Chocolate Chocolate Moons (32 page)

Not more than a few moments pass when Drew’s palm signals incoming call: “Scheherazade.”

“Well, well,” Scheherazade laughs. “I can forgive and forget enough for business. After all, my best customer is an educated consumer. Let me send you my catalog? Everything’s in the catalog. Check its fluorescent pink toll-free number on the bottom, 1-800-FAKE-IT.”

Drew pauses. “Ah,” he says, “but there’s nothing like seeing the real fake in person.”

“That’s what everyone says, but they don’t know an etching from a lithograph.”

“But I do,” Drew says, dropping his voice a notch to sound more sincere and less nervous. “I was thinking about a pair of Giacomettis like a Castor and Pollex thing. I’m a Gemini.”

“You really are into this,” Scheherazade says suspecting that Drew might be laying a trap but decides to play along. “Can I interest you in a trio? Someone just returned a sculpture in brimstone of Shadrach, Meshach and Abed-Nego. I’ll give you a very good price.”

“Not really my thing.”

“Elaine Paginated Pagel’s
Art-History Scrolls
were just found in the men’s room at the Tate Modern. The cover has a picture of Jesus painting a portrait of Michelangelo. And because I’m willing to let bygones be bygones, I’ll let you have it for only twenty thousand starbucks.”

Drew considers the offer. If he bought the
Art-History Scrolls,
he would have spent his last twenty thousand solars, but it was something he always wanted to own anyway—copy or no copy.

“Can you do any better than that?” he asks.

“Glad you asked that question. I love a good negotiator. For you, nineteen ninety-nine, but you’re pushing the envelope.”

“Let me think about it for a few days.”

“Well, don’t be upset if it’s sold. That scroll takes longer to make than a Torah.”

Drew pours himself another Hadron Collider and watches the glowing traffic circle River Area. Then he palms Lamont. “I assume you heard the conversation?”

“Every word, recorded loud and clear.”

“You must have checked my bank account and know I have a problem with money. You’ll have to give me an advance, or I can’t buy the scrolls.”

Drew can hear shouting and words like
outrageous
and
robbery
on the other end, but finally Lamont says Mars Yard will supply the money. Drew pops one of his dwindling supplies of supplements into his mouth and drains his glass. His mind races as he juggles his options.

Lamont and Sid make plans to meet Drew at New Chicago’s Central Station. Drew sends his most treasured things to a storage crater on the side of Earth’s moon that is invisible to Earth. It is not far from the shopping center Cortland once invested in that bankrupted him. Drew smiles remembering how Kandy once asked why people on Earth should believe it was real if no one could see it. After all, she argued, land was called real estate for a reason.

Drew takes a picture of himself receiving a Best Salesmanship award from Sandy off the wall. He turns it over and inserts the tip of his pinky into a slot. Out slides a forged identity card saved for an emergency and a thin box holding a syringe of an illegal substance, courtesy of the late Rocket Packarod, that can change his DNA for seven days. He puts it in the false bottom of his travel case then puts clothing and a few personal belongings on top. After, he calls Lamont.

“I need more money to do business with Scheherazade.”

“We heard,” Lamont says. “Your apartment is bugged, remember? Twenty thousand starbucks have already been wired into your Mars card.”

“And expenses? I need more money for expenses.”

“Okay, five thousand for expenses.”

“Twenty,” Drew says.

“Ten,” Lamont says.

“Done,” Drew sighs.

Drew boards a tram at the River Area station heading to New Chicago. His eyes mist as he whizzes by the luxurious Hotel du Antibodies and other expensive neighborhood haunts. He eats three regular Chocolate Moons.

“Our lunch item today is fettuccini Alfredo and molten chocolate cake for dessert,” says a smiling steward. “Would you like Freedom Plan or Regular Plan?”

“Regular. But bring me a double brandy Alexander with real cream first.”

Drew’s order is placed before him. He unfolds his napkin carefully. He raises his fork and twirls the fettuccini toward his lips. “Ahh,” he sighs. Then he thinks,
execution by trans fats. Is there a better way to go?

44

E
VERYONE TEASES ME
about thinking there is some kind of French connection and an antidote to the poison the boys at the Candy Universe ingested. I read everything I can on Sensory Dynamics, the new cultural therapies used to awaken comatose patients.

To enhance my perceptions, I eat lots of escargot and frog’s legs, which is not hard because I love fresh garlic sautéed in butter. I dream of the Eiffel Tower, Jean Valjean’s silver candlesticks, and Karl Lagerfeld’s sunglasses. And most importantly, I take a class that teaches me how to tie one cheap scarf two hundred stylish ways so it looks like two hundred expensive scarves.

Jersey and my family say I’m crazy. But Trenton, hedging his bets, says the closest thing to encouragement: “Hey, you never know!”

When I sing “La Marseillaise,” the French National Anthem, my family screams, “Knock it off already!”

I’m obsessed by Marie Antoinette’s words, “Let them eat cake.” So I savor a double-fudge brownie. Bingo! Knew it! Zest renewed. Told you so!

I’m sure the answer, like the answers to all great riddles—such as “Did the big bang really say bang?” and “Why do the universe’s building blocks have an A, B, and a C on them?”—is hidden in plain sight. I think of the rhythm of a wooden spoon clicking on the side of a mixing bowl. First slowly then rapidly, repeating like a mantra promising enlightenment. Then words emerge:
butter, eggs, flour, sugar, chocolate.
I lick my lips, a sure sign that I’m on the right track. I jump in my rover and rush to Jersey and Trenton’s home.

Trenton and Jersey are playing their favorite game, Pin the Tail on the Cerebral Cortex on the colorful holograph of the brain that I’m always amazed to see floating in a corner of their living room.

“Hi guys,” I say.

Jersey glares at me. “Thanks, Molly, you just made me miss. I hit the thalmus!”

“Sorry,” I say. “It could have been worse.”

“Yeah, it could have been the frontal lobes,” she snaps.

I turn to Trenton, who tallies his winning score and say, “I have an obsession with flour, butter, eggs, sugar, and chocolate.”

“You always have an obsession with those things,” Jersey replies, rattling the dice. “It’s the way of all pastry.”

“Want me to distill those ingredients and see if their chemical interactions reveal anything new,” Trenton asks wearily.

“Would you? I really think you might find something significant.”

“Nothing to lose,” Trenton says going into his laboratory and closing the door behind him.

Jersey picks up a few darts and holds them in one hand while she continues rattling the dice with the other. “Do you want to play, Molly?”

“I’m not feeling very cerebral today, but I will have a lemon water.”

Jersey gets the water. I take a sip. She peers at me closely. She puts her arms around my waist. “You’re thinner!” she exclaims. “Wow! Much thinner!”

In spite of the double-fudge brownie that I ate, I say, “As a matter of fact, I’ve lost close to a hundred pounds. You’re the only one who’s noticed. The twins are in their own world, and for the last year Cortland has traveled so much he’s barely home.”

“You should be showing off, not hiding under those baggy old clothes.”

“I guess I’m afraid that if I show my progress, I’ll gain it back.”

Suddenly we hear knocking and banging, whirling and twirling coming from Trenton’s laboratory. Jersey puts her ear to the door. “Now I hear a lot of hissing. Sounds like he’s spraying himself with the latest WD. Did you know they were up to WD-4,000,000? He must be having a lot of trouble.”

I pace back and forth, circle the room, then circle in the opposite direction. I’m drenched with perspiration.

“Why don’t you soak in our new hot tub? It will relax you. This may take Trenton awhile.”

We go into the bathroom. I’m surprised to see that there are shelves filled with sea-breeze bath salts, imported from Earth, bitter orange blossom neroli oil, imported from Venus, several products containing aloe vera, a cucumber cleansing lotion, Jojoba oil, Vitamin E oil, essence of young birch tree branches from a Ruby Spa Body Shop and more. Jersey runs the water, adds a generous amount of several products to the tub, hands me a fresh towel and leaves.

As I undress and hang my clothes on a hook, I think Jersey may be cheap about food but she certainly isn’t cheap about her beauty products. I step into the warm water, breathe in the perfumed air, put my head back and close my eyes.

“You’re right Jersey,” I call through the door. “This is wonderful.” The swirling jets of water are so soothing that I almost fall asleep. Suddenly, behind closed eyelids, I see a light. It glows brighter and brighter, stronger and stronger, then—a flash of lightning!

My knees jerk toward my chest; my hands push me up. I pop from the tub like a bagel from a toaster.

“Paprika! Paprika!” I yell, running naked from the bathroom. “Paprika! Paprika!”

Seeing me dripping wet and naked, Jersey throws me another towel. I catch it and zap it around like a toga from Ruby’s spa.

“I’ve got it. I’ve got it,” I pant, banging on Trenton’s door. “I know what those ingredients mean.”

The door opens a crack. Trenton pokes his head through.

“I saw a flash of lightning. The word
éclair
in French means ‘flash of lightning.’ Try this formula: E equals two éclairs times the speed of swallowing them in the light.”

Trenton’s eyes sparkle. The door opens wider. “Interesting theory,” he says. His eyes spin. He taps his forehead. “But éclairs are off my reference chart.” He does some calculations. “You’ll have to help me with this one, Molly.”

“We have to hurry, because when I did an update on the former cures, the scientists who worked on them discovered that the ingredients that worked best were organic, meaning all had short expiration dates. No preservatives.”

We quickly mix a batter, make custard, melt the chocolate, heat the oven, and before you can say “a la carte,” voilà: éclairs. This time I do not wince as Trenton takes them back into his laboratory, pounds them into powders, and distills them into liquid supplements that can be injected intravenously. I’m so excited that I don’t even salivate.

“This is it,” he says with the voice of an anchorman announcing that a storm is over. “This is definitely it! I tested it on ten generations of fruit flies and it worked every time!”

Soon scientists everywhere, especially those who had been working on an antidote, confirm Trenton’s results and immediately send him congratulations. Some say he could be nominated for a four-flame Bunsen Burner prize. Jersey celebrates by contacting Groupon and getting a coupon for champagne supplements.

I am relieved and overjoyed that we have discovered an antidote to the anti-flavonoid that poisoned the Chocolate Moons, but I am sad that the patients will be injected with its chemical essence and will not be able enjoy the delicate pâté a choux pastry, custard-cream middle and the smooth dark chocolate topping of real éclairs. But I know the minute the antidote takes effect and they awaken, they will be starved and will immediately ask for one. And they do.

Before I leave I say to Trenton and Jersey, “Excuse me; I have to go to the bathroom.”

“You just came out of the bathroom,” Jersey says. “In fact I saw you go three times.”

“Yes, but I have to go again. It’s more urgent. Something feels very different.”

“Different?” Jersey asks, concerned that I might be sick.

“I think CC’s charm is going to emerge.” And emerge it does.

I contact Lamont to ask him to ask CC if she wants her charm back.

Sometime later Lamont tells me that CC declined my offer and said after all it’s been through, she never wants to see it again.