King Lear.¡±


    ¡°He just collapsed ¡­?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m told there were two doctors in the audience, they came up onstage when they realized what was happening and tried to save him, but there was nothing anyone could do. He was declared dead on arrival at the hospital.¡±


    So this is how it ends, she thought, when the call was over, and she was soothed by the banality of it. You get a phone call in a foreign country, and just like that the man with whom you once thought you¡¯d grow old has departed from this earth.


    The conversation in Spanish went on in the nearby darkness. The ships still shone on the horizon; there was still no breeze. It was morning in New York City. She imagined Clark hanging up the receiver in his office in Manhattan. This was during the final month of the era when it was possible to press a series of buttons on a telephone and speak with someone on the far side of the earth.


    6


    AN INCOMPLETE LIST:


    No more diving into pools of chlorinated water lit green from below. No more ball games played out under floodlights. No more porch lights with moths fluttering on summer nights. No more trains running under the surface of cities on the dazzling power of the electric third rail. No more cities. No more films, except rarely, except with a generator drowning out half the dialogue, and only then for the first little while until the fuel for the generators ran out, because automobile gas goes stale after two or three years. Aviation gas lasts longer, but it was difficult to come by.


    No more screens shining in the half-light as people raise their phones above the crowd to take photographs of concert stages. No more concert stages lit by candy-colored halogens, no more electronica, punk, electric guitars.


    No more pharmaceuticals. No more certainty of surviving a scratch on one¡¯s hand, a cut on a finger while chopping vegetables for dinner, a dog bite.


    No more flight. No more towns glimpsed from the sky through airplane windows, points of glimmering light; no more looking down from thirty thousand feet and imagining the lives lit up by those lights at that moment. No more airplanes, no more requests to put your tray table in its upright and locked position¡ªbut no, this wasn¡¯t true, there were still airplanes here and there. They stood dormant on runways and in hangars. They collected snow on their wings. In the cold months, they were ideal for food storage. In summer the ones near orchards were filled with trays of fruit that dehydrated in the heat. Teenagers snuck into them to have sex. Rust blossomed and streaked.

 Page 22

    No more countries, all borders unmanned.


    No more fire departments, no more police. No more road maintenance or garbage pickup. No more spacecraft rising up from Cape Canaveral, from the Baikonur Cosmodrome, from Vandenburg, Plesetsk, Tanegashima, burning paths through the atmosphere into space.


    No more Internet. No more social media, no more scrolling through litanies of dreams and nervous hopes and photographs of lunches, cries for help and expressions of contentment and relationship-status updates with heart icons whole or broken, plans to meet up later, pleas, complaints, desires, pictures of babies dressed as bears or peppers for Halloween. No more reading and commenting on the lives of others, and in so doing, feeling slightly less alone in the room. No more avatars.


    7


    TWENTY YEARS AFTER the end of air travel, the caravans of the Traveling Symphony moved slowly under a white-hot sky. It was the end of July, and the twenty-five-year-old thermometer affixed to the back of the lead caravan read 106 Fahrenheit, 41 Celsius. They were near Lake Michigan but they couldn¡¯t see it from here. Trees pressed in close at the sides of the road and erupted through cracks in the pavement, saplings bending under the caravans and soft leaves brushing the legs of horses and Symphony alike. The heat wave had persisted for a relentless week.


    Most of them were on foot to reduce the load on the horses, who had to be rested in the shade more frequently than anyone would have liked. The Symphony didn¡¯t know this territory well and wanted to be done with it, but speed wasn¡¯t possible in this heat. They walked slowly with weapons in hand, the actors running their lines and the musicians trying to ignore the actors, scouts watching for danger ahead and behind on the road. ¡°It¡¯s not a bad test,¡± the director had said, earlier in the day. Gil was seventy-two years old, riding in the back of the second caravan now, his legs not quite what they used to be. ¡°If you can remember your lines in questionable territory, you¡¯ll be fine onstage.¡±


    ¡°Enter Lear,¡± Kirsten said. Twenty years earlier, in a life she mostly couldn¡¯t remember, she had had a small nonspeaking role in a short-lived Toronto production of King Lear. Now she walked in sandals whose soles had been cut from an automobile tire, three knives in her belt. She was carrying a paperback version of the play, the stage directions highlighted in yellow. ¡°Mad,¡± she said, continuing, ¡°fantastically dressed with wild flowers.¡±


    ¡°But who comes here?¡± the man learning the part of Edgar said. His name was August, and he had only recently taken to acting. He was the second violin and a secret poet, which is to say no one in the Symphony knew he wrote poetry except Kirsten and the seventh guitar. ¡°The safer sense will ne¡¯er accommodate ¡­ will ne¡¯er accommodate ¡­ line?¡±


    ¡°His master thus,¡± Kirsten said.


    ¡°Cheers. The safer sense will ne¡¯er accommodate his master thus.¡±


    The caravans had once been pickup trucks, but now they were pulled by teams of horses on wheels of steel and wood. All of the pieces rendered useless by the end of gasoline had been removed¡ªthe engine, the fuel-supply system, all the other components that no one under the age of twenty had ever seen in operation¡ªand a bench had been installed on top of each cab for the drivers. The cabs were stripped of everything that added excess weight but left otherwise intact, with doors that closed and windows of difficult-to-break automobile glass, because when they were traveling through fraught territory it was nice to have somewhere relatively safe to put the children. The main structures of the caravans had been built in the pickup beds, tarps lashed over frames. The tarps on all three caravans were painted gunmetal gray, with THE TRAVELING SYMPHONY lettered in white on both sides.


    ¡°No, they cannot touch me for coining,¡± Dieter said over his shoulder. He was learning the part of Lear, although he wasn¡¯t really old enough. Dieter walked a little ahead of the other actors, murmuring to his favorite horse. The horse, Bernstein, was missing half his tail, because the first cello had just restrung his bow last week.


    ¡°Oh,¡± August said, ¡°thou side-piercing sight!¡±


    ¡°You know what¡¯s side-piercing?¡± the third trumpet muttered. ¡°Listening to King Lear three times in a row in a heat wave.¡±


    ¡°You know what¡¯s even more side-piercing?¡± Alexandra was fifteen, the Symphony¡¯s youngest actor. They¡¯d found her on the road as a baby. ¡°Traveling for four days between towns at the far edge of the territory.¡±


    ¡°What does side-piercing mean?¡± Olivia asked. She was six years old, the daughter of the tuba and an actress named Lin, and she was riding in the back of the second caravan with Gil and a teddy bear.

 Page 23

    No more countries, all borders unmanned.


    No more fire departments, no more police. No more road maintenance or garbage pickup. No more spacecraft rising up from Cape Canaveral, from the Baikonur Cosmodrome, from Vandenburg, Plesetsk, Tanegashima, burning paths through the atmosphere into space.


    No more Internet. No more social media, no more scrolling through litanies of dreams and nervous hopes and photographs of lunches, cries for help and expressions of contentment and relationship-status updates with heart icons whole or broken, plans to meet up later, pleas, complaints, desires, pictures of babies dressed as bears or peppers for Halloween. No more reading and commenting on the lives of others, and in so doing, feeling slightly less alone in the room. No more avatars.


    7


    TWENTY YEARS AFTER the end of air travel, the caravans of the Traveling Symphony moved slowly under a white-hot sky. It was the end of July, and the twenty-five-year-old thermometer affixed to the back of the lead caravan read 106 Fahrenheit, 41 Celsius. They were near Lake Michigan but they couldn¡¯t see it from here. Trees pressed in close at the sides of the road and erupted through cracks in the pavement, saplings bending under the caravans and soft leaves brushing the legs of horses and Symphony alike. The heat wave had persisted for a relentless week.


    Most of them were on foot to reduce the load on the horses, who had to be rested in the shade more frequently than anyone would have liked. The Symphony didn¡¯t know this territory well and wanted to be done with it, but speed wasn¡¯t possible in this heat. They walked slowly with weapons in hand, the actors running their lines and the musicians trying to ignore the actors, scouts watching for danger ahead and behind on the road. ¡°It¡¯s not a bad test,¡± the director had said, earlier in the day. Gil was seventy-two years old, riding in the back of the second caravan now, his legs not quite what they used to be. ¡°If you can remember your lines in questionable territory, you¡¯ll be fine onstage.¡±


    ¡°Enter Lear,¡± Kirsten said. Twenty years earlier, in a life she mostly couldn¡¯t remember, she had had a small nonspeaking role in a short-lived Toronto production of King Lear. Now she walked in sandals whose soles had been cut from an automobile tire, three knives in her belt. She was carrying a paperback version of the play, the stage directions highlighted in yellow. ¡°Mad,¡± she said, continuing, ¡°fantastically dressed with wild flowers.¡±


    ¡°But who comes here?¡± the man learning the part of Edgar said. His name was August, and he had only recently taken to acting. He was the second violin and a secret poet, which is to say no one in the Symphony knew he wrote poetry except Kirsten and the seventh guitar. ¡°The safer sense will ne¡¯er accommodate ¡­ will ne¡¯er accommodate ¡­ line?¡±


    ¡°His master thus,¡± Kirsten said.


    ¡°Cheers. The safer sense will ne¡¯er accommodate his master thus.¡±


    The caravans had once been pickup trucks, but now they were pulled by teams of horses on wheels of steel and wood. All of the pieces rendered useless by the end of gasoline had been removed¡ªthe engine, the fuel-supply system, all the other components that no one under the age of twenty had ever seen in operation¡ªand a bench had been installed on top of each cab for the drivers. The cabs were stripped of everything that added excess weight but left otherwise intact, with doors that closed and windows of difficult-to-break automobile glass, because when they were traveling through fraught territory it was nice to have somewhere relatively safe to put the children. The main structures of the caravans had been built in the pickup beds, tarps lashed over frames. The tarps on all three caravans were painted gunmetal gray, with THE TRAVELING SYMPHONY lettered in white on both sides.


    ¡°No, they cannot touch me for coining,¡± Dieter said over his shoulder. He was learning the part of Lear, although he wasn¡¯t really old enough. Dieter walked a little ahead of the other actors, murmuring to his favorite horse. The horse, Bernstein, was missing half his tail, because the first cello had just restrung his bow last week.


    ¡°Oh,¡± August said, ¡°thou side-piercing sight!¡±


    ¡°You know what¡¯s side-piercing?¡± the third trumpet muttered. ¡°Listening to King Lear three times in a row in a heat wave.¡±


    ¡°You know what¡¯s even more side-piercing?¡± Alexandra was fifteen, the Symphony¡¯s youngest actor. They¡¯d found her on the road as a baby. ¡°Traveling for four days between towns at the far edge of the territory.¡±


    ¡°What does side-piercing mean?¡± Olivia asked. She was six years old, the daughter of the tuba and an actress named Lin, and she was riding in the back of the second caravan with Gil and a teddy bear.

 Page 24

    ¡°We¡¯ll be in St. Deborah by the Water in a couple of hours,¡± Gil said. ¡°There¡¯s absolutely nothing to worry about.¡±


    There was the flu that exploded like a neutron bomb over the surface of the earth and the shock of the collapse that followed, the first unspeakable years when everyone was traveling, before everyone caught on that there was no place they could walk to where life continued as it had before and settled wherever they could, clustered close together for safety in truck stops and former restaurants and old motels. The Traveling Symphony moved between the settlements of the changed world and had been doing so since five years after the collapse, when the conductor had gathered a few of her friends from their military orchestra, left the air base where they¡¯d been living, and set out into the unknown landscape.


    By then most people had settled somewhere, because the gasoline had all gone stale by Year Three and you can¡¯t keep walking forever. After six months of traveling from town to town¡ªthe word town used loosely; some of these places were four or five families living together in a former truck stop¡ªthe conductor¡¯s orchestra had run into Gil¡¯s company of Shakespearean actors, who had all escaped from Chicago together and then worked on a farm for a few years and had been on the road for three months, and they¡¯d combined their operations.


    Twenty years after the collapse they were still in motion, traveling back and forth along the shores of Lakes Huron and Michigan, west as far as Traverse City, east and north over the 49th parallel to Kincardine. They followed the St. Clair River south to the fishing towns of Marine City and Algonac and back again. This territory was for the most part tranquil now. They encountered other travelers only rarely, peddlers mostly, carting miscellanea between towns. The Symphony performed music¡ªclassical, jazz, orchestral arrangements of pre-collapse pop songs¡ªand Shakespeare. They¡¯d performed more modern plays sometimes in the first few years, but what was startling, what no one would have anticipated, was that audiences seemed to prefer Shakespeare to their other theatrical offerings.


    ¡°People want what was best about the world,¡± Dieter said. He himself found it difficult to live in the present. He¡¯d played in a punk band in college and longed for the sound of an electric guitar.


    They were no more than two hours out from St. Deborah by the Water now. The Lear rehearsal had dissipated midway through the fourth act, everyone tired, tempers fraying in the heat. They stopped to rest the horses, and Kirsten, who didn¡¯t feel like resting, walked a few paces down the road to throw knives at a tree. She threw from five paces, from ten, from twenty. The satisfying sound of the blades hitting wood. When the Symphony began to move again she climbed up into the back of the second caravan, where Alexandra was resting and mending a costume.


    ¡°Okay,¡± Alexandra said, picking up an earlier conversation, ¡°so when you saw the computer screen in Traverse City ¡­¡±


    ¡°What about it?¡±


    In Traverse City, the town they¡¯d recently left, an inventor had rigged an electrical system in an attic. It was modest in scope, a stationary bicycle that when pedaled vigorously could power a laptop, but the inventor had grander aspirations: the point wasn¡¯t actually the electrical system, the point was that he was looking for the Internet. A few of the younger Symphony members had felt a little thrill when he¡¯d said this, remembered the stories they¡¯d been told about WiFi and the impossible-to-imagine Cloud, wondered if the Internet might still be out there somehow, invisible pinpricks of light suspended in the air around them.


    ¡°Was it the way you remembered?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t really remember what computer screens looked like,¡± Kirsten admitted. The second caravan had particularly bad shocks, and riding in it always made her feel like her bones were rattling.


    ¡°How could you not remember something like that? It was beautiful.¡±


    ¡°I was eight.¡±


    Alexandra nodded, unsatisfied and obviously thinking that if she¡¯d seen a lit-up computer screen when she was eight, she¡¯d have remembered it.


    In Traverse City Kirsten had stared at the This webpage is not available message on the screen. She didn¡¯t seriously believe that the inventor would be able to find the Internet, but she was fascinated by electricity. She harbored visions of a lamp with a pink shade on a side table, a nightlight shaped like a puffy half-moon, a chandelier in a dining room, a brilliant stage. The inventor had pedaled frantically to keep the screen from flickering out, explaining something about satellites. Alexandra had been enraptured, the screen a magical thing with no memories attached. August had stared at the screen with a lost expression.

 Page 25

    ¡°We¡¯ll be in St. Deborah by the Water in a couple of hours,¡± Gil said. ¡°There¡¯s absolutely nothing to worry about.¡±


    There was the flu that exploded like a neutron bomb over the surface of the earth and the shock of the collapse that followed, the first unspeakable years when everyone was traveling, before everyone caught on that there was no place they could walk to where life continued as it had before and settled wherever they could, clustered close together for safety in truck stops and former restaurants and old motels. The Traveling Symphony moved between the settlements of the changed world and had been doing so since five years after the collapse, when the conductor had gathered a few of her friends from their military orchestra, left the air base where they¡¯d been living, and set out into the unknown landscape.


    By then most people had settled somewhere, because the gasoline had all gone stale by Year Three and you can¡¯t keep walking forever. After six months of traveling from town to town¡ªthe word town used loosely; some of these places were four or five families living together in a former truck stop¡ªthe conductor¡¯s orchestra had run into Gil¡¯s company of Shakespearean actors, who had all escaped from Chicago together and then worked on a farm for a few years and had been on the road for three months, and they¡¯d combined their operations.


    Twenty years after the collapse they were still in motion, traveling back and forth along the shores of Lakes Huron and Michigan, west as far as Traverse City, east and north over the 49th parallel to Kincardine. They followed the St. Clair River south to the fishing towns of Marine City and Algonac and back again. This territory was for the most part tranquil now. They encountered other travelers only rarely, peddlers mostly, carting miscellanea between towns. The Symphony performed music¡ªclassical, jazz, orchestral arrangements of pre-collapse pop songs¡ªand Shakespeare. They¡¯d performed more modern plays sometimes in the first few years, but what was startling, what no one would have anticipated, was that audiences seemed to prefer Shakespeare to their other theatrical offerings.


    ¡°People want what was best about the world,¡± Dieter said. He himself found it difficult to live in the present. He¡¯d played in a punk band in college and longed for the sound of an electric guitar.


    They were no more than two hours out from St. Deborah by the Water now. The Lear rehearsal had dissipated midway through the fourth act, everyone tired, tempers fraying in the heat. They stopped to rest the horses, and Kirsten, who didn¡¯t feel like resting, walked a few paces down the road to throw knives at a tree. She threw from five paces, from ten, from twenty. The satisfying sound of the blades hitting wood. When the Symphony began to move again she climbed up into the back of the second caravan, where Alexandra was resting and mending a costume.


    ¡°Okay,¡± Alexandra said, picking up an earlier conversation, ¡°so when you saw the computer screen in Traverse City ¡­¡±


    ¡°What about it?¡±


    In Traverse City, the town they¡¯d recently left, an inventor had rigged an electrical system in an attic. It was modest in scope, a stationary bicycle that when pedaled vigorously could power a laptop, but the inventor had grander aspirations: the point wasn¡¯t actually the electrical system, the point was that he was looking for the Internet. A few of the younger Symphony members had felt a little thrill when he¡¯d said this, remembered the stories they¡¯d been told about WiFi and the impossible-to-imagine Cloud, wondered if the Internet might still be out there somehow, invisible pinpricks of light suspended in the air around them.


    ¡°Was it the way you remembered?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t really remember what computer screens looked like,¡± Kirsten admitted. The second caravan had particularly bad shocks, and riding in it always made her feel like her bones were rattling.


    ¡°How could you not remember something like that? It was beautiful.¡±


    ¡°I was eight.¡±


    Alexandra nodded, unsatisfied and obviously thinking that if she¡¯d seen a lit-up computer screen when she was eight, she¡¯d have remembered it.


    In Traverse City Kirsten had stared at the This webpage is not available message on the screen. She didn¡¯t seriously believe that the inventor would be able to find the Internet, but she was fascinated by electricity. She harbored visions of a lamp with a pink shade on a side table, a nightlight shaped like a puffy half-moon, a chandelier in a dining room, a brilliant stage. The inventor had pedaled frantically to keep the screen from flickering out, explaining something about satellites. Alexandra had been enraptured, the screen a magical thing with no memories attached. August had stared at the screen with a lost expression.

 Page 26

    When Kirsten and August broke into abandoned houses¡ªthis was a hobby of theirs, tolerated by the conductor because they found useful things sometimes¡ªAugust always gazed longingly at televisions. As a boy he¡¯d been quiet and a little shy, obsessed with classical music; he¡¯d had no interest in sports and had never been especially adept at getting along with people, which meant long hours home alone after school in interchangeable U.S. Army¡ªbase houses while his brothers played baseball and made new friends. One nice thing about television shows was that they were everywhere, identical programming whether your parents had been posted to Maryland or California or Texas. He¡¯d spent an enormous amount of time before the collapse watching television, playing the violin, or sometimes doing both simultaneously, and Kirsten could picture this: August at nine, at ten, at eleven, pale and scrawny with dark hair falling in his eyes and a serious, somewhat fixed expression, playing a child-size violin in a wash of electric-blue light. When they broke into houses now, August searched for issues of TV Guide. Mostly obsolete by the time the pandemic hit, but used by a few people right up to the end. He liked to flip through them later at quiet moments. He claimed he remembered all the shows: starships, sitcom living rooms with enormous sofas, police officers sprinting through the streets of New York, courtrooms with stern-faced judges presiding. He looked for books of poetry¡ªeven rarer than TV Guide copies¡ªand studied these in the evenings or while he was walking with the Symphony.


    When Kirsten was in the houses, she searched for celebrity-gossip magazines, because once, when she was sixteen years old, she¡¯d flipped through a magazine on a dust-blackened side table and found her past:


    Happy Reunion: Arthur Leander Picks Up Son Tyler in LAX


    SCRUFFY ARTHUR GREETS SEVEN-YEAR-OLD TYLER,


    WHO LIVES IN JERUSALEM WITH HIS MOTHER,


    MODEL/ACTRESS ELIZABETH COLTON.


    The photograph: Arthur with a three-day beard, rumpled clothes, a baseball cap, carrying a small boy who beamed up at his father¡¯s face while Arthur smiled at the camera. The Georgia Flu would arrive in a year.


    ¡°I knew him,¡± she¡¯d told August, breathless. ¡°He gave me the comics I showed you!¡± And August had nodded and asked to see the comics again.


    There were countless things about the pre-collapse world that Kirsten couldn¡¯t remember¡ªher street address, her mother¡¯s face, the TV shows that August never stopped talking about¡ªbut she did remember Arthur Leander, and after that first sighting she went through every magazine she could find in search of him. She collected fragments, stored in a ziplock bag in her backpack. A picture of Arthur alone on a beach, looking pensive and out of shape. A picture of him with his first wife, Miranda, and then later with his second wife, Elizabeth, a malnourished-looking blonde who didn¡¯t smile for cameras. Then with their son, who was about the same age as Kirsten, and later still with a third wife who looked very similar to the second one.


    ¡°You¡¯re like an archaeologist,¡± Charlie said, when Kirsten showed off her findings. Charlie had wanted to be an archaeologist when she was little. She was the second cello and one of Kirsten¡¯s closest friends.


    Nothing in Kirsten¡¯s collection suggested the Arthur Leander she remembered, but what did she actually remember? Arthur was a fleeting impression of kindness and gray hair, a man who¡¯d once pressed two comic books into her hands¡ª¡°I have a present for you,¡± she was almost certain he¡¯d said¡ªand sometime after this moment, the clearest memory she retained from before the collapse: a stage, a man in a suit talking to her while Arthur lay still on his back with paramedics leaning over him, voices and crying and people gathering, snow somehow falling even though they were indoors, electric light blazing down upon them.


    8


    THE COMICS ARTHUR LEANDER gave her: two issues from a series no one else in the Symphony has ever heard of, Dr. Eleven, Vol. 1, No. 1: Station Eleven and Dr. Eleven, Vol. 1, No. 2: The Pursuit. By Year Twenty, Kirsten has them memorized.


    Dr. Eleven is a physicist. He lives on a space station, but it¡¯s a highly advanced space station that was designed to resemble a small planet. There are deep blue seas and rocky islands linked by bridges, orange and crimson skies with two moons on the horizon. The contrabassoon, who prior to the collapse was in the printing business, told Kirsten that the comics had been produced at great expense, all those bright images, that archival paper, so actually not comics at all in the traditionally mass-produced sense, possibly someone¡¯s vanity project. Who would that someone have been? There is no biographical information in either issue, initials in place of the author¡¯s name. ¡°By M. C.¡± In the inside cover of the first issue, someone has written ¡°Copy 2 of 10¡± in pencil. In the second issue, the notation is ¡°Copy 3 of 10.¡± Is it possible that only ten copies of each of these books exist in the world?

 Page 27

    When Kirsten and August broke into abandoned houses¡ªthis was a hobby of theirs, tolerated by the conductor because they found useful things sometimes¡ªAugust always gazed longingly at televisions. As a boy he¡¯d been quiet and a little shy, obsessed with classical music; he¡¯d had no interest in sports and had never been especially adept at getting along with people, which meant long hours home alone after school in interchangeable U.S. Army¡ªbase houses while his brothers played baseball and made new friends. One nice thing about television shows was that they were everywhere, identical programming whether your parents had been posted to Maryland or California or Texas. He¡¯d spent an enormous amount of time before the collapse watching television, playing the violin, or sometimes doing both simultaneously, and Kirsten could picture this: August at nine, at ten, at eleven, pale and scrawny with dark hair falling in his eyes and a serious, somewhat fixed expression, playing a child-size violin in a wash of electric-blue light. When they broke into houses now, August searched for issues of TV Guide. Mostly obsolete by the time the pandemic hit, but used by a few people right up to the end. He liked to flip through them later at quiet moments. He claimed he remembered all the shows: starships, sitcom living rooms with enormous sofas, police officers sprinting through the streets of New York, courtrooms with stern-faced judges presiding. He looked for books of poetry¡ªeven rarer than TV Guide copies¡ªand studied these in the evenings or while he was walking with the Symphony.


    When Kirsten was in the houses, she searched for celebrity-gossip magazines, because once, when she was sixteen years old, she¡¯d flipped through a magazine on a dust-blackened side table and found her past:


    Happy Reunion: Arthur Leander Picks Up Son Tyler in LAX


    SCRUFFY ARTHUR GREETS SEVEN-YEAR-OLD TYLER,


    WHO LIVES IN JERUSALEM WITH HIS MOTHER,


    MODEL/ACTRESS ELIZABETH COLTON.


    The photograph: Arthur with a three-day beard, rumpled clothes, a baseball cap, carrying a small boy who beamed up at his father¡¯s face while Arthur smiled at the camera. The Georgia Flu would arrive in a year.


    ¡°I knew him,¡± she¡¯d told August, breathless. ¡°He gave me the comics I showed you!¡± And August had nodded and asked to see the comics again.


    There were countless things about the pre-collapse world that Kirsten couldn¡¯t remember¡ªher street address, her mother¡¯s face, the TV shows that August never stopped talking about¡ªbut she did remember Arthur Leander, and after that first sighting she went through every magazine she could find in search of him. She collected fragments, stored in a ziplock bag in her backpack. A picture of Arthur alone on a beach, looking pensive and out of shape. A picture of him with his first wife, Miranda, and then later with his second wife, Elizabeth, a malnourished-looking blonde who didn¡¯t smile for cameras. Then with their son, who was about the same age as Kirsten, and later still with a third wife who looked very similar to the second one.


    ¡°You¡¯re like an archaeologist,¡± Charlie said, when Kirsten showed off her findings. Charlie had wanted to be an archaeologist when she was little. She was the second cello and one of Kirsten¡¯s closest friends.


    Nothing in Kirsten¡¯s collection suggested the Arthur Leander she remembered, but what did she actually remember? Arthur was a fleeting impression of kindness and gray hair, a man who¡¯d once pressed two comic books into her hands¡ª¡°I have a present for you,¡± she was almost certain he¡¯d said¡ªand sometime after this moment, the clearest memory she retained from before the collapse: a stage, a man in a suit talking to her while Arthur lay still on his back with paramedics leaning over him, voices and crying and people gathering, snow somehow falling even though they were indoors, electric light blazing down upon them.


    8


    THE COMICS ARTHUR LEANDER gave her: two issues from a series no one else in the Symphony has ever heard of, Dr. Eleven, Vol. 1, No. 1: Station Eleven and Dr. Eleven, Vol. 1, No. 2: The Pursuit. By Year Twenty, Kirsten has them memorized.


    Dr. Eleven is a physicist. He lives on a space station, but it¡¯s a highly advanced space station that was designed to resemble a small planet. There are deep blue seas and rocky islands linked by bridges, orange and crimson skies with two moons on the horizon. The contrabassoon, who prior to the collapse was in the printing business, told Kirsten that the comics had been produced at great expense, all those bright images, that archival paper, so actually not comics at all in the traditionally mass-produced sense, possibly someone¡¯s vanity project. Who would that someone have been? There is no biographical information in either issue, initials in place of the author¡¯s name. ¡°By M. C.¡± In the inside cover of the first issue, someone has written ¡°Copy 2 of 10¡± in pencil. In the second issue, the notation is ¡°Copy 3 of 10.¡± Is it possible that only ten copies of each of these books exist in the world?

 Page 28

    Kirsten¡¯s taken care of the comics as best she can but they¡¯re dog-eared now, worn soft at the edges. The first issue falls open to a two-page spread. Dr. Eleven stands on dark rocks overlooking an indigo sea at twilight. Small boats move between islands, wind turbines spinning on the horizon. He holds his fedora in his hand. A small white animal stands by his side. (Several of the older Symphony members have confirmed that this animal is a dog, but it isn¡¯t like any dog Kirsten¡¯s ever seen. Its name is Luli. It looks like a cross between a fox and a cloud.) A line of text across the bottom of the frame: I stood looking over my damaged home and tried to forget the sweetness of life on Earth.


    9


    THE SYMPHONY ARRIVED IN St. Deborah by the Water in the midafternoon. Before the collapse, it had been one of those places that aren¡¯t definitely in one town or another¡ªa gas station and a few chain restaurants strung out along a road with a motel and a Walmart. The town marked the southwestern border of the Symphony¡¯s territory, nothing much beyond it so far as anyone knew.


    They¡¯d left Charlie and the sixth guitar here two years ago, Charlie pregnant with the sixth guitar¡¯s baby, arrangements made for them to stay in the former Wendy¡¯s by the gas station so she wouldn¡¯t have to give birth on the road. Now the Symphony came upon a sentry posted at the north end of town, a boy of about fifteen sitting under a rainbow beach umbrella by the roadside. ¡°I remember you,¡± he said when they reached him. ¡°You can set up camp at the Walmart.¡±


    The Symphony moved through St. Deborah by the Water at a deliberately slow pace, the first trumpet playing a solo from a Vivaldi concerto, but what was strange was that the music drew almost no onlookers as they passed. In Traverse City the crowd following them down the street upon their arrival had swelled to a hundred, but here only four or five people came to their doors or emerged from around the sides of buildings to stare, unsmiling, and none of them were Charlie or the sixth guitar.


    The Walmart was at the south end of town, the parking lot wavering in the heat. The Symphony parked the caravans near the broken doors, set about the familiar rituals of taking care of the horses and arguing about which play to perform or if it should just be music tonight, and still neither Charlie nor the sixth guitar appeared.


    ¡°They¡¯re probably just off working somewhere,¡± August said, but it seemed to Kirsten that the town was too empty. Mirages were forming in the distance, phantom pools on the road. A man pushing a wheelbarrow seemed to walk on water. A woman carried a bundle of laundry between buildings. Kirsten saw no one else.


    ¡°I¡¯d suggest Lear for tonight,¡± said Sayid, an actor, ¡°but I don¡¯t know that we want to make this place more depressing.¡±


    ¡°For once I agree with you,¡± Kirsten said. The other actors were arguing. King Lear, because they¡¯d been rehearsing it all week¡ªAugust looked nervous¡ªor Hamlet, because they hadn¡¯t performed it in a month?


    ¡°A Midsummer Night¡¯s Dream,¡± Gil said, breaking an impasse. ¡°I believe the evening calls for fairies.¡±


    ¡°Is all our company here?¡±


    ¡°You were best to call them generally, man by man, according to the scrip.¡± Jackson had been playing Bottom for a decade and was the only one who¡¯d managed to go off-book today. Even Kirsten had to look at the text twice. She hadn¡¯t played Titania in weeks.


    ¡°This place seems quiet, doesn¡¯t it?¡± Dieter was standing with Kirsten just outside the action of the rehearsal.


    ¡°It¡¯s creepy. You remember the last time we were here? Ten or fifteen kids followed us through town when we arrived and watched the rehearsal.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re up,¡± Dieter said.


    ¡°I¡¯m not misremembering, am I?¡± Kirsten was stepping into the play. ¡°They crowded all around us.¡±


    Dieter frowned, looking down the empty road.


    ¡°¡­ But room, fairy!¡± said Alexandra, who was playing Puck, ¡°here comes Oberon.¡±


    ¡°And here my mistress,¡± said Lin, who was playing the fairy. ¡°Would that he were gone!¡±


    ¡°Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.¡± Sayid carried himself with a regality that Kirsten had fallen in love with once. Here in this parking lot in a pressing heat wave, patches of sweat under the arms of his T-shirt, knee-torn jeans, he was perfectly credible as a king.


    ¡°What, jealous Oberon?¡± Kirsten stepped forward as steadily as possible. They¡¯d been a couple for two years, until four months earlier, when she¡¯d slept with a traveling peddler more or less out of boredom, and now she had trouble meeting his eyes when they did A Midsummer Night¡¯s Dream together. ¡°Fairies, skip hence. I have forsworn his bed and company.¡± Audible snickering from the sidelines at this. Sayid smirked.

 Page 29

    Kirsten¡¯s taken care of the comics as best she can but they¡¯re dog-eared now, worn soft at the edges. The first issue falls open to a two-page spread. Dr. Eleven stands on dark rocks overlooking an indigo sea at twilight. Small boats move between islands, wind turbines spinning on the horizon. He holds his fedora in his hand. A small white animal stands by his side. (Several of the older Symphony members have confirmed that this animal is a dog, but it isn¡¯t like any dog Kirsten¡¯s ever seen. Its name is Luli. It looks like a cross between a fox and a cloud.) A line of text across the bottom of the frame: I stood looking over my damaged home and tried to forget the sweetness of life on Earth.


    9


    THE SYMPHONY ARRIVED IN St. Deborah by the Water in the midafternoon. Before the collapse, it had been one of those places that aren¡¯t definitely in one town or another¡ªa gas station and a few chain restaurants strung out along a road with a motel and a Walmart. The town marked the southwestern border of the Symphony¡¯s territory, nothing much beyond it so far as anyone knew.


    They¡¯d left Charlie and the sixth guitar here two years ago, Charlie pregnant with the sixth guitar¡¯s baby, arrangements made for them to stay in the former Wendy¡¯s by the gas station so she wouldn¡¯t have to give birth on the road. Now the Symphony came upon a sentry posted at the north end of town, a boy of about fifteen sitting under a rainbow beach umbrella by the roadside. ¡°I remember you,¡± he said when they reached him. ¡°You can set up camp at the Walmart.¡±


    The Symphony moved through St. Deborah by the Water at a deliberately slow pace, the first trumpet playing a solo from a Vivaldi concerto, but what was strange was that the music drew almost no onlookers as they passed. In Traverse City the crowd following them down the street upon their arrival had swelled to a hundred, but here only four or five people came to their doors or emerged from around the sides of buildings to stare, unsmiling, and none of them were Charlie or the sixth guitar.


    The Walmart was at the south end of town, the parking lot wavering in the heat. The Symphony parked the caravans near the broken doors, set about the familiar rituals of taking care of the horses and arguing about which play to perform or if it should just be music tonight, and still neither Charlie nor the sixth guitar appeared.


    ¡°They¡¯re probably just off working somewhere,¡± August said, but it seemed to Kirsten that the town was too empty. Mirages were forming in the distance, phantom pools on the road. A man pushing a wheelbarrow seemed to walk on water. A woman carried a bundle of laundry between buildings. Kirsten saw no one else.


    ¡°I¡¯d suggest Lear for tonight,¡± said Sayid, an actor, ¡°but I don¡¯t know that we want to make this place more depressing.¡±


    ¡°For once I agree with you,¡± Kirsten said. The other actors were arguing. King Lear, because they¡¯d been rehearsing it all week¡ªAugust looked nervous¡ªor Hamlet, because they hadn¡¯t performed it in a month?


    ¡°A Midsummer Night¡¯s Dream,¡± Gil said, breaking an impasse. ¡°I believe the evening calls for fairies.¡±


    ¡°Is all our company here?¡±


    ¡°You were best to call them generally, man by man, according to the scrip.¡± Jackson had been playing Bottom for a decade and was the only one who¡¯d managed to go off-book today. Even Kirsten had to look at the text twice. She hadn¡¯t played Titania in weeks.


    ¡°This place seems quiet, doesn¡¯t it?¡± Dieter was standing with Kirsten just outside the action of the rehearsal.


    ¡°It¡¯s creepy. You remember the last time we were here? Ten or fifteen kids followed us through town when we arrived and watched the rehearsal.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re up,¡± Dieter said.


    ¡°I¡¯m not misremembering, am I?¡± Kirsten was stepping into the play. ¡°They crowded all around us.¡±


    Dieter frowned, looking down the empty road.


    ¡°¡­ But room, fairy!¡± said Alexandra, who was playing Puck, ¡°here comes Oberon.¡±


    ¡°And here my mistress,¡± said Lin, who was playing the fairy. ¡°Would that he were gone!¡±


    ¡°Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.¡± Sayid carried himself with a regality that Kirsten had fallen in love with once. Here in this parking lot in a pressing heat wave, patches of sweat under the arms of his T-shirt, knee-torn jeans, he was perfectly credible as a king.


    ¡°What, jealous Oberon?¡± Kirsten stepped forward as steadily as possible. They¡¯d been a couple for two years, until four months earlier, when she¡¯d slept with a traveling peddler more or less out of boredom, and now she had trouble meeting his eyes when they did A Midsummer Night¡¯s Dream together. ¡°Fairies, skip hence. I have forsworn his bed and company.¡± Audible snickering from the sidelines at this. Sayid smirked.

 Page 30

    ¡°Christ,¡± she heard Dieter mutter, behind her, ¡°is this really necessary?¡±


    ¡°Tarry, rash wanton,¡± Sayid said, drawing out the words. ¡°Am I not thy lord?¡±


    10


    THE PROBLEM WITH THE Traveling Symphony was the same problem suffered by every group of people everywhere since before the collapse, undoubtedly since well before the beginning of recorded history. Start, for example, with the third cello: he had been waging a war of attrition with Dieter for some months following a careless remark Dieter had made about the perils of practicing an instrument in dangerous territory, the way the notes can carry for a mile on a clear day. Dieter hadn¡¯t noticed. Dieter did, however, harbor considerable resentment toward the second horn, because of something she¡¯d once said about his acting. This resentment didn¡¯t go unnoticed¡ªthe second horn thought he was being petty¡ªbut when the second horn was thinking of people she didn¡¯t like very much, she ranked him well below the seventh guitar¡ªthere weren¡¯t actually seven guitars in the Symphony, but the guitarists had a tradition of not changing their numbers when another guitarist died or left, so that currently the Symphony roster included guitars four, seven, and eight, with the location of the sixth presently in question, because they were done rehearsing A Midsummer Night¡¯s Dream in the Walmart parking lot, they were hanging the Midsummer Night¡¯s Dream backdrop between the caravans, they¡¯d been in St. Deborah by the Water for hours now and why hadn¡¯t he come to them? Anyway, the seventh guitar, whose eyesight was so bad that he couldn¡¯t do most of the routine tasks that had to be done, the repairs and hunting and such, which would have been fine if he¡¯d found some other way to help out but he hadn¡¯t, he was essentially dead weight as far as the second horn was concerned. The seventh guitar was a nervous person, because he was nearly blind. He¡¯d been able to see reasonably well with an extremely thick pair of glasses, but he¡¯d lost these six years ago and since then he¡¯d lived in a confusing landscape distilled to pure color according to season¡ªsummer mostly green, winter mostly gray and white¡ªin which blurred figures swam into view and then receded before he could figure out who they were. He couldn¡¯t tell if his headaches were caused by straining to see or by his anxiety at never being able to see what was coming, but he did know the situation wasn¡¯t helped by the first flute, who had a habit of sighing loudly whenever the seventh guitar had to stop rehearsal to ask for clarification on the score that he couldn¡¯t see.


    But the first flute was less irritated by the seventh guitar than she was by the second violin, August, who was forever missing rehearsals, always off somewhere breaking into another house with Kirsten and, until recently, Charlie, like he thought the Symphony was a scavenging outfit who played music on the side. (¡°If he wanted to join a scavenging outfit,¡± she¡¯d said to the fourth guitar, ¡°why didn¡¯t he just join a scavenging outfit?¡± ¡°You know what the violins are like,¡± the fourth guitar had said.) August was annoyed by the third violin, who liked to make insinuating remarks about August and Kirsten even though they¡¯d only ever been close friends and had in fact made a secret pact to this effect¡ªfriends forever and nothing else¡ªsworn while drinking with locals one night behind the ruins of a bus depot in some town on the south end of Lake Huron¡ªand the third violin resented the first violin following a long-ago argument about who had used the last of a batch of rosin, while the first violin was chilly to Sayid, because Sayid had rejected her overtures in favor of Kirsten, who expended considerable energy in trying to ignore the viola¡¯s habit of dropping random French words into sentences as though anyone else in the entire goddamned Symphony spoke French, while the viola harbored secret resentments against someone else, and so on and so forth, etc., and this collection of petty jealousies, neuroses, undiagnosed PTSD cases, and simmering resentments lived together, traveled together, rehearsed together, performed together 365 days of the year, permanent company, permanent tour. But what made it bearable were the friendships, of course, the camaraderie and the music and the Shakespeare, the moments of transcendent beauty and joy when it didn¡¯t matter who¡¯d used the last of the rosin on their bow or who anyone had slept with, although someone¡ªprobably Sayid¡ªhad written ¡°Sartre: Hell is other people¡± in pen inside one of the caravans, and someone else had scratched out ¡°other people¡± and substituted ¡°flutes.¡±


    People left the Symphony sometimes, but the ones who stayed understood something that was rarely spoken aloud. Civilization in Year Twenty was an archipelago of small towns. These towns had fought off ferals, buried their neighbors, lived and died and suffered together in the blood-drenched years just after the collapse, survived against unspeakable odds and then only by holding together into the calm, and these places didn¡¯t go out of their way to welcome outsiders.

 Page 31

    ¡°Christ,¡± she heard Dieter mutter, behind her, ¡°is this really necessary?¡±


    ¡°Tarry, rash wanton,¡± Sayid said, drawing out the words. ¡°Am I not thy lord?¡±


    10


    THE PROBLEM WITH THE Traveling Symphony was the same problem suffered by every group of people everywhere since before the collapse, undoubtedly since well before the beginning of recorded history. Start, for example, with the third cello: he had been waging a war of attrition with Dieter for some months following a careless remark Dieter had made about the perils of practicing an instrument in dangerous territory, the way the notes can carry for a mile on a clear day. Dieter hadn¡¯t noticed. Dieter did, however, harbor considerable resentment toward the second horn, because of something she¡¯d once said about his acting. This resentment didn¡¯t go unnoticed¡ªthe second horn thought he was being petty¡ªbut when the second horn was thinking of people she didn¡¯t like very much, she ranked him well below the seventh guitar¡ªthere weren¡¯t actually seven guitars in the Symphony, but the guitarists had a tradition of not changing their numbers when another guitarist died or left, so that currently the Symphony roster included guitars four, seven, and eight, with the location of the sixth presently in question, because they were done rehearsing A Midsummer Night¡¯s Dream in the Walmart parking lot, they were hanging the Midsummer Night¡¯s Dream backdrop between the caravans, they¡¯d been in St. Deborah by the Water for hours now and why hadn¡¯t he come to them? Anyway, the seventh guitar, whose eyesight was so bad that he couldn¡¯t do most of the routine tasks that had to be done, the repairs and hunting and such, which would have been fine if he¡¯d found some other way to help out but he hadn¡¯t, he was essentially dead weight as far as the second horn was concerned. The seventh guitar was a nervous person, because he was nearly blind. He¡¯d been able to see reasonably well with an extremely thick pair of glasses, but he¡¯d lost these six years ago and since then he¡¯d lived in a confusing landscape distilled to pure color according to season¡ªsummer mostly green, winter mostly gray and white¡ªin which blurred figures swam into view and then receded before he could figure out who they were. He couldn¡¯t tell if his headaches were caused by straining to see or by his anxiety at never being able to see what was coming, but he did know the situation wasn¡¯t helped by the first flute, who had a habit of sighing loudly whenever the seventh guitar had to stop rehearsal to ask for clarification on the score that he couldn¡¯t see.


    But the first flute was less irritated by the seventh guitar than she was by the second violin, August, who was forever missing rehearsals, always off somewhere breaking into another house with Kirsten and, until recently, Charlie, like he thought the Symphony was a scavenging outfit who played music on the side. (¡°If he wanted to join a scavenging outfit,¡± she¡¯d said to the fourth guitar, ¡°why didn¡¯t he just join a scavenging outfit?¡± ¡°You know what the violins are like,¡± the fourth guitar had said.) August was annoyed by the third violin, who liked to make insinuating remarks about August and Kirsten even though they¡¯d only ever been close friends and had in fact made a secret pact to this effect¡ªfriends forever and nothing else¡ªsworn while drinking with locals one night behind the ruins of a bus depot in some town on the south end of Lake Huron¡ªand the third violin resented the first violin following a long-ago argument about who had used the last of a batch of rosin, while the first violin was chilly to Sayid, because Sayid had rejected her overtures in favor of Kirsten, who expended considerable energy in trying to ignore the viola¡¯s habit of dropping random French words into sentences as though anyone else in the entire goddamned Symphony spoke French, while the viola harbored secret resentments against someone else, and so on and so forth, etc., and this collection of petty jealousies, neuroses, undiagnosed PTSD cases, and simmering resentments lived together, traveled together, rehearsed together, performed together 365 days of the year, permanent company, permanent tour. But what made it bearable were the friendships, of course, the camaraderie and the music and the Shakespeare, the moments of transcendent beauty and joy when it didn¡¯t matter who¡¯d used the last of the rosin on their bow or who anyone had slept with, although someone¡ªprobably Sayid¡ªhad written ¡°Sartre: Hell is other people¡± in pen inside one of the caravans, and someone else had scratched out ¡°other people¡± and substituted ¡°flutes.¡±


    People left the Symphony sometimes, but the ones who stayed understood something that was rarely spoken aloud. Civilization in Year Twenty was an archipelago of small towns. These towns had fought off ferals, buried their neighbors, lived and died and suffered together in the blood-drenched years just after the collapse, survived against unspeakable odds and then only by holding together into the calm, and these places didn¡¯t go out of their way to welcome outsiders.

 Page 32

    ¡°Small towns weren¡¯t even easy before,¡± August said once at three in the morning, the one time Kirsten remembered talking about this with anyone, in the cold of a spring night near the town of New Phoenix. She was fifteen at the time, which made August eighteen, and she¡¯d only been with the Symphony for a year. In those days she had considerable trouble sleeping and often sat up with the night watch. August remembered his pre-pandemic life as an endless sequence of kids who¡¯d looked him over and uttered variations on ¡°You¡¯re not from around here, are you?¡± in various accents, these encounters interspersed with moving trucks. If it was hard to break into new places then, in that ludicrously easy world where food was on shelves in supermarkets and travel was as easy as taking a seat in a gasoline-powered machine and water came out of taps, it was several orders of magnitude more difficult now. The Symphony was insufferable, hell was other flutes or other people or whoever had used the last of the rosin or whoever missed the most rehearsals, but the truth was that the Symphony was their only home.


    At the end of the Midsummer Night¡¯s Dream rehearsal, Kirsten stood by the caravans with the palms of her hands pressed hard to her forehead, trying to will away a headache.


    ¡°You okay?¡± August asked.


    ¡°Hell is other actors,¡± Kirsten said. ¡°Also ex-boyfriends.¡±


    ¡°Stick to musicians. I think we¡¯re generally saner.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m going to take a walk and see if I can find Charlie.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d come with you, but I¡¯m on dinner duty.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t mind going alone,¡± she said.


    A late-afternoon torpor had fallen over the town, the light thickening and shadows extending over the road. The road was disintegrating here as everywhere, deep fissures and potholes holding gardens of weeds. There were wildflowers alongside the vegetable patches at the edge of the pavement, Queen Anne¡¯s lace whispering against Kirsten¡¯s outstretched hand. She passed by the Motor Lodge where the oldest families in town lived, laundry flapping in the breeze, doors open on motel rooms, a little boy playing with a toy car between the tomato plants in the vegetable garden.


    The pleasure of being alone for once, away from the clamor of the Symphony. It was possible to look up at the McDonald¡¯s sign and fleetingly imagine, by keeping her gaze directed upward so that there was only the sign and the sky, that this was still the former world and she could stop in for a burger. The last time she¡¯d been here, the IHOP had housed three or four families; she was surprised to see that it had been boarded up, a plank hammered across the door with an inscrutable symbol spray-painted in silver¡ªsomething like a lowercase t with an extra line toward the bottom. Two years ago she¡¯d been followed around town by a flock of children, but now she saw only two, the boy with the toy car and a girl of eleven or so who watched her from a doorway. A man with a gun and reflective sunglasses was standing guard at the gas station, whose windows were blocked by curtains that had once been flowered sheets. A young and very pregnant woman sunbathed on a lounge chair by the gas pumps, her eyes closed. The presence of an armed guard in the middle of town suggested that the place was unsafe¡ªhad they recently been raided?¡ªbut surely not as unsafe as all that, if a pregnant woman was sunbathing in the open. It didn¡¯t quite make sense. The McDonald¡¯s had housed two families, but where had they gone? Now a board had been nailed across the door, spray-painted with that same odd symbol.


    The Wendy¡¯s was a low square building with the look of having been slapped together from a kit in an architecturally careless era, but it had a beautiful front door. It was a replacement, solid wood, and someone had taken the trouble to carve a row of flowers alongside the carved handle. Kirsten ran her fingertips over the wooden petals before she knocked.


    How many times had she imagined this moment, over two years of traveling apart from her friend? Knocking on the flowered door, Charlie answering with a baby in her arms, tears and laughter, the sixth guitar grinning beside her. I have missed you so much. But the woman who answered the door was unfamiliar.


    ¡°Good afternoon,¡± Kirsten said. ¡°I¡¯m looking for Charlie.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, who?¡± The woman¡¯s tone wasn¡¯t unfriendly, but there was no recognition in her eyes. She was about Kirsten¡¯s age or a little younger, and it seemed to Kirsten that she wasn¡¯t well. She was very pale and too thin, black circles under her eyes.


    ¡°Charlie. Charlotte Harrison. She was here about two years ago.¡±


    ¡°Here in the Wendy¡¯s?¡±

 Page 33

    ¡°Small towns weren¡¯t even easy before,¡± August said once at three in the morning, the one time Kirsten remembered talking about this with anyone, in the cold of a spring night near the town of New Phoenix. She was fifteen at the time, which made August eighteen, and she¡¯d only been with the Symphony for a year. In those days she had considerable trouble sleeping and often sat up with the night watch. August remembered his pre-pandemic life as an endless sequence of kids who¡¯d looked him over and uttered variations on ¡°You¡¯re not from around here, are you?¡± in various accents, these encounters interspersed with moving trucks. If it was hard to break into new places then, in that ludicrously easy world where food was on shelves in supermarkets and travel was as easy as taking a seat in a gasoline-powered machine and water came out of taps, it was several orders of magnitude more difficult now. The Symphony was insufferable, hell was other flutes or other people or whoever had used the last of the rosin or whoever missed the most rehearsals, but the truth was that the Symphony was their only home.


    At the end of the Midsummer Night¡¯s Dream rehearsal, Kirsten stood by the caravans with the palms of her hands pressed hard to her forehead, trying to will away a headache.


    ¡°You okay?¡± August asked.


    ¡°Hell is other actors,¡± Kirsten said. ¡°Also ex-boyfriends.¡±


    ¡°Stick to musicians. I think we¡¯re generally saner.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m going to take a walk and see if I can find Charlie.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d come with you, but I¡¯m on dinner duty.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t mind going alone,¡± she said.


    A late-afternoon torpor had fallen over the town, the light thickening and shadows extending over the road. The road was disintegrating here as everywhere, deep fissures and potholes holding gardens of weeds. There were wildflowers alongside the vegetable patches at the edge of the pavement, Queen Anne¡¯s lace whispering against Kirsten¡¯s outstretched hand. She passed by the Motor Lodge where the oldest families in town lived, laundry flapping in the breeze, doors open on motel rooms, a little boy playing with a toy car between the tomato plants in the vegetable garden.


    The pleasure of being alone for once, away from the clamor of the Symphony. It was possible to look up at the McDonald¡¯s sign and fleetingly imagine, by keeping her gaze directed upward so that there was only the sign and the sky, that this was still the former world and she could stop in for a burger. The last time she¡¯d been here, the IHOP had housed three or four families; she was surprised to see that it had been boarded up, a plank hammered across the door with an inscrutable symbol spray-painted in silver¡ªsomething like a lowercase t with an extra line toward the bottom. Two years ago she¡¯d been followed around town by a flock of children, but now she saw only two, the boy with the toy car and a girl of eleven or so who watched her from a doorway. A man with a gun and reflective sunglasses was standing guard at the gas station, whose windows were blocked by curtains that had once been flowered sheets. A young and very pregnant woman sunbathed on a lounge chair by the gas pumps, her eyes closed. The presence of an armed guard in the middle of town suggested that the place was unsafe¡ªhad they recently been raided?¡ªbut surely not as unsafe as all that, if a pregnant woman was sunbathing in the open. It didn¡¯t quite make sense. The McDonald¡¯s had housed two families, but where had they gone? Now a board had been nailed across the door, spray-painted with that same odd symbol.


    The Wendy¡¯s was a low square building with the look of having been slapped together from a kit in an architecturally careless era, but it had a beautiful front door. It was a replacement, solid wood, and someone had taken the trouble to carve a row of flowers alongside the carved handle. Kirsten ran her fingertips over the wooden petals before she knocked.


    How many times had she imagined this moment, over two years of traveling apart from her friend? Knocking on the flowered door, Charlie answering with a baby in her arms, tears and laughter, the sixth guitar grinning beside her. I have missed you so much. But the woman who answered the door was unfamiliar.


    ¡°Good afternoon,¡± Kirsten said. ¡°I¡¯m looking for Charlie.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, who?¡± The woman¡¯s tone wasn¡¯t unfriendly, but there was no recognition in her eyes. She was about Kirsten¡¯s age or a little younger, and it seemed to Kirsten that she wasn¡¯t well. She was very pale and too thin, black circles under her eyes.


    ¡°Charlie. Charlotte Harrison. She was here about two years ago.¡±


    ¡°Here in the Wendy¡¯s?¡±

 Page 34

    ¡°Yes.¡± Oh Charlie, where are you? ¡°She¡¯s a friend of mine, a cellist. She was here with her husband, the sixth¡ªher husband, Jeremy. She was pregnant.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve only been here a year, but maybe someone else here would know. Would you like to come in?¡±


    Kirsten stepped into an airless corridor. It opened into a common room at the back of the building, where once there¡¯d been an industrial kitchen. She saw a cornfield through the open back door, stalks swaying for a dozen yards or so before the wall of the forest. An older woman sat in a chair by the doorway, knitting. Kirsten recognized the local midwife.


    ¡°Maria,¡± she said.


    Maria was backlit by the open door behind her. It was impossible to see the expression on her face when she looked up.


    ¡°You¡¯re with the Symphony,¡± she said. ¡°I remember you.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m looking for Charlie and Jeremy.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, they left town.¡±


    ¡°Left? Why would they leave? Where did they go?¡±


    The midwife glanced at the woman who¡¯d shown Kirsten in. The woman looked at the floor. Neither spoke.


    ¡°At least tell me when,¡± Kirsten said. ¡°How long have they been gone?¡±


    ¡°A little more than a year.¡±


    ¡°Did she have her baby?¡±


    ¡°A little girl, Annabel. Perfectly healthy.¡±


    ¡°And is that all you¡¯ll tell me?¡± Kirsten was entertaining a pleasant fantasy of holding a knife to the midwife¡¯s throat.


    ¡°Alissa,¡± Maria said, to the other woman, ¡°you look so pale, darling. Why don¡¯t you go lie down?¡±


    Alissa disappeared through a curtained doorway into another room. The midwife stood quickly. ¡°Your friend rejected the prophet¡¯s advances,¡± she whispered, close to Kirsten¡¯s ear. ¡°They had to leave town. Stop asking questions and tell your people to leave here as quickly as possible.¡± She settled back into her chair and picked up her knitting. ¡°Thank you for stopping by,¡± she said, in a voice loud enough to be heard in the next room. ¡°Is the Symphony performing tonight?¡±


    ¡°A Midsummer Night¡¯s Dream. With orchestral accompaniment.¡± Kirsten was having trouble keeping her voice steady. That after two years the Symphony might arrive in St. Deborah by the Water to find that Charlie and Jeremy had already left was a possibility that hadn¡¯t occurred to her. ¡°This town seems different from when we were here last,¡± she said.


    ¡°Oh,¡± the midwife said brightly, ¡°it is! It¡¯s completely different.¡±


    Kirsten stepped outside and the door closed behind her. The girl she¡¯d noticed in a doorway earlier had followed her here and was standing across the road, watching. Kirsten nodded to her. The girl nodded back. A serious child, unkempt in a way that suggested neglect, her hair tangled, her T-shirt collar torn. Kirsten wanted to call out to her, to ask if she knew where Charlie and Jeremy had gone, but something in the girl¡¯s stare unnerved her. Had someone told the girl to watch her? Kirsten turned away to continue down the road, wandering with studied casualness and trying to convey the impression of being interested only in the late-afternoon light, the wildflowers, the dragonflies gliding on currents of air. When she glanced over her shoulder, the girl was trailing behind her at some distance.


    Two years ago she¡¯d done this walk with Charlie, both of them delaying the inevitable in the final hours before the Symphony left. ¡°These two years will go quickly,¡± Charlie had said, and they had gone quickly, when Kirsten considered it. Up to Kincardine, back down the coastline and down the St. Clair River, winter in one of the St. Clair fishing towns. Performances of Hamlet and Lear in the town hall, which had previously been a high-school gymnasium, The Winter¡¯s Tale, Romeo and Juliet, the musicians performing almost every night, then A Midsummer Night¡¯s Dream when the weather grew warmer. An illness that passed through the Symphony in spring, a high fever and vomiting, half the Symphony got sick but everyone recovered except the third guitar¡ªa grave by the roadside outside of New Phoenix¡ªand we continued onward, Charlie, like always, all those months, and always I thought of you here in this town.


    There was someone on the road ahead, walking quickly to meet her. The sun was skimming the tops of the trees now, the road in shadow, and it was a moment before she recognized Dieter.


    ¡°We should be getting back,¡± she said.


    ¡°I have to show you something first. You¡¯ll want to see this.¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡± She didn¡¯t like his tone. Something had rattled him. She told him what the midwife had said while they walked.

 Page 35

    ¡°Yes.¡± Oh Charlie, where are you? ¡°She¡¯s a friend of mine, a cellist. She was here with her husband, the sixth¡ªher husband, Jeremy. She was pregnant.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve only been here a year, but maybe someone else here would know. Would you like to come in?¡±


    Kirsten stepped into an airless corridor. It opened into a common room at the back of the building, where once there¡¯d been an industrial kitchen. She saw a cornfield through the open back door, stalks swaying for a dozen yards or so before the wall of the forest. An older woman sat in a chair by the doorway, knitting. Kirsten recognized the local midwife.


    ¡°Maria,¡± she said.


    Maria was backlit by the open door behind her. It was impossible to see the expression on her face when she looked up.


    ¡°You¡¯re with the Symphony,¡± she said. ¡°I remember you.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m looking for Charlie and Jeremy.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, they left town.¡±


    ¡°Left? Why would they leave? Where did they go?¡±


    The midwife glanced at the woman who¡¯d shown Kirsten in. The woman looked at the floor. Neither spoke.


    ¡°At least tell me when,¡± Kirsten said. ¡°How long have they been gone?¡±


    ¡°A little more than a year.¡±


    ¡°Did she have her baby?¡±


    ¡°A little girl, Annabel. Perfectly healthy.¡±


    ¡°And is that all you¡¯ll tell me?¡± Kirsten was entertaining a pleasant fantasy of holding a knife to the midwife¡¯s throat.


    ¡°Alissa,¡± Maria said, to the other woman, ¡°you look so pale, darling. Why don¡¯t you go lie down?¡±


    Alissa disappeared through a curtained doorway into another room. The midwife stood quickly. ¡°Your friend rejected the prophet¡¯s advances,¡± she whispered, close to Kirsten¡¯s ear. ¡°They had to leave town. Stop asking questions and tell your people to leave here as quickly as possible.¡± She settled back into her chair and picked up her knitting. ¡°Thank you for stopping by,¡± she said, in a voice loud enough to be heard in the next room. ¡°Is the Symphony performing tonight?¡±


    ¡°A Midsummer Night¡¯s Dream. With orchestral accompaniment.¡± Kirsten was having trouble keeping her voice steady. That after two years the Symphony might arrive in St. Deborah by the Water to find that Charlie and Jeremy had already left was a possibility that hadn¡¯t occurred to her. ¡°This town seems different from when we were here last,¡± she said.


    ¡°Oh,¡± the midwife said brightly, ¡°it is! It¡¯s completely different.¡±


    Kirsten stepped outside and the door closed behind her. The girl she¡¯d noticed in a doorway earlier had followed her here and was standing across the road, watching. Kirsten nodded to her. The girl nodded back. A serious child, unkempt in a way that suggested neglect, her hair tangled, her T-shirt collar torn. Kirsten wanted to call out to her, to ask if she knew where Charlie and Jeremy had gone, but something in the girl¡¯s stare unnerved her. Had someone told the girl to watch her? Kirsten turned away to continue down the road, wandering with studied casualness and trying to convey the impression of being interested only in the late-afternoon light, the wildflowers, the dragonflies gliding on currents of air. When she glanced over her shoulder, the girl was trailing behind her at some distance.


    Two years ago she¡¯d done this walk with Charlie, both of them delaying the inevitable in the final hours before the Symphony left. ¡°These two years will go quickly,¡± Charlie had said, and they had gone quickly, when Kirsten considered it. Up to Kincardine, back down the coastline and down the St. Clair River, winter in one of the St. Clair fishing towns. Performances of Hamlet and Lear in the town hall, which had previously been a high-school gymnasium, The Winter¡¯s Tale, Romeo and Juliet, the musicians performing almost every night, then A Midsummer Night¡¯s Dream when the weather grew warmer. An illness that passed through the Symphony in spring, a high fever and vomiting, half the Symphony got sick but everyone recovered except the third guitar¡ªa grave by the roadside outside of New Phoenix¡ªand we continued onward, Charlie, like always, all those months, and always I thought of you here in this town.


    There was someone on the road ahead, walking quickly to meet her. The sun was skimming the tops of the trees now, the road in shadow, and it was a moment before she recognized Dieter.


    ¡°We should be getting back,¡± she said.


    ¡°I have to show you something first. You¡¯ll want to see this.¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡± She didn¡¯t like his tone. Something had rattled him. She told him what the midwife had said while they walked.

 Page 36

    He frowned. ¡°She said they¡¯d left? Are you sure that¡¯s what she said?¡±


    ¡°Of course I¡¯m sure. Why?¡± At the northern edge of town a new building had been under way at the very end, the foundation poured just before the Georgia Flu arrived. It was a concrete pad, bristling with metal bars, overgrown now with vines. Dieter stepped off the road and led her down a path behind it.


    All towns have graveyards, and St. Deborah by the Water¡¯s had grown considerably since she¡¯d wandered here two years ago with Charlie. There were perhaps three hundred graves, spaced in neat rows between the abandoned foundation and the forest. In the newest section, freshly painted markers blazed white in the grass. She saw the names at some distance.


    ¡°No,¡± she said, ¡°oh no, please ¡­¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not them,¡± Dieter said. ¡°I have to show you this, but it isn¡¯t them.¡±


    Three markers in a row in the afternoon shadows, names painted neatly in black: Charlie Harrison, Jeremy Leung, Annabel (infant). All three with the same date: July 20, Year 19.


    ¡°It¡¯s not them,¡± Dieter said again. ¡°Look at the ground. No one¡¯s buried under those markers.¡±


    The horror of seeing their names there. She was weakened by the sight. But he was right, she realized. The earliest markers at the far end of the graveyard were unmistakably planted above graves, the dirt mounded. This pattern continued through to a cluster of thirty graves from a year and a half ago, the dates of death within a two-week span. An illness obviously, something that spread fast and vicious in the winter cold. But after this, the irregularities began: about half of the graves following the winter illness looked like graves, while the others, Charlie¡¯s and Jeremy¡¯s and their baby¡¯s among them, were markers driven into perfectly flat and undisturbed earth.


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t make sense,¡± she said.


    ¡°We could ask your shadow.¡±


    The girl who¡¯d followed Kirsten through town was standing at the edge of the graveyard by the foundation, watching them.


    ¡°You,¡± Kirsten said.


    The girl stepped back.


    ¡°Did you know Charlie and Jeremy?¡±


    The girl glanced over her shoulder. When she returned her gaze to Kirsten and Dieter, her nod was barely perceptible.


    ¡°Are they ¡­?¡± Kirsten gestured toward the graves.


    ¡°They left,¡± the girl said very quietly.


    ¡°It speaks!¡± Dieter said.


    ¡°When did they¡ª¡± But the girl¡¯s nerve failed her before Kirsten could finish the question. She darted out of sight behind the foundation, and Kirsten heard her footsteps on the road. Kirsten was left alone with Dieter, with the graves and the forest. They looked at one another, but there was nothing to say.


    A short time after they returned to the Walmart, the tuba returned to camp with his own report. He¡¯d tracked down an acquaintance who lived in the motel. There¡¯d been an epidemic, the man had told him. Thirty people had died incandescent with fever, including the mayor. After this, a change in management, but the tuba¡¯s acquaintance had declined to elaborate on what he meant by this. He did say that twenty families had left since then, including Charlie and the sixth guitar and their baby. He said no one knew where they¡¯d gone, and he¡¯d told the tuba it was best not to ask.


    ¡°A change in management,¡± the conductor said. ¡°How corporate of them.¡± They¡¯d discussed the grave markers at some length. What did the graves mark, if not deaths? Did the markers await a future event?


    ¡°I told you,¡± Kirsten said, ¡°the midwife said there was a prophet.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s fantastic.¡± Sayid was unpacking a crate of candles without looking at anyone. The sixth guitar was one of his closest friends. ¡°Just what every town needs.¡±


    ¡°Someone must know where they went,¡± the conductor said. ¡°They must¡¯ve told someone. Doesn¡¯t anyone else have friends here?¡±


    ¡°I knew a guy who lived in the IHOP,¡± the third cello said, ¡°but I checked earlier and it was boarded up, and then someone in the Motor Lodge said he¡¯d left town last year. No one would tell me where Charlie and Jeremy went.¡±


    ¡°No one tells you anything here.¡± Kirsten wanted to cry but instead she stared at the pavement, pushing a pebble back and forth with her foot.


    ¡°How could we have left them here?¡± Lin shook out her fairy costume, a silver cocktail dress that shimmered like the scales of a fish, and a cloud of dust rose into the air. ¡°Graves,¡± she said. ¡°I can¡¯t even begin to¡ª¡±

 Page 37

    He frowned. ¡°She said they¡¯d left? Are you sure that¡¯s what she said?¡±


    ¡°Of course I¡¯m sure. Why?¡± At the northern edge of town a new building had been under way at the very end, the foundation poured just before the Georgia Flu arrived. It was a concrete pad, bristling with metal bars, overgrown now with vines. Dieter stepped off the road and led her down a path behind it.


    All towns have graveyards, and St. Deborah by the Water¡¯s had grown considerably since she¡¯d wandered here two years ago with Charlie. There were perhaps three hundred graves, spaced in neat rows between the abandoned foundation and the forest. In the newest section, freshly painted markers blazed white in the grass. She saw the names at some distance.


    ¡°No,¡± she said, ¡°oh no, please ¡­¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not them,¡± Dieter said. ¡°I have to show you this, but it isn¡¯t them.¡±


    Three markers in a row in the afternoon shadows, names painted neatly in black: Charlie Harrison, Jeremy Leung, Annabel (infant). All three with the same date: July 20, Year 19.


    ¡°It¡¯s not them,¡± Dieter said again. ¡°Look at the ground. No one¡¯s buried under those markers.¡±


    The horror of seeing their names there. She was weakened by the sight. But he was right, she realized. The earliest markers at the far end of the graveyard were unmistakably planted above graves, the dirt mounded. This pattern continued through to a cluster of thirty graves from a year and a half ago, the dates of death within a two-week span. An illness obviously, something that spread fast and vicious in the winter cold. But after this, the irregularities began: about half of the graves following the winter illness looked like graves, while the others, Charlie¡¯s and Jeremy¡¯s and their baby¡¯s among them, were markers driven into perfectly flat and undisturbed earth.


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t make sense,¡± she said.


    ¡°We could ask your shadow.¡±


    The girl who¡¯d followed Kirsten through town was standing at the edge of the graveyard by the foundation, watching them.


    ¡°You,¡± Kirsten said.


    The girl stepped back.


    ¡°Did you know Charlie and Jeremy?¡±


    The girl glanced over her shoulder. When she returned her gaze to Kirsten and Dieter, her nod was barely perceptible.


    ¡°Are they ¡­?¡± Kirsten gestured toward the graves.


    ¡°They left,¡± the girl said very quietly.


    ¡°It speaks!¡± Dieter said.


    ¡°When did they¡ª¡± But the girl¡¯s nerve failed her before Kirsten could finish the question. She darted out of sight behind the foundation, and Kirsten heard her footsteps on the road. Kirsten was left alone with Dieter, with the graves and the forest. They looked at one another, but there was nothing to say.


    A short time after they returned to the Walmart, the tuba returned to camp with his own report. He¡¯d tracked down an acquaintance who lived in the motel. There¡¯d been an epidemic, the man had told him. Thirty people had died incandescent with fever, including the mayor. After this, a change in management, but the tuba¡¯s acquaintance had declined to elaborate on what he meant by this. He did say that twenty families had left since then, including Charlie and the sixth guitar and their baby. He said no one knew where they¡¯d gone, and he¡¯d told the tuba it was best not to ask.


    ¡°A change in management,¡± the conductor said. ¡°How corporate of them.¡± They¡¯d discussed the grave markers at some length. What did the graves mark, if not deaths? Did the markers await a future event?


    ¡°I told you,¡± Kirsten said, ¡°the midwife said there was a prophet.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s fantastic.¡± Sayid was unpacking a crate of candles without looking at anyone. The sixth guitar was one of his closest friends. ¡°Just what every town needs.¡±


    ¡°Someone must know where they went,¡± the conductor said. ¡°They must¡¯ve told someone. Doesn¡¯t anyone else have friends here?¡±


    ¡°I knew a guy who lived in the IHOP,¡± the third cello said, ¡°but I checked earlier and it was boarded up, and then someone in the Motor Lodge said he¡¯d left town last year. No one would tell me where Charlie and Jeremy went.¡±


    ¡°No one tells you anything here.¡± Kirsten wanted to cry but instead she stared at the pavement, pushing a pebble back and forth with her foot.


    ¡°How could we have left them here?¡± Lin shook out her fairy costume, a silver cocktail dress that shimmered like the scales of a fish, and a cloud of dust rose into the air. ¡°Graves,¡± she said. ¡°I can¡¯t even begin to¡ª¡±

 Page 38

    ¡°Not graves,¡± Dieter said. ¡°Grave markers.¡±


    ¡°Towns change.¡± Gil leaned on his cane by the third caravan, gazing at the buildings and gardens of St. Deborah by the Water, at the haze of wildflowers along the edges of the road. The McDonald¡¯s sign caught the last of the sunlight. ¡°We couldn¡¯t have predicted.¡±


    ¡°There could be an explanation,¡± the third cello said, doubtful. ¡°They could have left and, I don¡¯t know, someone thought they were dead?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a prophet,¡± Kirsten said. ¡°There are grave markers with their names on them. The midwife said I should stop asking questions and that we should leave quickly. Did I mention that?¡±


    ¡°Did we not acknowledge you loudly enough the first six times you mentioned it?¡± Sayid asked.


    The conductor sighed. ¡°We can¡¯t leave till we know more,¡± she said. ¡°Let¡¯s get on with the evening, and we¡¯ll make inquiries after the show.¡±


    The caravans were parked end to end, the Midsummer Night¡¯s Dream backdrop¡ªsewn-together sheets, grimy now from years of travel, painted with a forest scene¡ªhung on them. Alexandra and Olivia had gathered branches and flowers to complete the effect, and a hundred candles marked the edges of the stage.


    ¡°I was talking to our fearless leader,¡± August said to Kirsten later, between tuning his instrument and going to join the rest of the string section, ¡°and she thinks Charlie and the sixth guitar must have gone south down the lakeshore.¡±


    ¡°Why south?¡±


    ¡°Because west¡¯s the water, and they didn¡¯t go north. We would¡¯ve run into them on the road.¡±


    The sun was setting, the citizens of St. Deborah by the Water gathering for the performance. Far fewer of them now than there had been, no more than thirty in two grim-faced rows on the grit of the former parking lot. A wolfish gray dog lay on its side at the end of the front row, its tongue lolling. The girl who¡¯d followed Kirsten was nowhere in sight.


    ¡°Is there anything to the south, though?¡±


    August shrugged. ¡°It¡¯s a lot of coastline,¡± he said. ¡°There¡¯s got to be something between here and Chicago, wouldn¡¯t you think?¡±


    ¡°They could¡¯ve gone inland.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s possible, but they know we never go into the interior. They¡¯d only go inland if they didn¡¯t want to see us again, and why would they ¡­¡± He shook his head. None of it made sense.


    ¡°They had a girl,¡± Kirsten said. ¡°Annabel.¡±


    ¡°That was Charlie¡¯s sister¡¯s name.¡±


    ¡°Places,¡± the conductor said, and August left to join the strings.


    11


    WHAT WAS LOST IN THE COLLAPSE: almost everything, almost everyone, but there is still such beauty. Twilight in the altered world, a performance of A Midsummer Night¡¯s Dream in a parking lot in the mysteriously named town of St. Deborah by the Water, Lake Michigan shining a half mile away. Kirsten as Titania, a crown of flowers on her close-cropped hair, the jagged scar on her cheekbone half-erased by candlelight. The audience is silent. Sayid, circling her in a tuxedo that Kirsten found in a dead man¡¯s closet near the town of East Jordan: ¡°Tarry, rash wanton. Am I not thy lord?¡±


    ¡°Then I must be thy lady.¡± Lines of a play written in 1594, the year London¡¯s theaters reopened after two seasons of plague. Or written possibly a year later, in 1595, a year before the death of Shakespeare¡¯s only son. Some centuries later on a distant continent, Kirsten moves across the stage in a cloud of painted fabric, half in rage, half in love. She wears a wedding dress that she scavenged from a house near New Petoskey, the chiffon and silk streaked with shades of blue from a child¡¯s watercolor kit.


    ¡°But with thy brawls,¡± she continues, ¡°thou hast disturbed our sport.¡± She never feels more alive than at these moments. When onstage she fears nothing. ¡°Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain, as in revenge, have sucked up from the sea contagious fogs.¡­¡±


    Pestilential, a note in the text explains, next to the word contagious, in Kirsten¡¯s favorite of the three versions of the text that the Symphony carries. Shakespeare was the third born to his parents, but the first to survive infancy. Four of his siblings died young. His son, Hamnet, died at eleven and left behind a twin. Plague closed the theaters again and again, death flickering over the landscape. And now in a twilight once more lit by candles, the age of electricity having come and gone, Titania turns to face her fairy king. ¡°Therefore the moon, the governess of floods, pale in her anger, washes all the air, that rheumatic diseases do abound.¡±

 Page 39

    ¡°Not graves,¡± Dieter said. ¡°Grave markers.¡±


    ¡°Towns change.¡± Gil leaned on his cane by the third caravan, gazing at the buildings and gardens of St. Deborah by the Water, at the haze of wildflowers along the edges of the road. The McDonald¡¯s sign caught the last of the sunlight. ¡°We couldn¡¯t have predicted.¡±


    ¡°There could be an explanation,¡± the third cello said, doubtful. ¡°They could have left and, I don¡¯t know, someone thought they were dead?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a prophet,¡± Kirsten said. ¡°There are grave markers with their names on them. The midwife said I should stop asking questions and that we should leave quickly. Did I mention that?¡±


    ¡°Did we not acknowledge you loudly enough the first six times you mentioned it?¡± Sayid asked.


    The conductor sighed. ¡°We can¡¯t leave till we know more,¡± she said. ¡°Let¡¯s get on with the evening, and we¡¯ll make inquiries after the show.¡±


    The caravans were parked end to end, the Midsummer Night¡¯s Dream backdrop¡ªsewn-together sheets, grimy now from years of travel, painted with a forest scene¡ªhung on them. Alexandra and Olivia had gathered branches and flowers to complete the effect, and a hundred candles marked the edges of the stage.


    ¡°I was talking to our fearless leader,¡± August said to Kirsten later, between tuning his instrument and going to join the rest of the string section, ¡°and she thinks Charlie and the sixth guitar must have gone south down the lakeshore.¡±


    ¡°Why south?¡±


    ¡°Because west¡¯s the water, and they didn¡¯t go north. We would¡¯ve run into them on the road.¡±


    The sun was setting, the citizens of St. Deborah by the Water gathering for the performance. Far fewer of them now than there had been, no more than thirty in two grim-faced rows on the grit of the former parking lot. A wolfish gray dog lay on its side at the end of the front row, its tongue lolling. The girl who¡¯d followed Kirsten was nowhere in sight.


    ¡°Is there anything to the south, though?¡±


    August shrugged. ¡°It¡¯s a lot of coastline,¡± he said. ¡°There¡¯s got to be something between here and Chicago, wouldn¡¯t you think?¡±


    ¡°They could¡¯ve gone inland.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s possible, but they know we never go into the interior. They¡¯d only go inland if they didn¡¯t want to see us again, and why would they ¡­¡± He shook his head. None of it made sense.


    ¡°They had a girl,¡± Kirsten said. ¡°Annabel.¡±


    ¡°That was Charlie¡¯s sister¡¯s name.¡±


    ¡°Places,¡± the conductor said, and August left to join the strings.


    11


    WHAT WAS LOST IN THE COLLAPSE: almost everything, almost everyone, but there is still such beauty. Twilight in the altered world, a performance of A Midsummer Night¡¯s Dream in a parking lot in the mysteriously named town of St. Deborah by the Water, Lake Michigan shining a half mile away. Kirsten as Titania, a crown of flowers on her close-cropped hair, the jagged scar on her cheekbone half-erased by candlelight. The audience is silent. Sayid, circling her in a tuxedo that Kirsten found in a dead man¡¯s closet near the town of East Jordan: ¡°Tarry, rash wanton. Am I not thy lord?¡±


    ¡°Then I must be thy lady.¡± Lines of a play written in 1594, the year London¡¯s theaters reopened after two seasons of plague. Or written possibly a year later, in 1595, a year before the death of Shakespeare¡¯s only son. Some centuries later on a distant continent, Kirsten moves across the stage in a cloud of painted fabric, half in rage, half in love. She wears a wedding dress that she scavenged from a house near New Petoskey, the chiffon and silk streaked with shades of blue from a child¡¯s watercolor kit.


    ¡°But with thy brawls,¡± she continues, ¡°thou hast disturbed our sport.¡± She never feels more alive than at these moments. When onstage she fears nothing. ¡°Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain, as in revenge, have sucked up from the sea contagious fogs.¡­¡±


    Pestilential, a note in the text explains, next to the word contagious, in Kirsten¡¯s favorite of the three versions of the text that the Symphony carries. Shakespeare was the third born to his parents, but the first to survive infancy. Four of his siblings died young. His son, Hamnet, died at eleven and left behind a twin. Plague closed the theaters again and again, death flickering over the landscape. And now in a twilight once more lit by candles, the age of electricity having come and gone, Titania turns to face her fairy king. ¡°Therefore the moon, the governess of floods, pale in her anger, washes all the air, that rheumatic diseases do abound.¡±

 Page 40

    Oberon watches her with his entourage of fairies. Titania speaks as if to herself now, Oberon forgotten. Her voice carries high and clear over the silent audience, over the string section waiting for their cue on stage left. ¡°And through this distemperature, we see the seasons alter.¡±


    All three caravans of the Traveling Symphony are labeled as such, THE TRAVELING SYMPHONY lettered in white on both sides, but the lead caravan carries an additional line of text: Because survival is insufficient.


    12


    THE AUDIENCE ROSE for a standing ovation. Kirsten stood in the state of suspension that always came over her at the end of performances, a sense of having flown very high and landed incompletely, her soul pulling upward out of her chest. A man in the front row had tears in his eyes. In the back row, another man whom she¡¯d noticed earlier¡ªhe alone had sat on a chair, the chair carried up from the gas station by a woman¡ªstepped forward and raised his hands over his head as he passed through the front row. The applause faded.


    ¡°My people,¡± he said. ¡°Please, be seated.¡± He was tall, in his late twenties or early thirties, with blond hair to his shoulders and a beard. He stepped over the half circle of candles to stand among the actors. The dog who¡¯d been lying by the front row sat up at attention.


    ¡°What a delight,¡± he said. ¡°What a marvelous spectacle.¡± There was something almost familiar in his face, but Kirsten couldn¡¯t place him. Sayid was frowning.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± the man said, to the actors and musicians. ¡°Let us all thank the Traveling Symphony for this beautiful respite from our daily cares.¡± He was smiling at each of them in turn. The audience applauded again, on cue, but quieter now. ¡°We are blessed,¡± he said, and as he raised his hands the applause stopped at once. The prophet. ¡°We are blessed to have these musicians and actors in our midst today.¡± Something in his tone made Kirsten want to run, a suggestion of a trapdoor waiting under every word. ¡°We have been blessed,¡± he said, ¡°in so many ways, have we not? We are blessed most of all in being alive today. We must ask ourselves, ¡®Why? Why were we spared?¡¯ ¡± He was silent for a moment, scanning the Symphony and the assembled crowd, but no one responded. ¡°I submit,¡± the prophet said, ¡°that everything that has ever happened on this earth has happened for a reason.¡±


    The conductor was standing by the string section, her hands clasped behind her back. She was very still.


    ¡°My people,¡± the prophet said, ¡°earlier in the day I was contemplating the flu, the great pandemic, and let me ask you this. Have you considered the perfection of the virus?¡± A ripple of murmurs and gasps moved through the audience, but the prophet raised a hand and they fell silent. ¡°Consider,¡± he said, ¡°those of you who remember the world before the Georgia Flu, consider the iterations of the illness that preceded it, those trifling outbreaks against which we were immunized as children, the flus of the past. There was the outbreak of 1918, my people, the timing obvious, divine punishment for the waste and slaughter of the First World War. But then, in the decades that followed? The flus came every season, but these were weak, inefficient viruses that struck down only the very old, the very young, and the very sick. And then came a virus like an avenging angel, unsurvivable, a microbe that reduced the population of the fallen world by, what? There were no more statisticians by then, my angels, but shall we say ninety-nine point ninety-nine percent? One person remaining out of every two hundred fifty, three hundred? I submit, my beloved people, that such a perfect agent of death could only be divine. For we have read of such a cleansing of the earth, have we not?¡±


    Kirsten met Dieter¡¯s gaze across the stage. He¡¯d played Theseus. He fiddled nervously with the cufflinks on his shirt.


    ¡°The flu,¡± the prophet said, ¡°the great cleansing that we suffered twenty years ago, that flu was our flood. The light we carry within us is the ark that carried Noah and his people over the face of the terrible waters, and I submit that we were saved¡±¡ªhis voice was rising¡ª¡°not only to bring the light, to spread the light, but to be the light. We were saved because we are the light. We are the pure.¡± Sweat ran down Kirsten¡¯s back under the silk of the dress. The dress, she noted absently, didn¡¯t smell very good. When had she last washed it? The prophet was still talking, about faith and light and destiny, divine plans revealed to him in dreams, the preparations they must make for the end of the world¡ª¡°For it has been revealed to me that the plague of twenty years ago was just the beginning, my angels, only an initial culling of the impure, that last year¡¯s pestilence was but further preview and there will be more cullings, far more cullings to come¡±¡ªand when his sermon was over he went to the conductor and spoke softly to her. She said something in response, and he stepped back with a laugh.

 Page 41

    Oberon watches her with his entourage of fairies. Titania speaks as if to herself now, Oberon forgotten. Her voice carries high and clear over the silent audience, over the string section waiting for their cue on stage left. ¡°And through this distemperature, we see the seasons alter.¡±


    All three caravans of the Traveling Symphony are labeled as such, THE TRAVELING SYMPHONY lettered in white on both sides, but the lead caravan carries an additional line of text: Because survival is insufficient.


    12


    THE AUDIENCE ROSE for a standing ovation. Kirsten stood in the state of suspension that always came over her at the end of performances, a sense of having flown very high and landed incompletely, her soul pulling upward out of her chest. A man in the front row had tears in his eyes. In the back row, another man whom she¡¯d noticed earlier¡ªhe alone had sat on a chair, the chair carried up from the gas station by a woman¡ªstepped forward and raised his hands over his head as he passed through the front row. The applause faded.


    ¡°My people,¡± he said. ¡°Please, be seated.¡± He was tall, in his late twenties or early thirties, with blond hair to his shoulders and a beard. He stepped over the half circle of candles to stand among the actors. The dog who¡¯d been lying by the front row sat up at attention.


    ¡°What a delight,¡± he said. ¡°What a marvelous spectacle.¡± There was something almost familiar in his face, but Kirsten couldn¡¯t place him. Sayid was frowning.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± the man said, to the actors and musicians. ¡°Let us all thank the Traveling Symphony for this beautiful respite from our daily cares.¡± He was smiling at each of them in turn. The audience applauded again, on cue, but quieter now. ¡°We are blessed,¡± he said, and as he raised his hands the applause stopped at once. The prophet. ¡°We are blessed to have these musicians and actors in our midst today.¡± Something in his tone made Kirsten want to run, a suggestion of a trapdoor waiting under every word. ¡°We have been blessed,¡± he said, ¡°in so many ways, have we not? We are blessed most of all in being alive today. We must ask ourselves, ¡®Why? Why were we spared?¡¯ ¡± He was silent for a moment, scanning the Symphony and the assembled crowd, but no one responded. ¡°I submit,¡± the prophet said, ¡°that everything that has ever happened on this earth has happened for a reason.¡±


    The conductor was standing by the string section, her hands clasped behind her back. She was very still.


    ¡°My people,¡± the prophet said, ¡°earlier in the day I was contemplating the flu, the great pandemic, and let me ask you this. Have you considered the perfection of the virus?¡± A ripple of murmurs and gasps moved through the audience, but the prophet raised a hand and they fell silent. ¡°Consider,¡± he said, ¡°those of you who remember the world before the Georgia Flu, consider the iterations of the illness that preceded it, those trifling outbreaks against which we were immunized as children, the flus of the past. There was the outbreak of 1918, my people, the timing obvious, divine punishment for the waste and slaughter of the First World War. But then, in the decades that followed? The flus came every season, but these were weak, inefficient viruses that struck down only the very old, the very young, and the very sick. And then came a virus like an avenging angel, unsurvivable, a microbe that reduced the population of the fallen world by, what? There were no more statisticians by then, my angels, but shall we say ninety-nine point ninety-nine percent? One person remaining out of every two hundred fifty, three hundred? I submit, my beloved people, that such a perfect agent of death could only be divine. For we have read of such a cleansing of the earth, have we not?¡±


    Kirsten met Dieter¡¯s gaze across the stage. He¡¯d played Theseus. He fiddled nervously with the cufflinks on his shirt.


    ¡°The flu,¡± the prophet said, ¡°the great cleansing that we suffered twenty years ago, that flu was our flood. The light we carry within us is the ark that carried Noah and his people over the face of the terrible waters, and I submit that we were saved¡±¡ªhis voice was rising¡ª¡°not only to bring the light, to spread the light, but to be the light. We were saved because we are the light. We are the pure.¡± Sweat ran down Kirsten¡¯s back under the silk of the dress. The dress, she noted absently, didn¡¯t smell very good. When had she last washed it? The prophet was still talking, about faith and light and destiny, divine plans revealed to him in dreams, the preparations they must make for the end of the world¡ª¡°For it has been revealed to me that the plague of twenty years ago was just the beginning, my angels, only an initial culling of the impure, that last year¡¯s pestilence was but further preview and there will be more cullings, far more cullings to come¡±¡ªand when his sermon was over he went to the conductor and spoke softly to her. She said something in response, and he stepped back with a laugh.

 Page 42

    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t know,¡± he said. ¡°People come and go.¡±


    ¡°Do they?¡± the conductor said. ¡°Are there other towns nearby, perhaps down the coast, where people typically travel?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no town nearby,¡± he said. ¡°But everyone¡±¡ªhe looked over his shoulder at the silent crowd, smiling at them, and spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear him¡ª¡°everyone here, of course, is free to go as they please.¡±


    ¡°Naturally,¡± the conductor said. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t have expected otherwise. It¡¯s just that we wouldn¡¯t have expected them to set off on their own, given that they knew we were coming back for them.¡±


    The prophet nodded. Kirsten edged closer to eavesdrop more effectively. The other actors were receding quietly from the stage. ¡°My people and I,¡± he said, ¡°when we speak of the light, we speak of order. This is a place of order. People with chaos in their hearts cannot abide here.¡±


    ¡°If you¡¯ll forgive me for prying, though, I have to ask about the markers in the graveyard.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not an unreasonable question,¡± the prophet said. ¡°You¡¯ve been on the road for some time, have you not?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Your Symphony was on the road in the beginning?¡±


    ¡°Close to it,¡± the conductor said. ¡°Year Five.¡±


    ¡°And you?¡± The prophet turned suddenly to Kirsten.


    ¡°I walked for all of Year One.¡± Although she felt dishonest claiming this, given that she had no memory whatsoever of that first year.


    ¡°If you¡¯ve been on the road for that long,¡± the prophet said, ¡°if you¡¯ve wandered all your life, as I have, through the terrible chaos, if you remember, as I do, everything you¡¯ve ever seen, then you know there¡¯s more than one way to die.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯ve seen multiple ways,¡± the conductor said, and Kirsten saw that she was remaining calm with some difficulty, ¡°actually everything from drowning to decapitation to fever, but none of those ways would account for¡ª¡±


    ¡°You misunderstand me,¡± the prophet said. ¡°I¡¯m not speaking of the tedious variations on physical death. There¡¯s the death of the body, and there¡¯s the death of the soul. I saw my mother die twice. When the fallen slink away without permission,¡± he said, ¡°we hold funerals for them and erect markers in the graveyard, because to us they are dead.¡± He glanced over his shoulder, at Alexandra collecting flowers from the stage, and spoke into the conductor¡¯s ear.


    The conductor stepped back. ¡°Absolutely not,¡± she said. ¡°It¡¯s out of the question.¡±


    The prophet stared at her for a moment before he turned away. He murmured something to a man in the front row, the archer who¡¯d been guarding the gas station that morning, and they walked together away from the Walmart.


    ¡°Luli!¡± the prophet called over his shoulder, and the dog trotted after him. The audience was dispersing now, and within minutes the Symphony was alone in the parking lot. It was the first time in memory that no one from the audience had lingered to speak with the Symphony after a performance.


    ¡°Quickly,¡± the conductor said. ¡°Harness the horses.¡±


    ¡°I thought we were staying a few days,¡± Alexandra said, a little whiny.


    ¡°It¡¯s a doomsday cult.¡± The clarinet was unclipping the Midsummer Night¡¯s Dream backdrop. ¡°Weren¡¯t you listening?¡±


    ¡°But the last time we came here¡ª¡±


    ¡°This isn¡¯t the town it was the last time we were here.¡± The painted forest collapsed into folds and fell soundlessly to the pavement. ¡°This is one of those places where you don¡¯t notice everyone¡¯s dropping dead around you till you¡¯ve already drunk the poisoned wine.¡± Kirsten knelt to help the clarinet roll the fabric. ¡°You should maybe wash that dress,¡± the clarinet said.


    ¡°He¡¯s gone back into the gas station,¡± Sayid said. There were armed guards posted on either side of the gas station door now, indistinct in the twilight. A cooking fire flared by the motel.


    The Symphony was on their way within minutes, departing down a back road behind the Walmart that took them away from the center of town. A small fire flickered by the roadside ahead. They found a boy there, a sentry, roasting something that might have been a squirrel at the end of a stick. Most towns had sentries with whistles at the obvious points of entry, the idea being that it was nice to have a little warning if marauders were coming through, but the boy¡¯s youth and inattention suggested that this wasn¡¯t considered an especially dangerous post. He stood as they approached, holding his dinner away from the flames.

 Page 43

    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t know,¡± he said. ¡°People come and go.¡±


    ¡°Do they?¡± the conductor said. ¡°Are there other towns nearby, perhaps down the coast, where people typically travel?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no town nearby,¡± he said. ¡°But everyone¡±¡ªhe looked over his shoulder at the silent crowd, smiling at them, and spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear him¡ª¡°everyone here, of course, is free to go as they please.¡±


    ¡°Naturally,¡± the conductor said. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t have expected otherwise. It¡¯s just that we wouldn¡¯t have expected them to set off on their own, given that they knew we were coming back for them.¡±


    The prophet nodded. Kirsten edged closer to eavesdrop more effectively. The other actors were receding quietly from the stage. ¡°My people and I,¡± he said, ¡°when we speak of the light, we speak of order. This is a place of order. People with chaos in their hearts cannot abide here.¡±


    ¡°If you¡¯ll forgive me for prying, though, I have to ask about the markers in the graveyard.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not an unreasonable question,¡± the prophet said. ¡°You¡¯ve been on the road for some time, have you not?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Your Symphony was on the road in the beginning?¡±


    ¡°Close to it,¡± the conductor said. ¡°Year Five.¡±


    ¡°And you?¡± The prophet turned suddenly to Kirsten.


    ¡°I walked for all of Year One.¡± Although she felt dishonest claiming this, given that she had no memory whatsoever of that first year.


    ¡°If you¡¯ve been on the road for that long,¡± the prophet said, ¡°if you¡¯ve wandered all your life, as I have, through the terrible chaos, if you remember, as I do, everything you¡¯ve ever seen, then you know there¡¯s more than one way to die.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯ve seen multiple ways,¡± the conductor said, and Kirsten saw that she was remaining calm with some difficulty, ¡°actually everything from drowning to decapitation to fever, but none of those ways would account for¡ª¡±


    ¡°You misunderstand me,¡± the prophet said. ¡°I¡¯m not speaking of the tedious variations on physical death. There¡¯s the death of the body, and there¡¯s the death of the soul. I saw my mother die twice. When the fallen slink away without permission,¡± he said, ¡°we hold funerals for them and erect markers in the graveyard, because to us they are dead.¡± He glanced over his shoulder, at Alexandra collecting flowers from the stage, and spoke into the conductor¡¯s ear.


    The conductor stepped back. ¡°Absolutely not,¡± she said. ¡°It¡¯s out of the question.¡±


    The prophet stared at her for a moment before he turned away. He murmured something to a man in the front row, the archer who¡¯d been guarding the gas station that morning, and they walked together away from the Walmart.


    ¡°Luli!¡± the prophet called over his shoulder, and the dog trotted after him. The audience was dispersing now, and within minutes the Symphony was alone in the parking lot. It was the first time in memory that no one from the audience had lingered to speak with the Symphony after a performance.


    ¡°Quickly,¡± the conductor said. ¡°Harness the horses.¡±


    ¡°I thought we were staying a few days,¡± Alexandra said, a little whiny.


    ¡°It¡¯s a doomsday cult.¡± The clarinet was unclipping the Midsummer Night¡¯s Dream backdrop. ¡°Weren¡¯t you listening?¡±


    ¡°But the last time we came here¡ª¡±


    ¡°This isn¡¯t the town it was the last time we were here.¡± The painted forest collapsed into folds and fell soundlessly to the pavement. ¡°This is one of those places where you don¡¯t notice everyone¡¯s dropping dead around you till you¡¯ve already drunk the poisoned wine.¡± Kirsten knelt to help the clarinet roll the fabric. ¡°You should maybe wash that dress,¡± the clarinet said.


    ¡°He¡¯s gone back into the gas station,¡± Sayid said. There were armed guards posted on either side of the gas station door now, indistinct in the twilight. A cooking fire flared by the motel.


    The Symphony was on their way within minutes, departing down a back road behind the Walmart that took them away from the center of town. A small fire flickered by the roadside ahead. They found a boy there, a sentry, roasting something that might have been a squirrel at the end of a stick. Most towns had sentries with whistles at the obvious points of entry, the idea being that it was nice to have a little warning if marauders were coming through, but the boy¡¯s youth and inattention suggested that this wasn¡¯t considered an especially dangerous post. He stood as they approached, holding his dinner away from the flames.

 Page 44

    ¡°You have permission to leave?¡± he called out.


    The conductor motioned to the first flute, who was driving the lead caravan¡ªkeep moving¡ªand went to speak with the boy. ¡°Good evening,¡± she said. Kirsten stopped walking and lingered a few feet away, listening.


    ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± he asked, suspicious.


    ¡°People call me the conductor.¡±


    ¡°And that¡¯s your name?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the only name I use. Is that dinner?¡±


    ¡°Did you get permission to leave?¡±


    ¡°The last time we were here,¡± she said, ¡°no permission was required.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s different now.¡± The boy¡¯s voice hadn¡¯t broken yet. He sounded very young.


    ¡°What if we didn¡¯t have permission?¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± the boy said, ¡°when people leave without permission, we have funerals for them.¡±


    ¡°What happens when they come back?¡±


    ¡°If we¡¯ve already had a funeral ¡­,¡± the boy said, but seemed unable to finish the sentence.


    ¡°This place,¡± the fourth guitar muttered. ¡°This goddamned hellhole.¡± He touched Kirsten¡¯s arm as he passed. ¡°Better keep moving, Kiki.¡±


    ¡°So you wouldn¡¯t advise coming back here,¡± the conductor said. The last caravan was passing. Sayid, bringing up the rear, seized Kirsten¡¯s shoulder and propelled her along the road.


    ¡°How much danger do you want to put yourself in?¡± he hissed. ¡°Keep walking.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t tell me what to do.¡±


    ¡°Then don¡¯t be an idiot.¡±


    ¡°Will you take me with you?¡± Kirsten heard the boy ask. The conductor said something she couldn¡¯t hear, and when she looked back the boy was staring after the departing Symphony, his squirrel forgotten at the end of the stick.


    The night cooled as they left St. Deborah by the Water. The only sounds were the clopping of horseshoes on cracked pavement, the creaking of the caravans, the footsteps of the Symphony as they walked, small rustlings from the night forest. A fragrance of pine and wildflowers and grass in the air, the stars so bright that the caravans cast lurching shadows on the road. They¡¯d left so quickly that they were all still in their costumes, Kirsten holding up her Titania dress so as not to trip over it and Sayid a strange vision in his Oberon tuxedo, the white of his shirt flashing when he turned to look back. Kirsten passed him to speak with the conductor, who walked as always by the first caravan.


    ¡°What did you tell the boy by the road?¡±


    ¡°That we couldn¡¯t risk the perception of kidnapping,¡± the conductor said.


    ¡°What did the prophet say to you after the concert?¡±


    The conductor glanced over her shoulder. ¡°You¡¯ll keep this to yourself?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll probably tell August.¡±


    ¡°Of course you will. But no one else?¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± Kirsten said, ¡°no one else.¡±


    ¡°He suggested that we consider leaving Alexandra, as a guarantee of future good relations between the Symphony and the town.¡±


    ¡°Leaving her? Why would we ¡­?¡±


    ¡°He said he¡¯s looking for another bride.¡±


    Kirsten dropped back to tell August, who swore softly and shook his head. Alexandra was walking by the third caravan, oblivious, looking up at the stars.


    Sometime after midnight the Symphony stopped to rest. Kirsten threw the Titania gown into the back of a caravan and changed into the dress she always wore in hot weather, soft cotton with patches here and there. The reassuring weight of knives on her belt. Jackson and the second oboe took two of the horses and rode back along the road for a mile, returned to report that no one seemed to be following.


    The conductor was studying a map with a few of the older Symphony members in the moonlight. Their flight had taken them in an awkward direction, south down the eastern shore of Lake Michigan. The only reasonably direct routes to their usual territory took them either back through St. Deborah by the Water, or close by a town that had been known to shoot outsiders on sight, or inland, through a wilderness that in the pre-collapse era had been designated a national forest.


    ¡°What do we know about this particular national forest?¡± The conductor was frowning at the map.


    ¡°I vote against it,¡± the tuba said. ¡°I know a trader who went through there. Said it was a burnt-out area, no towns, violent ferals in the woods.¡±


    ¡°Charming. And the south, along the lakeshore?¡±


    ¡°Nothing,¡± Dieter said. ¡°I talked to someone who¡¯d been down there, but this was maybe ten years ago. Said it was sparsely populated, but I don¡¯t remember the details.¡±

 Page 45

    ¡°You have permission to leave?¡± he called out.


    The conductor motioned to the first flute, who was driving the lead caravan¡ªkeep moving¡ªand went to speak with the boy. ¡°Good evening,¡± she said. Kirsten stopped walking and lingered a few feet away, listening.


    ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± he asked, suspicious.


    ¡°People call me the conductor.¡±


    ¡°And that¡¯s your name?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the only name I use. Is that dinner?¡±


    ¡°Did you get permission to leave?¡±


    ¡°The last time we were here,¡± she said, ¡°no permission was required.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s different now.¡± The boy¡¯s voice hadn¡¯t broken yet. He sounded very young.


    ¡°What if we didn¡¯t have permission?¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± the boy said, ¡°when people leave without permission, we have funerals for them.¡±


    ¡°What happens when they come back?¡±


    ¡°If we¡¯ve already had a funeral ¡­,¡± the boy said, but seemed unable to finish the sentence.


    ¡°This place,¡± the fourth guitar muttered. ¡°This goddamned hellhole.¡± He touched Kirsten¡¯s arm as he passed. ¡°Better keep moving, Kiki.¡±


    ¡°So you wouldn¡¯t advise coming back here,¡± the conductor said. The last caravan was passing. Sayid, bringing up the rear, seized Kirsten¡¯s shoulder and propelled her along the road.


    ¡°How much danger do you want to put yourself in?¡± he hissed. ¡°Keep walking.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t tell me what to do.¡±


    ¡°Then don¡¯t be an idiot.¡±


    ¡°Will you take me with you?¡± Kirsten heard the boy ask. The conductor said something she couldn¡¯t hear, and when she looked back the boy was staring after the departing Symphony, his squirrel forgotten at the end of the stick.


    The night cooled as they left St. Deborah by the Water. The only sounds were the clopping of horseshoes on cracked pavement, the creaking of the caravans, the footsteps of the Symphony as they walked, small rustlings from the night forest. A fragrance of pine and wildflowers and grass in the air, the stars so bright that the caravans cast lurching shadows on the road. They¡¯d left so quickly that they were all still in their costumes, Kirsten holding up her Titania dress so as not to trip over it and Sayid a strange vision in his Oberon tuxedo, the white of his shirt flashing when he turned to look back. Kirsten passed him to speak with the conductor, who walked as always by the first caravan.


    ¡°What did you tell the boy by the road?¡±


    ¡°That we couldn¡¯t risk the perception of kidnapping,¡± the conductor said.


    ¡°What did the prophet say to you after the concert?¡±


    The conductor glanced over her shoulder. ¡°You¡¯ll keep this to yourself?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll probably tell August.¡±


    ¡°Of course you will. But no one else?¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± Kirsten said, ¡°no one else.¡±


    ¡°He suggested that we consider leaving Alexandra, as a guarantee of future good relations between the Symphony and the town.¡±


    ¡°Leaving her? Why would we ¡­?¡±


    ¡°He said he¡¯s looking for another bride.¡±


    Kirsten dropped back to tell August, who swore softly and shook his head. Alexandra was walking by the third caravan, oblivious, looking up at the stars.


    Sometime after midnight the Symphony stopped to rest. Kirsten threw the Titania gown into the back of a caravan and changed into the dress she always wore in hot weather, soft cotton with patches here and there. The reassuring weight of knives on her belt. Jackson and the second oboe took two of the horses and rode back along the road for a mile, returned to report that no one seemed to be following.


    The conductor was studying a map with a few of the older Symphony members in the moonlight. Their flight had taken them in an awkward direction, south down the eastern shore of Lake Michigan. The only reasonably direct routes to their usual territory took them either back through St. Deborah by the Water, or close by a town that had been known to shoot outsiders on sight, or inland, through a wilderness that in the pre-collapse era had been designated a national forest.


    ¡°What do we know about this particular national forest?¡± The conductor was frowning at the map.


    ¡°I vote against it,¡± the tuba said. ¡°I know a trader who went through there. Said it was a burnt-out area, no towns, violent ferals in the woods.¡±


    ¡°Charming. And the south, along the lakeshore?¡±


    ¡°Nothing,¡± Dieter said. ¡°I talked to someone who¡¯d been down there, but this was maybe ten years ago. Said it was sparsely populated, but I don¡¯t remember the details.¡±

 Page 46

    ¡°Ten years ago,¡± the conductor said.


    ¡°Like I said, nothing. But look, if we keep going south we¡¯ll eventually have to turn inland anyway, unless you¡¯re especially eager to see what became of Chicago.¡±


    ¡°Did you hear that story about snipers in the Sears Tower?¡± the first cello asked.


    ¡°I lived that story,¡± Gil said. ¡°Wasn¡¯t there supposed to be a population to the south of here, down by Severn City? A settlement in the former airport, if I¡¯m remembering correctly.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard that rumor too.¡± It wasn¡¯t like the conductor to hesitate, but she studied the map for some time before she spoke again. ¡°We¡¯ve talked about expanding our territory for years, haven¡¯t we?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a risk,¡± Dieter said.


    ¡°Being alive is a risk.¡± She folded the map. ¡°I¡¯m missing two Symphony members, and I still think they went south. If there¡¯s a population in Severn City, perhaps they¡¯ll know the best route back to our usual territory. We continue south along the lakeshore.¡±


    Kirsten climbed up to the driver¡¯s seat on the second caravan, to drink some water and to rest. She shrugged her backpack from her shoulders. Her backpack was child-size, red canvas with a cracked and faded image of Spider-Man, and in it she carried as little as possible: two glass bottles of water that in a previous civilization had held Lipton Iced Tea, a sweater, a rag she tied over her face in dusty houses, a twist of wire for picking locks, the ziplock bag that held her tabloid collection and the Dr. Eleven comics, and a paperweight.


    The paperweight was a smooth lump of glass with storm clouds in it, about the size of a plum. It was of no practical use whatsoever, nothing but dead weight in the bag but she found it beautiful. A woman had given it to her just before the collapse, but she couldn¡¯t remember the woman¡¯s name. Kirsten held it in the palm of her hand for a moment before she turned to her collection.


    She liked to look through the clippings sometimes, a steadying habit. These images from the shadow world, the time before the Georgia Flu, indistinct in the moonlight but she¡¯d memorized the details of every one: Arthur Leander and his second wife, Elizabeth, on a restaurant patio with Tyler, their infant son; Arthur with his third wife, Lydia, a few months later; Arthur with Tyler at LAX. An older picture that she¡¯d found in an attic stuffed with three decades¡¯ worth of gossip magazines, taken before she was born: Arthur with his arm around the pale girl with dark curls who would soon become his first wife, caught by a photographer as they stepped out of a restaurant, the girl inscrutable behind sunglasses and Arthur blinded by the flash.


    13


    THE PHOTO FROM THE TABLOID:


    Ten minutes before the photograph, Arthur Leander and the girl are waiting by the coat check in a restaurant in Toronto. This is well before the Georgia Flu. Civilization won¡¯t collapse for another fourteen years. Arthur has been filming a period drama all week, partly on a soundstage and partly in a park on the edge of the city. Earlier in the day he was wearing a crown, but now he¡¯s wearing a Toronto Blue Jays cap that makes him look very ordinary. He is thirty-six years old.


    ¡°What are you going to do?¡± he asks.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to leave him.¡± The girl, Miranda, has a recent bruise on her face. They¡¯re speaking in whispers to avoid being overheard by the restaurant staff.


    He nods. ¡°Good.¡± He¡¯s looking at the bruise, which Miranda hasn¡¯t been entirely successful in concealing with makeup. ¡°I was hoping you¡¯d say that. What do you need?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± she says. ¡°I¡¯m sorry about all this. I just can¡¯t go home.¡±


    ¡°I have a suggestion¡ª¡± He stops because the coat-check girl has returned with their coats. Arthur¡¯s is magnificent, smooth and expensive-looking, Miranda¡¯s a battered peacoat that she found in a thrift store for ten dollars. She turns her back on the restaurant as she puts it on in an effort to hide the torn lining¡ªwhen she turns back, something in the hostess¡¯s smile suggests that this effort was in vain¡ªwhile Arthur, who by this point in his life is extravagantly famous, flashes his best smile and palms a twenty to the coat-check girl. The hostess is surreptitiously hitting Send on a text to a photographer who gave her fifty dollars earlier. Outside on the sidewalk, the photographer reads the message on his phone: Leaving now.


    ¡°As I was saying,¡± Arthur murmurs, close to Miranda¡¯s ear, ¡°I think you should come stay with me.¡±


    ¡°At the hotel? I can¡¯t¡ª¡± Miranda whispers.

 Page 47

    ¡°Ten years ago,¡± the conductor said.


    ¡°Like I said, nothing. But look, if we keep going south we¡¯ll eventually have to turn inland anyway, unless you¡¯re especially eager to see what became of Chicago.¡±


    ¡°Did you hear that story about snipers in the Sears Tower?¡± the first cello asked.


    ¡°I lived that story,¡± Gil said. ¡°Wasn¡¯t there supposed to be a population to the south of here, down by Severn City? A settlement in the former airport, if I¡¯m remembering correctly.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard that rumor too.¡± It wasn¡¯t like the conductor to hesitate, but she studied the map for some time before she spoke again. ¡°We¡¯ve talked about expanding our territory for years, haven¡¯t we?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a risk,¡± Dieter said.


    ¡°Being alive is a risk.¡± She folded the map. ¡°I¡¯m missing two Symphony members, and I still think they went south. If there¡¯s a population in Severn City, perhaps they¡¯ll know the best route back to our usual territory. We continue south along the lakeshore.¡±


    Kirsten climbed up to the driver¡¯s seat on the second caravan, to drink some water and to rest. She shrugged her backpack from her shoulders. Her backpack was child-size, red canvas with a cracked and faded image of Spider-Man, and in it she carried as little as possible: two glass bottles of water that in a previous civilization had held Lipton Iced Tea, a sweater, a rag she tied over her face in dusty houses, a twist of wire for picking locks, the ziplock bag that held her tabloid collection and the Dr. Eleven comics, and a paperweight.


    The paperweight was a smooth lump of glass with storm clouds in it, about the size of a plum. It was of no practical use whatsoever, nothing but dead weight in the bag but she found it beautiful. A woman had given it to her just before the collapse, but she couldn¡¯t remember the woman¡¯s name. Kirsten held it in the palm of her hand for a moment before she turned to her collection.


    She liked to look through the clippings sometimes, a steadying habit. These images from the shadow world, the time before the Georgia Flu, indistinct in the moonlight but she¡¯d memorized the details of every one: Arthur Leander and his second wife, Elizabeth, on a restaurant patio with Tyler, their infant son; Arthur with his third wife, Lydia, a few months later; Arthur with Tyler at LAX. An older picture that she¡¯d found in an attic stuffed with three decades¡¯ worth of gossip magazines, taken before she was born: Arthur with his arm around the pale girl with dark curls who would soon become his first wife, caught by a photographer as they stepped out of a restaurant, the girl inscrutable behind sunglasses and Arthur blinded by the flash.


    13


    THE PHOTO FROM THE TABLOID:


    Ten minutes before the photograph, Arthur Leander and the girl are waiting by the coat check in a restaurant in Toronto. This is well before the Georgia Flu. Civilization won¡¯t collapse for another fourteen years. Arthur has been filming a period drama all week, partly on a soundstage and partly in a park on the edge of the city. Earlier in the day he was wearing a crown, but now he¡¯s wearing a Toronto Blue Jays cap that makes him look very ordinary. He is thirty-six years old.


    ¡°What are you going to do?¡± he asks.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to leave him.¡± The girl, Miranda, has a recent bruise on her face. They¡¯re speaking in whispers to avoid being overheard by the restaurant staff.


    He nods. ¡°Good.¡± He¡¯s looking at the bruise, which Miranda hasn¡¯t been entirely successful in concealing with makeup. ¡°I was hoping you¡¯d say that. What do you need?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± she says. ¡°I¡¯m sorry about all this. I just can¡¯t go home.¡±


    ¡°I have a suggestion¡ª¡± He stops because the coat-check girl has returned with their coats. Arthur¡¯s is magnificent, smooth and expensive-looking, Miranda¡¯s a battered peacoat that she found in a thrift store for ten dollars. She turns her back on the restaurant as she puts it on in an effort to hide the torn lining¡ªwhen she turns back, something in the hostess¡¯s smile suggests that this effort was in vain¡ªwhile Arthur, who by this point in his life is extravagantly famous, flashes his best smile and palms a twenty to the coat-check girl. The hostess is surreptitiously hitting Send on a text to a photographer who gave her fifty dollars earlier. Outside on the sidewalk, the photographer reads the message on his phone: Leaving now.


    ¡°As I was saying,¡± Arthur murmurs, close to Miranda¡¯s ear, ¡°I think you should come stay with me.¡±


    ¡°At the hotel? I can¡¯t¡ª¡± Miranda whispers.

 Page 48

    ¡°I insist. No strings attached.¡±


    Miranda is momentarily distracted by the coat-check girl, who is staring adoringly at Arthur. He whispers, ¡°You don¡¯t have to make any decisions right away. It¡¯s just a place you can stay, if you¡¯d like.¡±


    Miranda¡¯s eyes fill with tears. ¡°I don¡¯t know what to¡ª¡±


    ¡°Just say yes, Miranda.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Thank you.¡± It occurs to her as the hostess opens the door for them that she must look terrible, the bruise on her face and her eyes red and watery. ¡°Wait,¡± she says, fishing in her handbag, ¡°I¡¯m sorry, just a second¡ª¡± She puts on the enormous sunglasses she¡¯d been wearing earlier in the day, Arthur puts his arm around her shoulders, the photographer on the sidewalk raises his camera, and they step out into the blinding flash.


    ¡°So, Arthur.¡± The journalist is beautiful in the manner of people who spend an immense amount of money on personal maintenance. She has professionally refined pores and a four-hundred-dollar haircut, impeccable makeup and tastefully polished nails. When she smiles, Arthur is distracted by the unnatural whiteness of her teeth, although he¡¯s been in Hollywood for years and should be used to it by now. ¡°Tell us about this mystery brunette we¡¯ve been seeing you with.¡±


    ¡°I think that mystery brunette has a right to her privacy, don¡¯t you?¡± Arthur¡¯s smile is calibrated to defuse the remark and render it charming.


    ¡°Won¡¯t you tell us anything at all about her? Just a hint?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s from my hometown,¡± he says, and winks.


    It¡¯s not a hometown, actually, it¡¯s a home island. ¡°It¡¯s the same size and shape as Manhattan,¡± Arthur tells people at parties all his life, ¡°except with a thousand people.¡±


    Delano Island is between Vancouver Island and mainland British Columbia, a straight shot north from Los Angeles. The island is all temperate rain forest and rocky beaches, deer breaking into vegetable gardens and leaping in front of windshields, moss on low-hanging branches, the sighing of wind in cedar trees. In the middle of the island there¡¯s a small lake that Arthur always imagined was formed by an asteroid, almost perfectly round and very deep. One summer a young woman from somewhere else committed suicide there, left her car parked up on the road with a note and walked into the water, and then when divers went after her they couldn¡¯t find the bottom of the lake, or so local children whispered to one another, half-frightened, half-thrilled, although upon reflection, years later, the idea of a lake so deep that divers can¡¯t reach bottom seems improbable. Still, the fact is that a woman walked into a lake that wasn¡¯t large and no one found the body for two weeks despite intensive searching, and the episode sparks up against Arthur¡¯s childhood memories retrospectively and leaves a frisson of darkness that wasn¡¯t there at the time. Because actually from day to day it¡¯s just a lake, just his favorite place to swim, everyone¡¯s favorite place to swim because the ocean is always freezing. In Arthur¡¯s memories of the lake, his mother is reading a book under the trees on the shore while his little brother splashes around with water wings in the shallows and bugs land fleetingly on the water¡¯s surface. For unknown reasons there is a naked Barbie doll buried up to her waist in the dirt on the lake road.


    There are children on the island who go barefoot all summer and wear feathers in their hair, the Volkswagen vans in which their parents arrived in the ¡¯70s turning to rust in the forest. Every year there are approximately two hundred days of rain. There¡¯s a village of sorts by the ferry terminal: a general store with one gas pump, a health-food store, a real-estate office, an elementary school with sixty students, a community hall with two massive carved mermaids holding hands to form an archway over the front door and a tiny library attached. The rest of the island is mostly rock and forest, narrow roads with dirt driveways disappearing into the trees.


    In other words, it¡¯s the kind of place that practically no one Arthur encounters in New York, Toronto, or Los Angeles can fathom, and he gets a lot of uncomprehending stares when he talks about it. He is forever trying to describe this place and resorting to generalizations about beaches and plant life. ¡°The ferns were up to my head,¡± he tells people, performing a gesture that suggests greater and greater height over the years until he realizes at some point in his midforties that he¡¯s describing plants that stand seven or eight feet tall. ¡°Just unbelievable in retrospect.¡±


    ¡°It must¡¯ve been so beautiful¡± is the inevitable reply.

 Page 49

    ¡°I insist. No strings attached.¡±


    Miranda is momentarily distracted by the coat-check girl, who is staring adoringly at Arthur. He whispers, ¡°You don¡¯t have to make any decisions right away. It¡¯s just a place you can stay, if you¡¯d like.¡±


    Miranda¡¯s eyes fill with tears. ¡°I don¡¯t know what to¡ª¡±


    ¡°Just say yes, Miranda.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Thank you.¡± It occurs to her as the hostess opens the door for them that she must look terrible, the bruise on her face and her eyes red and watery. ¡°Wait,¡± she says, fishing in her handbag, ¡°I¡¯m sorry, just a second¡ª¡± She puts on the enormous sunglasses she¡¯d been wearing earlier in the day, Arthur puts his arm around her shoulders, the photographer on the sidewalk raises his camera, and they step out into the blinding flash.


    ¡°So, Arthur.¡± The journalist is beautiful in the manner of people who spend an immense amount of money on personal maintenance. She has professionally refined pores and a four-hundred-dollar haircut, impeccable makeup and tastefully polished nails. When she smiles, Arthur is distracted by the unnatural whiteness of her teeth, although he¡¯s been in Hollywood for years and should be used to it by now. ¡°Tell us about this mystery brunette we¡¯ve been seeing you with.¡±


    ¡°I think that mystery brunette has a right to her privacy, don¡¯t you?¡± Arthur¡¯s smile is calibrated to defuse the remark and render it charming.


    ¡°Won¡¯t you tell us anything at all about her? Just a hint?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s from my hometown,¡± he says, and winks.


    It¡¯s not a hometown, actually, it¡¯s a home island. ¡°It¡¯s the same size and shape as Manhattan,¡± Arthur tells people at parties all his life, ¡°except with a thousand people.¡±


    Delano Island is between Vancouver Island and mainland British Columbia, a straight shot north from Los Angeles. The island is all temperate rain forest and rocky beaches, deer breaking into vegetable gardens and leaping in front of windshields, moss on low-hanging branches, the sighing of wind in cedar trees. In the middle of the island there¡¯s a small lake that Arthur always imagined was formed by an asteroid, almost perfectly round and very deep. One summer a young woman from somewhere else committed suicide there, left her car parked up on the road with a note and walked into the water, and then when divers went after her they couldn¡¯t find the bottom of the lake, or so local children whispered to one another, half-frightened, half-thrilled, although upon reflection, years later, the idea of a lake so deep that divers can¡¯t reach bottom seems improbable. Still, the fact is that a woman walked into a lake that wasn¡¯t large and no one found the body for two weeks despite intensive searching, and the episode sparks up against Arthur¡¯s childhood memories retrospectively and leaves a frisson of darkness that wasn¡¯t there at the time. Because actually from day to day it¡¯s just a lake, just his favorite place to swim, everyone¡¯s favorite place to swim because the ocean is always freezing. In Arthur¡¯s memories of the lake, his mother is reading a book under the trees on the shore while his little brother splashes around with water wings in the shallows and bugs land fleetingly on the water¡¯s surface. For unknown reasons there is a naked Barbie doll buried up to her waist in the dirt on the lake road.


    There are children on the island who go barefoot all summer and wear feathers in their hair, the Volkswagen vans in which their parents arrived in the ¡¯70s turning to rust in the forest. Every year there are approximately two hundred days of rain. There¡¯s a village of sorts by the ferry terminal: a general store with one gas pump, a health-food store, a real-estate office, an elementary school with sixty students, a community hall with two massive carved mermaids holding hands to form an archway over the front door and a tiny library attached. The rest of the island is mostly rock and forest, narrow roads with dirt driveways disappearing into the trees.


    In other words, it¡¯s the kind of place that practically no one Arthur encounters in New York, Toronto, or Los Angeles can fathom, and he gets a lot of uncomprehending stares when he talks about it. He is forever trying to describe this place and resorting to generalizations about beaches and plant life. ¡°The ferns were up to my head,¡± he tells people, performing a gesture that suggests greater and greater height over the years until he realizes at some point in his midforties that he¡¯s describing plants that stand seven or eight feet tall. ¡°Just unbelievable in retrospect.¡±


    ¡°It must¡¯ve been so beautiful¡± is the inevitable reply.

 Page 50

    ¡°It was,¡± he tells them, ¡°it is,¡± and then finds a way to change the subject because it¡¯s difficult to explain this next part. Yes, it was beautiful. It was the most beautiful place I have ever seen. It was gorgeous and claustrophobic. I loved it and I always wanted to escape.


    At seventeen he¡¯s accepted into the University of Toronto. He fills out the student-loan applications, his parents scrape up the money for the plane ticket and he¡¯s gone. He thought he wanted to study economics, but when he arrives in Toronto he discovers that he wants to do almost anything else. He worked hard in high school, but he¡¯s an indifferent student at the university. The classes are tedious. The point of coming to this city wasn¡¯t school, he decides. School was just his method of escape. The point was the city of Toronto itself. Within four months he¡¯s dropped out and is going to acting auditions, because some girl in his Commerce 101 class told him he should be an actor.


    His parents are horrified. There are tearful phone calls on calling cards late at night. ¡°The point was to get off the island,¡± he tells them, but this doesn¡¯t help, because they love the island and they live there on purpose. But two months after leaving school he gets a bit part in an American movie filming locally, and then a one-line role in a Canadian TV show. He doesn¡¯t feel that he really has any idea how to act, so he starts spending all his money on acting classes, where he meets his best friend, Clark. There is a magnificent year when they are inseparable and go out four nights a week with fake IDs, and then when both of them are nineteen Clark succumbs to parental pressure and returns to England for university while Arthur auditions successfully for a theater school in New York City, where he works for cash in a restaurant and lives with four roommates above a bakery in Queens.


    He graduates from the theater school and marks time for a while, auditioning and working long hours as a waiter, then a job on Law & Order¡ªis there an actor in New York who hasn¡¯t worked on Law & Order?¡ªthat lands him an agent and turns into a recurring role on a different Law & Order, one of the spin-offs. A couple of commercials, two television pilots that don¡¯t get picked up¡ª¡°But you should totally come out to L.A.,¡± the director of the second one says when he calls Arthur with the bad news. ¡°Crash in my guesthouse for a few weeks, do some auditions, see what happens¡±¡ªand Arthur¡¯s sick of eastern winters by then, so he does it, he gets rid of most of his belongings and boards a westbound plane.


    In Hollywood he goes to parties and lands a small part in a movie, a soldier with three lines who gets blown up in the first ten minutes, but this leads to a much bigger movie part, and this is when the parties begin in earnest¡ªcocaine and smooth girls with perfect skin in houses and hotel rooms, a number of years that come back to him later in strobelike flashes: sitting by a pool in Malibu drinking vodka and talking to a girl who says she came here illegally from Mexico, crossed the border lying under a load of chili peppers in the back of a truck when she was ten; he¡¯s not sure whether to believe her but he thinks she¡¯s beautiful so he kisses her and she says she¡¯ll call but he never sees her again; driving in the hills with friends, a passenger in a convertible with the top down, his friends singing along with the radio while Arthur watches the palm trees slipping past overhead; dancing with a girl to ¡°Don¡¯t Stop Believin¡¯ ¡±¡ªsecretly his favorite song¡ªin some guy¡¯s basement tiki bar and then it seems like a miracle when he sees her at someone else¡¯s party a week later, the same girl at two parties in this infinite city, she smiles at him with half-closed eyes and takes his hand, leads him out to the backyard to watch the sun rise over Los Angeles. The novelty of this town is starting to wear a little thin by then, but up there by Mulholland Drive he understands that there¡¯s still some mystery here, still something in this city he hasn¡¯t seen, a sea of lights fading out in the valley as the sun rises, the way she runs her fingernails lightly over the skin of his arm.


    ¡°I love this place,¡± he says, but six months later when they¡¯re breaking up she throws the line back at him¡ª¡°You love this place but you¡¯ll never belong here and you¡¯ll never be cast as the lead in any of your stupid movies¡±¡ªand by this point he¡¯s twenty-eight, time speeding up in a way that disconcerts him, the parties going too late and getting too sloppy, waiting in the ER on two separate occasions for news of friends who¡¯ve OD¡¯d on exotic combinations of alcohol and prescription medications, the same people at party after party, the sun rising on scenes of tedious debauchery, everyone looking a little undone. Just after his twenty-ninth birthday he lands the lead in a low-budget film about a botched bank robbery and is pleased to learn that it¡¯s filming in Toronto. He likes the idea of returning to Canada in triumph, which he¡¯s aware is egotistical but what can you do.

 Page 51

    ¡°It was,¡± he tells them, ¡°it is,¡± and then finds a way to change the subject because it¡¯s difficult to explain this next part. Yes, it was beautiful. It was the most beautiful place I have ever seen. It was gorgeous and claustrophobic. I loved it and I always wanted to escape.


    At seventeen he¡¯s accepted into the University of Toronto. He fills out the student-loan applications, his parents scrape up the money for the plane ticket and he¡¯s gone. He thought he wanted to study economics, but when he arrives in Toronto he discovers that he wants to do almost anything else. He worked hard in high school, but he¡¯s an indifferent student at the university. The classes are tedious. The point of coming to this city wasn¡¯t school, he decides. School was just his method of escape. The point was the city of Toronto itself. Within four months he¡¯s dropped out and is going to acting auditions, because some girl in his Commerce 101 class told him he should be an actor.


    His parents are horrified. There are tearful phone calls on calling cards late at night. ¡°The point was to get off the island,¡± he tells them, but this doesn¡¯t help, because they love the island and they live there on purpose. But two months after leaving school he gets a bit part in an American movie filming locally, and then a one-line role in a Canadian TV show. He doesn¡¯t feel that he really has any idea how to act, so he starts spending all his money on acting classes, where he meets his best friend, Clark. There is a magnificent year when they are inseparable and go out four nights a week with fake IDs, and then when both of them are nineteen Clark succumbs to parental pressure and returns to England for university while Arthur auditions successfully for a theater school in New York City, where he works for cash in a restaurant and lives with four roommates above a bakery in Queens.


    He graduates from the theater school and marks time for a while, auditioning and working long hours as a waiter, then a job on Law & Order¡ªis there an actor in New York who hasn¡¯t worked on Law & Order?¡ªthat lands him an agent and turns into a recurring role on a different Law & Order, one of the spin-offs. A couple of commercials, two television pilots that don¡¯t get picked up¡ª¡°But you should totally come out to L.A.,¡± the director of the second one says when he calls Arthur with the bad news. ¡°Crash in my guesthouse for a few weeks, do some auditions, see what happens¡±¡ªand Arthur¡¯s sick of eastern winters by then, so he does it, he gets rid of most of his belongings and boards a westbound plane.


    In Hollywood he goes to parties and lands a small part in a movie, a soldier with three lines who gets blown up in the first ten minutes, but this leads to a much bigger movie part, and this is when the parties begin in earnest¡ªcocaine and smooth girls with perfect skin in houses and hotel rooms, a number of years that come back to him later in strobelike flashes: sitting by a pool in Malibu drinking vodka and talking to a girl who says she came here illegally from Mexico, crossed the border lying under a load of chili peppers in the back of a truck when she was ten; he¡¯s not sure whether to believe her but he thinks she¡¯s beautiful so he kisses her and she says she¡¯ll call but he never sees her again; driving in the hills with friends, a passenger in a convertible with the top down, his friends singing along with the radio while Arthur watches the palm trees slipping past overhead; dancing with a girl to ¡°Don¡¯t Stop Believin¡¯ ¡±¡ªsecretly his favorite song¡ªin some guy¡¯s basement tiki bar and then it seems like a miracle when he sees her at someone else¡¯s party a week later, the same girl at two parties in this infinite city, she smiles at him with half-closed eyes and takes his hand, leads him out to the backyard to watch the sun rise over Los Angeles. The novelty of this town is starting to wear a little thin by then, but up there by Mulholland Drive he understands that there¡¯s still some mystery here, still something in this city he hasn¡¯t seen, a sea of lights fading out in the valley as the sun rises, the way she runs her fingernails lightly over the skin of his arm.


    ¡°I love this place,¡± he says, but six months later when they¡¯re breaking up she throws the line back at him¡ª¡°You love this place but you¡¯ll never belong here and you¡¯ll never be cast as the lead in any of your stupid movies¡±¡ªand by this point he¡¯s twenty-eight, time speeding up in a way that disconcerts him, the parties going too late and getting too sloppy, waiting in the ER on two separate occasions for news of friends who¡¯ve OD¡¯d on exotic combinations of alcohol and prescription medications, the same people at party after party, the sun rising on scenes of tedious debauchery, everyone looking a little undone. Just after his twenty-ninth birthday he lands the lead in a low-budget film about a botched bank robbery and is pleased to learn that it¡¯s filming in Toronto. He likes the idea of returning to Canada in triumph, which he¡¯s aware is egotistical but what can you do.

 Page 52

    Arthur¡¯s mother calls one night and asks if he remembers Susie, that woman who was a waitress at the General Store Caf¨¦ when he was a kid. Of course he remembers Susie. He has vivid memories of Susie serving him pancakes in the caf¨¦. Anyway, Susie¡¯s niece came to live with her a few years back, for reasons that remain buried despite the dedicated excavation efforts of every gossip on the island. The niece, Miranda, is seventeen now and just very driven, very together. She recently moved to Toronto to go to art school, and could Arthur maybe take her to lunch?


    ¡°Why?¡± he asks. ¡°We don¡¯t know each other. She¡¯s a seventeen-year-old girl. It¡¯ll be kind of awkward, won¡¯t it?¡± He hates awkwardness and goes to great lengths to avoid it.


    ¡°You have a lot in common,¡± his mother says. ¡°You both skipped a grade in school.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure that qualifies as ¡®a lot.¡¯ ¡± But even as he says this, he finds himself thinking, She¡¯ll know where I¡¯m from. Arthur lives in a permanent state of disorientation like a low-grade fever, the question hanging over everything being How did I get from there to here? And there are moments¡ªat parties in Toronto, in Los Angeles, in New York¡ªwhen he¡¯ll be telling people about Delano Island and he¡¯ll notice a certain look on their faces, interested but a little incredulous, like he¡¯s describing an upbringing on the surface of Mars. For obvious reasons, very few people have heard of Delano Island. When he tells people in Toronto that he¡¯s from British Columbia, they¡¯ll invariably say something about how they like Vancouver, as though that glass city four hours and two ferries to the southeast of his childhood home has anything to do with the island where he grew up. On two separate occasions he¡¯s told people in Los Angeles that he¡¯s from Canada and they¡¯ve asked about igloos. An allegedly well-educated New Yorker once listened carefully to his explanation of where he¡¯s from¡ªsouthwestern British Columbia, an island between Vancouver Island and the mainland¡ªand then asked, apparently in all seriousness, if this means he grew up near Maine.


    ¡°Call Miranda,¡± his mother says. ¡°It¡¯s just lunch.¡±


    Miranda at seventeen: she is preternaturally composed and very pretty, pale with gray eyes and dark curls. She comes into the restaurant in a rush of cold air, January clinging to her hair and her coat, and Arthur is struck immediately by her poise. She seems much older than her age.


    ¡°How do you like Toronto?¡± Arthur asks. Not merely pretty, he decides. She is actually beautiful, but it¡¯s a subtle kind of beauty that takes some time to make itself apparent. She is the opposite of the L.A. girls with their blond hair and tight T-shirts and tans.


    ¡°I love it.¡± The revelation of privacy: she can walk down the street and absolutely no one knows who she is. It¡¯s possible that no one who didn¡¯t grow up in a small place can understand how beautiful this is, how the anonymity of city life feels like freedom. She starts telling him about her boyfriend Pablo, also an artist, and Arthur forces himself to smile as he listens. She¡¯s so young, he tells himself. She¡¯s tired of talking about herself and asks about him, and he tries to explain the surrealism of this world he¡¯s stepped into where people know him when he doesn¡¯t know them, he talks about how much he loves Los Angeles and how simultaneously the place exhausts him, how disoriented he feels when he thinks about Delano Island and compares it to his current life. She¡¯s never been to the United States, although she¡¯s lived within two hundred miles of the border all her life. He can see that she¡¯s straining to imagine his life there, her thoughts probably a collage of scenes from movies and magazine shoots.


    ¡°You love acting, don¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Usually I do.¡±


    ¡°What a wonderful thing, to get paid for doing what you love,¡± she says, and he agrees with this. At the end of the meal she thanks him for paying the check and they leave together. Outside the air is cold, sunlight on dirty snow. Later he¡¯ll remember this as a golden period when they could walk out of restaurants together without anyone taking pictures of them on the sidewalk.


    ¡°Good luck on the movie,¡± she says, boarding a streetcar.


    ¡°Good luck in Toronto,¡± he replies, but she¡¯s already gone. In the years that follow, he¡¯s often successful at putting her out of his mind. She is far away and very young. There are a number of movies, an eighteen-month relocation to New York for a Mamet play, back to Los Angeles for a recurring role in an HBO series. He dates other women, some actresses, some not, two of them so famous that they can¡¯t go out in public without attracting photographers who swarm like mosquitoes. By the time he returns to Toronto for another movie, he can¡¯t go out in public without being photographed either, partly because the movie parts have gotten much bigger and more impressive, partly because the photographers got used to taking his picture when he was holding hands with more famous people. His agent congratulates him on his dating strategy.

 Page 53

    Arthur¡¯s mother calls one night and asks if he remembers Susie, that woman who was a waitress at the General Store Caf¨¦ when he was a kid. Of course he remembers Susie. He has vivid memories of Susie serving him pancakes in the caf¨¦. Anyway, Susie¡¯s niece came to live with her a few years back, for reasons that remain buried despite the dedicated excavation efforts of every gossip on the island. The niece, Miranda, is seventeen now and just very driven, very together. She recently moved to Toronto to go to art school, and could Arthur maybe take her to lunch?


    ¡°Why?¡± he asks. ¡°We don¡¯t know each other. She¡¯s a seventeen-year-old girl. It¡¯ll be kind of awkward, won¡¯t it?¡± He hates awkwardness and goes to great lengths to avoid it.


    ¡°You have a lot in common,¡± his mother says. ¡°You both skipped a grade in school.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure that qualifies as ¡®a lot.¡¯ ¡± But even as he says this, he finds himself thinking, She¡¯ll know where I¡¯m from. Arthur lives in a permanent state of disorientation like a low-grade fever, the question hanging over everything being How did I get from there to here? And there are moments¡ªat parties in Toronto, in Los Angeles, in New York¡ªwhen he¡¯ll be telling people about Delano Island and he¡¯ll notice a certain look on their faces, interested but a little incredulous, like he¡¯s describing an upbringing on the surface of Mars. For obvious reasons, very few people have heard of Delano Island. When he tells people in Toronto that he¡¯s from British Columbia, they¡¯ll invariably say something about how they like Vancouver, as though that glass city four hours and two ferries to the southeast of his childhood home has anything to do with the island where he grew up. On two separate occasions he¡¯s told people in Los Angeles that he¡¯s from Canada and they¡¯ve asked about igloos. An allegedly well-educated New Yorker once listened carefully to his explanation of where he¡¯s from¡ªsouthwestern British Columbia, an island between Vancouver Island and the mainland¡ªand then asked, apparently in all seriousness, if this means he grew up near Maine.


    ¡°Call Miranda,¡± his mother says. ¡°It¡¯s just lunch.¡±


    Miranda at seventeen: she is preternaturally composed and very pretty, pale with gray eyes and dark curls. She comes into the restaurant in a rush of cold air, January clinging to her hair and her coat, and Arthur is struck immediately by her poise. She seems much older than her age.


    ¡°How do you like Toronto?¡± Arthur asks. Not merely pretty, he decides. She is actually beautiful, but it¡¯s a subtle kind of beauty that takes some time to make itself apparent. She is the opposite of the L.A. girls with their blond hair and tight T-shirts and tans.


    ¡°I love it.¡± The revelation of privacy: she can walk down the street and absolutely no one knows who she is. It¡¯s possible that no one who didn¡¯t grow up in a small place can understand how beautiful this is, how the anonymity of city life feels like freedom. She starts telling him about her boyfriend Pablo, also an artist, and Arthur forces himself to smile as he listens. She¡¯s so young, he tells himself. She¡¯s tired of talking about herself and asks about him, and he tries to explain the surrealism of this world he¡¯s stepped into where people know him when he doesn¡¯t know them, he talks about how much he loves Los Angeles and how simultaneously the place exhausts him, how disoriented he feels when he thinks about Delano Island and compares it to his current life. She¡¯s never been to the United States, although she¡¯s lived within two hundred miles of the border all her life. He can see that she¡¯s straining to imagine his life there, her thoughts probably a collage of scenes from movies and magazine shoots.


    ¡°You love acting, don¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Usually I do.¡±


    ¡°What a wonderful thing, to get paid for doing what you love,¡± she says, and he agrees with this. At the end of the meal she thanks him for paying the check and they leave together. Outside the air is cold, sunlight on dirty snow. Later he¡¯ll remember this as a golden period when they could walk out of restaurants together without anyone taking pictures of them on the sidewalk.


    ¡°Good luck on the movie,¡± she says, boarding a streetcar.


    ¡°Good luck in Toronto,¡± he replies, but she¡¯s already gone. In the years that follow, he¡¯s often successful at putting her out of his mind. She is far away and very young. There are a number of movies, an eighteen-month relocation to New York for a Mamet play, back to Los Angeles for a recurring role in an HBO series. He dates other women, some actresses, some not, two of them so famous that they can¡¯t go out in public without attracting photographers who swarm like mosquitoes. By the time he returns to Toronto for another movie, he can¡¯t go out in public without being photographed either, partly because the movie parts have gotten much bigger and more impressive, partly because the photographers got used to taking his picture when he was holding hands with more famous people. His agent congratulates him on his dating strategy.

 Page 54

    ¡°I wasn¡¯t being strategic,¡± Arthur says. ¡°I dated them because I liked them.¡±


    ¡°Sure you did,¡± his agent says. ¡°I¡¯m just saying, it didn¡¯t hurt.¡±


    Did he actually date those women because he liked them, or was his career in the back of his mind the whole time? The question is unexpectedly haunting.


    Arthur is thirty-six now, which makes Miranda twenty-four. He is becoming extremely, unpleasantly famous. He wasn¡¯t expecting fame, although he secretly longed for it in his twenties just like everyone else, and now that he has it he¡¯s not sure what to do with it. It¡¯s mostly embarrassing. He checks into the Hotel Le Germain in Toronto, for example, and the young woman at the registration desk tells him what an honor it is to have him staying with them¡ª¡°and if you don¡¯t mind me saying so, I adored that detective film¡±¡ªand as always in these situations he isn¡¯t sure what to say, he honestly can¡¯t tell if she really did enjoy the detective film or if she¡¯s just being nice or if she wants to sleep with him or some combination of the above, so he smiles and thanks her, flustered and not sure where to look, takes the key card and feels her gaze on his back as he walks to the elevators. Trying to look purposeful, also trying to convey the impression that he hasn¡¯t noticed and doesn¡¯t care that half the population of the lobby is staring at him.


    Once in the room he sits on the bed, relieved to be alone and unlooked-at but feeling as he always does in these moments a little disoriented, obscurely deflated, a bit at a loss, and then all at once he knows what to do. He calls the cell number that he¡¯s been saving all these years.


    14


    MIRANDA IS AT WORK when Arthur Leander calls her again. She¡¯s an administrative assistant at a shipping company, Neptune Logistics, where she spends quiet days at a desk shaped like a horseshoe in a private reception area outside her boss¡¯s office door. Her boss is a young executive named Leon Prevant, and his door is almost always closed because he¡¯s almost always out of town. There are acres of gray carpeting and a wall of glass with a view of Lake Ontario near her desk. There¡¯s rarely enough work to keep her occupied for more than an hour or two at a time, which means she can often spend entire afternoons sketching¡ªshe¡¯s working on a series of graphic novels¡ªwith long coffee breaks, during which she likes to stand by the glass wall and look out at the lake. When she stands here she feels suspended, floating over the city. The stillness of the water, the horizon framed by other glass towers and miniature boats drifting in the distance.


    A soft chime signifies an incoming email. During the long period when her position was staffed by an incompetent temp¡ª¡°The winter of our discontent,¡± Leon Prevant calls it¡ªLeon took to outsourcing his travel planning to his subordinate Hannah¡¯s administrative assistant Thea, who is impeccable in a smooth, corporate way that Miranda admires, and who has just forwarded Leon¡¯s flight confirmation emails for next month¡¯s trip to Tokyo. In Thea¡¯s presence she feels ragged and unkempt, curls sticking up in all directions while Thea¡¯s hair is glossy and precise, her clothes never quite right whereas Thea¡¯s clothes are perfect. Miranda¡¯s lipstick is always too gaudy or too dark, her heels too high or too low. Her stockings all have holes in the feet and have to be worn strategically with specific pairs of shoes. The shoes have scuffed heels, filled in carefully with permanent marker.


    The clothes are a problem. Most of Miranda¡¯s office clothes come from a bargain outlet just off Yonge Street, and they always look okay under the dressing room lights but by the time she gets home they¡¯re all wrong, the black skirt shining with acrylic fibers, the blouse in a synthetic fabric that clings unpleasantly, everything cheap-looking and highly flammable.


    ¡°You¡¯re an artist,¡± her boyfriend Pablo said that morning, watching her while she tried various layering options under a blouse that had shrunk in the wash. ¡°Why would you want to conform to some bullshit corporate dress code?¡±


    ¡°Because my job requires it.¡±


    ¡°My poor corporate baby,¡± he said. ¡°Lost in the machine.¡± Pablo talks about metaphorical machines a lot, also the Man. He sometimes combines the two, as in ¡°That¡¯s how the Man wants us, just trapped right there in the corporate machine.¡± They met at school. Pablo graduated a year ahead of her, and at first his career seemed so brilliant that she stopped being a waitress at his invitation: he sold a painting for ten thousand dollars and then a larger one for twenty-one thousand and he was poised to become the Next Big Thing, but then a show got canceled and he sold nothing else in the year that followed, absolutely nothing, so Miranda signed with a temp agency and found herself a short time later at her desk in a high tower outside Leon Prevant¡¯s office door. ¡°Hang in there, baby,¡± he said that morning, watching her dress. ¡°You know this is only temporary.¡±

 Page 55

    ¡°I wasn¡¯t being strategic,¡± Arthur says. ¡°I dated them because I liked them.¡±


    ¡°Sure you did,¡± his agent says. ¡°I¡¯m just saying, it didn¡¯t hurt.¡±


    Did he actually date those women because he liked them, or was his career in the back of his mind the whole time? The question is unexpectedly haunting.


    Arthur is thirty-six now, which makes Miranda twenty-four. He is becoming extremely, unpleasantly famous. He wasn¡¯t expecting fame, although he secretly longed for it in his twenties just like everyone else, and now that he has it he¡¯s not sure what to do with it. It¡¯s mostly embarrassing. He checks into the Hotel Le Germain in Toronto, for example, and the young woman at the registration desk tells him what an honor it is to have him staying with them¡ª¡°and if you don¡¯t mind me saying so, I adored that detective film¡±¡ªand as always in these situations he isn¡¯t sure what to say, he honestly can¡¯t tell if she really did enjoy the detective film or if she¡¯s just being nice or if she wants to sleep with him or some combination of the above, so he smiles and thanks her, flustered and not sure where to look, takes the key card and feels her gaze on his back as he walks to the elevators. Trying to look purposeful, also trying to convey the impression that he hasn¡¯t noticed and doesn¡¯t care that half the population of the lobby is staring at him.


    Once in the room he sits on the bed, relieved to be alone and unlooked-at but feeling as he always does in these moments a little disoriented, obscurely deflated, a bit at a loss, and then all at once he knows what to do. He calls the cell number that he¡¯s been saving all these years.


    14


    MIRANDA IS AT WORK when Arthur Leander calls her again. She¡¯s an administrative assistant at a shipping company, Neptune Logistics, where she spends quiet days at a desk shaped like a horseshoe in a private reception area outside her boss¡¯s office door. Her boss is a young executive named Leon Prevant, and his door is almost always closed because he¡¯s almost always out of town. There are acres of gray carpeting and a wall of glass with a view of Lake Ontario near her desk. There¡¯s rarely enough work to keep her occupied for more than an hour or two at a time, which means she can often spend entire afternoons sketching¡ªshe¡¯s working on a series of graphic novels¡ªwith long coffee breaks, during which she likes to stand by the glass wall and look out at the lake. When she stands here she feels suspended, floating over the city. The stillness of the water, the horizon framed by other glass towers and miniature boats drifting in the distance.


    A soft chime signifies an incoming email. During the long period when her position was staffed by an incompetent temp¡ª¡°The winter of our discontent,¡± Leon Prevant calls it¡ªLeon took to outsourcing his travel planning to his subordinate Hannah¡¯s administrative assistant Thea, who is impeccable in a smooth, corporate way that Miranda admires, and who has just forwarded Leon¡¯s flight confirmation emails for next month¡¯s trip to Tokyo. In Thea¡¯s presence she feels ragged and unkempt, curls sticking up in all directions while Thea¡¯s hair is glossy and precise, her clothes never quite right whereas Thea¡¯s clothes are perfect. Miranda¡¯s lipstick is always too gaudy or too dark, her heels too high or too low. Her stockings all have holes in the feet and have to be worn strategically with specific pairs of shoes. The shoes have scuffed heels, filled in carefully with permanent marker.


    The clothes are a problem. Most of Miranda¡¯s office clothes come from a bargain outlet just off Yonge Street, and they always look okay under the dressing room lights but by the time she gets home they¡¯re all wrong, the black skirt shining with acrylic fibers, the blouse in a synthetic fabric that clings unpleasantly, everything cheap-looking and highly flammable.


    ¡°You¡¯re an artist,¡± her boyfriend Pablo said that morning, watching her while she tried various layering options under a blouse that had shrunk in the wash. ¡°Why would you want to conform to some bullshit corporate dress code?¡±


    ¡°Because my job requires it.¡±


    ¡°My poor corporate baby,¡± he said. ¡°Lost in the machine.¡± Pablo talks about metaphorical machines a lot, also the Man. He sometimes combines the two, as in ¡°That¡¯s how the Man wants us, just trapped right there in the corporate machine.¡± They met at school. Pablo graduated a year ahead of her, and at first his career seemed so brilliant that she stopped being a waitress at his invitation: he sold a painting for ten thousand dollars and then a larger one for twenty-one thousand and he was poised to become the Next Big Thing, but then a show got canceled and he sold nothing else in the year that followed, absolutely nothing, so Miranda signed with a temp agency and found herself a short time later at her desk in a high tower outside Leon Prevant¡¯s office door. ¡°Hang in there, baby,¡± he said that morning, watching her dress. ¡°You know this is only temporary.¡±

 Page 56

    ¡°Sure,¡± she said. He¡¯s been saying this ever since she registered with the temp agency, but what she hasn¡¯t told him is that she went from temporary to permanent at the end of her sixth week on the job. Leon likes her. He appreciates how calm she always is, he says, how unflappable. He even introduces her as such, on the rare occasions when he¡¯s in the office: ¡°And this is my unflappable assistant, Miranda.¡± This pleases her more than she likes to admit to herself.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to sell those new paintings,¡± Pablo said. He was half-naked in the bed, lying like a starfish. After she got up he always liked to see how much of the bed he could sleep on at once. ¡°You know there¡¯s a payday coming, right?¡±


    ¡°Definitely,¡± Miranda said, giving up on the blouse and trying to find a T-shirt that might look halfway professional under her twenty-dollar blazer.


    ¡°Almost no one from that last show sold anything,¡± he said, talking mostly to himself now.


    ¡°I know it¡¯s temporary.¡± But this is her secret: she doesn¡¯t want it to end. What she can never tell Pablo, because he disdains all things corporate, is that she likes being at Neptune Logistics more than she likes being at home. Home is a small dark apartment with an ever-growing population of dust bunnies, the hallway narrowed by Pablo¡¯s canvases propped up against the walls, an easel blocking the lower half of the living room window. Her workspace at Neptune Logistics is all clean lines and recessed lighting. She works on her never-ending project for hours at a time. In art school they talked about day jobs in tones of horror. She never would have imagined that her day job would be the calmest and least cluttered part of her life.


    She receives five emails from Thea this morning, forwarded flight and hotel confirmations for Leon¡¯s upcoming trip to Asia. Miranda spends some time on the Asian travel itinerary. Japan, then Singapore, then South Korea. She likes looking up maps and imagining traveling to these places herself. She has still never left Canada. With Pablo not working or selling any paintings, she¡¯s only making minimum interest payments on her student loans and she can barely cover their rent. She inserts the Singapore-to-Seoul flight information into the itinerary, double-checks the other confirmation numbers, and realizes that she¡¯s run out of tasks for the day. It¡¯s nine forty-five a.m.


    Miranda reads the news for a while, spends some time looking at a map of the Korean peninsula, realizes that she¡¯s been staring blankly at the screen and thinking of the world of her project, her graphic novel, her comic-book series, her whatever-it-is that she¡¯s been working on since she graduated from art school. She retrieves her sketchbook from its hiding space under the files in her top desk drawer.


    There are several important characters in the Station Eleven project, but the hero is Dr. Eleven, a brilliant physicist who bears a striking physical resemblance to Pablo but is otherwise nothing like him. He is a person from the future who never whines. He is dashing and occasionally sarcastic. He doesn¡¯t drink too much. He is afraid of nothing but has poor luck with women. He took his name from the space station where he lives. A hostile civilization from a nearby galaxy has taken control of Earth and enslaved Earth¡¯s population, but a few hundred rebels managed to steal a space station and escape. Dr. Eleven and his colleagues slipped Station Eleven through a wormhole and are hiding in the uncharted reaches of deep space. This is all a thousand years in the future.


    Station Eleven is the size of Earth¡¯s moon and was designed to resemble a planet, but it¡¯s a planet that can chart a course through galaxies and requires no sun. The station¡¯s artificial sky was damaged in the war, however, so on Station Eleven¡¯s surface it is always sunset or twilight or night. There was also damage to a number of vital systems involving Station Eleven¡¯s ocean levels, and the only land remaining is a series of islands that once were mountaintops.


    There has been a schism. There are people who, after fifteen years of perpetual twilight, long only to go home, to return to Earth and beg for amnesty, to take their chances under alien rule. They live in the Undersea, an interlinked network of vast fallout shelters under Station Eleven¡¯s oceans. There are three hundred of them now. In the scene Miranda¡¯s presently sketching, Dr. Eleven is on a boat with his mentor, Captain Lonagan.


    Dr. Eleven: These are perilous waters. We¡¯re passing over an Undersea gate.


    Captain Lonagan: You should try to understand them. (The next panel is a close-up of his face.) All they want is to see sunlight again. Can you blame them?


    After these two panels, she decides, she needs a full-page spread. She¡¯s already painted the image, and when she closes her eyes she can almost see it, clipped to her easel at home. The seahorse is a massive rust-colored creature with blank eyes like saucers, half animal, half machine, the blue light of a radio transmitter glowing on the side of its head. Moving silent through the water, beautiful and nightmarish, a human rider from the Undersea astride the curve of its spine. Deep blue water up to the top inch of the painting. On the water¡¯s surface, Dr. Eleven and Captain Lonagan in their rowboat, small under the foreign constellations of deep space.

 Page 57

    ¡°Sure,¡± she said. He¡¯s been saying this ever since she registered with the temp agency, but what she hasn¡¯t told him is that she went from temporary to permanent at the end of her sixth week on the job. Leon likes her. He appreciates how calm she always is, he says, how unflappable. He even introduces her as such, on the rare occasions when he¡¯s in the office: ¡°And this is my unflappable assistant, Miranda.¡± This pleases her more than she likes to admit to herself.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to sell those new paintings,¡± Pablo said. He was half-naked in the bed, lying like a starfish. After she got up he always liked to see how much of the bed he could sleep on at once. ¡°You know there¡¯s a payday coming, right?¡±


    ¡°Definitely,¡± Miranda said, giving up on the blouse and trying to find a T-shirt that might look halfway professional under her twenty-dollar blazer.


    ¡°Almost no one from that last show sold anything,¡± he said, talking mostly to himself now.


    ¡°I know it¡¯s temporary.¡± But this is her secret: she doesn¡¯t want it to end. What she can never tell Pablo, because he disdains all things corporate, is that she likes being at Neptune Logistics more than she likes being at home. Home is a small dark apartment with an ever-growing population of dust bunnies, the hallway narrowed by Pablo¡¯s canvases propped up against the walls, an easel blocking the lower half of the living room window. Her workspace at Neptune Logistics is all clean lines and recessed lighting. She works on her never-ending project for hours at a time. In art school they talked about day jobs in tones of horror. She never would have imagined that her day job would be the calmest and least cluttered part of her life.


    She receives five emails from Thea this morning, forwarded flight and hotel confirmations for Leon¡¯s upcoming trip to Asia. Miranda spends some time on the Asian travel itinerary. Japan, then Singapore, then South Korea. She likes looking up maps and imagining traveling to these places herself. She has still never left Canada. With Pablo not working or selling any paintings, she¡¯s only making minimum interest payments on her student loans and she can barely cover their rent. She inserts the Singapore-to-Seoul flight information into the itinerary, double-checks the other confirmation numbers, and realizes that she¡¯s run out of tasks for the day. It¡¯s nine forty-five a.m.


    Miranda reads the news for a while, spends some time looking at a map of the Korean peninsula, realizes that she¡¯s been staring blankly at the screen and thinking of the world of her project, her graphic novel, her comic-book series, her whatever-it-is that she¡¯s been working on since she graduated from art school. She retrieves her sketchbook from its hiding space under the files in her top desk drawer.


    There are several important characters in the Station Eleven project, but the hero is Dr. Eleven, a brilliant physicist who bears a striking physical resemblance to Pablo but is otherwise nothing like him. He is a person from the future who never whines. He is dashing and occasionally sarcastic. He doesn¡¯t drink too much. He is afraid of nothing but has poor luck with women. He took his name from the space station where he lives. A hostile civilization from a nearby galaxy has taken control of Earth and enslaved Earth¡¯s population, but a few hundred rebels managed to steal a space station and escape. Dr. Eleven and his colleagues slipped Station Eleven through a wormhole and are hiding in the uncharted reaches of deep space. This is all a thousand years in the future.


    Station Eleven is the size of Earth¡¯s moon and was designed to resemble a planet, but it¡¯s a planet that can chart a course through galaxies and requires no sun. The station¡¯s artificial sky was damaged in the war, however, so on Station Eleven¡¯s surface it is always sunset or twilight or night. There was also damage to a number of vital systems involving Station Eleven¡¯s ocean levels, and the only land remaining is a series of islands that once were mountaintops.


    There has been a schism. There are people who, after fifteen years of perpetual twilight, long only to go home, to return to Earth and beg for amnesty, to take their chances under alien rule. They live in the Undersea, an interlinked network of vast fallout shelters under Station Eleven¡¯s oceans. There are three hundred of them now. In the scene Miranda¡¯s presently sketching, Dr. Eleven is on a boat with his mentor, Captain Lonagan.


    Dr. Eleven: These are perilous waters. We¡¯re passing over an Undersea gate.


    Captain Lonagan: You should try to understand them. (The next panel is a close-up of his face.) All they want is to see sunlight again. Can you blame them?


    After these two panels, she decides, she needs a full-page spread. She¡¯s already painted the image, and when she closes her eyes she can almost see it, clipped to her easel at home. The seahorse is a massive rust-colored creature with blank eyes like saucers, half animal, half machine, the blue light of a radio transmitter glowing on the side of its head. Moving silent through the water, beautiful and nightmarish, a human rider from the Undersea astride the curve of its spine. Deep blue water up to the top inch of the painting. On the water¡¯s surface, Dr. Eleven and Captain Lonagan in their rowboat, small under the foreign constellations of deep space.

 Page 58

    On the day she sees Arthur again, Pablo calls her on the office line in the afternoon. She¡¯s a few sips into her four p.m. coffee, sketching out a series of panels involving Dr. Eleven¡¯s efforts to thwart the Undersea¡¯s latest plot to sabotage the station reactors and force a return to Earth. She knows as soon as she hears Pablo¡¯s voice that it¡¯s going to be a bad call. He wants to know what time she¡¯ll be home.


    ¡°Sometime around eight.¡±


    ¡°What I don¡¯t understand,¡± Pablo says, ¡°is what you¡¯re doing for these people.¡±


    She winds the phone cord around her finger and looks at the scene she was just working on. Dr. Eleven is confronted by his Undersea nemesis on a subterranean walkway by Station Eleven¡¯s main reactor. A thought bubble: But what insanity is this?


    ¡°Well, I put together Leon¡¯s travel itineraries.¡± There have been a number of bad calls lately, and she¡¯s been trying to view them as opportunities to practice being patient. ¡°I handle his expense reports and send emails for him sometimes. There¡¯s the occasional message. I do the filing.¡±


    ¡°And that takes up your entire day.¡±


    ¡°Not at all. We¡¯ve talked about this, pickle. There¡¯s a lot of downtime, actually.¡±


    ¡°And what do you do in that downtime, Miranda?¡±


    ¡°I work on my project, Pablo. I¡¯m not sure why your tone¡¯s so nasty.¡± But the trouble is, she doesn¡¯t really care. There was a time when this conversation would have reduced her to tears, but now she swivels in her chair to look out at the lake and thinks about moving trucks. She could call in sick to work, pack up her things, and be gone in a few hours. It is sometimes necessary to break everything.


    ¡°¡­ twelve-hour days,¡± he¡¯s saying. ¡°You¡¯re never here. You¡¯re gone from eight a.m. till nine at night and then you even go in on Saturdays sometimes, and I¡¯m supposed to just ¡­ oh, I don¡¯t know, Miranda, what would you say if you were me?¡±


    ¡°Wait,¡± she says, ¡°I just realized why you called me on the office line.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re verifying that I¡¯m here, aren¡¯t you? That¡¯s why you didn¡¯t call me on my cell.¡± A shiver of anger, unexpectedly deep. She is paying the entire rent on their apartment, and he¡¯s verifying that she¡¯s actually at her job.


    ¡°The hours you work.¡± He lets this hang in the air till it takes on the weight of accusation.


    ¡°Well,¡± she says¡ªone thing she is very good at is forcing her voice to remain calm when she¡¯s angry¡ª¡°as I¡¯ve mentioned before, Leon was very clear when he hired me. He wants me at my desk until seven p.m. when he¡¯s traveling, and if he¡¯s here, I¡¯m here. He texts me when he comes in on weekends, and then I have to be here too.¡±


    ¡°Oh, he texts you.¡±


    The problem is that she¡¯s colossally bored with the conversation, and also bored with Pablo, and with the kitchen on Jarvis Street where she knows he¡¯s standing, because he only makes angry phone calls from home¡ªone of the things they have in common is a mutual distaste for sidewalk weepers and cell-phone screamers, for people who conduct their messier personal affairs in public¡ªand the kitchen gets the best reception of anywhere in the apartment.


    ¡°Pablo, it¡¯s just a job. We need the money.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s always money with you, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°This is what¡¯s paying our rent. You know that, right?¡±


    ¡°Are you saying I¡¯m not pulling my weight, Miranda? Is that what you¡¯re saying?¡±


    It isn¡¯t possible to continue to listen to this, so she sets the receiver gently on the cradle and finds herself wondering why she didn¡¯t notice earlier¡ªsay, eight years ago, when they first started dating¡ªthat Pablo is mean. His email arrives within minutes. The subject header is WTF. Miranda, it reads, what¡¯s going on here? It seems like you¡¯re being weirdly hostile and kind of passive-aggressive. What gives?


    She closes it without responding and stands by the glass wall for a while to look out at the lake. Imagining the water rising until it covers the streets, gondolas moving between the towers of the financial district, Dr. Eleven on a high arched bridge. She¡¯s standing here when her cell phone rings. She doesn¡¯t recognize the number.


    ¡°It¡¯s Arthur Leander,¡± he says when she answers. ¡°Can I buy you another lunch?¡±


    ¡°How about dinner instead?¡±


    ¡°Tonight?¡±

 Page 59

    On the day she sees Arthur again, Pablo calls her on the office line in the afternoon. She¡¯s a few sips into her four p.m. coffee, sketching out a series of panels involving Dr. Eleven¡¯s efforts to thwart the Undersea¡¯s latest plot to sabotage the station reactors and force a return to Earth. She knows as soon as she hears Pablo¡¯s voice that it¡¯s going to be a bad call. He wants to know what time she¡¯ll be home.


    ¡°Sometime around eight.¡±


    ¡°What I don¡¯t understand,¡± Pablo says, ¡°is what you¡¯re doing for these people.¡±


    She winds the phone cord around her finger and looks at the scene she was just working on. Dr. Eleven is confronted by his Undersea nemesis on a subterranean walkway by Station Eleven¡¯s main reactor. A thought bubble: But what insanity is this?


    ¡°Well, I put together Leon¡¯s travel itineraries.¡± There have been a number of bad calls lately, and she¡¯s been trying to view them as opportunities to practice being patient. ¡°I handle his expense reports and send emails for him sometimes. There¡¯s the occasional message. I do the filing.¡±


    ¡°And that takes up your entire day.¡±


    ¡°Not at all. We¡¯ve talked about this, pickle. There¡¯s a lot of downtime, actually.¡±


    ¡°And what do you do in that downtime, Miranda?¡±


    ¡°I work on my project, Pablo. I¡¯m not sure why your tone¡¯s so nasty.¡± But the trouble is, she doesn¡¯t really care. There was a time when this conversation would have reduced her to tears, but now she swivels in her chair to look out at the lake and thinks about moving trucks. She could call in sick to work, pack up her things, and be gone in a few hours. It is sometimes necessary to break everything.


    ¡°¡­ twelve-hour days,¡± he¡¯s saying. ¡°You¡¯re never here. You¡¯re gone from eight a.m. till nine at night and then you even go in on Saturdays sometimes, and I¡¯m supposed to just ¡­ oh, I don¡¯t know, Miranda, what would you say if you were me?¡±


    ¡°Wait,¡± she says, ¡°I just realized why you called me on the office line.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re verifying that I¡¯m here, aren¡¯t you? That¡¯s why you didn¡¯t call me on my cell.¡± A shiver of anger, unexpectedly deep. She is paying the entire rent on their apartment, and he¡¯s verifying that she¡¯s actually at her job.


    ¡°The hours you work.¡± He lets this hang in the air till it takes on the weight of accusation.


    ¡°Well,¡± she says¡ªone thing she is very good at is forcing her voice to remain calm when she¡¯s angry¡ª¡°as I¡¯ve mentioned before, Leon was very clear when he hired me. He wants me at my desk until seven p.m. when he¡¯s traveling, and if he¡¯s here, I¡¯m here. He texts me when he comes in on weekends, and then I have to be here too.¡±


    ¡°Oh, he texts you.¡±


    The problem is that she¡¯s colossally bored with the conversation, and also bored with Pablo, and with the kitchen on Jarvis Street where she knows he¡¯s standing, because he only makes angry phone calls from home¡ªone of the things they have in common is a mutual distaste for sidewalk weepers and cell-phone screamers, for people who conduct their messier personal affairs in public¡ªand the kitchen gets the best reception of anywhere in the apartment.


    ¡°Pablo, it¡¯s just a job. We need the money.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s always money with you, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°This is what¡¯s paying our rent. You know that, right?¡±


    ¡°Are you saying I¡¯m not pulling my weight, Miranda? Is that what you¡¯re saying?¡±


    It isn¡¯t possible to continue to listen to this, so she sets the receiver gently on the cradle and finds herself wondering why she didn¡¯t notice earlier¡ªsay, eight years ago, when they first started dating¡ªthat Pablo is mean. His email arrives within minutes. The subject header is WTF. Miranda, it reads, what¡¯s going on here? It seems like you¡¯re being weirdly hostile and kind of passive-aggressive. What gives?


    She closes it without responding and stands by the glass wall for a while to look out at the lake. Imagining the water rising until it covers the streets, gondolas moving between the towers of the financial district, Dr. Eleven on a high arched bridge. She¡¯s standing here when her cell phone rings. She doesn¡¯t recognize the number.


    ¡°It¡¯s Arthur Leander,¡± he says when she answers. ¡°Can I buy you another lunch?¡±


    ¡°How about dinner instead?¡±


    ¡°Tonight?¡±

 Page 60

    ¡°Are you busy?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± he says, sitting on his bed in the Hotel Le Germain, wondering how he¡¯ll get out of dinner with the director this evening. ¡°Not at all. It would be my pleasure.¡±


    She decides it isn¡¯t necessary to call Pablo, under the circumstances. There is a small task for Leon, who¡¯s about to board a plane to Lisbon; she finds a file he needs and emails it to him and then returns to Station Eleven. Panels set in the Undersea, people working quietly in cavernous rooms. They live out their lives under flickering lights, aware at all times of the fathoms of ocean above them, resentful of Dr. Eleven and his colleagues who keep Station Eleven moving forever through deep space. (Pablo texts her: ??did u get my email???) They are always waiting, the people of the Undersea. They spend all their lives waiting for their lives to begin.


    Miranda is drawing Leon Prevant¡¯s reception area before she realizes what she¡¯s doing. The prairies of carpet, the desk, Leon¡¯s closed office door, the wall of glass. The two staplers on her desk¡ªhow did she end up with two?¡ªand the doors leading out to the elevators and restrooms. Trying to convey the serenity of this place where she spends her most pleasant hours, the refinement of it, but outside the glass wall she substitutes another landscape, dark rocks and high bridges.


    ¡°You¡¯re always half on Station Eleven,¡± Pablo said during a fight a week or so ago, ¡°and I don¡¯t even understand your project. What are you actually going for here?¡±


    He has no interest in comics. He doesn¡¯t understand the difference between serious graphic novels and Saturday-morning cartoons with wide-eyed tweetybirds and floppy-limbed cats. When sober, he suggests that she¡¯s squandering her talent. When drunk, he implies that there isn¡¯t much there to squander, although later he apologizes for this and sometimes cries. It¡¯s been a year and two months since he sold his last painting. She started to explain her project to him again but the words stopped in her throat.


    ¡°You don¡¯t have to understand it,¡± she said. ¡°It¡¯s mine.¡±


    The restaurant where she meets Arthur is all dark wood and soft lighting, the ceiling a series of archways and domes. I can use this, she thinks, waiting at the table for him to arrive. Imagining a room like this in the Undersea, a subterranean place made of wood salvaged from the Station¡¯s drowned forests, wishing she had her sketchbook with her. At 8:01 p.m., a text from Pablo: i¡¯m waiting. She turns off her phone and drops it into her handbag. Arthur comes in breathless and apologetic, ten minutes late. His cab got stuck in traffic.


    ¡°I¡¯m working on a comic-book project,¡± she tells him later, when he asks about her work. ¡°Maybe a series of graphic novels. I don¡¯t know what it is yet.¡±


    ¡°What made you choose that form?¡± He seems genuinely interested.


    ¡°I used to read a lot of comics when I was a kid. Did you ever read Calvin and Hobbes?¡± Arthur is watching her closely. He looks young, she thinks, for thirty-six. He looks only slightly older than he did when they met for lunch seven years ago.


    ¡°Sure,¡± Arthur says, ¡°I loved Calvin and Hobbes. My best friend had a stack of the books when we were growing up.¡±


    ¡°Is your friend from the island? Maybe I knew him.¡±


    ¡°Her. Victoria. She picked up and moved to Tofino fifteen years ago. But you were telling me about Calvin and Hobbes.¡±


    ¡°Yes, right. Do you remember Spaceman Spiff?¡±


    She loved those panels especially. Spiff¡¯s flying saucer crossing alien skies, the little astronaut in his goggles under the saucer¡¯s glass dome. Often it was funny, but also it was beautiful. She tells him about coming back to Delano Island for Christmas in her first year of art school, after a semester marked by failure and frustrating attempts at photography. She started thumbing through an old Calvin and Hobbes, and thought, this. These red-desert landscapes, these skies with two moons. She began thinking about the possibilities of the form, about spaceships and stars, alien planets, but a year passed before she invented the beautiful wreckage of Station Eleven. Arthur watches her across the table. Dinner goes very late.


    ¡°Are you still with Pablo?¡± he asks, when they¡¯re out on the street. He¡¯s hailing a cab. Certain things have been decided without either of them exactly talking about it.


    ¡°We¡¯re breaking up. We¡¯re not right for each other.¡± Saying it aloud makes it true. They are getting into a taxi, they¡¯re kissing in the backseat, he¡¯s steering her across the lobby of the hotel with his hand on her back, she is kissing him in the elevator, she is following him into a room.

 Page 61

    ¡°Are you busy?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± he says, sitting on his bed in the Hotel Le Germain, wondering how he¡¯ll get out of dinner with the director this evening. ¡°Not at all. It would be my pleasure.¡±


    She decides it isn¡¯t necessary to call Pablo, under the circumstances. There is a small task for Leon, who¡¯s about to board a plane to Lisbon; she finds a file he needs and emails it to him and then returns to Station Eleven. Panels set in the Undersea, people working quietly in cavernous rooms. They live out their lives under flickering lights, aware at all times of the fathoms of ocean above them, resentful of Dr. Eleven and his colleagues who keep Station Eleven moving forever through deep space. (Pablo texts her: ??did u get my email???) They are always waiting, the people of the Undersea. They spend all their lives waiting for their lives to begin.


    Miranda is drawing Leon Prevant¡¯s reception area before she realizes what she¡¯s doing. The prairies of carpet, the desk, Leon¡¯s closed office door, the wall of glass. The two staplers on her desk¡ªhow did she end up with two?¡ªand the doors leading out to the elevators and restrooms. Trying to convey the serenity of this place where she spends her most pleasant hours, the refinement of it, but outside the glass wall she substitutes another landscape, dark rocks and high bridges.


    ¡°You¡¯re always half on Station Eleven,¡± Pablo said during a fight a week or so ago, ¡°and I don¡¯t even understand your project. What are you actually going for here?¡±


    He has no interest in comics. He doesn¡¯t understand the difference between serious graphic novels and Saturday-morning cartoons with wide-eyed tweetybirds and floppy-limbed cats. When sober, he suggests that she¡¯s squandering her talent. When drunk, he implies that there isn¡¯t much there to squander, although later he apologizes for this and sometimes cries. It¡¯s been a year and two months since he sold his last painting. She started to explain her project to him again but the words stopped in her throat.


    ¡°You don¡¯t have to understand it,¡± she said. ¡°It¡¯s mine.¡±


    The restaurant where she meets Arthur is all dark wood and soft lighting, the ceiling a series of archways and domes. I can use this, she thinks, waiting at the table for him to arrive. Imagining a room like this in the Undersea, a subterranean place made of wood salvaged from the Station¡¯s drowned forests, wishing she had her sketchbook with her. At 8:01 p.m., a text from Pablo: i¡¯m waiting. She turns off her phone and drops it into her handbag. Arthur comes in breathless and apologetic, ten minutes late. His cab got stuck in traffic.


    ¡°I¡¯m working on a comic-book project,¡± she tells him later, when he asks about her work. ¡°Maybe a series of graphic novels. I don¡¯t know what it is yet.¡±


    ¡°What made you choose that form?¡± He seems genuinely interested.


    ¡°I used to read a lot of comics when I was a kid. Did you ever read Calvin and Hobbes?¡± Arthur is watching her closely. He looks young, she thinks, for thirty-six. He looks only slightly older than he did when they met for lunch seven years ago.


    ¡°Sure,¡± Arthur says, ¡°I loved Calvin and Hobbes. My best friend had a stack of the books when we were growing up.¡±


    ¡°Is your friend from the island? Maybe I knew him.¡±


    ¡°Her. Victoria. She picked up and moved to Tofino fifteen years ago. But you were telling me about Calvin and Hobbes.¡±


    ¡°Yes, right. Do you remember Spaceman Spiff?¡±


    She loved those panels especially. Spiff¡¯s flying saucer crossing alien skies, the little astronaut in his goggles under the saucer¡¯s glass dome. Often it was funny, but also it was beautiful. She tells him about coming back to Delano Island for Christmas in her first year of art school, after a semester marked by failure and frustrating attempts at photography. She started thumbing through an old Calvin and Hobbes, and thought, this. These red-desert landscapes, these skies with two moons. She began thinking about the possibilities of the form, about spaceships and stars, alien planets, but a year passed before she invented the beautiful wreckage of Station Eleven. Arthur watches her across the table. Dinner goes very late.


    ¡°Are you still with Pablo?¡± he asks, when they¡¯re out on the street. He¡¯s hailing a cab. Certain things have been decided without either of them exactly talking about it.


    ¡°We¡¯re breaking up. We¡¯re not right for each other.¡± Saying it aloud makes it true. They are getting into a taxi, they¡¯re kissing in the backseat, he¡¯s steering her across the lobby of the hotel with his hand on her back, she is kissing him in the elevator, she is following him into a room.

 Page 62

    Texts from Pablo at nine, ten, and eleven p.m.:


    r u mad at me??


    She replies to this¡ªstaying w a friend tonight, will be home in morning & then we can talk¡ªwhich elicits


    u know what dont bother coming home


    And she feels a peculiar giddiness when she reads this fourth text. There are thoughts of freedom and imminent escape. I could throw away almost everything, she thinks, and begin all over again. Station Eleven will be my constant.


    At six in the morning she takes a taxi home to Jarvis Street. ¡°I want to see you tonight,¡± Arthur whispers when she kisses him. They have plans to meet in his room after work.


    The apartment is dark and silent. There are dishes piled in the sink, a frying pan on the stove with bits of food stuck to it. The bedroom door is closed. She packs two suitcases¡ªone for clothes, one for art supplies¡ªand is gone in fifteen minutes. In the employee gym at Neptune Logistics she showers and changes into clothes slightly rumpled by the suitcase, meets her own gaze in the mirror while she¡¯s putting on makeup. I repent nothing. A line remembered from the fog of the Internet. I am heartless, she thinks, but she knows even through her guilt that this isn¡¯t true. She knows there are traps everywhere that can make her cry, she knows the way she dies a little every time someone asks her for change and she doesn¡¯t give it to them means that she¡¯s too soft for this world or perhaps just for this city, she feels so small here. There are tears in her eyes now. Miranda is a person with very few certainties, but one of them is that only the dishonorable leave when things get difficult.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Arthur says, at two in the morning. They are lying in his enormous bed at the Hotel Le Germain. He¡¯s here in Toronto for three more weeks and then going back to Los Angeles. She wants to believe they¡¯re lying in moonlight, but she knows the light through the window is probably mostly electric. ¡°Can you call the pursuit of happiness dishonorable?¡±


    ¡°Surely sleeping with film stars when you live with someone else isn¡¯t honorable, per se.¡±


    He shifts slightly in the bed, uncomfortable with the term film star, and kisses the top of her head.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to go back to the apartment in the morning to get a few more things,¡± she says sometime around four a.m., half-asleep. Thinking about a painting she left on her easel, a seahorse rising up from the bottom of the ocean. They¡¯ve been talking about plans. Things have been solidifying rapidly.


    ¡°You don¡¯t think he¡¯ll do anything stupid, do you? Pablo?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± she says, ¡°he won¡¯t do anything except maybe yell.¡± She can¡¯t keep her eyes open.


    ¡°You¡¯re sure about that?¡±


    He waits for an answer, but she¡¯s fallen asleep. He kisses her forehead¡ªshe murmurs something, but doesn¡¯t wake up¡ªand lifts the duvet to cover her bare shoulders, turns off the television and then the light.


    15


    LATER THEY HAVE a house in the Hollywood Hills and a Pomeranian who shines like a little ghost when Miranda calls for her at night, a white smudge in the darkness at the end of the yard. There are photographers who follow Arthur and Miranda in the street, who keep Miranda forever anxious and on edge. Arthur¡¯s name appears above the titles of his movies now. On the night of their third anniversary, his face is on billboards all over the continent.


    Tonight they¡¯re having a dinner party and Luli, their Pomeranian, is watching the proceedings from the sunroom, where she¡¯s been exiled for begging table scraps. Every time Miranda glances up from the table, she sees Luli peering in through the glass French doors.


    ¡°Your dog looks like a marshmallow,¡± says Gary Heller, who is Arthur¡¯s lawyer.


    ¡°She¡¯s the cutest little thing,¡± Elizabeth Colton says. Her face is next to Arthur¡¯s on the billboards, flashing a brilliant smile with very red lips, but offscreen she wears no lipstick and seems nervous and shy. She is beautiful in a way that makes people forget what they were going to say when they look at her. She is very soft-spoken. People are forever leaning in close to hear what she¡¯s saying.


    There are ten guests here tonight, an intimate evening to celebrate both the anniversary and the opening weekend figures. ¡°Two birds with one stone,¡± Arthur said, but there¡¯s something wrong with the evening, and Miranda is finding it increasingly difficult to hide her unease. Why would a three-year wedding anniversary celebration involve anyone other than the two people who are actually married to one another? Who are all these extraneous people at my table? She¡¯s seated at the opposite end of the table from Arthur, and she somehow can¡¯t quite manage to catch his eye. He¡¯s talking to everyone except her. No one seems to have noticed that Miranda¡¯s saying very little. ¡°I wish you¡¯d try a little harder,¡± Arthur has said to her once or twice, but she knows she¡¯ll never belong here no matter how hard she tries. These are not her people. She is marooned on a strange planet. The best she can do is pretend to be unflappable when she isn¡¯t.

 Page 63

    Texts from Pablo at nine, ten, and eleven p.m.:


    r u mad at me??


    She replies to this¡ªstaying w a friend tonight, will be home in morning & then we can talk¡ªwhich elicits


    u know what dont bother coming home


    And she feels a peculiar giddiness when she reads this fourth text. There are thoughts of freedom and imminent escape. I could throw away almost everything, she thinks, and begin all over again. Station Eleven will be my constant.


    At six in the morning she takes a taxi home to Jarvis Street. ¡°I want to see you tonight,¡± Arthur whispers when she kisses him. They have plans to meet in his room after work.


    The apartment is dark and silent. There are dishes piled in the sink, a frying pan on the stove with bits of food stuck to it. The bedroom door is closed. She packs two suitcases¡ªone for clothes, one for art supplies¡ªand is gone in fifteen minutes. In the employee gym at Neptune Logistics she showers and changes into clothes slightly rumpled by the suitcase, meets her own gaze in the mirror while she¡¯s putting on makeup. I repent nothing. A line remembered from the fog of the Internet. I am heartless, she thinks, but she knows even through her guilt that this isn¡¯t true. She knows there are traps everywhere that can make her cry, she knows the way she dies a little every time someone asks her for change and she doesn¡¯t give it to them means that she¡¯s too soft for this world or perhaps just for this city, she feels so small here. There are tears in her eyes now. Miranda is a person with very few certainties, but one of them is that only the dishonorable leave when things get difficult.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Arthur says, at two in the morning. They are lying in his enormous bed at the Hotel Le Germain. He¡¯s here in Toronto for three more weeks and then going back to Los Angeles. She wants to believe they¡¯re lying in moonlight, but she knows the light through the window is probably mostly electric. ¡°Can you call the pursuit of happiness dishonorable?¡±


    ¡°Surely sleeping with film stars when you live with someone else isn¡¯t honorable, per se.¡±


    He shifts slightly in the bed, uncomfortable with the term film star, and kisses the top of her head.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to go back to the apartment in the morning to get a few more things,¡± she says sometime around four a.m., half-asleep. Thinking about a painting she left on her easel, a seahorse rising up from the bottom of the ocean. They¡¯ve been talking about plans. Things have been solidifying rapidly.


    ¡°You don¡¯t think he¡¯ll do anything stupid, do you? Pablo?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± she says, ¡°he won¡¯t do anything except maybe yell.¡± She can¡¯t keep her eyes open.


    ¡°You¡¯re sure about that?¡±


    He waits for an answer, but she¡¯s fallen asleep. He kisses her forehead¡ªshe murmurs something, but doesn¡¯t wake up¡ªand lifts the duvet to cover her bare shoulders, turns off the television and then the light.


    15


    LATER THEY HAVE a house in the Hollywood Hills and a Pomeranian who shines like a little ghost when Miranda calls for her at night, a white smudge in the darkness at the end of the yard. There are photographers who follow Arthur and Miranda in the street, who keep Miranda forever anxious and on edge. Arthur¡¯s name appears above the titles of his movies now. On the night of their third anniversary, his face is on billboards all over the continent.


    Tonight they¡¯re having a dinner party and Luli, their Pomeranian, is watching the proceedings from the sunroom, where she¡¯s been exiled for begging table scraps. Every time Miranda glances up from the table, she sees Luli peering in through the glass French doors.


    ¡°Your dog looks like a marshmallow,¡± says Gary Heller, who is Arthur¡¯s lawyer.


    ¡°She¡¯s the cutest little thing,¡± Elizabeth Colton says. Her face is next to Arthur¡¯s on the billboards, flashing a brilliant smile with very red lips, but offscreen she wears no lipstick and seems nervous and shy. She is beautiful in a way that makes people forget what they were going to say when they look at her. She is very soft-spoken. People are forever leaning in close to hear what she¡¯s saying.


    There are ten guests here tonight, an intimate evening to celebrate both the anniversary and the opening weekend figures. ¡°Two birds with one stone,¡± Arthur said, but there¡¯s something wrong with the evening, and Miranda is finding it increasingly difficult to hide her unease. Why would a three-year wedding anniversary celebration involve anyone other than the two people who are actually married to one another? Who are all these extraneous people at my table? She¡¯s seated at the opposite end of the table from Arthur, and she somehow can¡¯t quite manage to catch his eye. He¡¯s talking to everyone except her. No one seems to have noticed that Miranda¡¯s saying very little. ¡°I wish you¡¯d try a little harder,¡± Arthur has said to her once or twice, but she knows she¡¯ll never belong here no matter how hard she tries. These are not her people. She is marooned on a strange planet. The best she can do is pretend to be unflappable when she isn¡¯t.

 Page 64

    Plates and bottles are being ferried to and from the table by a small army of caterers, who will leave their head shots and possibly a screenplay or two behind in the kitchen at the end of the night. Luli, on the wrong side of the glass, is staring at a strawberry that¡¯s fallen off the top of Heller¡¯s wife¡¯s dessert. Miranda has a poor memory when she¡¯s nervous, which is to say whenever she has to meet industry people or throw a dinner party or especially both, and she absolutely cannot remember Heller¡¯s wife¡¯s name although she¡¯s heard it at least twice this evening.


    ¡°Oh, it was intense,¡± Heller¡¯s wife is saying now, in response to something that Miranda didn¡¯t hear. ¡°We were out there for a week, just surfing every day. It was actually really spiritual.¡±


    ¡°The surfing?¡± the producer seated beside her asks.


    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t think it, right? But just going out every day, just you and the waves and a private instructor, it was just a really focused experience. Do you surf?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d love to, but I¡¯ve just been so busy with this whole school thing lately,¡± the producer says. ¡°Actually, I guess you¡¯d maybe call it an orphanage, it¡¯s this little thing I set up in Haiti last year, but the point is education, not just housing these kids.¡­¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, I¡¯m not attached to his project or anything.¡± Arthur is deep in conversation with an actor who played his brother in a film last year. ¡°I¡¯ve never met the guy, but I¡¯ve heard through friends that he likes my work.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve met him a few times,¡± the actor says.


    Miranda tunes out the overlapping conversations to look at Luli, who¡¯s looking at her through the glass. She¡¯d like to take Luli outside, and stay in the backyard with her until all these people leave.


    The dessert plates are cleared around midnight but no one¡¯s close to leaving, a wine-drenched languor settling over the table. Arthur is deep in conversation with Heller. Heller¡¯s nameless wife is gazing dreamily at the chandelier.


    Clark Thompson is here, Arthur¡¯s oldest friend and the only person at this table, aside from Miranda, who has no professional involvement in movies.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± a woman named Tesch is saying now, to Clark, ¡°what exactly is it that you do?¡± Tesch seems to be someone who mistakes rudeness for intellectual rigor. She is about forty, and wears severe black-framed glasses that somehow remind Miranda of architects. Miranda met her for the first time this evening and she can¡¯t remember what Tesch does, except that obviously she¡¯s involved in some way with the industry, a film editor maybe? And also Miranda doesn¡¯t understand Tesch¡¯s name: is she Tesch something, or something Tesch? Or a one-namer, like Madonna? Are you allowed to have only one name if you¡¯re not famous? Is it possible that Tesch is actually extremely famous and Miranda¡¯s the only one at the table who doesn¡¯t know this? Yes, that seems very possible. These are the things she frets about.


    ¡°What do I do? Nothing terribly glamorous, I¡¯m afraid.¡± Clark is British, thin and very tall, elegant in his usual uniform of vintage suit and Converse sneakers, accessorized with pink socks. He brought them a gift tonight, a beautiful glass paperweight from a museum gift shop in Rome. ¡°I have nothing to do with the film industry,¡± he says.


    ¡°Oh,¡± Heller¡¯s wife says, ¡°I think that¡¯s marvelous.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s certainly exotic,¡± Tesch says, ¡°but that doesn¡¯t narrow the field much, does it?¡±


    ¡°Management consulting. Based out of New York, new client in Los Angeles. I specialize in the repair and maintenance of faulty executives.¡± Clark sips his wine.


    ¡°And what¡¯s that in English?¡±


    ¡°The premise of the company by which I¡¯m employed,¡± Clark says, ¡°is that if one¡¯s the employer of an executive who¡¯s worthy in some ways but deeply flawed in others, it¡¯s sometimes cheaper to fix the executive than to replace him. Or her.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s an organizational psychologist,¡± Arthur says, surfacing from conversation at the far end of the table. ¡°I remember when he went back to England to get his PhD.¡±


    ¡°A PhD,¡± Tesch says. ¡°How conventional. And you¡±¡ªshe¡¯s turned to Miranda¡ª¡°how¡¯s your work going?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s going very well, thank you.¡± Miranda spends most of her time working on the Station Eleven project. She knows from the gossip blogs that people here see her as an eccentric, the actor¡¯s wife who inks mysterious cartoons that no one¡¯s ever laid eyes on¡ª¡°My wife¡¯s very private about her work,¡± Arthur says in interviews¡ªand who doesn¡¯t drive and likes to go for long walks in a town where nobody walks anywhere and who has no friends except a Pomeranian, although does anyone really know this last part? She hopes not. Her friendlessness is never mentioned in gossip blogs, which she appreciates. She hopes she isn¡¯t as awkward to other people as she feels to herself. Elizabeth Colton is looking at her again in that golden way of hers. Elizabeth¡¯s hair is always unbrushed and always looks gorgeous that way. Her eyes are very blue.

 Page 65

    Plates and bottles are being ferried to and from the table by a small army of caterers, who will leave their head shots and possibly a screenplay or two behind in the kitchen at the end of the night. Luli, on the wrong side of the glass, is staring at a strawberry that¡¯s fallen off the top of Heller¡¯s wife¡¯s dessert. Miranda has a poor memory when she¡¯s nervous, which is to say whenever she has to meet industry people or throw a dinner party or especially both, and she absolutely cannot remember Heller¡¯s wife¡¯s name although she¡¯s heard it at least twice this evening.


    ¡°Oh, it was intense,¡± Heller¡¯s wife is saying now, in response to something that Miranda didn¡¯t hear. ¡°We were out there for a week, just surfing every day. It was actually really spiritual.¡±


    ¡°The surfing?¡± the producer seated beside her asks.


    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t think it, right? But just going out every day, just you and the waves and a private instructor, it was just a really focused experience. Do you surf?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d love to, but I¡¯ve just been so busy with this whole school thing lately,¡± the producer says. ¡°Actually, I guess you¡¯d maybe call it an orphanage, it¡¯s this little thing I set up in Haiti last year, but the point is education, not just housing these kids.¡­¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, I¡¯m not attached to his project or anything.¡± Arthur is deep in conversation with an actor who played his brother in a film last year. ¡°I¡¯ve never met the guy, but I¡¯ve heard through friends that he likes my work.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve met him a few times,¡± the actor says.


    Miranda tunes out the overlapping conversations to look at Luli, who¡¯s looking at her through the glass. She¡¯d like to take Luli outside, and stay in the backyard with her until all these people leave.


    The dessert plates are cleared around midnight but no one¡¯s close to leaving, a wine-drenched languor settling over the table. Arthur is deep in conversation with Heller. Heller¡¯s nameless wife is gazing dreamily at the chandelier.


    Clark Thompson is here, Arthur¡¯s oldest friend and the only person at this table, aside from Miranda, who has no professional involvement in movies.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± a woman named Tesch is saying now, to Clark, ¡°what exactly is it that you do?¡± Tesch seems to be someone who mistakes rudeness for intellectual rigor. She is about forty, and wears severe black-framed glasses that somehow remind Miranda of architects. Miranda met her for the first time this evening and she can¡¯t remember what Tesch does, except that obviously she¡¯s involved in some way with the industry, a film editor maybe? And also Miranda doesn¡¯t understand Tesch¡¯s name: is she Tesch something, or something Tesch? Or a one-namer, like Madonna? Are you allowed to have only one name if you¡¯re not famous? Is it possible that Tesch is actually extremely famous and Miranda¡¯s the only one at the table who doesn¡¯t know this? Yes, that seems very possible. These are the things she frets about.


    ¡°What do I do? Nothing terribly glamorous, I¡¯m afraid.¡± Clark is British, thin and very tall, elegant in his usual uniform of vintage suit and Converse sneakers, accessorized with pink socks. He brought them a gift tonight, a beautiful glass paperweight from a museum gift shop in Rome. ¡°I have nothing to do with the film industry,¡± he says.


    ¡°Oh,¡± Heller¡¯s wife says, ¡°I think that¡¯s marvelous.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s certainly exotic,¡± Tesch says, ¡°but that doesn¡¯t narrow the field much, does it?¡±


    ¡°Management consulting. Based out of New York, new client in Los Angeles. I specialize in the repair and maintenance of faulty executives.¡± Clark sips his wine.


    ¡°And what¡¯s that in English?¡±


    ¡°The premise of the company by which I¡¯m employed,¡± Clark says, ¡°is that if one¡¯s the employer of an executive who¡¯s worthy in some ways but deeply flawed in others, it¡¯s sometimes cheaper to fix the executive than to replace him. Or her.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s an organizational psychologist,¡± Arthur says, surfacing from conversation at the far end of the table. ¡°I remember when he went back to England to get his PhD.¡±


    ¡°A PhD,¡± Tesch says. ¡°How conventional. And you¡±¡ªshe¡¯s turned to Miranda¡ª¡°how¡¯s your work going?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s going very well, thank you.¡± Miranda spends most of her time working on the Station Eleven project. She knows from the gossip blogs that people here see her as an eccentric, the actor¡¯s wife who inks mysterious cartoons that no one¡¯s ever laid eyes on¡ª¡°My wife¡¯s very private about her work,¡± Arthur says in interviews¡ªand who doesn¡¯t drive and likes to go for long walks in a town where nobody walks anywhere and who has no friends except a Pomeranian, although does anyone really know this last part? She hopes not. Her friendlessness is never mentioned in gossip blogs, which she appreciates. She hopes she isn¡¯t as awkward to other people as she feels to herself. Elizabeth Colton is looking at her again in that golden way of hers. Elizabeth¡¯s hair is always unbrushed and always looks gorgeous that way. Her eyes are very blue.

 Page 66

    ¡°It¡¯s brilliant,¡± Arthur says. ¡°I mean that. Someday she¡¯ll show it to the world and we¡¯ll all say we knew her when.¡±


    ¡°When will it be finished?¡±


    ¡°Soon,¡± Miranda says. It¡¯s true, it won¡¯t be so long now. She has felt for months that she¡¯s nearing the end of something, even though the story has spun off in a dozen directions and feels most days like a mess of hanging threads. She tries to meet Arthur¡¯s gaze, but he¡¯s looking at Elizabeth.


    ¡°What do you plan to do with it once it¡¯s done?¡± Tesch asks.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°Surely you¡¯ll try to publish it?¡±


    ¡°Miranda has complicated feelings on the topic,¡± Arthur says. Is it Miranda¡¯s imagination, or is he going out of his way to avoid looking at her directly?


    ¡°Oh?¡± Tesch smiles and arches an eyebrow.


    ¡°It¡¯s the work itself that¡¯s important to me.¡± Miranda is aware of how pretentious this sounds, but is it still pretentious if it¡¯s true? ¡°Not whether I publish it or not.¡±


    ¡°I think that¡¯s so great,¡± Elizabeth says. ¡°It¡¯s like, the point is that it exists in the world, right?¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the point of doing all that work,¡± Tesch asks, ¡°if no one sees it?¡±


    ¡°It makes me happy. It¡¯s peaceful, spending hours working on it. It doesn¡¯t really matter to me if anyone else sees it.¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± Tesch says. ¡°Very admirable of you. You know, it reminds me of a documentary I saw last month, a little Czech film about an outsider artist who refused to show her work during her lifetime. She lived in Praha, and¡ª¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± Clark says, ¡°I believe when you¡¯re speaking English, you¡¯re allowed to refer to it as Prague.¡±


    Tesch appears to have lost the power of speech.


    ¡°It¡¯s a beautiful city, isn¡¯t it?¡± Elizabeth has the kind of smile that makes everyone around her smile too, unconsciously.


    ¡°Ah, you¡¯ve been there?¡± Clark asks.


    ¡°I took a couple of art history classes at UCLA a few years back. I went to Prague at the end of the semester to see a few of the paintings I¡¯d read about. There¡¯s such a weight of history in that place, isn¡¯t there? I wanted to move there.¡±


    ¡°For the history?¡±


    ¡°I grew up in the exurbs of Indianapolis,¡± Elizabeth says. ¡°I live in a neighborhood where the oldest building is fifty or sixty years old. There¡¯s something appealing about the thought of living in a place with some history to it, don¡¯t you think?¡±


    ¡°So tonight,¡± Heller says, ¡°if I¡¯m not mistaken, is tonight the actual wedding anniversary?¡±


    ¡°It certainly is,¡± Arthur says, and glasses are raised. ¡°Three years.¡± He¡¯s smiling past Miranda¡¯s left ear. She glances over her shoulder, and when she looks back he¡¯s shifted his gaze somewhere else.


    ¡°How did you two meet?¡± Heller¡¯s wife asks. The thing about Hollywood, Miranda realized early on, is that almost everyone is Thea, her former colleague at Neptune Logistics, which is to say that almost everyone has the right clothes, the right haircut, the right everything, while Miranda flails after them in the wrong outfit with her hair sticking up.


    ¡°Oh, it¡¯s not the most exciting how-we-met story in the world, I¡¯m afraid.¡± A slight strain in Arthur¡¯s voice.


    ¡°I think how-we-met stories are always exciting,¡± Elizabeth says.


    ¡°You¡¯re much more patient than I am,¡± Clark says.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know if exciting is the word I¡¯d use,¡± Heller¡¯s wife says. ¡°But there¡¯s certainly a sweetness about them, about those stories I mean.¡±


    ¡°No, it¡¯s just, if everything happens for a reason,¡± Elizabeth persists, ¡°as personally, I believe that it does, then when I hear a story of how two people came together, it¡¯s like a piece of the plan is being revealed.¡±


    In the silence that follows this pronouncement, a caterer refills Miranda¡¯s wine.


    ¡°We¡¯re from the same island,¡± Miranda says.


    ¡°Oh, that island you told us about,¡± a woman from the studio says, to Arthur. ¡°With the ferns!¡±


    ¡°So you¡¯re from the same island, and? And?¡± Heller now, looking at Arthur. Not everyone is listening. There are pools and eddies of conversation around the table. Heller¡¯s tan is orange. There are rumors that he doesn¡¯t sleep at night. On the other side of the glass doors, Luli shifts position to gain a better view of the dropped strawberry.

 Page 67

    ¡°It¡¯s brilliant,¡± Arthur says. ¡°I mean that. Someday she¡¯ll show it to the world and we¡¯ll all say we knew her when.¡±


    ¡°When will it be finished?¡±


    ¡°Soon,¡± Miranda says. It¡¯s true, it won¡¯t be so long now. She has felt for months that she¡¯s nearing the end of something, even though the story has spun off in a dozen directions and feels most days like a mess of hanging threads. She tries to meet Arthur¡¯s gaze, but he¡¯s looking at Elizabeth.


    ¡°What do you plan to do with it once it¡¯s done?¡± Tesch asks.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°Surely you¡¯ll try to publish it?¡±


    ¡°Miranda has complicated feelings on the topic,¡± Arthur says. Is it Miranda¡¯s imagination, or is he going out of his way to avoid looking at her directly?


    ¡°Oh?¡± Tesch smiles and arches an eyebrow.


    ¡°It¡¯s the work itself that¡¯s important to me.¡± Miranda is aware of how pretentious this sounds, but is it still pretentious if it¡¯s true? ¡°Not whether I publish it or not.¡±


    ¡°I think that¡¯s so great,¡± Elizabeth says. ¡°It¡¯s like, the point is that it exists in the world, right?¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the point of doing all that work,¡± Tesch asks, ¡°if no one sees it?¡±


    ¡°It makes me happy. It¡¯s peaceful, spending hours working on it. It doesn¡¯t really matter to me if anyone else sees it.¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± Tesch says. ¡°Very admirable of you. You know, it reminds me of a documentary I saw last month, a little Czech film about an outsider artist who refused to show her work during her lifetime. She lived in Praha, and¡ª¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± Clark says, ¡°I believe when you¡¯re speaking English, you¡¯re allowed to refer to it as Prague.¡±


    Tesch appears to have lost the power of speech.


    ¡°It¡¯s a beautiful city, isn¡¯t it?¡± Elizabeth has the kind of smile that makes everyone around her smile too, unconsciously.


    ¡°Ah, you¡¯ve been there?¡± Clark asks.


    ¡°I took a couple of art history classes at UCLA a few years back. I went to Prague at the end of the semester to see a few of the paintings I¡¯d read about. There¡¯s such a weight of history in that place, isn¡¯t there? I wanted to move there.¡±


    ¡°For the history?¡±


    ¡°I grew up in the exurbs of Indianapolis,¡± Elizabeth says. ¡°I live in a neighborhood where the oldest building is fifty or sixty years old. There¡¯s something appealing about the thought of living in a place with some history to it, don¡¯t you think?¡±


    ¡°So tonight,¡± Heller says, ¡°if I¡¯m not mistaken, is tonight the actual wedding anniversary?¡±


    ¡°It certainly is,¡± Arthur says, and glasses are raised. ¡°Three years.¡± He¡¯s smiling past Miranda¡¯s left ear. She glances over her shoulder, and when she looks back he¡¯s shifted his gaze somewhere else.


    ¡°How did you two meet?¡± Heller¡¯s wife asks. The thing about Hollywood, Miranda realized early on, is that almost everyone is Thea, her former colleague at Neptune Logistics, which is to say that almost everyone has the right clothes, the right haircut, the right everything, while Miranda flails after them in the wrong outfit with her hair sticking up.


    ¡°Oh, it¡¯s not the most exciting how-we-met story in the world, I¡¯m afraid.¡± A slight strain in Arthur¡¯s voice.


    ¡°I think how-we-met stories are always exciting,¡± Elizabeth says.


    ¡°You¡¯re much more patient than I am,¡± Clark says.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know if exciting is the word I¡¯d use,¡± Heller¡¯s wife says. ¡°But there¡¯s certainly a sweetness about them, about those stories I mean.¡±


    ¡°No, it¡¯s just, if everything happens for a reason,¡± Elizabeth persists, ¡°as personally, I believe that it does, then when I hear a story of how two people came together, it¡¯s like a piece of the plan is being revealed.¡±


    In the silence that follows this pronouncement, a caterer refills Miranda¡¯s wine.


    ¡°We¡¯re from the same island,¡± Miranda says.


    ¡°Oh, that island you told us about,¡± a woman from the studio says, to Arthur. ¡°With the ferns!¡±


    ¡°So you¡¯re from the same island, and? And?¡± Heller now, looking at Arthur. Not everyone is listening. There are pools and eddies of conversation around the table. Heller¡¯s tan is orange. There are rumors that he doesn¡¯t sleep at night. On the other side of the glass doors, Luli shifts position to gain a better view of the dropped strawberry.

 Page 68

    ¡°Excuse me a moment,¡± Miranda says, ¡°I¡¯m just going to let the dog out. Arthur tells this story much better than I do.¡± She escapes into the sunroom, through a second set of French doors into the back lawn. Freedom! Outside, the quiet night. Luli brushes against her ankles and fades out into the darkness. The backyard isn¡¯t large, their property terraced up the side of a hill, leaves crowding in around a small launchpad of lawn. The gardener came today in preparation for the dinner party, and the air carries notes of damp soil and freshly cut grass. She turns back toward the dining room, knowing that they can¡¯t see her past their own overlapping reflections on the glass. She left both sets of doors open just slightly in order to hear the conversation, and now Arthur¡¯s voice carries into the yard.


    ¡°So, you know, dinner goes well, and then the next night,¡± he says, ¡°I¡¯m in the Hotel Le Germain after twelve hours on set, in my room waiting for Miranda to come by so I can take her out to dinner again, second night in a row, just kind of semi-comatose in front of the television, there¡¯s a knock at the door, and¡ª Voil¨¤! There she is again, but this time? One small difference.¡± He pauses for effect. She can see Luli again now, following a mysterious scent at the far end of the lawn. ¡°This time, I¡¯ll be damned if the girl hasn¡¯t got her worldly belongings with her.¡±


    Laughter. The story¡¯s funny, the way he tells it. She shows up on his hotel room doorstep with two suitcases, having walked across the lobby with such confidence that anyone would think she was a guest there. (The best advice her mother ever gave her: ¡°Walk in like you own the place.¡±) She says something vague to Arthur about how she¡¯s moving into a hotel herself and perhaps he wouldn¡¯t mind if she just leaves the suitcases here while they go to dinner, but he¡¯s already in love and he kisses her, he takes her to bed and they don¡¯t leave the hotel at all that night, he invites her to stay a few days and she never moves out and now here we are in Los Angeles.


    He doesn¡¯t tell the whole story. He doesn¡¯t tell the crowd assembled at the table that when she went back to the apartment the next morning for a painting she¡¯d decided she wanted, a watercolor left behind on the drafting table, Pablo was awake and waiting for her, drunk and weeping, and she returned to the hotel with a bruise on her face. Arthur doesn¡¯t tell them that he took her with him to the set that morning and passed her off as his cousin, that she called in sick to work and spent the day in his trailer reading magazines and trying not to think about Pablo while Arthur came and went in his costume, which involved a long red velvet cape and a crown. He looked magnificent. Every time he looked at her that day, something clenched in her chest.


    When he was done with work in the evening, he had a driver drop them at a restaurant downtown, where he sat across the table from her looking very ordinary in a Toronto Blue Jays cap and she looked at him and thought, I prefer you with a crown, but of course she would never say this aloud. Three and a half years later in the Hollywood Hills she stands outside in the yard and wonders if anyone at the table saw the tabloid photo that appeared the following morning, shot as they were leaving the restaurant¡ªArthur with his arm around her shoulders, Miranda in dark glasses and Arthur blinded by the flash, which washed her out so mercifully that in the photo version of that moment the bruise was erased.


    ¡°What a lovely story,¡± someone says, and Arthur agrees, Arthur is pouring wine, he¡¯s raising his glass and he¡¯s toasting her, ¡°Here¡¯s to my beautiful brilliant wife.¡± But Miranda, watching from outside, sees everything: the way Elizabeth goes still and looks down, the way Arthur thanks everyone for coming to his home, meeting everyone¡¯s eyes except Elizabeth¡¯s, who has lightly touched his thigh under the table, and this is when she understands. It¡¯s too late, and it¡¯s been too late for a while. She draws an uneven breath.


    ¡°Great story,¡± Heller says. ¡°Where is that wife of yours?¡±


    Could she possibly go around to the front of the house, sneak in the front door and up to her studio unnoticed, then text Arthur to say that she has a headache? She steps away from the glass, toward the center of the lawn where the shadows are deepest. From here the dinner party looks like a diorama, white walls and golden light and glamorous people. She turns her back on it to look for Luli¡ªthe dog is nosing around in the grass, delighted by a scent at the base of an azalea bush¡ªand this is when she hears the glass doors close behind her. Clark has come out for a cigarette. Her plan was to pretend if anyone came out here that she¡¯s looking for the dog, but he doesn¡¯t ask. He taps the cigarette box on the palm of his hand and holds out a cigarette without speaking.

 Page 69

    ¡°Excuse me a moment,¡± Miranda says, ¡°I¡¯m just going to let the dog out. Arthur tells this story much better than I do.¡± She escapes into the sunroom, through a second set of French doors into the back lawn. Freedom! Outside, the quiet night. Luli brushes against her ankles and fades out into the darkness. The backyard isn¡¯t large, their property terraced up the side of a hill, leaves crowding in around a small launchpad of lawn. The gardener came today in preparation for the dinner party, and the air carries notes of damp soil and freshly cut grass. She turns back toward the dining room, knowing that they can¡¯t see her past their own overlapping reflections on the glass. She left both sets of doors open just slightly in order to hear the conversation, and now Arthur¡¯s voice carries into the yard.


    ¡°So, you know, dinner goes well, and then the next night,¡± he says, ¡°I¡¯m in the Hotel Le Germain after twelve hours on set, in my room waiting for Miranda to come by so I can take her out to dinner again, second night in a row, just kind of semi-comatose in front of the television, there¡¯s a knock at the door, and¡ª Voil¨¤! There she is again, but this time? One small difference.¡± He pauses for effect. She can see Luli again now, following a mysterious scent at the far end of the lawn. ¡°This time, I¡¯ll be damned if the girl hasn¡¯t got her worldly belongings with her.¡±


    Laughter. The story¡¯s funny, the way he tells it. She shows up on his hotel room doorstep with two suitcases, having walked across the lobby with such confidence that anyone would think she was a guest there. (The best advice her mother ever gave her: ¡°Walk in like you own the place.¡±) She says something vague to Arthur about how she¡¯s moving into a hotel herself and perhaps he wouldn¡¯t mind if she just leaves the suitcases here while they go to dinner, but he¡¯s already in love and he kisses her, he takes her to bed and they don¡¯t leave the hotel at all that night, he invites her to stay a few days and she never moves out and now here we are in Los Angeles.


    He doesn¡¯t tell the whole story. He doesn¡¯t tell the crowd assembled at the table that when she went back to the apartment the next morning for a painting she¡¯d decided she wanted, a watercolor left behind on the drafting table, Pablo was awake and waiting for her, drunk and weeping, and she returned to the hotel with a bruise on her face. Arthur doesn¡¯t tell them that he took her with him to the set that morning and passed her off as his cousin, that she called in sick to work and spent the day in his trailer reading magazines and trying not to think about Pablo while Arthur came and went in his costume, which involved a long red velvet cape and a crown. He looked magnificent. Every time he looked at her that day, something clenched in her chest.


    When he was done with work in the evening, he had a driver drop them at a restaurant downtown, where he sat across the table from her looking very ordinary in a Toronto Blue Jays cap and she looked at him and thought, I prefer you with a crown, but of course she would never say this aloud. Three and a half years later in the Hollywood Hills she stands outside in the yard and wonders if anyone at the table saw the tabloid photo that appeared the following morning, shot as they were leaving the restaurant¡ªArthur with his arm around her shoulders, Miranda in dark glasses and Arthur blinded by the flash, which washed her out so mercifully that in the photo version of that moment the bruise was erased.


    ¡°What a lovely story,¡± someone says, and Arthur agrees, Arthur is pouring wine, he¡¯s raising his glass and he¡¯s toasting her, ¡°Here¡¯s to my beautiful brilliant wife.¡± But Miranda, watching from outside, sees everything: the way Elizabeth goes still and looks down, the way Arthur thanks everyone for coming to his home, meeting everyone¡¯s eyes except Elizabeth¡¯s, who has lightly touched his thigh under the table, and this is when she understands. It¡¯s too late, and it¡¯s been too late for a while. She draws an uneven breath.


    ¡°Great story,¡± Heller says. ¡°Where is that wife of yours?¡±


    Could she possibly go around to the front of the house, sneak in the front door and up to her studio unnoticed, then text Arthur to say that she has a headache? She steps away from the glass, toward the center of the lawn where the shadows are deepest. From here the dinner party looks like a diorama, white walls and golden light and glamorous people. She turns her back on it to look for Luli¡ªthe dog is nosing around in the grass, delighted by a scent at the base of an azalea bush¡ªand this is when she hears the glass doors close behind her. Clark has come out for a cigarette. Her plan was to pretend if anyone came out here that she¡¯s looking for the dog, but he doesn¡¯t ask. He taps the cigarette box on the palm of his hand and holds out a cigarette without speaking.

 Page 70

    She crosses the grass and takes it from him, leans in when he flicks the lighter, and observes the dinner party while she inhales. Arthur is laughing. His hand strays to Elizabeth¡¯s wrist and rests there for an instant before he refills her wine. Why is Elizabeth sitting next to him? How could they be so indiscreet?


    ¡°Not a pretty sight, is it?¡±


    She thinks of disagreeing, but something in Clark¡¯s voice stops her. Does everyone already know? ¡°What do you mean?¡± she asks, but her voice is shaky.


    He glances at her and turns his back on the tableau, and after a moment she does the same. There¡¯s nothing to be gained by watching the shipwreck.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry for being rude to your guest in there.¡±


    ¡°Tesch? Please, don¡¯t be polite to her on my account. She¡¯s the most pretentious woman I¡¯ve ever met in my life.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve met worse.¡±


    She hasn¡¯t smoked in a while, managed to convince herself that smoking is disgusting, but it¡¯s a pleasure, actually, more of a pleasure than she remembered. The lit end flares in the darkness when she inhales. She likes Hollywood best at night, in the quiet, when it¡¯s all dark leaves and shadows and night-blooming flowers, the edges softened, gently lit streets curving up into the hills. Luli wanders near them, snuffling in the grass. There are stars tonight, a few, although most are blanked out by the haze of the city.


    ¡°Good luck, darling,¡± Clark says quietly. He¡¯s finished his cigarette. When she turns he¡¯s already reentering the party, reclaiming his place at the table. ¡°Oh, she¡¯s just searching for the dog,¡± she hears him say in response to a question, ¡°I expect she¡¯ll be in any moment now.¡±


    Dr. Eleven has a Pomeranian. She hadn¡¯t realized this before, but it makes perfect sense. He has few friends, and without a dog he¡¯d be too lonely. That night in her study she sketches a scene: Dr. Eleven stands on an outcropping of rock, a thin silhouette with a fedora pulled low, scanning the choppy sea, and a small white dog stands windswept beside him. She doesn¡¯t realize, until halfway through drawing the dog, that she¡¯s given Dr. Eleven a clone of Luli. Wind turbines spin on the horizon. Dr. Eleven¡¯s Luli gazes at the sea. Miranda¡¯s Luli sleeps on a pillow at her feet, twitching in a dog dream.


    Miranda¡¯s study window looks out over the side yard, where the lawn terraces down to a pool. Beside the pool stands a lamp from the 1950s, a crescent moon atop a tall dark pole, placed in such a way that there¡¯s always a moon reflected in the water. The lamp is her favorite thing about this house, although she wonders sometimes about the reason for its existence. A diva who insisted on permanent moonlight? A bachelor who hoped to impress young starlets? There¡¯s a brief period most nights when the two moons float side by side on the surface. The fake moon, which has the advantage of being closer and not obscured by smog, is almost always brighter than the real one.


    At three in the morning Miranda leaves her drafting table and goes down to the kitchen for a second cup of tea. All of the guests except one have departed. At the end of the night everyone was drunk but climbed into expensive cars anyway, all except Elizabeth Colton, who drank quietly, determinedly, without taking any apparent pleasure in it, until she passed out on a sofa in the living room. Clark plucked the wineglass from her hand, Arthur removed Elizabeth¡¯s car keys from her handbag and dropped them into an opaque vase on the mantelpiece, Miranda covered her with a blanket and left a glass of water nearby.


    ¡°I think we should talk,¡± Miranda said to Arthur, when the last guest except Elizabeth was gone, but he waved her off and stumbled in the direction of the bedroom, said something about talking in the morning on his way up the stairs.


    The house is silent now and she feels like a stranger here. ¡°This life was never ours,¡± she whispers to the dog, who has been following her from room to room, and Luli wags her tail and stares at Miranda with wet brown eyes. ¡°We were only ever borrowing it.¡±


    In the living room, Elizabeth Colton is still unconscious. Even passed out drunk she¡¯s a vision in the lamplight. In the kitchen, four head shots are lying on the countertop. Miranda studies these while the water¡¯s boiling and recognizes somewhat younger and more brooding versions of four of the night¡¯s caterers. She puts on a pair of flip-flops in the sunroom and lets herself out into the cool night air. She sits for a while at the poolside with her tea, Luli beside her, and splashes her feet in the water to watch the moon reflection ripple and break.


    There¡¯s a sound from the street, a car door closing. ¡°Stay,¡± she tells Luli, who sits by the pool and watches as Miranda opens the gate to the front driveway, where Elizabeth¡¯s convertible is parked dark and gleaming. Miranda runs her fingertips along the side of the car as she passes, and they come away coated with a fine layer of dust. The streetlight at the end of the driveway is a frenzy of moths. Two cars are parked on the street. A man leans on one of them, smoking a cigarette. In the other car, a man is asleep in the driver¡¯s seat. She recognizes both men, because they follow her and Arthur much more frequently than anyone else does.

 Page 71

    She crosses the grass and takes it from him, leans in when he flicks the lighter, and observes the dinner party while she inhales. Arthur is laughing. His hand strays to Elizabeth¡¯s wrist and rests there for an instant before he refills her wine. Why is Elizabeth sitting next to him? How could they be so indiscreet?


    ¡°Not a pretty sight, is it?¡±


    She thinks of disagreeing, but something in Clark¡¯s voice stops her. Does everyone already know? ¡°What do you mean?¡± she asks, but her voice is shaky.


    He glances at her and turns his back on the tableau, and after a moment she does the same. There¡¯s nothing to be gained by watching the shipwreck.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry for being rude to your guest in there.¡±


    ¡°Tesch? Please, don¡¯t be polite to her on my account. She¡¯s the most pretentious woman I¡¯ve ever met in my life.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve met worse.¡±


    She hasn¡¯t smoked in a while, managed to convince herself that smoking is disgusting, but it¡¯s a pleasure, actually, more of a pleasure than she remembered. The lit end flares in the darkness when she inhales. She likes Hollywood best at night, in the quiet, when it¡¯s all dark leaves and shadows and night-blooming flowers, the edges softened, gently lit streets curving up into the hills. Luli wanders near them, snuffling in the grass. There are stars tonight, a few, although most are blanked out by the haze of the city.


    ¡°Good luck, darling,¡± Clark says quietly. He¡¯s finished his cigarette. When she turns he¡¯s already reentering the party, reclaiming his place at the table. ¡°Oh, she¡¯s just searching for the dog,¡± she hears him say in response to a question, ¡°I expect she¡¯ll be in any moment now.¡±


    Dr. Eleven has a Pomeranian. She hadn¡¯t realized this before, but it makes perfect sense. He has few friends, and without a dog he¡¯d be too lonely. That night in her study she sketches a scene: Dr. Eleven stands on an outcropping of rock, a thin silhouette with a fedora pulled low, scanning the choppy sea, and a small white dog stands windswept beside him. She doesn¡¯t realize, until halfway through drawing the dog, that she¡¯s given Dr. Eleven a clone of Luli. Wind turbines spin on the horizon. Dr. Eleven¡¯s Luli gazes at the sea. Miranda¡¯s Luli sleeps on a pillow at her feet, twitching in a dog dream.


    Miranda¡¯s study window looks out over the side yard, where the lawn terraces down to a pool. Beside the pool stands a lamp from the 1950s, a crescent moon atop a tall dark pole, placed in such a way that there¡¯s always a moon reflected in the water. The lamp is her favorite thing about this house, although she wonders sometimes about the reason for its existence. A diva who insisted on permanent moonlight? A bachelor who hoped to impress young starlets? There¡¯s a brief period most nights when the two moons float side by side on the surface. The fake moon, which has the advantage of being closer and not obscured by smog, is almost always brighter than the real one.


    At three in the morning Miranda leaves her drafting table and goes down to the kitchen for a second cup of tea. All of the guests except one have departed. At the end of the night everyone was drunk but climbed into expensive cars anyway, all except Elizabeth Colton, who drank quietly, determinedly, without taking any apparent pleasure in it, until she passed out on a sofa in the living room. Clark plucked the wineglass from her hand, Arthur removed Elizabeth¡¯s car keys from her handbag and dropped them into an opaque vase on the mantelpiece, Miranda covered her with a blanket and left a glass of water nearby.


    ¡°I think we should talk,¡± Miranda said to Arthur, when the last guest except Elizabeth was gone, but he waved her off and stumbled in the direction of the bedroom, said something about talking in the morning on his way up the stairs.


    The house is silent now and she feels like a stranger here. ¡°This life was never ours,¡± she whispers to the dog, who has been following her from room to room, and Luli wags her tail and stares at Miranda with wet brown eyes. ¡°We were only ever borrowing it.¡±


    In the living room, Elizabeth Colton is still unconscious. Even passed out drunk she¡¯s a vision in the lamplight. In the kitchen, four head shots are lying on the countertop. Miranda studies these while the water¡¯s boiling and recognizes somewhat younger and more brooding versions of four of the night¡¯s caterers. She puts on a pair of flip-flops in the sunroom and lets herself out into the cool night air. She sits for a while at the poolside with her tea, Luli beside her, and splashes her feet in the water to watch the moon reflection ripple and break.


    There¡¯s a sound from the street, a car door closing. ¡°Stay,¡± she tells Luli, who sits by the pool and watches as Miranda opens the gate to the front driveway, where Elizabeth¡¯s convertible is parked dark and gleaming. Miranda runs her fingertips along the side of the car as she passes, and they come away coated with a fine layer of dust. The streetlight at the end of the driveway is a frenzy of moths. Two cars are parked on the street. A man leans on one of them, smoking a cigarette. In the other car, a man is asleep in the driver¡¯s seat. She recognizes both men, because they follow her and Arthur much more frequently than anyone else does.

 Page 72

    ¡°Hey,¡± the man with the cigarette says, and reaches for his camera. He¡¯s about her age, with sideburns and dark hair that falls in his eyes.


    ¡°Don¡¯t,¡± she says sharply, and he hesitates.


    ¡°What are you doing out so late?¡±


    ¡°Are you going to take my picture?¡±


    He lowers the camera.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± she says. ¡°In answer to your question, I just came out here to see if you might have an extra cigarette.¡±


    ¡°How¡¯d you know I¡¯d have one?¡±


    ¡°Because you¡¯re in front of my house smoking every night.¡±


    ¡°Six nights a week,¡± he says. ¡°I take Mondays off.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡±


    ¡°Jeevan Chaudhary.¡±


    ¡°So do you have a cigarette for me, Jeevan?¡±


    ¡°Sure. Here. I didn¡¯t know you smoked.¡±


    ¡°I just started again. Light?¡±


    ¡°So,¡± he says, once her cigarette¡¯s lit, ¡°this is a first.¡±


    She ignores this, looking up at the house. ¡°It¡¯s pretty from here, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± he says. ¡°You have a beautiful home.¡± Was that sarcasm? She isn¡¯t sure. She doesn¡¯t care. She¡¯s always found the house beautiful, but it¡¯s even more so now that she knows she¡¯s leaving. It¡¯s modest by the standards of people whose names appear above the titles of their movies, but extravagant beyond anything she would have imagined for herself. In all my life, there will never be another house like this.


    ¡°You know what time it is?¡± he asks.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, about three a.m.? Maybe more like three thirty?¡±


    ¡°Why¡¯s Elizabeth Colton¡¯s car still in the driveway?¡±


    ¡°Because she¡¯s a raging alcoholic,¡± Miranda says.


    His eyes widen. ¡°Really?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s too wasted to drive. You didn¡¯t hear that from me.¡±


    ¡°Sure. No. Thank you.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome. You people live for that kind of gossip, don¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± he says, ¡°I live on that kind of gossip, actually. As in, it pays my rent. What I live for is something different.¡±


    ¡°What do you live for?¡±


    ¡°Truth and beauty,¡± he says, deadpan.


    ¡°You like your job?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t hate it.¡±


    She is dangerously close to tears. ¡°So you enjoy stalking people?¡±


    He laughs. ¡°Let¡¯s just say the job fits with my basic understanding of what work is.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t understand.¡±


    ¡°Of course you don¡¯t. You don¡¯t have to work for a living.¡±


    ¡°Please,¡± Miranda says, ¡°I¡¯ve worked all my life. I worked all through school. These past few years are an anomaly.¡± Although as she says this she can¡¯t help but think of Pablo. She lived off him for ten months, until it became clear that they were going to run out of money before he sold another painting. In the next version of her life, she decides, she will be entirely independent.


    ¡°Forget it.¡±


    ¡°No really, I¡¯m curious. What¡¯s your understanding of work?¡±


    ¡°Work is combat.¡±


    ¡°So you¡¯ve hated every job you¡¯ve had, is that what you¡¯re saying?¡±


    Jeevan shrugs. He¡¯s looking at something on his phone, distracted, his face lit blue by the screen. Miranda returns her attention to the house. The sensation of being in a dream that will end at any moment, only she isn¡¯t sure if she¡¯s fighting to wake up or to stay asleep. Elizabeth¡¯s car is all long curves and streaks of reflected light. Miranda thinks of the places she might go now that Los Angeles is over, and what surprises her is that the first place that comes to mind is Neptune Logistics. She misses the order of the place, the utter manageability of her job there, the cool air of Leon Prevant¡¯s office suite, the calm of the lake.


    ¡°Hey!¡± Jeevan says suddenly, and as Miranda turns, the cigarette halfway to her mouth, the flash of his camera catches her unaware. Five more flashes in quick succession as she drops the cigarette on the sidewalk and walks quickly away from him, enters a code into a keypad and slips back in through the side gate, the afterimage of the first flash floating across her vision. How could she have let her guard down? How could she have been so stupid?


    In the morning her picture will appear in a gossip website: TROUBLE IN PARADISE? AMID RUMORS OF ARTHUR¡¯S INFIDELITY, MIRANDA WANDERS THE STREETS OF HOLLYWOOD AT FOUR A.M. CRYING AND SMOKING. And the photograph, the photograph, Miranda alone in the small hours of the morning with obvious tears in her eyes, pale in the flash, her hair standing up and a cigarette between her fingers, lips parted, a bra strap showing where her dress has slipped.

 Page 73

    ¡°Hey,¡± the man with the cigarette says, and reaches for his camera. He¡¯s about her age, with sideburns and dark hair that falls in his eyes.


    ¡°Don¡¯t,¡± she says sharply, and he hesitates.


    ¡°What are you doing out so late?¡±


    ¡°Are you going to take my picture?¡±


    He lowers the camera.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± she says. ¡°In answer to your question, I just came out here to see if you might have an extra cigarette.¡±


    ¡°How¡¯d you know I¡¯d have one?¡±


    ¡°Because you¡¯re in front of my house smoking every night.¡±


    ¡°Six nights a week,¡± he says. ¡°I take Mondays off.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡±


    ¡°Jeevan Chaudhary.¡±


    ¡°So do you have a cigarette for me, Jeevan?¡±


    ¡°Sure. Here. I didn¡¯t know you smoked.¡±


    ¡°I just started again. Light?¡±


    ¡°So,¡± he says, once her cigarette¡¯s lit, ¡°this is a first.¡±


    She ignores this, looking up at the house. ¡°It¡¯s pretty from here, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± he says. ¡°You have a beautiful home.¡± Was that sarcasm? She isn¡¯t sure. She doesn¡¯t care. She¡¯s always found the house beautiful, but it¡¯s even more so now that she knows she¡¯s leaving. It¡¯s modest by the standards of people whose names appear above the titles of their movies, but extravagant beyond anything she would have imagined for herself. In all my life, there will never be another house like this.


    ¡°You know what time it is?¡± he asks.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, about three a.m.? Maybe more like three thirty?¡±


    ¡°Why¡¯s Elizabeth Colton¡¯s car still in the driveway?¡±


    ¡°Because she¡¯s a raging alcoholic,¡± Miranda says.


    His eyes widen. ¡°Really?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s too wasted to drive. You didn¡¯t hear that from me.¡±


    ¡°Sure. No. Thank you.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome. You people live for that kind of gossip, don¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± he says, ¡°I live on that kind of gossip, actually. As in, it pays my rent. What I live for is something different.¡±


    ¡°What do you live for?¡±


    ¡°Truth and beauty,¡± he says, deadpan.


    ¡°You like your job?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t hate it.¡±


    She is dangerously close to tears. ¡°So you enjoy stalking people?¡±


    He laughs. ¡°Let¡¯s just say the job fits with my basic understanding of what work is.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t understand.¡±


    ¡°Of course you don¡¯t. You don¡¯t have to work for a living.¡±


    ¡°Please,¡± Miranda says, ¡°I¡¯ve worked all my life. I worked all through school. These past few years are an anomaly.¡± Although as she says this she can¡¯t help but think of Pablo. She lived off him for ten months, until it became clear that they were going to run out of money before he sold another painting. In the next version of her life, she decides, she will be entirely independent.


    ¡°Forget it.¡±


    ¡°No really, I¡¯m curious. What¡¯s your understanding of work?¡±


    ¡°Work is combat.¡±


    ¡°So you¡¯ve hated every job you¡¯ve had, is that what you¡¯re saying?¡±


    Jeevan shrugs. He¡¯s looking at something on his phone, distracted, his face lit blue by the screen. Miranda returns her attention to the house. The sensation of being in a dream that will end at any moment, only she isn¡¯t sure if she¡¯s fighting to wake up or to stay asleep. Elizabeth¡¯s car is all long curves and streaks of reflected light. Miranda thinks of the places she might go now that Los Angeles is over, and what surprises her is that the first place that comes to mind is Neptune Logistics. She misses the order of the place, the utter manageability of her job there, the cool air of Leon Prevant¡¯s office suite, the calm of the lake.


    ¡°Hey!¡± Jeevan says suddenly, and as Miranda turns, the cigarette halfway to her mouth, the flash of his camera catches her unaware. Five more flashes in quick succession as she drops the cigarette on the sidewalk and walks quickly away from him, enters a code into a keypad and slips back in through the side gate, the afterimage of the first flash floating across her vision. How could she have let her guard down? How could she have been so stupid?


    In the morning her picture will appear in a gossip website: TROUBLE IN PARADISE? AMID RUMORS OF ARTHUR¡¯S INFIDELITY, MIRANDA WANDERS THE STREETS OF HOLLYWOOD AT FOUR A.M. CRYING AND SMOKING. And the photograph, the photograph, Miranda alone in the small hours of the morning with obvious tears in her eyes, pale in the flash, her hair standing up and a cigarette between her fingers, lips parted, a bra strap showing where her dress has slipped.

 Page 74

    But first there is the rest of the night to get through. Miranda closes the gate and sits for a long time on a stone bench by the pool, shaking. Luli jumps up to sit beside her. Eventually Miranda dries her eyes and they go back to the house, where Elizabeth is still sleeping, and upstairs, where Miranda stops to listen outside the bedroom door. Arthur snores.


    She opens the door to his study, which is the opposite of her study, which is to say the housekeeper¡¯s allowed to come in. Arthur¡¯s study is painfully neat. Four stacks of scripts on the desk, which is made of glass and steel. An ergonomic chair, a tasteful lamp. Beside the lamp, a flat leather box with a drawer that pulls open with a ribbon. She opens this and finds what she¡¯s looking for, a yellow legal pad on which she¡¯s seen him write before, but tonight there¡¯s only an unfinished fragment of Arthur¡¯s latest letter to his childhood friend:


    Dear V., Strange days. The feeling that one¡¯s life resembles a movie. Thinking a lot of the future. I have such


    Nothing else. You have such what, Arthur? Did your phone ring midsentence? Yesterday¡¯s date at the top of the page. She puts the legal pad back exactly as she found it, uses the hem of her dress to wipe a fingertip smudge from the desk. Her gaze falls on the gift that Clark brought this evening, a paperweight of clouded glass.


    When she holds it, it¡¯s a pleasing weight in the palm of her hand. It¡¯s like looking into a storm. She tells herself as she switches off the light that she¡¯s only taking the paperweight back to her study to sketch it, but she knows she¡¯s going to keep it forever.


    When she returns to her study it¡¯s nearly dawn. Dr. Eleven, the landscape, the dog, a text box for Dr. Eleven¡¯s interior monologue across the bottom: After Lonagan¡¯s death, all of life seemed awkward to me. I¡¯d become a stranger to myself. She erases and rewrites: After Lonagan¡¯s death, I felt like a stranger. The sentiment seems right, but somehow not for this image. A new image to go before this one, a close-up of a note left on Captain Lonagan¡¯s body by an Undersea assassin: ¡°We were not meant for this world. Let us go home.¡±


    In the next image, Dr. Eleven holds the note in his hand as he stands on the outcropping of rock, the little dog by his boots. His thoughts:


    The first sentence of the assassin¡¯s note rang true: we were not meant for this world. I returned to my city, to my shattered life and damaged home, to my loneliness, and tried to forget the sweetness of life on Earth.


    Too long, also melodramatic. She erases it, and writes in soft pencil: I stood looking over my damaged home and tried to forget the sweetness of life on Earth.


    A sound behind her. Elizabeth Colton leans in the doorway, holding a glass of water with both hands.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± she says, ¡°I didn¡¯t mean to disturb. I saw the light was on in here.¡±


    ¡°Come in.¡± Miranda is surprised to realize that she¡¯s more curious than anything. A memory of the first night at the Hotel Le Germain in Toronto, lying beside Arthur, the awareness of a beginning. And now here¡¯s the ending standing in her doorway half-drunk, legs like pipe cleaners in her skinny jeans, tousled and in disarray¡ªsmudges of mascara under her eyes, a sheen of sweat on her nose¡ªbut still beautiful, still one of the finest specimens of her kind in Los Angeles, of Los Angeles in a way Miranda knows she never will be, no matter how long she stays here or how hard she tries. Elizabeth steps forward and sinks unexpectedly to the floor. By some small miracle she¡¯s managed not to spill the water.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± she says, ¡°I¡¯m a little wobbly.¡±


    ¡°Aren¡¯t we all,¡± Miranda says, but as usually happens when she tries to say something funny, her audience seems not to catch the joke. Elizabeth and the dog are both staring at her. ¡°Please don¡¯t cry,¡± she says to Elizabeth, whose eyes are shining. ¡°Don¡¯t, really, I¡¯m serious. It¡¯s too much.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Elizabeth says for the third time. That infuriatingly small voice. She sounds like a different person when she¡¯s in front of a camera.


    ¡°Stop apologizing.¡±


    Elizabeth blinks. ¡°You¡¯re working on your secret project.¡± She is looking all around the room. She falls silent, and after a moment Miranda succumbs to curiosity and sits on the floor beside Elizabeth to see the room from her vantage point. Paintings and sketches are pinned to the walls. Notes on structure and chronology cover a massive board. There are four pages of story outlines taped to the windowsill.


    ¡°What happens next?¡± Miranda asks. It¡¯s easier to talk to Elizabeth when they¡¯re sitting side by side, when she doesn¡¯t have to look at her.

 Page 75

    But first there is the rest of the night to get through. Miranda closes the gate and sits for a long time on a stone bench by the pool, shaking. Luli jumps up to sit beside her. Eventually Miranda dries her eyes and they go back to the house, where Elizabeth is still sleeping, and upstairs, where Miranda stops to listen outside the bedroom door. Arthur snores.


    She opens the door to his study, which is the opposite of her study, which is to say the housekeeper¡¯s allowed to come in. Arthur¡¯s study is painfully neat. Four stacks of scripts on the desk, which is made of glass and steel. An ergonomic chair, a tasteful lamp. Beside the lamp, a flat leather box with a drawer that pulls open with a ribbon. She opens this and finds what she¡¯s looking for, a yellow legal pad on which she¡¯s seen him write before, but tonight there¡¯s only an unfinished fragment of Arthur¡¯s latest letter to his childhood friend:


    Dear V., Strange days. The feeling that one¡¯s life resembles a movie. Thinking a lot of the future. I have such


    Nothing else. You have such what, Arthur? Did your phone ring midsentence? Yesterday¡¯s date at the top of the page. She puts the legal pad back exactly as she found it, uses the hem of her dress to wipe a fingertip smudge from the desk. Her gaze falls on the gift that Clark brought this evening, a paperweight of clouded glass.


    When she holds it, it¡¯s a pleasing weight in the palm of her hand. It¡¯s like looking into a storm. She tells herself as she switches off the light that she¡¯s only taking the paperweight back to her study to sketch it, but she knows she¡¯s going to keep it forever.


    When she returns to her study it¡¯s nearly dawn. Dr. Eleven, the landscape, the dog, a text box for Dr. Eleven¡¯s interior monologue across the bottom: After Lonagan¡¯s death, all of life seemed awkward to me. I¡¯d become a stranger to myself. She erases and rewrites: After Lonagan¡¯s death, I felt like a stranger. The sentiment seems right, but somehow not for this image. A new image to go before this one, a close-up of a note left on Captain Lonagan¡¯s body by an Undersea assassin: ¡°We were not meant for this world. Let us go home.¡±


    In the next image, Dr. Eleven holds the note in his hand as he stands on the outcropping of rock, the little dog by his boots. His thoughts:


    The first sentence of the assassin¡¯s note rang true: we were not meant for this world. I returned to my city, to my shattered life and damaged home, to my loneliness, and tried to forget the sweetness of life on Earth.


    Too long, also melodramatic. She erases it, and writes in soft pencil: I stood looking over my damaged home and tried to forget the sweetness of life on Earth.


    A sound behind her. Elizabeth Colton leans in the doorway, holding a glass of water with both hands.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± she says, ¡°I didn¡¯t mean to disturb. I saw the light was on in here.¡±


    ¡°Come in.¡± Miranda is surprised to realize that she¡¯s more curious than anything. A memory of the first night at the Hotel Le Germain in Toronto, lying beside Arthur, the awareness of a beginning. And now here¡¯s the ending standing in her doorway half-drunk, legs like pipe cleaners in her skinny jeans, tousled and in disarray¡ªsmudges of mascara under her eyes, a sheen of sweat on her nose¡ªbut still beautiful, still one of the finest specimens of her kind in Los Angeles, of Los Angeles in a way Miranda knows she never will be, no matter how long she stays here or how hard she tries. Elizabeth steps forward and sinks unexpectedly to the floor. By some small miracle she¡¯s managed not to spill the water.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± she says, ¡°I¡¯m a little wobbly.¡±


    ¡°Aren¡¯t we all,¡± Miranda says, but as usually happens when she tries to say something funny, her audience seems not to catch the joke. Elizabeth and the dog are both staring at her. ¡°Please don¡¯t cry,¡± she says to Elizabeth, whose eyes are shining. ¡°Don¡¯t, really, I¡¯m serious. It¡¯s too much.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Elizabeth says for the third time. That infuriatingly small voice. She sounds like a different person when she¡¯s in front of a camera.


    ¡°Stop apologizing.¡±


    Elizabeth blinks. ¡°You¡¯re working on your secret project.¡± She is looking all around the room. She falls silent, and after a moment Miranda succumbs to curiosity and sits on the floor beside Elizabeth to see the room from her vantage point. Paintings and sketches are pinned to the walls. Notes on structure and chronology cover a massive board. There are four pages of story outlines taped to the windowsill.


    ¡°What happens next?¡± Miranda asks. It¡¯s easier to talk to Elizabeth when they¡¯re sitting side by side, when she doesn¡¯t have to look at her.

 Page 76

    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°You do know.¡±


    ¡°I wish I could tell you how sorry I am,¡± Elizabeth says, ¡°but you¡¯ve already told me to stop apologizing.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just an awful thing to do.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think I¡¯m an awful person,¡± Elizabeth says.


    ¡°No one ever thinks they¡¯re awful, even people who really actually are. It¡¯s some sort of survival mechanism.¡±


    ¡°I think this is happening because it was supposed to happen.¡± Elizabeth speaks very softly.


    ¡°I¡¯d prefer not to think that I¡¯m following a script,¡± Miranda says, but she¡¯s tired, there¡¯s no sting in her words, it¡¯s past four in the morning and too late in every sense. Elizabeth says nothing, just pulls her knees close to her chest and sighs.


    In three months Miranda and Arthur will sit in a conference room with their lawyers to work out the final terms of their divorce settlement while the paparazzi smoke cigarettes on the sidewalk outside, while Elizabeth packs to move into the house with the crescent-moon light by the pool. In four months Miranda will be back in Toronto, divorced at twenty-seven, working on a commerce degree, spending her alimony on expensive clothing and consultations with stylists because she¡¯s come to understand that clothes are armor; she will call Leon Prevant to ask about employment and a week later she¡¯ll be back at Neptune Logistics, in a more interesting job now, working under Leon in Client Relations, rising rapidly through the company until she comes to a point after four or five years when she travels almost constantly between a dozen countries and lives mostly out of a carry-on suitcase, a time when she lives a life that feels like freedom and sleeps with her downstairs neighbor occasionally but refuses to date anyone, whispers ¡°I repent nothing¡± into the mirrors of a hundred hotel rooms from London to Singapore and in the morning puts on the clothes that make her invincible, a life where the moments of emptiness and disappointment are minimal, where by her midthirties she feels competent and at last more or less at ease in the world, studying foreign languages in first-class lounges and traveling in comfortable seats across oceans, meeting with clients and living her job, breathing her job, until she isn¡¯t sure where she stops and her job begins, almost always loves her life but is often lonely, draws the stories of Station Eleven in hotel rooms at night.


    But first there¡¯s this moment, this lamp-lit room: Miranda sits on the floor beside Elizabeth, whose breath is heavy with wine, and she leans back until she feels the reassuring solidity of the door frame against her spine. Elizabeth, who is crying a little, bites her lip and together they look at the sketches and paintings pinned to every wall. The dog stands at attention and stares at the window, where just now a moth brushed up against the glass, and for a moment everything is still. Station Eleven is all around them.


    16


    A TRANSCRIPT OF AN INTERVIEW conducted by Fran?ois Diallo, librarian of the town of New Petoskey, publisher and editor of the New Petoskey News, twenty-six years after Miranda and Arthur¡¯s last dinner party in Los Angeles and fifteen years after the Georgia Flu:


    FRAN?OIS DIALLO: Thank you for taking the time to speak with me today.


    KIRSTEN RAYMONDE: My pleasure. What are you writing?


    DIALLO: It¡¯s my own private shorthand. I made it up.


    RAYMONDE: Is it faster?


    DIALLO: Very much so. I can transcribe an interview in real time, and then write it out later. Now, I appreciate you talking to me this afternoon. As I mentioned yesterday, I¡¯ve just started a newspaper, and I¡¯ve been interviewing everyone who comes through New Petoskey.


    RAYMONDE: I¡¯m not sure I have much news to tell you.


    DIALLO: If you were to talk about the other towns you¡¯ve passed through, that would count as news to us. The world¡¯s become so local, hasn¡¯t it? We hear stories from traders, of course, but most people don¡¯t leave their towns anymore. I think my readers will be interested in hearing from people who¡¯ve been to other places since the collapse.


    RAYMONDE: Okay.


    DIALLO: And more than that, well, publishing the newspaper has been an invigorating project, but then I thought, Why stop with a newspaper? Why not create an oral history of this time we live in, and an oral history of the collapse? With your permission, I¡¯ll publish excerpts from this interview in the next edition, and I¡¯ll keep the entirety of the interview for my archives.


    RAYMONDE: That¡¯s fine. It¡¯s an interesting project. I know you¡¯re supposed to be interviewing me, but could I ask you a question first?

 Page 77

    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°You do know.¡±


    ¡°I wish I could tell you how sorry I am,¡± Elizabeth says, ¡°but you¡¯ve already told me to stop apologizing.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just an awful thing to do.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think I¡¯m an awful person,¡± Elizabeth says.


    ¡°No one ever thinks they¡¯re awful, even people who really actually are. It¡¯s some sort of survival mechanism.¡±


    ¡°I think this is happening because it was supposed to happen.¡± Elizabeth speaks very softly.


    ¡°I¡¯d prefer not to think that I¡¯m following a script,¡± Miranda says, but she¡¯s tired, there¡¯s no sting in her words, it¡¯s past four in the morning and too late in every sense. Elizabeth says nothing, just pulls her knees close to her chest and sighs.


    In three months Miranda and Arthur will sit in a conference room with their lawyers to work out the final terms of their divorce settlement while the paparazzi smoke cigarettes on the sidewalk outside, while Elizabeth packs to move into the house with the crescent-moon light by the pool. In four months Miranda will be back in Toronto, divorced at twenty-seven, working on a commerce degree, spending her alimony on expensive clothing and consultations with stylists because she¡¯s come to understand that clothes are armor; she will call Leon Prevant to ask about employment and a week later she¡¯ll be back at Neptune Logistics, in a more interesting job now, working under Leon in Client Relations, rising rapidly through the company until she comes to a point after four or five years when she travels almost constantly between a dozen countries and lives mostly out of a carry-on suitcase, a time when she lives a life that feels like freedom and sleeps with her downstairs neighbor occasionally but refuses to date anyone, whispers ¡°I repent nothing¡± into the mirrors of a hundred hotel rooms from London to Singapore and in the morning puts on the clothes that make her invincible, a life where the moments of emptiness and disappointment are minimal, where by her midthirties she feels competent and at last more or less at ease in the world, studying foreign languages in first-class lounges and traveling in comfortable seats across oceans, meeting with clients and living her job, breathing her job, until she isn¡¯t sure where she stops and her job begins, almost always loves her life but is often lonely, draws the stories of Station Eleven in hotel rooms at night.


    But first there¡¯s this moment, this lamp-lit room: Miranda sits on the floor beside Elizabeth, whose breath is heavy with wine, and she leans back until she feels the reassuring solidity of the door frame against her spine. Elizabeth, who is crying a little, bites her lip and together they look at the sketches and paintings pinned to every wall. The dog stands at attention and stares at the window, where just now a moth brushed up against the glass, and for a moment everything is still. Station Eleven is all around them.


    16


    A TRANSCRIPT OF AN INTERVIEW conducted by Fran?ois Diallo, librarian of the town of New Petoskey, publisher and editor of the New Petoskey News, twenty-six years after Miranda and Arthur¡¯s last dinner party in Los Angeles and fifteen years after the Georgia Flu:


    FRAN?OIS DIALLO: Thank you for taking the time to speak with me today.


    KIRSTEN RAYMONDE: My pleasure. What are you writing?


    DIALLO: It¡¯s my own private shorthand. I made it up.


    RAYMONDE: Is it faster?


    DIALLO: Very much so. I can transcribe an interview in real time, and then write it out later. Now, I appreciate you talking to me this afternoon. As I mentioned yesterday, I¡¯ve just started a newspaper, and I¡¯ve been interviewing everyone who comes through New Petoskey.


    RAYMONDE: I¡¯m not sure I have much news to tell you.


    DIALLO: If you were to talk about the other towns you¡¯ve passed through, that would count as news to us. The world¡¯s become so local, hasn¡¯t it? We hear stories from traders, of course, but most people don¡¯t leave their towns anymore. I think my readers will be interested in hearing from people who¡¯ve been to other places since the collapse.


    RAYMONDE: Okay.


    DIALLO: And more than that, well, publishing the newspaper has been an invigorating project, but then I thought, Why stop with a newspaper? Why not create an oral history of this time we live in, and an oral history of the collapse? With your permission, I¡¯ll publish excerpts from this interview in the next edition, and I¡¯ll keep the entirety of the interview for my archives.


    RAYMONDE: That¡¯s fine. It¡¯s an interesting project. I know you¡¯re supposed to be interviewing me, but could I ask you a question first?

 Page 78

    DIALLO: Of course.


    RAYMONDE: You¡¯ve been a librarian for a long time¡ª


    DIALLO: Since Year Four.


    RAYMONDE: Those comics I showed you just now, with the space station. Have you ever seen them before, or others in the series?


    DIALLO: Never, no, they¡¯re not part of any comic-book series I¡¯ve ever come across. You said someone gave them to you as a gift?


    RAYMONDE: Arthur Leander gave them to me. That actor I told you about.


    17


    A YEAR BEFORE THE Georgia Flu, Arthur and Clark met for dinner in London. Arthur was passing through town en route to Paris at a moment when Clark happened to be visiting his parents, and they agreed to meet for dinner in a corner of the city that Clark didn¡¯t know especially well. He¡¯d set out early, but when he stepped out of the Tube station he had a vision of his phone lying where he¡¯d left it on his parents¡¯ kitchen counter, a map application open on the screen. Clark liked to think he knew London but the truth was he¡¯d spent most of his adult life in New York, secure within the confines of Manhattan¡¯s idiot-proof grid, and on this particular evening London¡¯s tangle of streets was inscrutable. The side street for which he was searching failed to materialize and he found himself wandering, increasingly late, angry and embarrassed, retracing his footsteps and trying different turns. He hailed a cab when the rain began.


    ¡°Easiest two quid I ever made in me life,¡± the cabbie said, when Clark told him the address. The cabbie performed two left turns in rapid succession and they were at the restaurant, on a side street that Clark could¡¯ve sworn hadn¡¯t been there when he¡¯d passed by ten minutes ago. ¡°Of course,¡± the cabbie said, ¡°you don¡¯t know where you¡¯re going unless you know where you¡¯re going,¡± and when Clark went in, Arthur was waiting, caught under a beam of track lighting in a booth at the back. There had been a time when Arthur would never have faced the dining room of a restaurant, long periods when the only way to eat a meal in peace was to sit with his back to the room and hope no one would recognize his hunched shoulders and expensive haircut from behind, but now, Clark realized, Arthur wanted to be seen.


    ¡°Dr. Thompson,¡± Arthur said.


    ¡°Mr. Leander.¡± The disorientation of meeting one¡¯s sagging contemporaries, memories of a younger face crashing into the reality of jowls, under-eye pouches, unexpected lines, and then the terrible realization that one probably looks just as old as they do. Do you remember when we were young and gorgeous? Clark wanted to ask. Do you remember when everything seemed limitless? Do you remember when it seemed impossible that you¡¯d get famous and I¡¯d get a PhD? But instead of saying any of this he wished his friend a happy birthday.


    ¡°You remembered.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± Clark said. ¡°That¡¯s one thing I like about birthdays, they stay in one place. Same spot on the calendar, year in, year out.¡±


    ¡°But the years keep going faster, have you noticed?¡±


    They settled into the business of ordering drinks and appetizers, and all Clark could think of as they talked was whether or not Arthur had noticed that a couple at a nearby table was looking at him and whispering. If Arthur had noticed, he seemed supremely unconcerned, but the attention put Clark on edge.


    ¡°You¡¯re going to Paris tomorrow?¡± Clark asked somewhere between the first martini and the appetizers.


    ¡°Visiting my son. Elizabeth¡¯s vacationing there with him this week. It¡¯s just been a bitch of a year, Clark.¡±


    ¡°I know,¡± Clark said. ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± Arthur¡¯s third wife had recently served him with divorce papers, and her predecessor had taken their son to Jerusalem.


    ¡°Why Israel?¡± Arthur said miserably. ¡°That¡¯s the part I don¡¯t understand. Of all places.¡±


    ¡°Wasn¡¯t she a history major in college? Maybe that¡¯s what she likes about it, all the history in the place.¡±


    ¡°I think I¡¯ll have the duck,¡± Arthur said, and this was the last they spoke of Elizabeth, actually the last they spoke of anything of substance. ¡°I¡¯ve been indecently lucky,¡± Arthur said later that night, on his fourth martini. It was a line he¡¯d been using a great deal lately. Clark wouldn¡¯t have been bothered by it if he hadn¡¯t seen Arthur use it on Entertainment Weekly a month or two earlier. The restaurant was one of those large, under-lit places that seemed to recede into shadow at the periphery, and in the murky middle distance Clark saw a pinpoint of green light that meant someone was recording Arthur on a cell phone. Clark felt increasingly stiff. He was aware of the whispers that had sprung up, the glances from other tables. Arthur was talking about an endorsement deal of some kind, men¡¯s watches, his gestures loose. He was telling an animated story about his meeting with the watch executives, some kind of humorous misunderstanding in the boardroom. He was performing. Clark had thought he was meeting his oldest friend for dinner, but Arthur wasn¡¯t having dinner with a friend, Clark realized, so much as having dinner with an audience. He felt sick with disgust. When he left a short time later he found himself wandering, even though by now he¡¯d oriented himself and knew how to get back to the Tube station. Cold rain, the sidewalk shining, the shhh of car tires on the wet street. Thinking about the terrible gulf of years between eighteen and fifty.

 Page 79

    DIALLO: Of course.


    RAYMONDE: You¡¯ve been a librarian for a long time¡ª


    DIALLO: Since Year Four.


    RAYMONDE: Those comics I showed you just now, with the space station. Have you ever seen them before, or others in the series?


    DIALLO: Never, no, they¡¯re not part of any comic-book series I¡¯ve ever come across. You said someone gave them to you as a gift?


    RAYMONDE: Arthur Leander gave them to me. That actor I told you about.


    17


    A YEAR BEFORE THE Georgia Flu, Arthur and Clark met for dinner in London. Arthur was passing through town en route to Paris at a moment when Clark happened to be visiting his parents, and they agreed to meet for dinner in a corner of the city that Clark didn¡¯t know especially well. He¡¯d set out early, but when he stepped out of the Tube station he had a vision of his phone lying where he¡¯d left it on his parents¡¯ kitchen counter, a map application open on the screen. Clark liked to think he knew London but the truth was he¡¯d spent most of his adult life in New York, secure within the confines of Manhattan¡¯s idiot-proof grid, and on this particular evening London¡¯s tangle of streets was inscrutable. The side street for which he was searching failed to materialize and he found himself wandering, increasingly late, angry and embarrassed, retracing his footsteps and trying different turns. He hailed a cab when the rain began.


    ¡°Easiest two quid I ever made in me life,¡± the cabbie said, when Clark told him the address. The cabbie performed two left turns in rapid succession and they were at the restaurant, on a side street that Clark could¡¯ve sworn hadn¡¯t been there when he¡¯d passed by ten minutes ago. ¡°Of course,¡± the cabbie said, ¡°you don¡¯t know where you¡¯re going unless you know where you¡¯re going,¡± and when Clark went in, Arthur was waiting, caught under a beam of track lighting in a booth at the back. There had been a time when Arthur would never have faced the dining room of a restaurant, long periods when the only way to eat a meal in peace was to sit with his back to the room and hope no one would recognize his hunched shoulders and expensive haircut from behind, but now, Clark realized, Arthur wanted to be seen.


    ¡°Dr. Thompson,¡± Arthur said.


    ¡°Mr. Leander.¡± The disorientation of meeting one¡¯s sagging contemporaries, memories of a younger face crashing into the reality of jowls, under-eye pouches, unexpected lines, and then the terrible realization that one probably looks just as old as they do. Do you remember when we were young and gorgeous? Clark wanted to ask. Do you remember when everything seemed limitless? Do you remember when it seemed impossible that you¡¯d get famous and I¡¯d get a PhD? But instead of saying any of this he wished his friend a happy birthday.


    ¡°You remembered.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± Clark said. ¡°That¡¯s one thing I like about birthdays, they stay in one place. Same spot on the calendar, year in, year out.¡±


    ¡°But the years keep going faster, have you noticed?¡±


    They settled into the business of ordering drinks and appetizers, and all Clark could think of as they talked was whether or not Arthur had noticed that a couple at a nearby table was looking at him and whispering. If Arthur had noticed, he seemed supremely unconcerned, but the attention put Clark on edge.


    ¡°You¡¯re going to Paris tomorrow?¡± Clark asked somewhere between the first martini and the appetizers.


    ¡°Visiting my son. Elizabeth¡¯s vacationing there with him this week. It¡¯s just been a bitch of a year, Clark.¡±


    ¡°I know,¡± Clark said. ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± Arthur¡¯s third wife had recently served him with divorce papers, and her predecessor had taken their son to Jerusalem.


    ¡°Why Israel?¡± Arthur said miserably. ¡°That¡¯s the part I don¡¯t understand. Of all places.¡±


    ¡°Wasn¡¯t she a history major in college? Maybe that¡¯s what she likes about it, all the history in the place.¡±


    ¡°I think I¡¯ll have the duck,¡± Arthur said, and this was the last they spoke of Elizabeth, actually the last they spoke of anything of substance. ¡°I¡¯ve been indecently lucky,¡± Arthur said later that night, on his fourth martini. It was a line he¡¯d been using a great deal lately. Clark wouldn¡¯t have been bothered by it if he hadn¡¯t seen Arthur use it on Entertainment Weekly a month or two earlier. The restaurant was one of those large, under-lit places that seemed to recede into shadow at the periphery, and in the murky middle distance Clark saw a pinpoint of green light that meant someone was recording Arthur on a cell phone. Clark felt increasingly stiff. He was aware of the whispers that had sprung up, the glances from other tables. Arthur was talking about an endorsement deal of some kind, men¡¯s watches, his gestures loose. He was telling an animated story about his meeting with the watch executives, some kind of humorous misunderstanding in the boardroom. He was performing. Clark had thought he was meeting his oldest friend for dinner, but Arthur wasn¡¯t having dinner with a friend, Clark realized, so much as having dinner with an audience. He felt sick with disgust. When he left a short time later he found himself wandering, even though by now he¡¯d oriented himself and knew how to get back to the Tube station. Cold rain, the sidewalk shining, the shhh of car tires on the wet street. Thinking about the terrible gulf of years between eighteen and fifty.

 Page 80

    18


    DIALLO: I¡¯ll ask you more about Arthur Leander and the comics in a moment. Perhaps I could ask you a few questions about your life first?


    RAYMONDE: You know me, Fran?ois. We¡¯ve been coming through this town for years.


    DIALLO: Yes, yes, of course, but some of our readers might not know you, or the Symphony. I¡¯ve been giving copies of the paper to traders, asking them to distribute it along their routes. You¡¯ve been acting since you were very young, isn¡¯t that right?


    RAYMONDE: Very young. I was in a commercial when I was three. Do you remember commercials?


    DIALLO: I do, regrettably. What were you selling?


    RAYMONDE: I don¡¯t actually remember the thing itself, the commercial, but I remember my brother telling me it was for arrowroot biscuits.


    DIALLO: I remember those too. What came after the biscuits?


    RAYMONDE: I actually don¡¯t remember, but my brother told me a little. He said I did more commercials, and when I was six or seven I had a recurring role on a televised ¡­ on a televised show.


    DIALLO: Do you remember which show?


    RAYMONDE: I wish I did. I can¡¯t remember anything about it. I think I¡¯ve mentioned before, I have some problems with memory. I can¡¯t remember very much from before the collapse.


    DIALLO: It¡¯s not uncommon among people who were children when it happened. And the Symphony? You¡¯ve been with them for a while, haven¡¯t you?


    RAYMONDE: Since I was fourteen.


    DIALLO: Where did they find you?


    RAYMONDE: Ohio. The town where we ended up after we left Toronto, my brother and I, and then after he died I was there by myself.


    DIALLO: I didn¡¯t know they went that far south.


    RAYMONDE: They only went down there once. It was a failed experiment. They wanted to expand the territory, so that spring they followed the Maumee River down past the ruins of Toledo, and then the Auglaize River into Ohio, and they eventually walked into the town where I lived.


    DIALLO: Why do you say it was a failed experiment?


    RAYMONDE: I¡¯ll always be grateful that they passed through my town, but the expedition was a disaster for them. By the time they reached Ohio they¡¯d lost an actor to some illness on the road, something that looked like malaria, and they got shot at three times in various places. One of the flautists got hit and almost died of a gunshot wound. They¡ªwe¡ªthe Symphony never left their usual territory again.


    DIALLO: It seems like a very dangerous life.


    RAYMONDE: No, that was years ago. It¡¯s much less dangerous than it used to be.


    DIALLO: The other towns you pass through, are they very different from here?


    RAYMONDE: The places we return to more than once aren¡¯t dissimilar to here. Some places, you pass through once and never return, because you can tell something¡¯s very wrong. Everyone¡¯s afraid, or it seems like some people have enough to eat and other people are starving, or you see pregnant eleven-year-olds and you know the place is either lawless or in the grip of something, a cult of some kind. There are towns that are perfectly reasonable, logical systems of governance and such, and then you pass through two years later and they¡¯ve slid into disarray. All towns have their own traditions. There are towns like this one, where you¡¯re interested in the past, you¡¯ve got a library¡ª


    DIALLO: The more we know about the former world, the better we¡¯ll understand what happened when it fell.


    RAYMONDE: But everyone knows what happened. The new strain of swine flu and then the flights out of Moscow, those planes full of patient zeros ¡­


    DIALLO: Nonetheless, I believe in understanding history.


    RAYMONDE: Fair enough. Some towns, as I was saying, some towns are like this one, where they want to talk about what happened, about the past. Other towns, discussion of the past is discouraged. We went to a place once where the children didn¡¯t know the world had ever been different, although you¡¯d think all the rusted-out automobiles and telephones wires would give them a clue. Some towns are easier to visit than others. Some places have elected mayors or they¡¯re run by elected committees. Sometimes a cult takes over, and those towns are the most dangerous.


    DIALLO: In what sense?


    RAYMONDE: In the sense that they¡¯re unpredictable. You can¡¯t argue with them, because they live by an entirely different logic. You come to a town where everyone¡¯s dressed all in white, for example. I¡¯m thinking of a town we visited once just outside our usual territory, north of Kincardine, and then they tell you that they were saved from the Georgia Flu and survived the collapse because they¡¯re superior people and free from sin, and what can you say to that? It isn¡¯t logical. You can¡¯t argue with it. You just remember your own lost family and either want to cry or harbor murderous thoughts.

 Page 81

    18


    DIALLO: I¡¯ll ask you more about Arthur Leander and the comics in a moment. Perhaps I could ask you a few questions about your life first?


    RAYMONDE: You know me, Fran?ois. We¡¯ve been coming through this town for years.


    DIALLO: Yes, yes, of course, but some of our readers might not know you, or the Symphony. I¡¯ve been giving copies of the paper to traders, asking them to distribute it along their routes. You¡¯ve been acting since you were very young, isn¡¯t that right?


    RAYMONDE: Very young. I was in a commercial when I was three. Do you remember commercials?


    DIALLO: I do, regrettably. What were you selling?


    RAYMONDE: I don¡¯t actually remember the thing itself, the commercial, but I remember my brother telling me it was for arrowroot biscuits.


    DIALLO: I remember those too. What came after the biscuits?


    RAYMONDE: I actually don¡¯t remember, but my brother told me a little. He said I did more commercials, and when I was six or seven I had a recurring role on a televised ¡­ on a televised show.


    DIALLO: Do you remember which show?


    RAYMONDE: I wish I did. I can¡¯t remember anything about it. I think I¡¯ve mentioned before, I have some problems with memory. I can¡¯t remember very much from before the collapse.


    DIALLO: It¡¯s not uncommon among people who were children when it happened. And the Symphony? You¡¯ve been with them for a while, haven¡¯t you?


    RAYMONDE: Since I was fourteen.


    DIALLO: Where did they find you?


    RAYMONDE: Ohio. The town where we ended up after we left Toronto, my brother and I, and then after he died I was there by myself.


    DIALLO: I didn¡¯t know they went that far south.


    RAYMONDE: They only went down there once. It was a failed experiment. They wanted to expand the territory, so that spring they followed the Maumee River down past the ruins of Toledo, and then the Auglaize River into Ohio, and they eventually walked into the town where I lived.


    DIALLO: Why do you say it was a failed experiment?


    RAYMONDE: I¡¯ll always be grateful that they passed through my town, but the expedition was a disaster for them. By the time they reached Ohio they¡¯d lost an actor to some illness on the road, something that looked like malaria, and they got shot at three times in various places. One of the flautists got hit and almost died of a gunshot wound. They¡ªwe¡ªthe Symphony never left their usual territory again.


    DIALLO: It seems like a very dangerous life.


    RAYMONDE: No, that was years ago. It¡¯s much less dangerous than it used to be.


    DIALLO: The other towns you pass through, are they very different from here?


    RAYMONDE: The places we return to more than once aren¡¯t dissimilar to here. Some places, you pass through once and never return, because you can tell something¡¯s very wrong. Everyone¡¯s afraid, or it seems like some people have enough to eat and other people are starving, or you see pregnant eleven-year-olds and you know the place is either lawless or in the grip of something, a cult of some kind. There are towns that are perfectly reasonable, logical systems of governance and such, and then you pass through two years later and they¡¯ve slid into disarray. All towns have their own traditions. There are towns like this one, where you¡¯re interested in the past, you¡¯ve got a library¡ª


    DIALLO: The more we know about the former world, the better we¡¯ll understand what happened when it fell.


    RAYMONDE: But everyone knows what happened. The new strain of swine flu and then the flights out of Moscow, those planes full of patient zeros ¡­


    DIALLO: Nonetheless, I believe in understanding history.


    RAYMONDE: Fair enough. Some towns, as I was saying, some towns are like this one, where they want to talk about what happened, about the past. Other towns, discussion of the past is discouraged. We went to a place once where the children didn¡¯t know the world had ever been different, although you¡¯d think all the rusted-out automobiles and telephones wires would give them a clue. Some towns are easier to visit than others. Some places have elected mayors or they¡¯re run by elected committees. Sometimes a cult takes over, and those towns are the most dangerous.


    DIALLO: In what sense?


    RAYMONDE: In the sense that they¡¯re unpredictable. You can¡¯t argue with them, because they live by an entirely different logic. You come to a town where everyone¡¯s dressed all in white, for example. I¡¯m thinking of a town we visited once just outside our usual territory, north of Kincardine, and then they tell you that they were saved from the Georgia Flu and survived the collapse because they¡¯re superior people and free from sin, and what can you say to that? It isn¡¯t logical. You can¡¯t argue with it. You just remember your own lost family and either want to cry or harbor murderous thoughts.

 Page 82

    19


    SOMETIMES THE TRAVELING SYMPHONY thought that what they were doing was noble. There were moments around campfires when someone would say something invigorating about the importance of art, and everyone would find it easier to sleep that night. At other times it seemed a difficult and dangerous way to survive and hardly worth it, especially at times when they had to camp between towns, when they were turned away at gunpoint from hostile places, when they were traveling in snow or rain through dangerous territory, actors and musicians carrying guns and crossbows, the horses exhaling great clouds of steam, times when they were cold and afraid and their feet were wet. Or times like now when the heat was unrelenting, July pressing down upon them and the blank walls of the forest on either side, walking by the hour and wondering if an unhinged prophet or his men might be chasing them, arguing to distract themselves from their terrible fear.


    ¡°All I¡¯m saying,¡± Dieter said, twelve hours out of St. Deborah by the Water, ¡°is that quote on the lead caravan would be way more profound if we hadn¡¯t lifted it from Star Trek.¡± He was walking near Kirsten and August.


    Survival is insufficient: Kirsten had had these words tattooed on her left forearm at the age of fifteen and had been arguing with Dieter about it almost ever since. Dieter harbored strong anti-tattoo sentiments. He said he¡¯d seen a man die of an infected tattoo once. Kirsten also had two black knives tattooed on the back of her right wrist, but these were less troubling to Dieter, being much smaller and inked to mark specific events.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Kirsten said, ¡°I¡¯m aware of your opinion on the subject, but it remains my favorite line of text in the world.¡± She considered Dieter one of her dearest friends. The tattoo argument had lost all of its sting over the years and had become something like a familiar room where they met.


    Midmorning, the sun not yet broken over the tops of the trees. The Symphony had walked through most of the night. Kirsten¡¯s feet hurt and she was delirious with exhaustion. It was strange, she kept thinking, that the prophet¡¯s dog had the same name as the dog in her comic books. She¡¯d never heard the name Luli before or since.


    ¡°See, that illustrates the whole problem,¡± Dieter said. ¡°The best Shakespearean actress in the territory, and her favorite line of text is from Star Trek.¡±


    ¡°The whole problem with what?¡± Kirsten felt that she might actually be dreaming at this point, and she longed desperately for a cool bath.


    ¡°It¡¯s got to be one of the best lines ever written for a TV show,¡± August said. ¡°Did you see that episode?¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t say I recall,¡± Dieter said. ¡°I was never really a fan.¡±


    ¡°Kirsten?¡±


    Kirsten shrugged. She wasn¡¯t sure if she actually remembered anything at all of Star Trek, or if it was just that August had told her about it so many times that she¡¯d started to picture his stories in her head.


    ¡°Don¡¯t tell me you¡¯ve never seen Star Trek: Voyager,¡± August said hopefully. ¡°That episode with those lost Borg and Seven of Nine?¡±


    ¡°Remind me,¡± Kirsten said, and he brightened visibly. While he talked she allowed herself to imagine that she remembered it. A television in a living room, a ship moving through the night silence of space, her brother watching beside her, their parents¡ªif she could only remember their faces¡ªsomewhere near.


    The Symphony stopped to rest in the early afternoon. Would the prophet send men after them, or had they been allowed to leave? The conductor sent scouts back down the road. Kirsten climbed up to the driver¡¯s bench of the third caravan. A dull buzz of insects from the forest, tired horses grazing at the side of the road. The wildflowers growing by the roadside were abstract from this vantage point, paint dots of pink and purple and blue in the grass.


    Kirsten closed her eyes. A memory from early childhood, before the collapse: sitting with a friend on a lawn, a game where they closed their eyes and concentrated hard and tried to read one another¡¯s minds. She had never entirely let go of the notion that if she reached far enough with her thoughts she might find someone waiting, that if two people were to cast their thoughts outward at the same moment they might somehow meet in the middle. Charlie, where are you? She knew the effort was foolish. She opened her eyes. The road behind them was still empty. Olivia was picking flowers below.


    ¡°A little farther,¡± the conductor was saying, somewhere below, and the horses were being harnessed again, the caravans creaking into motion, the exhausted Symphony walking onward through the heat until hours later they set up camp by the roadside, the ones who remembered the lost world thinking longingly of air-conditioning even after all these years.

 Page 83

    19


    SOMETIMES THE TRAVELING SYMPHONY thought that what they were doing was noble. There were moments around campfires when someone would say something invigorating about the importance of art, and everyone would find it easier to sleep that night. At other times it seemed a difficult and dangerous way to survive and hardly worth it, especially at times when they had to camp between towns, when they were turned away at gunpoint from hostile places, when they were traveling in snow or rain through dangerous territory, actors and musicians carrying guns and crossbows, the horses exhaling great clouds of steam, times when they were cold and afraid and their feet were wet. Or times like now when the heat was unrelenting, July pressing down upon them and the blank walls of the forest on either side, walking by the hour and wondering if an unhinged prophet or his men might be chasing them, arguing to distract themselves from their terrible fear.


    ¡°All I¡¯m saying,¡± Dieter said, twelve hours out of St. Deborah by the Water, ¡°is that quote on the lead caravan would be way more profound if we hadn¡¯t lifted it from Star Trek.¡± He was walking near Kirsten and August.


    Survival is insufficient: Kirsten had had these words tattooed on her left forearm at the age of fifteen and had been arguing with Dieter about it almost ever since. Dieter harbored strong anti-tattoo sentiments. He said he¡¯d seen a man die of an infected tattoo once. Kirsten also had two black knives tattooed on the back of her right wrist, but these were less troubling to Dieter, being much smaller and inked to mark specific events.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Kirsten said, ¡°I¡¯m aware of your opinion on the subject, but it remains my favorite line of text in the world.¡± She considered Dieter one of her dearest friends. The tattoo argument had lost all of its sting over the years and had become something like a familiar room where they met.


    Midmorning, the sun not yet broken over the tops of the trees. The Symphony had walked through most of the night. Kirsten¡¯s feet hurt and she was delirious with exhaustion. It was strange, she kept thinking, that the prophet¡¯s dog had the same name as the dog in her comic books. She¡¯d never heard the name Luli before or since.


    ¡°See, that illustrates the whole problem,¡± Dieter said. ¡°The best Shakespearean actress in the territory, and her favorite line of text is from Star Trek.¡±


    ¡°The whole problem with what?¡± Kirsten felt that she might actually be dreaming at this point, and she longed desperately for a cool bath.


    ¡°It¡¯s got to be one of the best lines ever written for a TV show,¡± August said. ¡°Did you see that episode?¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t say I recall,¡± Dieter said. ¡°I was never really a fan.¡±


    ¡°Kirsten?¡±


    Kirsten shrugged. She wasn¡¯t sure if she actually remembered anything at all of Star Trek, or if it was just that August had told her about it so many times that she¡¯d started to picture his stories in her head.


    ¡°Don¡¯t tell me you¡¯ve never seen Star Trek: Voyager,¡± August said hopefully. ¡°That episode with those lost Borg and Seven of Nine?¡±


    ¡°Remind me,¡± Kirsten said, and he brightened visibly. While he talked she allowed herself to imagine that she remembered it. A television in a living room, a ship moving through the night silence of space, her brother watching beside her, their parents¡ªif she could only remember their faces¡ªsomewhere near.


    The Symphony stopped to rest in the early afternoon. Would the prophet send men after them, or had they been allowed to leave? The conductor sent scouts back down the road. Kirsten climbed up to the driver¡¯s bench of the third caravan. A dull buzz of insects from the forest, tired horses grazing at the side of the road. The wildflowers growing by the roadside were abstract from this vantage point, paint dots of pink and purple and blue in the grass.


    Kirsten closed her eyes. A memory from early childhood, before the collapse: sitting with a friend on a lawn, a game where they closed their eyes and concentrated hard and tried to read one another¡¯s minds. She had never entirely let go of the notion that if she reached far enough with her thoughts she might find someone waiting, that if two people were to cast their thoughts outward at the same moment they might somehow meet in the middle. Charlie, where are you? She knew the effort was foolish. She opened her eyes. The road behind them was still empty. Olivia was picking flowers below.


    ¡°A little farther,¡± the conductor was saying, somewhere below, and the horses were being harnessed again, the caravans creaking into motion, the exhausted Symphony walking onward through the heat until hours later they set up camp by the roadside, the ones who remembered the lost world thinking longingly of air-conditioning even after all these years.

 Page 84

    ¡°It just came out of a vent?¡± Alexandra asked.


    ¡°I believe so,¡± Kirsten said. ¡°I¡¯m too tired to think.¡±


    They¡¯d walked for all but five of the eighteen hours since they¡¯d left St. Deborah by the Water, through the night and morning and deep into the afternoon, trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the prophet. Some of them took turns trying to sleep in the moving caravans, others walking and walking until their thoughts burned out one by one like dying stars and they fell into a fugue state wherein all that mattered or had ever existed were these trees, this road, the counterpoint rhythms of human footsteps and horses¡¯ hooves, moonlight turning to darkness and then the summer morning, caravans rippling like apparitions in the heat, and now the Symphony was scattered here and there by the roadside in a state of semi-collapse while they waited for dinner to be ready. Half the Symphony had set off in pairs to hunt rabbits. The cook fire sent a plume of white smoke like a marker into the sky.


    ¡°Air-conditioning came out of a vent,¡± August confirmed. ¡°You¡¯d press a button, and whoosh! Cold air. I had one in my bedroom.¡±


    Kirsten and August were setting up tents, and Alexandra, whose tent had been set up already, was lying on her back staring up at the sky.


    ¡°Oh,¡± Alexandra said. ¡°So it was electricity, or gas?¡±


    August looked at the tuba, who was sitting nearby with his daughter half-asleep in his arms. Olivia had announced that she was too tired to wait for dinner, so he¡¯d been telling her a bedtime story about a mermaid while Lin set up their tent.


    ¡°Electricity,¡± the tuba said. ¡°Air conditioners were electric.¡± He craned his neck to see his daughter¡¯s face. ¡°Is she asleep?¡±


    ¡°I think so,¡± Kirsten said. This was when she heard the exclamation from the third caravan¡ª¡°What the fuck,¡± someone said, ¡°goddamnit, what is this?¡±¡ªand she stood up in time to see the first cello haul a girl out of the caravan by the arm. Olivia sat up, blinking.


    ¡°A stowaway.¡± August was grinning. He¡¯d been a stowaway himself once. ¡°We haven¡¯t had a stowaway in years.¡±


    The stowaway was the girl who¡¯d followed Kirsten in St. Deborah by the Water. She was crying and sweaty, her skirt soaked with urine. The first cello lifted her to the ground.


    ¡°She was under the costumes,¡± the first cello said. ¡°I went in looking for my tent.¡±


    ¡°Get her some water,¡± Gil said.


    The conductor swore under her breath and looked off down the road behind them while the Symphony gathered. The first flute gave the girl one of her water bottles.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± the girl said, ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, please don¡¯t make me go back¡ª¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t take children,¡± the conductor said. ¡°This isn¡¯t like running away and joining the circus.¡± The girl looked confused. She didn¡¯t know what a circus was. ¡°Incidentally,¡± the conductor said to the assembled company, ¡°this is why we check the caravans before we depart.¡±


    ¡°We left St. Deborah in kind of a hurry,¡± someone muttered.


    ¡°I had to leave,¡± the girl said. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, I¡¯m sorry, I¡¯ll do anything, just¡ª¡±


    ¡°Why did you have to leave?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m promised to the prophet,¡± the girl said.


    ¡°You¡¯re what?¡±


    The girl was crying now. ¡°I didn¡¯t have any choice,¡± she said. ¡°I was going to be his next wife.¡±


    ¡°Jesus,¡± Dieter said. ¡°This goddamn world.¡± Olivia was standing by her father, rubbing her eyes. The tuba lifted her into his arms.


    ¡°He has more than one?¡± asked Alexandra, still blissfully ignorant.


    ¡°He has four,¡± the girl said, sniffling. ¡°They live in the gas station.¡±


    The conductor gave the girl a clean handkerchief from her pocket. ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡±


    ¡°Eleanor.¡±


    ¡°How old are you, Eleanor?¡±


    ¡°Twelve.¡±


    ¡°Why would he marry a twelve-year-old?¡±


    ¡°He had a dream where God told him he was to repopulate the earth.¡±


    ¡°Of course he did,¡± the clarinet said. ¡°Don¡¯t they all have dreams like that?¡±


    ¡°Right, I always thought that was a prerequisite for being a prophet,¡± Sayid said. ¡°Hell, if I were a prophet¡ª¡±


    ¡°Your parents allowed this?¡± the conductor asked, simultaneously making a Shut up motion in the direction of the clarinet and Sayid.

 Page 85

    ¡°It just came out of a vent?¡± Alexandra asked.


    ¡°I believe so,¡± Kirsten said. ¡°I¡¯m too tired to think.¡±


    They¡¯d walked for all but five of the eighteen hours since they¡¯d left St. Deborah by the Water, through the night and morning and deep into the afternoon, trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the prophet. Some of them took turns trying to sleep in the moving caravans, others walking and walking until their thoughts burned out one by one like dying stars and they fell into a fugue state wherein all that mattered or had ever existed were these trees, this road, the counterpoint rhythms of human footsteps and horses¡¯ hooves, moonlight turning to darkness and then the summer morning, caravans rippling like apparitions in the heat, and now the Symphony was scattered here and there by the roadside in a state of semi-collapse while they waited for dinner to be ready. Half the Symphony had set off in pairs to hunt rabbits. The cook fire sent a plume of white smoke like a marker into the sky.


    ¡°Air-conditioning came out of a vent,¡± August confirmed. ¡°You¡¯d press a button, and whoosh! Cold air. I had one in my bedroom.¡±


    Kirsten and August were setting up tents, and Alexandra, whose tent had been set up already, was lying on her back staring up at the sky.


    ¡°Oh,¡± Alexandra said. ¡°So it was electricity, or gas?¡±


    August looked at the tuba, who was sitting nearby with his daughter half-asleep in his arms. Olivia had announced that she was too tired to wait for dinner, so he¡¯d been telling her a bedtime story about a mermaid while Lin set up their tent.


    ¡°Electricity,¡± the tuba said. ¡°Air conditioners were electric.¡± He craned his neck to see his daughter¡¯s face. ¡°Is she asleep?¡±


    ¡°I think so,¡± Kirsten said. This was when she heard the exclamation from the third caravan¡ª¡°What the fuck,¡± someone said, ¡°goddamnit, what is this?¡±¡ªand she stood up in time to see the first cello haul a girl out of the caravan by the arm. Olivia sat up, blinking.


    ¡°A stowaway.¡± August was grinning. He¡¯d been a stowaway himself once. ¡°We haven¡¯t had a stowaway in years.¡±


    The stowaway was the girl who¡¯d followed Kirsten in St. Deborah by the Water. She was crying and sweaty, her skirt soaked with urine. The first cello lifted her to the ground.


    ¡°She was under the costumes,¡± the first cello said. ¡°I went in looking for my tent.¡±


    ¡°Get her some water,¡± Gil said.


    The conductor swore under her breath and looked off down the road behind them while the Symphony gathered. The first flute gave the girl one of her water bottles.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± the girl said, ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, please don¡¯t make me go back¡ª¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t take children,¡± the conductor said. ¡°This isn¡¯t like running away and joining the circus.¡± The girl looked confused. She didn¡¯t know what a circus was. ¡°Incidentally,¡± the conductor said to the assembled company, ¡°this is why we check the caravans before we depart.¡±


    ¡°We left St. Deborah in kind of a hurry,¡± someone muttered.


    ¡°I had to leave,¡± the girl said. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, I¡¯m sorry, I¡¯ll do anything, just¡ª¡±


    ¡°Why did you have to leave?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m promised to the prophet,¡± the girl said.


    ¡°You¡¯re what?¡±


    The girl was crying now. ¡°I didn¡¯t have any choice,¡± she said. ¡°I was going to be his next wife.¡±


    ¡°Jesus,¡± Dieter said. ¡°This goddamn world.¡± Olivia was standing by her father, rubbing her eyes. The tuba lifted her into his arms.


    ¡°He has more than one?¡± asked Alexandra, still blissfully ignorant.


    ¡°He has four,¡± the girl said, sniffling. ¡°They live in the gas station.¡±


    The conductor gave the girl a clean handkerchief from her pocket. ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡±


    ¡°Eleanor.¡±


    ¡°How old are you, Eleanor?¡±


    ¡°Twelve.¡±


    ¡°Why would he marry a twelve-year-old?¡±


    ¡°He had a dream where God told him he was to repopulate the earth.¡±


    ¡°Of course he did,¡± the clarinet said. ¡°Don¡¯t they all have dreams like that?¡±


    ¡°Right, I always thought that was a prerequisite for being a prophet,¡± Sayid said. ¡°Hell, if I were a prophet¡ª¡±


    ¡°Your parents allowed this?¡± the conductor asked, simultaneously making a Shut up motion in the direction of the clarinet and Sayid.

 Page 86

    ¡°They¡¯re dead.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry to hear that.¡±


    ¡°Were you spying on me in St. Deborah?¡± Kirsten asked.


    The girl shook her head.


    ¡°No one told you to watch us?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± she said.


    ¡°Did you know Charlie and the sixth guitar?¡±


    Eleanor frowned. ¡°Charlie and Jeremy?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Do you know where they went?¡±


    ¡°They went to the¡ªto the Museum of Civilization.¡± Eleanor said museum very carefully, the way people sound out foreign words of whose pronunciation they¡¯re uncertain.


    ¡°The what?¡±


    August whistled softly. ¡°They told you that¡¯s where they were going?¡±


    ¡°Charlie said if I could ever get away, that¡¯s where I could find them.¡±


    ¡°I thought the Museum of Civilization was a rumor,¡± August said.


    ¡°What is it?¡± Kirsten had never heard of it.


    ¡°I heard it was a museum someone set up in an airport.¡± Gil was unrolling his map, blinking shortsightedly. ¡°I remember a trader telling me about it, years back.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re headed there anyway, aren¡¯t we? It¡¯s supposed to be outside Severn City.¡± The conductor was peering over his shoulder. She touched a point on the map, far to the south along the lakeshore.


    ¡°What do we know about it?¡± the tuba asked. ¡°Do people still live there?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve no idea.¡±


    ¡°It could be a trap,¡± the tuba murmured. ¡°The girl could be leading us there.¡±


    ¡°I know,¡± the conductor said.


    What to do with Eleanor? They knew they risked accusations of kidnapping and they had long adhered to a strict policy of non-intervention in the politics of the towns through which they passed, but no one could imagine delivering a child bride back to the prophet. Had a grave marker with her name on it already been driven into the earth? Would a grave be dug if she returned? Nothing for it but to take the girl and press on into the unknown south, farther down the eastern shore of Lake Michigan than they¡¯d ever been.


    They tried to engage Eleanor in conversation over dinner. She¡¯d settled into a wary stillness, the watchfulness of orphans. She rode in the back of the first caravan, so that she¡¯d be at least momentarily out of sight if anyone approached the Symphony from the rear. She was polite and unsmiling.


    ¡°What do you know about the Museum of Civilization?¡± they asked.


    ¡°Not very much,¡± she said. ¡°I just heard people talk about it sometimes.¡±


    ¡°So Charlie and Jeremy had heard about it from traders?¡±


    ¡°Also the prophet¡¯s from there,¡± she said.


    ¡°Does he have family there?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°Tell us about the prophet,¡± the conductor said.


    He¡¯d come to St. Deborah by the Water not long after the Symphony had left Charlie and Jeremy there, the head of a sect of religious wanderers. The sect had moved into the Walmart at first, a communal encampment in what had once been the Lawn and Garden Department. They told the townspeople they¡¯d come in peace. A few people were uneasy about them, this new population with vague stories about travel in the south, in the territory once known as Virginia and beyond¡ªrumors held that the south was exceptionally dangerous, bristling with guns, and what might they have done to survive down there?¡ªbut the new arrivals were friendly and self-sufficient. They shared their meat when they hunted. They helped with chores and seemed harmless. There were nineteen of them, and they mostly kept to themselves; some time passed before the townspeople realized that the tall man with blond hair who seemed to be their leader was known only as the prophet and had three wives. ¡°I am a messenger,¡± he said, when introduced to people. No one knew his real name. He said he was guided by visions and signs. He said he had prophetic dreams. His followers said he was from a place called the Museum of Civilization, that he¡¯d taken to the road in childhood to spread his message of light. They had a story about setting out in the early morning and then stopping for the day only a few hours later, because the prophet had seen three ravens flying low over the road ahead. No one else had seen the ravens, but the prophet was insistent. The next morning they came upon a collapsed bridge and a riverside funeral, women singing, voices rising over three white shrouds. Three men had died when the bridge fell into the river. ¡°Don¡¯t you see?¡± the prophet¡¯s followers said. ¡°If not for his vision that would have been us.¡±

 Page 87

    ¡°They¡¯re dead.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry to hear that.¡±


    ¡°Were you spying on me in St. Deborah?¡± Kirsten asked.


    The girl shook her head.


    ¡°No one told you to watch us?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± she said.


    ¡°Did you know Charlie and the sixth guitar?¡±


    Eleanor frowned. ¡°Charlie and Jeremy?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Do you know where they went?¡±


    ¡°They went to the¡ªto the Museum of Civilization.¡± Eleanor said museum very carefully, the way people sound out foreign words of whose pronunciation they¡¯re uncertain.


    ¡°The what?¡±


    August whistled softly. ¡°They told you that¡¯s where they were going?¡±


    ¡°Charlie said if I could ever get away, that¡¯s where I could find them.¡±


    ¡°I thought the Museum of Civilization was a rumor,¡± August said.


    ¡°What is it?¡± Kirsten had never heard of it.


    ¡°I heard it was a museum someone set up in an airport.¡± Gil was unrolling his map, blinking shortsightedly. ¡°I remember a trader telling me about it, years back.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re headed there anyway, aren¡¯t we? It¡¯s supposed to be outside Severn City.¡± The conductor was peering over his shoulder. She touched a point on the map, far to the south along the lakeshore.


    ¡°What do we know about it?¡± the tuba asked. ¡°Do people still live there?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve no idea.¡±


    ¡°It could be a trap,¡± the tuba murmured. ¡°The girl could be leading us there.¡±


    ¡°I know,¡± the conductor said.


    What to do with Eleanor? They knew they risked accusations of kidnapping and they had long adhered to a strict policy of non-intervention in the politics of the towns through which they passed, but no one could imagine delivering a child bride back to the prophet. Had a grave marker with her name on it already been driven into the earth? Would a grave be dug if she returned? Nothing for it but to take the girl and press on into the unknown south, farther down the eastern shore of Lake Michigan than they¡¯d ever been.


    They tried to engage Eleanor in conversation over dinner. She¡¯d settled into a wary stillness, the watchfulness of orphans. She rode in the back of the first caravan, so that she¡¯d be at least momentarily out of sight if anyone approached the Symphony from the rear. She was polite and unsmiling.


    ¡°What do you know about the Museum of Civilization?¡± they asked.


    ¡°Not very much,¡± she said. ¡°I just heard people talk about it sometimes.¡±


    ¡°So Charlie and Jeremy had heard about it from traders?¡±


    ¡°Also the prophet¡¯s from there,¡± she said.


    ¡°Does he have family there?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°Tell us about the prophet,¡± the conductor said.


    He¡¯d come to St. Deborah by the Water not long after the Symphony had left Charlie and Jeremy there, the head of a sect of religious wanderers. The sect had moved into the Walmart at first, a communal encampment in what had once been the Lawn and Garden Department. They told the townspeople they¡¯d come in peace. A few people were uneasy about them, this new population with vague stories about travel in the south, in the territory once known as Virginia and beyond¡ªrumors held that the south was exceptionally dangerous, bristling with guns, and what might they have done to survive down there?¡ªbut the new arrivals were friendly and self-sufficient. They shared their meat when they hunted. They helped with chores and seemed harmless. There were nineteen of them, and they mostly kept to themselves; some time passed before the townspeople realized that the tall man with blond hair who seemed to be their leader was known only as the prophet and had three wives. ¡°I am a messenger,¡± he said, when introduced to people. No one knew his real name. He said he was guided by visions and signs. He said he had prophetic dreams. His followers said he was from a place called the Museum of Civilization, that he¡¯d taken to the road in childhood to spread his message of light. They had a story about setting out in the early morning and then stopping for the day only a few hours later, because the prophet had seen three ravens flying low over the road ahead. No one else had seen the ravens, but the prophet was insistent. The next morning they came upon a collapsed bridge and a riverside funeral, women singing, voices rising over three white shrouds. Three men had died when the bridge fell into the river. ¡°Don¡¯t you see?¡± the prophet¡¯s followers said. ¡°If not for his vision that would have been us.¡±

 Page 88

    When the winter fever struck St. Deborah by the Water, when the mayor died, the prophet added the mayor¡¯s wife to his collection and moved with his followers into the gas station in the center of town. No one had quite realized how much weaponry they had. Their stories about travel in the south began to fall into place. Within a week it became obvious that the town was his. Eleanor didn¡¯t know why the prophet¡¯s dog was named Luli.


    20


    TWO DAYS OUT OF St. Deborah by the Water, the Symphony came upon a burnt-out resort town. A fire had swept through some years ago and now the town was a meadow with black ruins standing. A sea of pink flowers had risen between the shards of buildings. The charred shells of hotels stood along the lakeshore and a brick clock tower was still standing a few blocks inland, the clock stopped forever at eight fifteen.


    The Symphony walked armed and on full alert, Olivia and Eleanor in the back of the lead caravan for safety, but they saw no signs of human life. Only deer grazing on overgrown boulevards and rabbits burrowing in ashy shadows, seagulls watching from lampposts. The Symphony shot two deer for dinner later, pried the arrows from their ribs, and strung them over the hoods of the first two caravans. The lakeshore road was a complicated patchwork of broken pavement and grass.


    On the far side of town they reached the limits of the fire, a place where the trees stood taller and the grasses and wildflowers changed. Just beyond the fire line they found an old baseball field, where they stopped to let the horses graze. Half-collapsed bleachers slumped into tall grass. Three banks of floodlights had stood over this field, but two had fallen. Kirsten knelt to touch the thick glass of a massive lamp, trying to imagine the electricity that it had conducted, the light pouring down. A cricket landed on her hand and sprang away.


    ¡°You couldn¡¯t even look directly at them,¡± Jackson said. He hadn¡¯t liked baseball much but had gone a few times as a child anyway, sitting dutifully in the stands with his father.


    ¡°You going to stand there all day?¡± Sayid asked, and Kirsten glared at him but returned to work. They were cutting grass for the horses, to carry with them in case there was a place farther down the road where there was nothing for the animals to eat. Eleanor sat by herself in the shade of the first caravan, humming tunelessly, braiding and unbraiding pieces of grass. She¡¯d spoken very little since they¡¯d found her.


    The scouts reported a school, just beyond the trees at the edge of the field. ¡°Take a couple of the others and check the school for instruments,¡± the conductor told Kirsten and August. They set out with Jackson and the viola. It was a degree or two cooler in the shade of the forest, the ground soft with pine needles underfoot.


    ¡°I¡¯m glad to get out of that field,¡± Viola said. She¡¯d had a different name when she was younger, but had taken on the name of her instrument after the collapse. She sniffled quietly. She was allergic to grass. The forest had crept up to the edges of the school parking lot and sent an advance party out toward the building, small trees growing through cracks in the pavement. There were a few cars parked on flat tires.


    ¡°Let¡¯s watch for a moment,¡± August said, and they stood for a while at the edge of the woods. The saplings in the parking lot were stirred by a breeze, but otherwise nothing moved in the landscape except birds and the shimmer of heat waves. The school was dark and still. Kirsten brushed sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think anyone¡¯s here,¡± Jackson said finally. ¡°The place looks desolate.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Viola muttered. ¡°Schools give me the creeps.¡±


    ¡°You volunteered,¡± Kirsten said.


    ¡°Only because I hate cutting grass.¡±


    They skirted the building first, looking in windows, and saw only ruined classrooms with graffiti on the walls. The back door gaped open into a gymnasium. Sunlight poured through a hole in the ceiling, a few weeds growing in the debris where light touched the floor. This place had been used as a shelter, or possibly a field hospital. A jumble of cots had been piled in a corner of the room. Later someone had built a fire under the hole in the ceiling, old ashes mixed with animal bones. Easy to read the broad outlines of the room¡¯s history, the shelter that had later become a place where people cooked meals, but as always all of the details were missing. How many people had stayed here? Who were they? Where had they gone? On the opposite side of the gym, a set of doors opened into a corridor lined with classrooms, sunlight spilling across the floor from the broken-down front door at the end.


    This had been a small school, six classrooms. The floor strewn with broken glass, unidentifiable garbage, the remains of binders and textbooks. They picked their way between rooms, searching, but there was only wreckage and disarray. Layers of graffiti, unreadable names in puffy dripping letters across blackboards, old messages: ¡°Jasmine L., if you see this, go to my dad¡¯s lake house.¡ªBen.¡± Overturned desks. A fire had darkened a corner of a classroom before someone had put it out or it had died on its own. The band room was immediately identifiable as such by the heap of twisted music stands on the floor. The sheet music was gone¡ªperhaps used to start the cooking fire in the gymnasium¡ªand there were no instruments. But Viola found half a jar of rosin in a closet, and Kirsten found a mouthpiece for a flute buried under trash. Words spray-painted on the north wall: ¡°The end is here.¡±

 Page 89

    When the winter fever struck St. Deborah by the Water, when the mayor died, the prophet added the mayor¡¯s wife to his collection and moved with his followers into the gas station in the center of town. No one had quite realized how much weaponry they had. Their stories about travel in the south began to fall into place. Within a week it became obvious that the town was his. Eleanor didn¡¯t know why the prophet¡¯s dog was named Luli.


    20


    TWO DAYS OUT OF St. Deborah by the Water, the Symphony came upon a burnt-out resort town. A fire had swept through some years ago and now the town was a meadow with black ruins standing. A sea of pink flowers had risen between the shards of buildings. The charred shells of hotels stood along the lakeshore and a brick clock tower was still standing a few blocks inland, the clock stopped forever at eight fifteen.


    The Symphony walked armed and on full alert, Olivia and Eleanor in the back of the lead caravan for safety, but they saw no signs of human life. Only deer grazing on overgrown boulevards and rabbits burrowing in ashy shadows, seagulls watching from lampposts. The Symphony shot two deer for dinner later, pried the arrows from their ribs, and strung them over the hoods of the first two caravans. The lakeshore road was a complicated patchwork of broken pavement and grass.


    On the far side of town they reached the limits of the fire, a place where the trees stood taller and the grasses and wildflowers changed. Just beyond the fire line they found an old baseball field, where they stopped to let the horses graze. Half-collapsed bleachers slumped into tall grass. Three banks of floodlights had stood over this field, but two had fallen. Kirsten knelt to touch the thick glass of a massive lamp, trying to imagine the electricity that it had conducted, the light pouring down. A cricket landed on her hand and sprang away.


    ¡°You couldn¡¯t even look directly at them,¡± Jackson said. He hadn¡¯t liked baseball much but had gone a few times as a child anyway, sitting dutifully in the stands with his father.


    ¡°You going to stand there all day?¡± Sayid asked, and Kirsten glared at him but returned to work. They were cutting grass for the horses, to carry with them in case there was a place farther down the road where there was nothing for the animals to eat. Eleanor sat by herself in the shade of the first caravan, humming tunelessly, braiding and unbraiding pieces of grass. She¡¯d spoken very little since they¡¯d found her.


    The scouts reported a school, just beyond the trees at the edge of the field. ¡°Take a couple of the others and check the school for instruments,¡± the conductor told Kirsten and August. They set out with Jackson and the viola. It was a degree or two cooler in the shade of the forest, the ground soft with pine needles underfoot.


    ¡°I¡¯m glad to get out of that field,¡± Viola said. She¡¯d had a different name when she was younger, but had taken on the name of her instrument after the collapse. She sniffled quietly. She was allergic to grass. The forest had crept up to the edges of the school parking lot and sent an advance party out toward the building, small trees growing through cracks in the pavement. There were a few cars parked on flat tires.


    ¡°Let¡¯s watch for a moment,¡± August said, and they stood for a while at the edge of the woods. The saplings in the parking lot were stirred by a breeze, but otherwise nothing moved in the landscape except birds and the shimmer of heat waves. The school was dark and still. Kirsten brushed sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think anyone¡¯s here,¡± Jackson said finally. ¡°The place looks desolate.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Viola muttered. ¡°Schools give me the creeps.¡±


    ¡°You volunteered,¡± Kirsten said.


    ¡°Only because I hate cutting grass.¡±


    They skirted the building first, looking in windows, and saw only ruined classrooms with graffiti on the walls. The back door gaped open into a gymnasium. Sunlight poured through a hole in the ceiling, a few weeds growing in the debris where light touched the floor. This place had been used as a shelter, or possibly a field hospital. A jumble of cots had been piled in a corner of the room. Later someone had built a fire under the hole in the ceiling, old ashes mixed with animal bones. Easy to read the broad outlines of the room¡¯s history, the shelter that had later become a place where people cooked meals, but as always all of the details were missing. How many people had stayed here? Who were they? Where had they gone? On the opposite side of the gym, a set of doors opened into a corridor lined with classrooms, sunlight spilling across the floor from the broken-down front door at the end.


    This had been a small school, six classrooms. The floor strewn with broken glass, unidentifiable garbage, the remains of binders and textbooks. They picked their way between rooms, searching, but there was only wreckage and disarray. Layers of graffiti, unreadable names in puffy dripping letters across blackboards, old messages: ¡°Jasmine L., if you see this, go to my dad¡¯s lake house.¡ªBen.¡± Overturned desks. A fire had darkened a corner of a classroom before someone had put it out or it had died on its own. The band room was immediately identifiable as such by the heap of twisted music stands on the floor. The sheet music was gone¡ªperhaps used to start the cooking fire in the gymnasium¡ªand there were no instruments. But Viola found half a jar of rosin in a closet, and Kirsten found a mouthpiece for a flute buried under trash. Words spray-painted on the north wall: ¡°The end is here.¡±

 Page 90

    ¡°Creepy as hell,¡± Viola said.


    Jackson appeared in the doorway. ¡°There¡¯s a skeleton in the men¡¯s room.¡±


    August frowned. ¡°How old?¡±


    ¡°Old. Bullet hole in the skull.¡±


    ¡°Why would you look in the bathroom?¡±


    ¡°I was hoping for soap.¡±


    August nodded and disappeared down the hall.


    ¡°What¡¯s he doing?¡± Viola asked.


    ¡°He likes to say a prayer over the dead.¡± Kirsten was crouched on the floor, poking through the debris with a broken ruler. ¡°Help me check the lockers before we go.¡±


    But every student locker had been emptied, doors hanging askew. Kirsten picked up a couple of mildewed binders to study the stickers and the Sharpie incantations¡ª¡°Lady Gaga iz da bomb,¡± ¡°Eva + Jason 4 evah,¡± ¡°I ? Chris,¡± etc.¡ªand on a cooler day she might have spent more time here, interested as always in any clues she could find about the lost world, but the air was foul and still, the heat unendurable, and when August emerged from the men¡¯s room it was a relief to walk out into the sunlight, the breeze, and the chatter of crickets.


    ¡°Christ,¡± Jackson said, ¡°I don¡¯t know how you two can stand going into these places.¡±


    ¡°Well, we don¡¯t go into public bathrooms, for starters,¡± August said.


    ¡°I just wanted some soap.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, but it¡¯s a dumb move. Someone always got executed in the bathroom.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, like I said, I don¡¯t know how you stand it.¡±


    We stand it because we were younger than you were when everything ended, Kirsten thought, but not young enough to remember nothing at all. Because there isn¡¯t much time left, because all the roofs are collapsing now and soon none of the old buildings will be safe. Because we are always looking for the former world, before all the traces of the former world are gone. But it seemed like too much to explain all this, so she shrugged instead of answering him.


    The Symphony was resting under the trees by the side of the road. Most of them were napping. Eleanor was showing Olivia how to make a daisy chain. The clarinet was moving languidly through a series of yoga poses while the conductor and Gil studied a map.


    ¡°A mouthpiece!¡± the first flute said, when August revealed their discoveries, and August was the person in the Symphony who irritated her the most, but she actually clapped her hands and threw her arms around his neck.


    ¡°What was in the school?¡± Alexandra asked, when the horses were harnessed and the Symphony had set out again. She wanted very much to go into buildings with Kirsten and August, but Kirsten never let her join them.


    ¡°Nothing worth mentioning,¡± Kirsten said. Carefully not thinking about the skeleton in the men¡¯s room, her eyes on the road. ¡°Just that flute piece and a lot of debris.¡±


    21


    THE INTERVIEW IN Year Fifteen, continued:


    FRAN?OIS DIALLO: Now, I believe you were very young when the Georgia Flu came, when the collapse happened.


    KIRSTEN RAYMONDE: I was eight.


    DIALLO: Forgive me, this is a fascination of mine when I speak with people who were children back then, at the time of the collapse, and I¡¯m not sure how to phrase this, but I want to know what you think about when you consider how the world¡¯s changed in your lifetime.


    RAYMONDE: [silence]


    DIALLO: Or to phrase it differently¡ª


    RAYMONDE: I understood the question. I¡¯d prefer not to answer.


    DIALLO: Okay. All right. I¡¯m curious about your tattoo.


    RAYMONDE: The text on my arm? ¡°Survival is insufficient¡±?


    DIALLO: No, no, the other one. The two black knives on your right wrist.


    RAYMONDE: You know what tattoos like this mean.


    DIALLO: But perhaps you could just tell me¡ª


    RAYMONDE: I won¡¯t talk about it, Fran?ois, and you know better than to ask.


    22


    WHEN KIRSTEN THOUGHT of the ways the world had changed in her lifetime, her thoughts always eventually circled back to Alexandra. Alexandra knew how to shoot, but the world was softening. There was a fair chance, Kirsten thought, that Alexandra would live out her life without killing anyone. She was a younger fifteen-year-old than Kirsten had ever been.


    Now Alexandra walked quietly, sullen because she hadn¡¯t been allowed to join the expedition to the school. The Symphony walked through the end of the day, clouds gathering and the air pressing down from above, rivulets of sweat running down Kirsten¡¯s back. The sky low and dark by late afternoon. They were moving through a rural area, no driveways. Rusted-out cars here and there along the road, abandoned where they¡¯d run out of gas, the caravans weaving carefully around them. Flashes of lightning and thunder, at first distant and then close. They waited out the rainstorm in the trees by the side of the road at twilight, pitched their tents on the wet ground when it was over.

 Page 91

    ¡°Creepy as hell,¡± Viola said.


    Jackson appeared in the doorway. ¡°There¡¯s a skeleton in the men¡¯s room.¡±


    August frowned. ¡°How old?¡±


    ¡°Old. Bullet hole in the skull.¡±


    ¡°Why would you look in the bathroom?¡±


    ¡°I was hoping for soap.¡±


    August nodded and disappeared down the hall.


    ¡°What¡¯s he doing?¡± Viola asked.


    ¡°He likes to say a prayer over the dead.¡± Kirsten was crouched on the floor, poking through the debris with a broken ruler. ¡°Help me check the lockers before we go.¡±


    But every student locker had been emptied, doors hanging askew. Kirsten picked up a couple of mildewed binders to study the stickers and the Sharpie incantations¡ª¡°Lady Gaga iz da bomb,¡± ¡°Eva + Jason 4 evah,¡± ¡°I ? Chris,¡± etc.¡ªand on a cooler day she might have spent more time here, interested as always in any clues she could find about the lost world, but the air was foul and still, the heat unendurable, and when August emerged from the men¡¯s room it was a relief to walk out into the sunlight, the breeze, and the chatter of crickets.


    ¡°Christ,¡± Jackson said, ¡°I don¡¯t know how you two can stand going into these places.¡±


    ¡°Well, we don¡¯t go into public bathrooms, for starters,¡± August said.


    ¡°I just wanted some soap.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, but it¡¯s a dumb move. Someone always got executed in the bathroom.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, like I said, I don¡¯t know how you stand it.¡±


    We stand it because we were younger than you were when everything ended, Kirsten thought, but not young enough to remember nothing at all. Because there isn¡¯t much time left, because all the roofs are collapsing now and soon none of the old buildings will be safe. Because we are always looking for the former world, before all the traces of the former world are gone. But it seemed like too much to explain all this, so she shrugged instead of answering him.


    The Symphony was resting under the trees by the side of the road. Most of them were napping. Eleanor was showing Olivia how to make a daisy chain. The clarinet was moving languidly through a series of yoga poses while the conductor and Gil studied a map.


    ¡°A mouthpiece!¡± the first flute said, when August revealed their discoveries, and August was the person in the Symphony who irritated her the most, but she actually clapped her hands and threw her arms around his neck.


    ¡°What was in the school?¡± Alexandra asked, when the horses were harnessed and the Symphony had set out again. She wanted very much to go into buildings with Kirsten and August, but Kirsten never let her join them.


    ¡°Nothing worth mentioning,¡± Kirsten said. Carefully not thinking about the skeleton in the men¡¯s room, her eyes on the road. ¡°Just that flute piece and a lot of debris.¡±


    21


    THE INTERVIEW IN Year Fifteen, continued:


    FRAN?OIS DIALLO: Now, I believe you were very young when the Georgia Flu came, when the collapse happened.


    KIRSTEN RAYMONDE: I was eight.


    DIALLO: Forgive me, this is a fascination of mine when I speak with people who were children back then, at the time of the collapse, and I¡¯m not sure how to phrase this, but I want to know what you think about when you consider how the world¡¯s changed in your lifetime.


    RAYMONDE: [silence]


    DIALLO: Or to phrase it differently¡ª


    RAYMONDE: I understood the question. I¡¯d prefer not to answer.


    DIALLO: Okay. All right. I¡¯m curious about your tattoo.


    RAYMONDE: The text on my arm? ¡°Survival is insufficient¡±?


    DIALLO: No, no, the other one. The two black knives on your right wrist.


    RAYMONDE: You know what tattoos like this mean.


    DIALLO: But perhaps you could just tell me¡ª


    RAYMONDE: I won¡¯t talk about it, Fran?ois, and you know better than to ask.


    22


    WHEN KIRSTEN THOUGHT of the ways the world had changed in her lifetime, her thoughts always eventually circled back to Alexandra. Alexandra knew how to shoot, but the world was softening. There was a fair chance, Kirsten thought, that Alexandra would live out her life without killing anyone. She was a younger fifteen-year-old than Kirsten had ever been.


    Now Alexandra walked quietly, sullen because she hadn¡¯t been allowed to join the expedition to the school. The Symphony walked through the end of the day, clouds gathering and the air pressing down from above, rivulets of sweat running down Kirsten¡¯s back. The sky low and dark by late afternoon. They were moving through a rural area, no driveways. Rusted-out cars here and there along the road, abandoned where they¡¯d run out of gas, the caravans weaving carefully around them. Flashes of lightning and thunder, at first distant and then close. They waited out the rainstorm in the trees by the side of the road at twilight, pitched their tents on the wet ground when it was over.

 Page 92

    ¡°I dreamt last night I saw an airplane,¡± Dieter whispered. They were lying a few feet apart in the dark of his tent. They had only ever been friends¡ªin a hazy way Kirsten thought of him as family¡ªbut her thirty-year-old tent had finally fallen apart a year ago and she hadn¡¯t yet managed to find a new one. For obvious reasons she was no longer sharing a tent with Sayid, so Dieter, who had one of the largest tents in the Symphony, had been hosting her. Kirsten heard soft voices outside, the tuba and the first violin on watch. The restless movements of the horses, penned between the three caravans for safety.


    ¡°I haven¡¯t thought of an airplane in so long.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s because you¡¯re so young.¡± A slight edge to his voice. ¡°You don¡¯t remember anything.¡±


    ¡°I do remember things. Of course I do. I was eight.¡±


    Dieter had been twenty years old when the world ended. The main difference between Dieter and Kirsten was that Dieter remembered everything. She listened to him breathe.


    ¡°I used to watch for it,¡± he said. ¡°I used to think about the countries on the other side of the ocean, wonder if any of them had somehow been spared. If I ever saw an airplane, that meant that somewhere planes still took off. For a whole decade after the pandemic, I kept looking at the sky.¡±


    ¡°Was it a good dream?¡±


    ¡°In the dream I was so happy,¡± he whispered. ¡°I looked up and there it was, the plane had finally come. There was still a civilization somewhere. I fell to my knees. I started weeping and laughing, and then I woke up.¡±


    There was a voice outside then, someone saying their names. ¡°Second watch,¡± Dieter whispered. ¡°We¡¯re up.¡±


    The first watch was going to sleep. They had nothing to report. ¡°Just goddamned trees and owls,¡± the tuba muttered. The second watch agreed on the usual arrangement: Dieter and Sayid would scout the road a half mile behind them, Kirsten and August would keep watch at the camp, the fourth guitar and the oboe would scout a half mile ahead. The scouts set off in their separate directions and Kirsten was alone with August. They circled the camp perimeter and then stood on the road, listening and watching for movement. Clouds breaking apart to reveal the stars overhead. The brief flare of a meteor, or perhaps a falling satellite. Is this what airplanes would have looked like at night, just streaks of light across the sky? Kirsten knew they¡¯d flown at hundreds of miles per hour, inconceivable speeds, but she wasn¡¯t sure what hundreds of miles per hour would have looked like. The forest was filled with small noises: rainwater dripping from the trees, the movements of animals, a light breeze.


    She didn¡¯t remember what airplanes had looked like in flight but she did remember being inside one. The memory was sharper than most of her other memories from the time before, which she thought must mean that this had been very close to the end. She would have been seven or eight years old, and she¡¯d gone to New York City with her mother, though she didn¡¯t remember why. She remembered flying back to Toronto at night, her mother drinking a glass of something with ice cubes that clinked and caught the light. She remembered the drink but not her mother¡¯s face. She¡¯d pressed her forehead to the window and saw clusters and pinpoints of light in the darkness, scattered constellations linked by roads or alone. The beauty of it, the loneliness, the thought of all those people living out their lives, each porch light marking another house, another family. Here on this road in the forest two decades later, clouds shifted to reveal the moon and August glanced at her in the sudden light.


    ¡°Hair on the back of my neck¡¯s standing up,¡± he murmured. ¡°You think we¡¯re alone out here?¡±


    ¡°I haven¡¯t heard anything.¡± They made another slow circle of the camp. Barely audible voices from inside one or two of the tents, the sighs and soft movements of horses. They listened and watched, but the road was still.


    ¡°These are the times when I want to stop,¡± August whispered. ¡°You ever think about stopping?¡±


    ¡°You mean not traveling anymore?¡±


    ¡°You ever think about it? There¡¯s got to be a steadier life than this.¡±


    ¡°Sure, but in what other life would I get to perform Shakespeare?¡±


    There was a sound just then, a disturbance passing over the surface of the night as quickly as a stone dropped into water. A cry, cut off abruptly? Had someone called out? If she¡¯d been alone, Kirsten might have thought she¡¯d imagined it, but August nodded when she looked at him. The sound had come from somewhere far down the road, in the direction from which they¡¯d come. They were still, straining to hear, but heard nothing.

 Page 93

    ¡°I dreamt last night I saw an airplane,¡± Dieter whispered. They were lying a few feet apart in the dark of his tent. They had only ever been friends¡ªin a hazy way Kirsten thought of him as family¡ªbut her thirty-year-old tent had finally fallen apart a year ago and she hadn¡¯t yet managed to find a new one. For obvious reasons she was no longer sharing a tent with Sayid, so Dieter, who had one of the largest tents in the Symphony, had been hosting her. Kirsten heard soft voices outside, the tuba and the first violin on watch. The restless movements of the horses, penned between the three caravans for safety.


    ¡°I haven¡¯t thought of an airplane in so long.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s because you¡¯re so young.¡± A slight edge to his voice. ¡°You don¡¯t remember anything.¡±


    ¡°I do remember things. Of course I do. I was eight.¡±


    Dieter had been twenty years old when the world ended. The main difference between Dieter and Kirsten was that Dieter remembered everything. She listened to him breathe.


    ¡°I used to watch for it,¡± he said. ¡°I used to think about the countries on the other side of the ocean, wonder if any of them had somehow been spared. If I ever saw an airplane, that meant that somewhere planes still took off. For a whole decade after the pandemic, I kept looking at the sky.¡±


    ¡°Was it a good dream?¡±


    ¡°In the dream I was so happy,¡± he whispered. ¡°I looked up and there it was, the plane had finally come. There was still a civilization somewhere. I fell to my knees. I started weeping and laughing, and then I woke up.¡±


    There was a voice outside then, someone saying their names. ¡°Second watch,¡± Dieter whispered. ¡°We¡¯re up.¡±


    The first watch was going to sleep. They had nothing to report. ¡°Just goddamned trees and owls,¡± the tuba muttered. The second watch agreed on the usual arrangement: Dieter and Sayid would scout the road a half mile behind them, Kirsten and August would keep watch at the camp, the fourth guitar and the oboe would scout a half mile ahead. The scouts set off in their separate directions and Kirsten was alone with August. They circled the camp perimeter and then stood on the road, listening and watching for movement. Clouds breaking apart to reveal the stars overhead. The brief flare of a meteor, or perhaps a falling satellite. Is this what airplanes would have looked like at night, just streaks of light across the sky? Kirsten knew they¡¯d flown at hundreds of miles per hour, inconceivable speeds, but she wasn¡¯t sure what hundreds of miles per hour would have looked like. The forest was filled with small noises: rainwater dripping from the trees, the movements of animals, a light breeze.


    She didn¡¯t remember what airplanes had looked like in flight but she did remember being inside one. The memory was sharper than most of her other memories from the time before, which she thought must mean that this had been very close to the end. She would have been seven or eight years old, and she¡¯d gone to New York City with her mother, though she didn¡¯t remember why. She remembered flying back to Toronto at night, her mother drinking a glass of something with ice cubes that clinked and caught the light. She remembered the drink but not her mother¡¯s face. She¡¯d pressed her forehead to the window and saw clusters and pinpoints of light in the darkness, scattered constellations linked by roads or alone. The beauty of it, the loneliness, the thought of all those people living out their lives, each porch light marking another house, another family. Here on this road in the forest two decades later, clouds shifted to reveal the moon and August glanced at her in the sudden light.


    ¡°Hair on the back of my neck¡¯s standing up,¡± he murmured. ¡°You think we¡¯re alone out here?¡±


    ¡°I haven¡¯t heard anything.¡± They made another slow circle of the camp. Barely audible voices from inside one or two of the tents, the sighs and soft movements of horses. They listened and watched, but the road was still.


    ¡°These are the times when I want to stop,¡± August whispered. ¡°You ever think about stopping?¡±


    ¡°You mean not traveling anymore?¡±


    ¡°You ever think about it? There¡¯s got to be a steadier life than this.¡±


    ¡°Sure, but in what other life would I get to perform Shakespeare?¡±


    There was a sound just then, a disturbance passing over the surface of the night as quickly as a stone dropped into water. A cry, cut off abruptly? Had someone called out? If she¡¯d been alone, Kirsten might have thought she¡¯d imagined it, but August nodded when she looked at him. The sound had come from somewhere far down the road, in the direction from which they¡¯d come. They were still, straining to hear, but heard nothing.

 Page 94

    ¡°We have to raise the third watch.¡± Kirsten drew her two best knives from her belt. August disappeared among the tents. She heard his muffled voice¡ª¡°I don¡¯t know, a sound, maybe a voice down the road, I need you to take our places so we can go check it out¡±¡ªand two shadows emerged to replace them, yawning and unsteady on their feet.


    August and Kirsten set off as quickly and quietly as possible in the direction of the sound. The forest was a dark mass on either side, alive and filled with indecipherable rustlings, shadows like ink against the glare of moonlight. An owl flew low across the road ahead. A moment later there was a distant beating of small wings, birds stirred from their sleep, black specks rising and wheeling against the stars.


    ¡°Something disturbed them,¡± Kirsten said quietly, her mouth close to August¡¯s ear.


    ¡°The owl?¡± His voice as soft as hers.


    ¡°I thought the owl was flying at a different angle. The birds were more to the north.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s wait.¡±


    They waited in the shadows at the side of the road, trying to breathe quietly, trying to look everywhere at once. The claustrophobia of the forest. The first few trees visible before her, monochrome contrasts of black shadow and white moonlight, and beyond that an entire continent, wilderness uninterrupted from ocean to ocean with so few people left between the shores. Kirsten and August watched the road and the forest, but if anything was watching them back, it wasn¡¯t apparent.


    ¡°Let¡¯s walk farther,¡± August whispered.


    They resumed their cautious progress down the road, Kirsten gripping her knives so tightly that her heartbeat throbbed in the palms of her hands. They walked far beyond the point where the scouts should have been, two miles, three, looking for signs. At first light they returned the way they had come, speechless in a world of riotous birdsong. There was no trace of the scouts, nothing at the edges of the forest, no footprints, no signs of large animals, no obviously broken branches or blood. It was as though Dieter and Sayid had been plucked from the face of the earth.


    23


    ¡°I JUST DON¡¯T UNDERSTAND,¡± the tuba said, midmorning, after several hours of searching for Sayid and Dieter. No one understood. No one responded. The disappearances were incomprehensible. They could find no trace. The Symphony searched in teams of four, grimly, methodically, but the forest was dense and choked with underbrush; they could have passed within feet of Dieter and Sayid and not known it. In those first hours there were moments when Kirsten caught herself thinking that there must have simply been some misunderstanding, that Dieter and Sayid must have somehow walked by them in the dark, somehow gone the wrong way down the road, that they¡¯d reappear with apologies at any moment, but scouts had gone back and forth on the road for miles. Again and again Kirsten stopped still in the forest, listening. Was someone watching her? Just now, had someone stepped on a branch? But the only sounds were of the other search teams, and everyone felt watched. They met in the forest and on the road at intervals, looked at one another and said nothing. The slow passage of the sun across the sky, the air over the road unsteady with heat waves.


    When night began to fall they gathered by the lead caravan, which had once been an extended-bed Ford pickup truck. ¡°Because survival is insufficient,¡± words painted on the canopy in answer to the question that had dogged the Symphony since they¡¯d set out on the road. The words were very white in the rising evening. Kirsten stood by Dieter¡¯s favorite horse, Bernstein, and pressed her hand flat against his side. He stared at her with an enormous dark eye.


    ¡°We have traveled so far together,¡± the conductor said. There are certain qualities of light that blur the years. Sometimes when Kirsten and August were on watch together at dawn, she would glance at him as the sun rose and for a fleeting instant she could see what he¡¯d looked like as a boy. Here on this road, the conductor looked much older than she had an hour earlier. She ran a hand through her short gray hair. ¡°There have been four times,¡± she said, ¡°in all these years, when Symphony members have become separated from the Symphony, and in every single instance they have followed the separation protocol, and we¡¯ve been reunited at the destination. Alexandra?¡±


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°Will you state the separation protocol, please?¡± It had been drilled into all of them.


    ¡°We never travel without a destination,¡± Alexandra said. ¡°If we¡¯re ever, if you¡¯re ever separated from the Symphony on the road, you make your way to the destination and wait.¡±


    ¡°And what is the current destination?¡±

 Page 95

    ¡°We have to raise the third watch.¡± Kirsten drew her two best knives from her belt. August disappeared among the tents. She heard his muffled voice¡ª¡°I don¡¯t know, a sound, maybe a voice down the road, I need you to take our places so we can go check it out¡±¡ªand two shadows emerged to replace them, yawning and unsteady on their feet.


    August and Kirsten set off as quickly and quietly as possible in the direction of the sound. The forest was a dark mass on either side, alive and filled with indecipherable rustlings, shadows like ink against the glare of moonlight. An owl flew low across the road ahead. A moment later there was a distant beating of small wings, birds stirred from their sleep, black specks rising and wheeling against the stars.


    ¡°Something disturbed them,¡± Kirsten said quietly, her mouth close to August¡¯s ear.


    ¡°The owl?¡± His voice as soft as hers.


    ¡°I thought the owl was flying at a different angle. The birds were more to the north.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s wait.¡±


    They waited in the shadows at the side of the road, trying to breathe quietly, trying to look everywhere at once. The claustrophobia of the forest. The first few trees visible before her, monochrome contrasts of black shadow and white moonlight, and beyond that an entire continent, wilderness uninterrupted from ocean to ocean with so few people left between the shores. Kirsten and August watched the road and the forest, but if anything was watching them back, it wasn¡¯t apparent.


    ¡°Let¡¯s walk farther,¡± August whispered.


    They resumed their cautious progress down the road, Kirsten gripping her knives so tightly that her heartbeat throbbed in the palms of her hands. They walked far beyond the point where the scouts should have been, two miles, three, looking for signs. At first light they returned the way they had come, speechless in a world of riotous birdsong. There was no trace of the scouts, nothing at the edges of the forest, no footprints, no signs of large animals, no obviously broken branches or blood. It was as though Dieter and Sayid had been plucked from the face of the earth.


    23


    ¡°I JUST DON¡¯T UNDERSTAND,¡± the tuba said, midmorning, after several hours of searching for Sayid and Dieter. No one understood. No one responded. The disappearances were incomprehensible. They could find no trace. The Symphony searched in teams of four, grimly, methodically, but the forest was dense and choked with underbrush; they could have passed within feet of Dieter and Sayid and not known it. In those first hours there were moments when Kirsten caught herself thinking that there must have simply been some misunderstanding, that Dieter and Sayid must have somehow walked by them in the dark, somehow gone the wrong way down the road, that they¡¯d reappear with apologies at any moment, but scouts had gone back and forth on the road for miles. Again and again Kirsten stopped still in the forest, listening. Was someone watching her? Just now, had someone stepped on a branch? But the only sounds were of the other search teams, and everyone felt watched. They met in the forest and on the road at intervals, looked at one another and said nothing. The slow passage of the sun across the sky, the air over the road unsteady with heat waves.


    When night began to fall they gathered by the lead caravan, which had once been an extended-bed Ford pickup truck. ¡°Because survival is insufficient,¡± words painted on the canopy in answer to the question that had dogged the Symphony since they¡¯d set out on the road. The words were very white in the rising evening. Kirsten stood by Dieter¡¯s favorite horse, Bernstein, and pressed her hand flat against his side. He stared at her with an enormous dark eye.


    ¡°We have traveled so far together,¡± the conductor said. There are certain qualities of light that blur the years. Sometimes when Kirsten and August were on watch together at dawn, she would glance at him as the sun rose and for a fleeting instant she could see what he¡¯d looked like as a boy. Here on this road, the conductor looked much older than she had an hour earlier. She ran a hand through her short gray hair. ¡°There have been four times,¡± she said, ¡°in all these years, when Symphony members have become separated from the Symphony, and in every single instance they have followed the separation protocol, and we¡¯ve been reunited at the destination. Alexandra?¡±


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°Will you state the separation protocol, please?¡± It had been drilled into all of them.


    ¡°We never travel without a destination,¡± Alexandra said. ¡°If we¡¯re ever, if you¡¯re ever separated from the Symphony on the road, you make your way to the destination and wait.¡±


    ¡°And what is the current destination?¡±

 Page 96

    ¡°The Museum of Civilization in the Severn City Airport.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± The conductor was quiet, looking at them. The forest was in shadow now, but there was still some light in the corridor of sky above the road, the last pink of sunset streaking the clouds. ¡°I have been on the road for fifteen years,¡± she said, ¡°and Sayid¡¯s been with me for twelve. Dieter for even longer.¡±


    ¡°He was with me in the beginning,¡± Gil said. ¡°We walked out of Chicago together.¡±


    ¡°I leave neither of them willingly.¡± The conductor¡¯s eyes were shining. ¡°But I won¡¯t risk the rest of you by staying here a day longer.¡±


    That night they kept a double watch, teams of four instead of two, and set out before dawn the following morning. The air was damp between the walls of the forest, the clouds marbled overhead. A scent of pine in the air. Kirsten walked by the first caravan, trying to think of nothing. A sense of being caught in a terrible dream.


    They stopped at the end of the afternoon. The fevered summers of this century, this impossible heat. The lake glittered through the trees. This had been one of those places that wasn¡¯t quite suburbia but wasn¡¯t quite not, an in-between district where the houses stood on wooded lots. They were within three days of the airport now. Kirsten sat on a log with her head in her hands, thinking, Where are you, where are you, where are you, and no one bothered her until August came to sit nearby.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he said.


    ¡°I think they were taken,¡± she said without raising her head, ¡°and I can¡¯t stop thinking about what the prophet was saying in St. Deborah, that thing about the light.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think I heard it. I was packing up.¡±


    ¡°They call themselves the light.¡±


    ¡°What about it?¡±


    ¡°If you are the light,¡± she said, ¡°then your enemies are darkness, right?¡±


    ¡°I suppose.¡±


    ¡°If you are the light, if your enemies are darkness, then there¡¯s nothing that you cannot justify. There¡¯s nothing you can¡¯t survive, because there¡¯s nothing that you will not do.¡±


    He sighed. ¡°We can only remain hopeful,¡± he said. ¡°We have to assume that the situation will become more clear.¡±


    But four teams set out in search of dinner, and only three and a half returned.


    ¡°I turned and she was gone,¡± Jackson said of Sidney, the clarinet. He¡¯d returned to the camp alone and shaken. They¡¯d found a stream, Jackson said, about a quarter mile down the road in the direction from which they¡¯d come. He¡¯d knelt on the bank to fill the water container, and when he looked up she had vanished. Had she fallen in? No, he said, he would have heard a splash, and he was downstream, so she would have passed him. It was a small stream and the banks weren¡¯t steep. There was just the woods all around him, a sense of being watched. He called her name but she was nowhere. He noticed then that the birdsong had stopped. The woods had gone still.


    No one spoke for a moment when he¡¯d finished telling the story. The Symphony gathered close around him.


    ¡°Where¡¯s Olivia?¡± Lin asked suddenly. Olivia was in the back of the first caravan, playing with a rag doll. ¡°I want you in my sight,¡± Lin whispered. ¡°Not just within sight, within reach. Do you understand?¡±


    ¡°She was close with Dieter,¡± the first oboe said. This was true, and they were all silent, thinking of the clarinet and searching their memories for clues. Had she seemed like herself lately? None of them were sure. What did it mean to seem like yourself, in the course of such unspeakable days? How was anyone supposed to seem?


    ¡°Are we being hunted?¡± Alexandra asked. It seemed plausible. Kirsten looked over her shoulder into the shadows of the trees. A search party was organized, but the light was gone. Lighting a fire seemed too dangerous so they ate dinner from the preserved food stores, rabbit jerky and dried apples, and settled in for an uneasy night. In the morning they delayed for five hours, searching, but they couldn¡¯t find her. They set off into another searing day.


    ¡°Is it logical that they could have all been taken?¡± August was walking beside Kirsten. ¡°Dieter, Sayid, the clarinet?¡±


    ¡°How could anyone overpower them so silently?¡± There was a lump in her throat. It was difficult to speak. ¡°Maybe they just left.¡±


    ¡°Abandoned us?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Why would they?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    Later in the day someone thought to search the clarinet¡¯s belongings, and found the note. The beginning of a letter: ¡°Dear friends, I find myself immeasurably weary and I have gone to rest in the forest.¡± It ended there. The date suggested that either it had been written eleven months earlier or that the clarinet didn¡¯t know what year or month it was, one or the other. Neither scenario was unlikely. This was an era when exact dates were seldom relevant, and keeping track required a degree of dedication. The note had been folded and refolded several times, soft along the creases.

 Page 97

    ¡°The Museum of Civilization in the Severn City Airport.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± The conductor was quiet, looking at them. The forest was in shadow now, but there was still some light in the corridor of sky above the road, the last pink of sunset streaking the clouds. ¡°I have been on the road for fifteen years,¡± she said, ¡°and Sayid¡¯s been with me for twelve. Dieter for even longer.¡±


    ¡°He was with me in the beginning,¡± Gil said. ¡°We walked out of Chicago together.¡±


    ¡°I leave neither of them willingly.¡± The conductor¡¯s eyes were shining. ¡°But I won¡¯t risk the rest of you by staying here a day longer.¡±


    That night they kept a double watch, teams of four instead of two, and set out before dawn the following morning. The air was damp between the walls of the forest, the clouds marbled overhead. A scent of pine in the air. Kirsten walked by the first caravan, trying to think of nothing. A sense of being caught in a terrible dream.


    They stopped at the end of the afternoon. The fevered summers of this century, this impossible heat. The lake glittered through the trees. This had been one of those places that wasn¡¯t quite suburbia but wasn¡¯t quite not, an in-between district where the houses stood on wooded lots. They were within three days of the airport now. Kirsten sat on a log with her head in her hands, thinking, Where are you, where are you, where are you, and no one bothered her until August came to sit nearby.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he said.


    ¡°I think they were taken,¡± she said without raising her head, ¡°and I can¡¯t stop thinking about what the prophet was saying in St. Deborah, that thing about the light.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think I heard it. I was packing up.¡±


    ¡°They call themselves the light.¡±


    ¡°What about it?¡±


    ¡°If you are the light,¡± she said, ¡°then your enemies are darkness, right?¡±


    ¡°I suppose.¡±


    ¡°If you are the light, if your enemies are darkness, then there¡¯s nothing that you cannot justify. There¡¯s nothing you can¡¯t survive, because there¡¯s nothing that you will not do.¡±


    He sighed. ¡°We can only remain hopeful,¡± he said. ¡°We have to assume that the situation will become more clear.¡±


    But four teams set out in search of dinner, and only three and a half returned.


    ¡°I turned and she was gone,¡± Jackson said of Sidney, the clarinet. He¡¯d returned to the camp alone and shaken. They¡¯d found a stream, Jackson said, about a quarter mile down the road in the direction from which they¡¯d come. He¡¯d knelt on the bank to fill the water container, and when he looked up she had vanished. Had she fallen in? No, he said, he would have heard a splash, and he was downstream, so she would have passed him. It was a small stream and the banks weren¡¯t steep. There was just the woods all around him, a sense of being watched. He called her name but she was nowhere. He noticed then that the birdsong had stopped. The woods had gone still.


    No one spoke for a moment when he¡¯d finished telling the story. The Symphony gathered close around him.


    ¡°Where¡¯s Olivia?¡± Lin asked suddenly. Olivia was in the back of the first caravan, playing with a rag doll. ¡°I want you in my sight,¡± Lin whispered. ¡°Not just within sight, within reach. Do you understand?¡±


    ¡°She was close with Dieter,¡± the first oboe said. This was true, and they were all silent, thinking of the clarinet and searching their memories for clues. Had she seemed like herself lately? None of them were sure. What did it mean to seem like yourself, in the course of such unspeakable days? How was anyone supposed to seem?


    ¡°Are we being hunted?¡± Alexandra asked. It seemed plausible. Kirsten looked over her shoulder into the shadows of the trees. A search party was organized, but the light was gone. Lighting a fire seemed too dangerous so they ate dinner from the preserved food stores, rabbit jerky and dried apples, and settled in for an uneasy night. In the morning they delayed for five hours, searching, but they couldn¡¯t find her. They set off into another searing day.


    ¡°Is it logical that they could have all been taken?¡± August was walking beside Kirsten. ¡°Dieter, Sayid, the clarinet?¡±


    ¡°How could anyone overpower them so silently?¡± There was a lump in her throat. It was difficult to speak. ¡°Maybe they just left.¡±


    ¡°Abandoned us?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Why would they?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    Later in the day someone thought to search the clarinet¡¯s belongings, and found the note. The beginning of a letter: ¡°Dear friends, I find myself immeasurably weary and I have gone to rest in the forest.¡± It ended there. The date suggested that either it had been written eleven months earlier or that the clarinet didn¡¯t know what year or month it was, one or the other. Neither scenario was unlikely. This was an era when exact dates were seldom relevant, and keeping track required a degree of dedication. The note had been folded and refolded several times, soft along the creases.

 Page 98

    ¡°It seems more theoretical than anything,¡± the first cello said. ¡°Like she wrote it a year ago and then changed her mind. It doesn¡¯t prove anything.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s assuming she wrote it a year ago,¡± said Lin. ¡°She could¡¯ve written it last week. I think it shows suicidal intent.¡±


    ¡°Where were we a year ago? Does anyone remember?¡±


    ¡°Mackinaw City,¡± August said. ¡°New Petoskey, East Jordan, all those little places down the coast on the way to New Sarnia.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t remember her seeming different a year ago,¡± Lin said. ¡°Was she sad?¡±


    No one was sure. They all felt they should have been paying more attention. Still the scouts reported no one behind or ahead of them on the road. Impossible not to imagine that they were being watched from the forest.


    What was the Symphony without Dieter and the clarinet and Sayid? Kirsten had thought of Dieter as a sort of older brother, she realized, perhaps a cousin, a fixture in her life and in the life of the Symphony. It seemed in some abstract way impossible that the Symphony continued without him. She had never been close with the clarinet, but the clarinet was conspicuous in her absence. She only spoke with Sayid to argue with him now, but the thought of him having come to harm was sheer agony. Her breath was shallow in her chest and the tears were silent and constant.


    Late in the day, she found a folded piece of paper in her pocket. She recognized August¡¯s handwriting.


    A fragment for my friend¡ª


    If your soul left this earth I would follow and find you


    Silent, my starship suspended in night


    She¡¯d never seen his poetry before and was impossibly moved by it. ¡°Thank you,¡± she said when she saw him next. He nodded.


    The land became wilder, the houses subsiding. They had to stop three times to clear fallen trees. They used two-handed saws, working as quickly as possible with sweat soaking through their clothes, scouts posted here and there watching the road and the forest, jumping and aiming their weapons at small sounds. Kirsten and August walked out ahead over the conductor¡¯s objections. A half mile beyond the stalled caravans, they came upon a rolling plain.


    ¡°A golf course,¡± August said. ¡°You know what that means.¡± They¡¯d found two full bottles of scotch and a can of miraculously still-edible cocktail olives in a golf-course clubhouse once, and August had been trying to replicate the experience ever since.


    The clubhouse was at the end of a long driveway, obscured behind a bank of trees. It was burnt out, the roof draped like fabric from the three remaining walls. Golf carts were toppled over on their sides in the grass. The sky was darkening now and it was hard to see much of the clubhouse interior in the pre-storm light, just glints of shattered glass where the windows had been. Too dangerous to go in with the roof half-fallen. On the far side they found a small man-made lake with a rotted pier, a flicker of movement under the surface. They walked back to the caravans for the fishing equipment. The first and third cellos were sawing at the last fallen tree.


    Back at the golf-course pond there were so many fish that it was possible to catch them with the net alone, scooping them up from the overcrowded water. The fish were small brownish things, unpleasant to the touch. Thunder in the distance and then a short time later the first drops of rain. August, who carried his instrument at all times, wrapped his violin case in a plastic sheet he kept in his bag. They worked through the downpour, Kirsten dragging the net through the water, August gutting and cleaning. He knew she couldn¡¯t stand to gut fish¡ªsomething she¡¯d seen on the road that first year out of Toronto, a fleeting impression of some vision that she couldn¡¯t exactly remember but that made her ill when she tried to consider it¡ªand he¡¯d always been kind about it. She could hardly see him through the rain. For a moment it was possible to forget that three people were missing. When the storm at last subsided they filled the net with fish and carried it back along the driveway. Steam was rising from the road. They found the place where the fallen trees had been cut and pulled off the road, but the Symphony had departed.


    ¡°They must¡¯ve passed by on the road while we were fishing,¡± August said. It was the only reasonable conclusion. They¡¯d confirmed the route with the conductor before they¡¯d returned to the golf course with the fishing net. The pond had been far enough off the road that they wouldn¡¯t have seen the Symphony, hidden as they were behind the clubhouse, and the sound of the Symphony¡¯s passing would have been lost in the storm.


    ¡°They moved fast,¡± Kirsten said, but her stomach was clenched, and August was jingling the handful of change in his pocket. It didn¡¯t entirely add up. Why would the Symphony travel in a downpour, unless there was some unexpected emergency? The storm had washed the road clear of tracks, leaves and twigs in swirled patterns over the pavement, and the heat was rising again. The sky had a broken-apart look about it now, patches of blue between the clouds.

 Page 99

    ¡°It seems more theoretical than anything,¡± the first cello said. ¡°Like she wrote it a year ago and then changed her mind. It doesn¡¯t prove anything.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s assuming she wrote it a year ago,¡± said Lin. ¡°She could¡¯ve written it last week. I think it shows suicidal intent.¡±


    ¡°Where were we a year ago? Does anyone remember?¡±


    ¡°Mackinaw City,¡± August said. ¡°New Petoskey, East Jordan, all those little places down the coast on the way to New Sarnia.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t remember her seeming different a year ago,¡± Lin said. ¡°Was she sad?¡±


    No one was sure. They all felt they should have been paying more attention. Still the scouts reported no one behind or ahead of them on the road. Impossible not to imagine that they were being watched from the forest.


    What was the Symphony without Dieter and the clarinet and Sayid? Kirsten had thought of Dieter as a sort of older brother, she realized, perhaps a cousin, a fixture in her life and in the life of the Symphony. It seemed in some abstract way impossible that the Symphony continued without him. She had never been close with the clarinet, but the clarinet was conspicuous in her absence. She only spoke with Sayid to argue with him now, but the thought of him having come to harm was sheer agony. Her breath was shallow in her chest and the tears were silent and constant.


    Late in the day, she found a folded piece of paper in her pocket. She recognized August¡¯s handwriting.


    A fragment for my friend¡ª


    If your soul left this earth I would follow and find you


    Silent, my starship suspended in night


    She¡¯d never seen his poetry before and was impossibly moved by it. ¡°Thank you,¡± she said when she saw him next. He nodded.


    The land became wilder, the houses subsiding. They had to stop three times to clear fallen trees. They used two-handed saws, working as quickly as possible with sweat soaking through their clothes, scouts posted here and there watching the road and the forest, jumping and aiming their weapons at small sounds. Kirsten and August walked out ahead over the conductor¡¯s objections. A half mile beyond the stalled caravans, they came upon a rolling plain.


    ¡°A golf course,¡± August said. ¡°You know what that means.¡± They¡¯d found two full bottles of scotch and a can of miraculously still-edible cocktail olives in a golf-course clubhouse once, and August had been trying to replicate the experience ever since.


    The clubhouse was at the end of a long driveway, obscured behind a bank of trees. It was burnt out, the roof draped like fabric from the three remaining walls. Golf carts were toppled over on their sides in the grass. The sky was darkening now and it was hard to see much of the clubhouse interior in the pre-storm light, just glints of shattered glass where the windows had been. Too dangerous to go in with the roof half-fallen. On the far side they found a small man-made lake with a rotted pier, a flicker of movement under the surface. They walked back to the caravans for the fishing equipment. The first and third cellos were sawing at the last fallen tree.


    Back at the golf-course pond there were so many fish that it was possible to catch them with the net alone, scooping them up from the overcrowded water. The fish were small brownish things, unpleasant to the touch. Thunder in the distance and then a short time later the first drops of rain. August, who carried his instrument at all times, wrapped his violin case in a plastic sheet he kept in his bag. They worked through the downpour, Kirsten dragging the net through the water, August gutting and cleaning. He knew she couldn¡¯t stand to gut fish¡ªsomething she¡¯d seen on the road that first year out of Toronto, a fleeting impression of some vision that she couldn¡¯t exactly remember but that made her ill when she tried to consider it¡ªand he¡¯d always been kind about it. She could hardly see him through the rain. For a moment it was possible to forget that three people were missing. When the storm at last subsided they filled the net with fish and carried it back along the driveway. Steam was rising from the road. They found the place where the fallen trees had been cut and pulled off the road, but the Symphony had departed.


    ¡°They must¡¯ve passed by on the road while we were fishing,¡± August said. It was the only reasonable conclusion. They¡¯d confirmed the route with the conductor before they¡¯d returned to the golf course with the fishing net. The pond had been far enough off the road that they wouldn¡¯t have seen the Symphony, hidden as they were behind the clubhouse, and the sound of the Symphony¡¯s passing would have been lost in the storm.


    ¡°They moved fast,¡± Kirsten said, but her stomach was clenched, and August was jingling the handful of change in his pocket. It didn¡¯t entirely add up. Why would the Symphony travel in a downpour, unless there was some unexpected emergency? The storm had washed the road clear of tracks, leaves and twigs in swirled patterns over the pavement, and the heat was rising again. The sky had a broken-apart look about it now, patches of blue between the clouds.

 Page 100

    ¡°The fish will go bad fast in this heat,¡± August said.


    This was a quandary. Every cell in Kirsten¡¯s body ached to follow the Symphony, but it was safer to light a fire in daylight, and they¡¯d eaten nothing but a strip or two each of rabbit jerky that morning. They gathered wood for a fire but of course everything was wet and it took a long time to spark even the slightest flame. The fire smoked badly, their eyes stinging while they cooked, but at least the smoke replaced the stench of fish from their clothes. They ate as much fish as they could and carried the rest with them in the net, set off half-sick down the road, past the golf course, past a number of houses that had obviously been ransacked years earlier, ruined furniture strewn about on the lawns. After a while they jettisoned the fish¡ªit was turning in the heat¡ªand sped up, walking as quickly as possible, but the Symphony was still out of sight and surely by now there should have been some sign of them, hoofprints or footprints or wheel marks on the road. They didn¡¯t speak.


    Near twilight, the road crossed under a highway. Kirsten climbed up to the overpass for a vantage point, hoping that the Symphony might perhaps be just ahead, but the road curved toward the distant shine of the lake and disappeared behind the trees. The highway was miles of permanent gridlock, small trees growing now between cars and thousands of windshields reflecting the sky. There was a skeleton in the driver¡¯s seat of the nearest car.


    They slept under a tree near the overpass, side by side on top of August¡¯s plastic sheet. Kirsten slept fitfully, aware each time she woke of the emptiness of the landscape, the lack of people and animals and caravans around her. Hell is the absence of the people you long for.


    24


    ON THEIR SECOND DAY without the Symphony, Kirsten and August came upon a line of cars, queued along the shoulder of the road. It was late morning and the heat was rising, a hush falling over the landscape. They¡¯d lost sight of the lake. The cars cast curved shadows. They¡¯d been cleaned out, no bones in backseats or abandoned belongings, which suggested someone lived near here and traveled this route. An hour later they reached a gas station, a low building alone by the road with a yellow seashell sign still standing, vehicles crowded and blocking one another at the pumps. One was the color of melted butter, black lettering on the side. A Chicago taxicab, Kirsten realized. Someone in the very final days had hailed one of the last taxis in the rioting city, negotiated a price and fled north. Two neat bullet holes in the driver¡¯s side door. A dog barked and they froze, their hands on their weapons.


    The man who came around the side of the building with a golden retriever was in his fifties or sixties, gray hair cut very short and a stiff way of moving that suggested an old injury, a rifle held at his side. He had a complicated scar on his face.


    ¡°Help you?¡± he asked. His tone wasn¡¯t unfriendly, and this was the pleasure of being alive in Year Twenty, this calmer age. For the first ten or twelve years after the collapse, he would have been much more likely to shoot them on sight.


    ¡°Just passing through,¡± Kirsten said. ¡°We mean no harm. We¡¯re headed for the Museum of Civilization.¡±


    ¡°Headed where, now?¡±


    ¡°The Severn City Airport.¡±


    August was silent beside her. He didn¡¯t like to speak to strangers.


    The man nodded. ¡°Anyone still out there?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re hoping our friends are there.¡±


    ¡°You lose them?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Kirsten said. ¡°We lost them.¡± August sighed. The absence of the Symphony from this route had been obvious for some time. They had passed over patches of soft earth with no tracks. No horse manure, no recent wheel ruts or footprints, no sign at all that twenty-odd people, three caravans, and seven horses were ahead of them on this road.


    ¡°Well.¡± The man shook his head. ¡°Bad luck. I¡¯m sorry to hear that. I¡¯m Finn, by the way.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m Kirsten. This is August.¡±


    ¡°That a violin case?¡± Finn asked.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°You run away from an orchestra?¡±


    ¡°They ran away from us,¡± Kirsten said quickly, because she saw the way August¡¯s fist clenched in his pocket. ¡°You here alone?¡±


    ¡°Of course not,¡± Finn said, and Kirsten realized her error. Even in this calmer era, who would admit to being outnumbered? His gaze rested on Kirsten¡¯s knives. She was finding it difficult not to stare at the scar on the side of his face. Hard to tell at this distance, but it seemed like a deliberate pattern.


    ¡°But this isn¡¯t a town?¡±