Sleight (21 page)

“No.” Unexpected relief washed across Clef. Her shoulders dropped an inch below their high mark at the base of her throat.

West nodded, no longer smiling, and tapped the pencil three times in rapid succession before speaking.

“You’re a smart girl, Clef. Just because I’m not likeable doesn’t mean I’m not excellent at what I do. But if it makes you feel better, I’m planning to collaborate.”

“With Lark?” This was better than nothing. She would have to sit down with her sister and work out a strategy. Clef had been mentally taking notes on which links and manipulations caused the most extended wickings. All the sleightists were showing wear: stiffness, injury, infighting, laughing fits, hysteria, hangovers, blackouts, weight loss/gain, general fatigue. What she feared for them, for herself, was also what she wanted: change. But change, part of any chaotic system, wasn’t worth the risk when the wind felt as foul as this wind did.

“No, Clef. I want you to navigate this.”

“You want
me
to navigate this.”

“Yes. As you so aptly stated, these architectures are your babies. You see things in them I can’t. But the collaboration won’t end there.”

“No?”

Behind her, a numb Clef barely felt someone enter the office. Kitchen, she assumed. But when she turned, she was facing, at close quarters, a more wayward-looking version of Lark’s roommate Byrne.

“This is Marvel, Clef. He’s the art director for this project. He’ll tell us what he needs from us, and we will be obliging. I believe he has a vision.” West was smiling again. But it was Marvel’s face that hurt her. When he laid his hands on her shoulders, she staggered internally. His eyes were a rape.

“I’m of the opinion everyone has visions. Don’t you agree?” He unapologetically examined her: neck, breasts, belly, eyes. “What, for instance, is it
you
see?”

MONK’S DIRECTOR: Thank you for this.

FERN: No, thank you. You’ve been my only visitor.

MONK’S DIRECTOR: Your son?

FERN: Oh. He came once, didn’t like the smell. Did you know, Luke, I loved navigating when you were in Kepler. Your group was lovely, intelligent. And you were the most talented sleightist in it.

MONK’S DIRECTOR: I’m not such a great director, I’m afraid.

FERN: No. But you do bring some wonderful work out of your people.

MONK’S DIRECTOR: I can’t claim credit for Kitchen or Clef.

FERN: Well, what about that white-haired lovely—Haley, is it? Or Emmanuel?

MONK’S DIRECTOR: Maybe. Maybe Manny … Fern, I went to your building five times. Your doorman wouldn’t tell me how to contact you. I had to tell him your grandson was in trouble.

FERN: It’s so much more peaceful here than at Sloan-Kettering—why did it take me so long to call?

MONK’S DIRECTOR: Why move at all? Why not have someone come to stay with you at the apartment?

FERN: I’m auctioning it. Everything in it. I want to have complete control of my assets. Besides—lately, it’s grown too bright …

MONK’S DIRECTOR: I don’t really know how to broach this. It was hard to come to you, especially—I mean … you’re dying, yes? Of course I’m glad—it’s been too long. But my reason is West. I think he’s doing something … making something …

FERN: I’m well aware.

MONK’S DIRECTOR: You are?

FERN: He’s trying to engage content.

MONK’S DIRECTOR: What kind of content?

FERN: Real content. Pain. He’s been working it out for a decade. Did you see the sleight he navigated for the Nicredo festival five seasons back—
Clutchwork?

MONK’S DIRECTOR: Marvelous piece. The central structures were almost …

FERN: Lucid.

MONK’S DIRECTOR: Lucid.
(pause)
Okay, yes.

FERN: I have come to understand pain … as a sort of unmitigated clarity. Of course, he has no idea.

MONK’S DIRECTOR: That he’s in pain?

FERN: Revoix had content and couldn’t maintain it, not in a single language. Or consciousness, for that matter.

MONK’S DIRECTOR: I’ve heard this theory—fugue, isn’t it called? But forgive me, I know less of the history than I should.

FERN: His was a pathological state. Not artistic. Experimental geometries drawn by a man severed—both witness and accomplice.

MONK’S DIRECTOR: Witness and accomplice to what?

FERN: 
(shakes her head)
There’s too much. Do you know Lark Scrye?

MONK’S DIRECTOR: I’ve just met her. West brought her in. He wants her to draw it—the sleight.

FERN: Such is his talent. She might actually be capable. I have something I’d like to return to her, and a letter.

MONK’S DIRECTOR: I don’t know if I can go back there. I must sound like … like a very little man.

FERN: No. You sound awake.
(cringing, curls to her side)

MONK’S DIRECTOR: Do you want … should I get someone?

FERN: No, but would you pinch me—my hand? Yes, just there at the thumbspan. A little harder.
(relaxes, slowly)
Thank you.

MONK’S DIRECTOR: They aren’t giving you anything?

FERN: I’ve asked them not to, for as long as I can. I have letters to write—to my girls.

MONK’S DIRECTOR: The charity?

FERN: Yes, my infamous charity. Such a hot topic—my money. I know they call the compound “Fern’s perversion.” Funny, since all charity is perversion. Or guilt.

MONK’S DIRECTOR: Do you want to call? Lark, I mean.

FERN: No. Just take that canvas bag by the door when you leave. You’ll see to it—I know you. Did you get any of my messages?

MONK’S DIRECTOR: Messages?
(Fern grimaces, longer this time. Monk’s director pinches her again, again Fern relaxes. Then, winks.)

MONK’S DIRECTOR: Not … but of course they are. Of course they’re yours. Fern Early. How could I not have known? You outdo yourself.

FERN: I used to. I’m rather proud of them, not that they’ve accomplished anything. Roadside flashcards. That is the dilemma, isn’t it Luke? How to end the world-coma? I think all my attempts were too thoughtful. Too much thought paralyzes a would-be revolutionary.

MONK’S DIRECTOR: Are you trying to say I shouldn’t stop him?

FERN: How could you? I love West. My mistake. Part of me even wishes I could stay on to … but he wouldn’t want that. I can hear him: “another insulting attempt at reparation.” Or some other bullshit. No matter, I won’t be staying.

MONK’S DIRECTOR: Fern, you sound …

FERN: I am. I am so very ready.

²⁹
The nine American troupes were all founded by former female members of the Theater of Geometry. When they retired, Bugliesi—as she had initially pushed them into franchise—encouraged them to find masculine replacements. She explained her reasoning in a later correspondence: “Most women are not suited to direction. The best ones uphold impossible standards while the worst can think to do nothing but suckle their troupes. A priestess, not a mother, is what is required. Few women have the innate fortitude, or the skill left in their hands by providence, to interpret what the gods have seen fit to set in front of them. When they do, the work is of course unparalleled, and inevitably claimed by some man as his own.”

WEDDED.

L
ark spent the evening in Clef’s motel room, arguing. “West wants you to navigate? That’s what we want, isn’t it? I am, I told you. Done … No, I won’t change what I have. Altering them would only be more dangerous. I have some sense of them this way, and haphazardly changing the forms would only make them—more monstrous. Where’s Kitchen? He’ll back me up on … You’re not serious—Clef, you have to tell him. Now. You can’t know that—you feel differently. Who? What has Marvel got to do with anything? So he’s an ex-junkie … he does not know you’re pregnant … because I didn’t tell Byrne … because you asked me not to.”

Clef was losing it. Lark was hurting. Because of the pregnancy, her hips were sore and she was sleepy. Or was she sore and her hips sleepy? Her legs were nearly nonresponsive outside the chambers. She felt old. And younger too—now that she’d been relieved of the drawings. She’d spent the last three weeks working her technique in the chamber all day, then meditating on her Need most of the night before pulling it onto paper. This one had been harder than the others. She’d needed tremendous energy to hold its metamorphosing forms still enough to approximate with her hand. But she’d done it. Meanwhile, her practice had improved. It seemed the less sleep she had, the more effortlessly she manipulated. She was now intimate with Clef’s designs—they extended her limbs, brought her length. She’d even spent time linking with the troupes, to fully understand where West was taking them. She’d recently been letting herself wick, and it wasn’t like before. It wasn’t
like
anything, really. And—why deny it?—she was proud. The notebook held two dozen labyrinthine structures. Unique structures. Perhaps West’s belief in her wasn’t so misguided.

She slept in Clef’s room that night. Marvel was at Byrne’s. She’d only met Byrne’s brother for a few moments that afternoon. West had been talking with him in his office when she’d come in with a question.

“West, I keep forgetting. Lack of sleep. Could you tell me the name again?”

“Vogelsong.”

“Yes. The couple with the children.”

She woke up not knowing where she was. But there was Clef, on the other bed, studying her notebook. The motel. Waking in her sister’s room, Lark at first felt invaded, then relaxed. Clef was just working. Lark had gotten it down, this Need; reanimation was Clef’s job. The whole thing seemed improbable. Frankensleight. Lark suppressed a giggle. The only thing was: the Need wasn’t dead. Since Lark had finished drawing, it had been subdued, and she knew from her time at the academy that it was helping her technique. She decided not to turn on it just yet. Besides, some of her structures might not be navigable—she might need to document more of its forms.

“Lark, are you awake?”

“I am. What time is it?”

“Five forty-five. Would you talk with me about these?”

“What do you want to know?” Lark sat up, swung her legs out from under the scratchy sheets and, despite ache, sprang across the narrow gulley between their beds. She peered over her sister’s freckled shoulder in the lamplight. It was dark outside. It would be for another two hours.

“I’ve never worked with structures before, Lark. You should be navigating this, not me.”

“No. West’s right about that part. I’m too close to these. I couldn’t even begin to choose the architectures.”

Clef’s eyes shot up from the notebook. “You’re kidding, right? I’m not sure how, Lark, but I know these drawings are tailor-made for the designs I’ve strung. Maybe you had them in the back of your mind as you drew?” Clef asked this, searching her sister’s face for recognition or deception. Finding neither. “You don’t see it.”

“No.” Lark set her teeth. “I don’t. What I draw has nothing to do with what’s outside. This
thing
is inside me.” She jabbed her finger down at the page. “This Need.” Beneath her insistence, a rope bridge/noosed centipede was writhing. Twirling.

“Look. You’ll have to be my understudy, at least until I can figure out how to do this safely.” Lark wasn’t with her. She sat there, but really she was galaxied elsewhere. The wicking she hated to do with her body, Lark had always done with everything else she was. Clef asked quietly, not expecting anything, “Lark, where do you go?”

“You’ll do fine. I trust you.” Lark had immediately forgiven the affront and put her arms around her sister, burying her face in Clef’s neck. Clef’s hair was everywhere—its morning state—and smelled of ginger. Lark remembered then that she’d forgotten to call home the night before. She’d call tonight, to see if Drew wanted to bring up Nene the following week for Christmas. For cookies. For cookies and snow.

When they arrived at the chambers an hour before warm-up, West was waiting.

“Clef, join me in my office.”

Clef looked over at Lark, who seemed less and less herself ever since she’d been drawing the Need, more and more like Lark as a child. Clef was reminded of her once-untroubled sister, Lark before eleven, before twelve. Her sister was grinning now like she’d just escaped a paddling Clef hadn’t. As Lark turned and walked almost giddily away, Clef recalled one scorching Fourth of July at the lake when the ground was so hot they had to skip to get to their matching
Star Wars
towels. Back then, Lark—so much older—had worn her hair in two bands behind her ears, the straight ends like paintbrushes, and Clef had looked like Little Orphan Annie.

When Lark reached the other side of chamber one, she immediately began to busy herself with stretching, and Clef followed West into the center of his hive.

“What do you want, West?”

“I want to know how you’re planning to proceed with the navigation.”

“I have some ideas.” “May I see them?”

Clef reluctantly pulled out her notebook, and Lark’s, from her duffel. She was on edge at first, waiting as he paged through them for him to oppose her plans, to forcibly insert some nastiness from the earlier exercises, the grotesque links they’d been working on since Lark and Byrne had arrived, but he just pointed at specific designs on the pages, asking questions. Thoughtful questions. Specific, technical questions that separated and focused Clef’s initial blur into something more like a blueprint.

“Is a seven-architecture link going to work here? Won’t it cause the next one to be imbalanced? And isn’t that one the more crucial?”

As she answered his questions—one, and then another, and then another, the sleight began to acquire a shape in her mind, and not just a shape, but a rhythm, and a counterpoint. After fifteen minutes, she was beginning to get excited, answering him not with simple answers, but with explanations, and with the theories suddenly bubbling forth to support them. Clef was in an element she’d never known was hers.

She stopped herself. “What are you doing, West?”

“I’m just trying to clarify a few things.”

“No. You’re leading me.”

“I’m no attorney. Although you could be considered a witness.”

Clef nodded. It was obvious he’d been waiting for this opening—he was barely suppressing a smirk. Well, she might as well give it to him. If she didn’t, he’d take it anyway. She gestured, chivalrously offering him the floor. He took his time, leaning back in his chair, extending his legs. Clef half expected him to pull out a pipe in preparation for the inevitable lecture. Sermon, really. He began, as she thought he would, by using her name—his tone, paternal.

“Now Clef, I know you have reservations about the Vogelsong children. You seem to feel, and you aren’t alone, that making them central to this sleight is somehow unethical.” West paused. The pause got longer. He was milking its potential for emphasis. Clef wanted to let the pause go on until it was dead and dry, but she lost patience.

“Go ahead, West. Get it over with. Wait, I’ve got an idea—why don’t you start by telling me how my feelings are wrong? Tell me how if I just stepped back and thought rationally, I’d see that appropriating these children’s nightmare is actually the
most
ethical thing we could do. Then you can explain to me how, when an idea is counterintuitive, that doesn’t necessarily make it a bad idea, just an unpopular one. Tell me how you know better in this particular instance not because you’re smarter than I am, or naturally superior in any way, but because you have experience and the history in this field to see the whole picture, while I’ve spent my time thus far inside the art. Explain to me that a system cannot be completely articulated from inside the system, that no matter how fine my insight about certain aspects of my art, I’m really only dealing in details. Perhaps then you can enlighten me about the different types of intellect that exist, how yours is simply more global than mine, more about the connections between things and less about the practical nuts and bolts of the art. You can go on to assure me how my way of seeing is utterly necessary, like bread or shelter. You might even want to talk about how useless the big picture you see so clearly is for most people, how philosophy is a leisure activity—nonessential in most times and places. Except this one. Tell me how my perspective is generally more useful and
this time
a very valuable, but nonetheless
limited,
perspective. Go ahead.”

West was amused, nodding and smiling, looking at his desk as she spoke. When she stopped and took a breath, he leaned forward, searching out her eyes, then examining them for a long moment. Clef held his gaze, but felt exposed.

“You’re really quite a find, you know. I thought, after I saw her book, that your sister was the one, but obviously there’s something in the water down in Georgia. Your architectures, Clef, these ideas for the navigation—you don’t need to change what you’re doing. It’s you, you who are already incorporating the children. They’re woven through everything you’ve shown me. You aren’t appropriating their pain, Clef, you’re giving them a voice. Look around you. Everyone is working harder, pushing. There’s a sudden urgency in this process that I haven’t seen since my grandmother directed
Ach Grace.
Trust me, if I’d simply wanted to shock the audience, I could’ve done it without recruiting so many contrary women. You’re making this vision more difficult for me, but that is exactly what will make it something other than a … spectacle. It is your doubt that will keep this from being merely self-indulgent, or gratuitous, or obscene. This is yours, Clef. Your baby. I’m giving it to you completely.”

Clef was without response. This speech wasn’t at all the speech she’d expected. She tried to take in what West had just given her—complete artistic control. Direction. She would be navigating the sleight, orchestrating it, conducting it. His hand, out of the soup. Surely he didn’t mean it—he’d insert himself somewhere, he’d have to. After a moment or two, thinking through how she might test his offer, she began cautiously outlining a few more ideas, ones that she’d originally thought West would veto.

But he didn’t.

Two hours later Lark stood among the troupes in chamber four. West and Clef were in front of the central mirror, facing the cluster of bodies—yawners, stretchers, adjusters—all variously shifting their impatience from hip to hip. West had spent half the morning in the office with Clef, leaving Kitchen to warm up the rest. West hadn’t asked for her presence, and Lark was glad—she didn’t want to be included in the cabal. Maybe Clef didn’t understand that, but Lark just wanted out, to be done with her part. She was exhausted. Exhilarated. She’d agreed to this—agreed to vivisect her Need and then put it on display. She had not agreed to instruct others in the intricacies of its anatomy. Her drawings were observational. Analysis belonged to someone else, a West—and now, to Clef, her little sister. She was anxious to see what they would make.

Out at the kiosk with her Souls, she got what amounted to an inadequate fix with each purchase. The money was meant to compensate her for the lack of a more profound response. It didn’t. If anything, the steep prices she charged for her work, while a means of support, were also revenge—exacted for the ends she imagined her art met. Stupidity and stupidity. She didn’t know what happened to her Souls out in the world. They might sit on library shelves gathering mites, suffer gossip on living room coffee tables, or fill with loose and dirty bedroom change, accruing domestic value. Up until now, she had preferred a total lack of feedback to its alternative—criticism. Fern Early had sent no less than three collectors down to buy from her before Lark stopped it. Lark didn’t want the Souls in a gallery or in a museum any more than she would have wanted them to hold her ashes.

Souls were empty. Fixed. Her Needs may have begun as living mutations, but once she cast them onto the wooden knots, they no longer struggled. They congealed—mail-order brides waiting to be delivered. They were not her, and so she worried for them. Twice she’d lied and said a Soul had been commissioned rather than sell it to the wrong buyer. Once a Soul was finished, she both wanted it gone and didn’t. Her compromise had been to gift the ones she couldn’t part with to Nene.

But her drawings of the Needs were different. Lark recognized it. Her sketches were neither complete nor static. They were stirrings, interrogatives, queries. West, Clef, the other sleightists—what would they make of them? Of her?

“I’ll need Latisha, Manny, and Sarah to go with Clef. She’ll start the navigation. Clef knows the architectures better than any of us, and we’ve come up with an initial schema for the first few structures. We’ll be using a few of the links and manipulations you’ve developed these past weeks, of course, as well as some Clef has designed directly from Lark’s drawings.”

As West said this, a number of sleightists turned to look at Lark, some smiling, some not. They all knew the sleight was going to be hers—over the past weeks the rumor had ossified into fact—but this was the first official mention, confirmation. Lark was their hand. T’s troubled face was one of those turned her way. Lark found herself looking directly at this woman, wondering what she had done to incur such enmity. In a countenance as serene as T’s, any cloud was an omen. This was a storm. But Clef spoke next, and before Lark had reversed the trajectory of T’s hostility and followed it back to Byrne, all eyes were on her sister.