The Not Yet Page 12

  “Why didn’t you just let Lazarus keep your Trust? Let him run your money. He never did you any harm.” I knew that WELLFI bank had never required any scrutiny like this of my identity. What if we were discovered to be enclavers? Most Charters swore off ever being Heirs, in perpetuity. Strict castes. Ironclad. I screamed at him. “What are you doing? You can ruin me, you thought of that?”

  He paused, he realized. I could see the regret it in his eyes, for he didn’t want to harm me, no matter how angry he was. “I’ll tell Lazarus, if and when he turns the stuff in, not to put us together.”

  “Not put us together? The records all say we were found together. Everybody knows—please, go back to Lazarus.”

  “I’ve dissolved it. That’s over. Listen—” He wagged his finger at me. “We were saved, not tossed out.”

  “Oh, this stupid fantasy of yours.”

  “It’s a memory. Guns going off. Green explosions. There was a woman weeping—well-dressed, long dark hair, she set us afloat. Palm trees. Palms, those tall ones. Sand.”

  “Come on.”

  “You never missed them. I did.”

  “The myth of the eternal return,” I quoted, showing my education. “You were a prince, a woman cared for you, only tried to save us, from the guns.”

  I surely should have gone on my way, off into the splashy streets, but I heard at that exact moment, an old and slightly melodic note in Ariel’s voice, which I associated with nights when we were very young, when he looked out for me. Which made me pause.

  “It’s your history too,” he pleaded.

  I pushed passed him. Now he was following me close on the old streetcar tracks, splashing mud on his own cuffs, tugging at my sleeve. I could see in the distance the dirt path he’d trod with that huge puppet sculpture on his back in that funny-all. That day he tore me down into his doom, then mocked me—and I was there again. Now that path in the park ran right into the new lake.

  I turned to him. “There’s nothing there! We came from nowhere! What did Lazarus ever do but try to save you?” I had had enough. “Why do you have to ruin everything?” I meant it. “If you had ever worked hard enough, and followed the rules, you wouldn’t—”

  “Like you? Hole up with some cranky Heir—delusional? You know what they say about her these days, your Dr. Greenmore? Rumors of her radical associations in the past? Worse than Lazarus. Really nuts.”

  “Did you know I was coming into town? Are you following me?”

  “NO! You are paranoid, Malcolm. How would I know where Greenmore sends you? Lazarus might just hand the facts over, to avoid the courts. You’ll hear from me soon I hope! Besides, if you believe we came from Outliars, what have you got to worry about? So don’t!”

  He had a point. A perverse point.

  “There you are!” Klamath approached on the tracks, in his high rubber boots. He was signaling me it was time to go back to the dock on Freret Street. Serio, his son, whom I was just getting to know, a small fellow, with long, strong arms, and a small head like his mother, was right behind him. “Malcolm, now!” He called for me, and I strode quickly to him and his son. Leaving Ariel behind.

  “Why do you act as if you don’t want to know? You do!” Ariel called after me.

  “Leave me alone. For now, forever!” I shouted back and ran. At that time in my life, I truly believed he was dangerous, against me.

  But about wanting know who I might really be, I wasn’t as disinterested as I was supposed to be.

  *

  About a month later, on the narrow pallet where I slept at Greenmore’s estate, I found a package waiting for me. There had been a U.A. Post delivery, unusual. It was a small box, about six inches in a cube. “A. de DuPlantier,” it read on the outside. And my Wood Palace address. With dread, and also some kind of shameful elation, I opened the thing from the top. Amidst the stuffing made of curlicues of pink paper, I found an envelope. Inside, a note, which read:

  Malcolm, sorry about the argument on so sadly soaked old St. Charles. Here you will find a missing particle of our lives. Were you looking for it? Sorry if you weren’t. I was WFRSN 19068, and you were a few digits later. Same brood, I’d say. Don’t yet know what it stands for. Obscure enclave if it was one. Ariel AKA your Brother with Proof.

  P.S. I have asked my lawyer to request the judge keep these facts sealed, as they pertain to you. The judge doesn’t have this tag, this evidence, because you do. I think the F is Florida. I don’t know who the hell we are, now. Palm trees were right.

  What was he talking about? I knew what Lazarus would want me to think. That Ariel was ruining everything.

  Yet, I felt my heart beating fast. Furiously, I fished around in the shreds of paper until I found an antique mesh bag with a tiny set of ridges at the top that laced together with a wire cord. When I felt the object, inside, I was tantalized, excited. It was so strange. Why did I care? I shouldn’t—but—inside, two metal charms on a chain, each with a green tarnished nickel backing. One was a plain square, one had an enamel surface. The enamel showed a white star with five points as the design, set out in a field of lapis blue. When I turned over the second square plain charm, I found the letters and numerals: WFRSN 19077. Well, was that the answer? Was this a stamp of an enclave? What were their rules? Why did they get rid of us? Why didn’t they love us?

  I couldn’t quell these Nat concerns. My mind raced: if we came from an enclave, were they Free Wheelers? Did I have a Free Wheeler’s rights?

  Lazarus would be so disappointed.

  II

  8:17 PM October 12, 2121

  Sunken Quarter

  New Orleans Islands, Northeast Gulf De-Accessioned Territory,

  U.A. Protectorate

  On our trek across the Quarter, Serpent, Peet, Gepetto, and I arrived at a corner where a parade was going by—about fifteen Heirs paired with Altereds, both in pink satin, genenfabric, walking tiny little dogs half the size of normal shoes. Some new genetic innovation, dogs smaller than rats. They were giddy, giggling wildly—the Heirs, that is, not the dogs.

  “There have been updates every few weeks, and scans of Ginger’s body, you wouldn’t believe, something growing on her natural places like a tree, very convincing, common doctor’s reports—it’s got so half the Quarter would greet one another by saying, ‘How’s Ginger? What’s up? She gonna make it? A real rollercoaster.’” Gepetto was trying to get me interested. Why did he care? “You won’t believe how Sims have evolved,” he went on. “Being outlawed was such a boon—you won’t recognize the art!”

  “Like, bebum, they would have ever not cashed in, like this night wasn’t gonna come,” Peet interjected. “Whoever the Far East Players are. I never believed she’d get better. Where was the profit in that?”

  At that moment, I smelled the steam coming off the bag of crobs Peet was holding. We sat down right on the curb of the cobblestone walk while the parade was passing. I reached in and grabbed one from Peet’s sack, pulled it out, crushed the fat tail-shell of the creature in one hand and liberated the huge white clump. At the thought of what it would taste like, after so many days of not eating, I was afraid I might cry.

  I felt Gepetto’s eyes. Remembered how guilty I’d feel after I ate. So I offered it. I had already blown his cover. Also, I’d avoid my craving, get rid of it. Or more perverse, enjoy it by watching him eat it.

  But Gepetto looked through it, didn’t even see it. He was leering at something else. The silly dogs, the ridiculous costumes.

  “And tonight,” Peet was going on, as we still waited for the last little row of marchers. “Finally the night. The so-called finale.” The tail meat glistened, jiggled. Peet grabbed it and said, “Thought Serpent said you couldn’t be tempted.”

  I let it go, stood. We staggered on.

  “There’s Jeddy’s!” Serpent called out not long after.

  I saw a green flag and a hand-lettered sign. Jeddy’s BASIN-STREET-ON-THE-BOWL BUTE/BIOS/VICTUALS/VROOM Transport TIRES REPAIRED. Locksmith Pawn.


  An ancient tiled building lit by street lamp had three doors, all closed. On the side and at the rear of the building was the Basin wall—here the graduated Quay dwindled to a single narrow border that kept off the waters. No lights were on inside this place. At this my heart sank.

  “You brought him here, now, let’s move,” Peet insisted, shoving his friend forward.

  “I made a bargain,” Serpent retorted. “So what if he’s a Nyet? Keeping up my end!” Then he pulled me across the big street with him. Peet and Gepetto, now a faction, refused to cross. They were too eager to get to the transport.

  Debris everywhere, stacks of it, high piles of old bricks, of trash, of huge thick tires people used in the DE-AX because of the horrible roads. I tripped on a crowbar. Serpent took my elbow, kept me from falling. “Come on, boy, this is what you want, hey?” he asked. “Go up there tonight on that tub?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. In hours, I’d be home, I told myself. Lazarus… answers. Tell him what Ariel had done if he didn’t know it.

  “JEDDY,” Serpent stopped suddenly, yelled. “WHERE YOU?”

  “Come on!” Peet shouted from across the way. “What’s the hold up?” He had lost his rhythm.

  A single bulb came on. I celebrated. The door opened. A very large man appeared. His outfit was coveralls, tomato color, blotched with black stains. He had only a few teeth in his mouth and all his fingernails that I could see were perfectly black. “Who is it?”

  “Serpenthead Louis,” Serpenthead said. “Played with the Vipers band? Remember me? Got some compos?”

  “Vipers band?” he asked, pushing his greasy hair back. “Well what did they play?”

  This was a test. Some kind of ID. I hoped Serpent wasn’t bluffing. My whole future depended upon this strange Yeared. I was abject, but the odd thing was, I was so pitiful I almost wanted to laugh.

  “Come on!” Peet clapped his hands across the street. “Bebum. We are leaving! One minute!”

  “I grabbed the tuna/ I grabbed the cell/ but that Kat was toting hell hell hell—” Serpenthead sang in his very smooth baritone.

  “Hah Hah.” Jeddy smiled in recognition. “What happened to you guys?”

  “Can’t talk now, this fella here got to get up the Tchoup to Audubon—needs some compos—you got?”

  “Shoo,” Jeddy said. “All out, buddy.”

  “How can you be out?” Serpent asked.

  Everything I’d done wrong had led to this catastrophe—gone into Port Gramercy in the first place, all of it—that Me that got me into trouble—“Out?” I stomped toward the fellow. “You can’t be!”

  Jeddy pulled back his bird-like head, turned to Serpent. “What is with this guy?” he asked.

  “Nyet, ‘bout to go to his Boundarytime, swear off the likes of us, you believe it? How can he give this great life o’ours away? Help him, huh?”

  “True is, I got no fuel, none. Of no kind. All these launches and yachts and little cruisers and water taxis and what not just come through here the last two hours. Going to that Ginger junk.”

  “Every last drop?” I pleaded.

  “COME ON,” Peet cried from across the way. “Me, and this Imposse are moving, Serp!”

  Serpent waved. “Give me another minute bro!” Then he asked Jeddy, “When will some more come in?”

  “Morning, late morning. Sell to you then.”

  “Yeah? What price? What price?”

  “Discount, okay,” he said. “I’ll give him the good price all right! Night.” He shut his narrow door, and locked it.

  “LEAVING NOW!” Peet called from across the way.

  “Yes!” Gepetto’s hoarse voice.

  I looked at Serpent, bereft. “You got two choices,” he said to me.

  He was fair, honest in his dealings. This seemed impossible—an Outliar like he was—but I knew it was true. “What are they?” I had no thoughts. I’d come to the end of the ride. I’d be here at the Basin wall forever. What was I going to do? Swim back to Audubon?

  “Sleep it off, here, outside Jeddy’s. You could get rolled; about ninety percent chance this edge of the Quarter.”

  Jeddy said through the door, “I ain’t letting no Nyet loiter here, you take him. Sorry there are thieves.” He shut off his outside light. “Like I want to have some bait in front of my store?”

  Peet called. “LEAVING. 5-4-3-2-”

  “You can come, we’ll be back ten hours from now, in the morning—” Serpent said.

  “I can sleep on Serio’s boat,” I said.

  “It’s certain you will get rolled on the Quay, one hundred percent chance there, pickers galore!” he said. “You think Gramercy docks is rough? Make up your mind. I got a gig.”

  And so, almost weeping with frustration, I left, crossed the street with Serpent. I consoled myself it was just a setback of a few hours, an evening.

  “You’ll get here first thing in the morning,” he told me. “Jeddy will sell you—you in no shape to drive that old boat anyways tonight. You better off—”

  “What? Better off?”

  “I know,” he said. “I am sorry, but we got you this far—not long now—”

  I looked up and saw Peet and Gepetto—a narrow, beak-nosed musician in a black jacket and a low beret, and a tall, emaciated shiny-skinned pseudo with his hair in a bun, and several bracelets on his wrists, and slippers, along with Serpent, with his wide head, and the thousand pocket tunic, and his awful bowl legs—my gang, now.

  “Quite the wheels, bebum, quite the wheels,” Peet said, a few minutes later, as he and Serpent climbed in the back of Gepetto’s strange transport—a plain grey metal outside, with luxury inside. Nutria fur on the seats. The thing was parked about a quarter mile from Jeddy’s.

  “Oh, we do what we can,” Gepetto said to Peet, proudly as he gunned the thing up the ramp set into the terraced well of the Quarter. At the dock at the top was a large rusty boat with smokestacks like a tugboat, but with a broader deck. A sign on it read,

  EAST NEW ORLEANS/FAR EAST DE-AX FERRY

  CAPACITY 11 TRANSPORTS FOUR AXLES EACH.

  CLOSED

  He parked again, yanking up the brake, on the steep incline.

  “It’s not running!” Peet exclaimed. “Too late. We got to be there by nine! Show starts at ten-thirty. Can we make it if we take the long way round?”

  “Maybe we can get them to take us across,” Gepetto said. All around as far as I could see was open water except for the Quarter directly behind us. Gepetto got out of the car to talk to the ferryman. I thought he might stumble, the ramp was that steep.

  We watched him bang on the door of little rusty-roofed house on the top of the ramp—a stall, really. A fat man appeared who asked where we wanted to go. “Mississippi!” Gepetto shouted. “Far East DE-AX?”

  “Not scheduled. Wait until tomorrow.”

  “I told you to hurry,” Peet said to Serpent.

  “I heard you,” Serpent came back.

  Gepetto took out a thick wad of bills to show to the man. Peet catcalled, “That’s one rich falsetto! Where’d he get that kind of DOUGH?”

  Within ten minutes we were the lone transport on the deck of the ferry steaming across the Industrial Pass, a fifteen-mile wide expanse that took us to the wilder part of the territory.

  “Look out there,” Serpenthead said when we were in the middle. From that vantage point we could see a glow to the Southwest. The wind on the water was fine, even cool—I opened the door to feel it. It woke me a little, brought me to my senses. Then I saw the hundred masts of the armada: approaching slowly across the waters from the Old River, a fleet of pleasure boats, yachts, steamers, small cruisers, and a swarm of water taxis. “Those the ones bought all the compos,” Serpent said. “This Sim must be huge.”

  Just as the illumination on the opposite shore began to appear, a feathery fog started to creep along on the surface of the channel. We were going into the deeper country, the truly abandoned places.

  It was as if I
could feel certain things coming to an end.

  III

  February 5, 2120

  Wood Palace on the Sea

  Western Gulf De-Accessioned Territory, U.A. Protectorate

  My discoveries did not begin propitiously. My discovery of my other fate—or at least, its first intimations.

  It began with Ariel’s package, that charm. And Greenmore’s questions. She called these conversations “bouncing things off of me.”

  “Oh they could talk to this thing ‘god,’” she said. “Gave their every word and deed to this it, this ‘god.’” She slowed. “What do you think they meant by this word, Malcolm? Have you any idea of it?”

  It was late winter after I found all those books for her at the sad rotting library on Audubon Island. After having been silent for several days in a row, she’d called me into her room to tell me she had discovered in a book I’d found, Catholic History of New Orleans, that the building where the Audubon Foundling House was, had once been a convent for “contemplatives”—mystic nuns. They had a “vow of silence” and were “cloistered.” They gave their every word to “the god,” she said. The building had survived the various floods beginning with the Great Katrina, and later, when the Mississippi changed its course and the general rising of all the seas took the last of the land south of the city, and New Orleans was broken down into islands. “The building had one of the highest walls in the whole city, it saved them over and over,” she said. “They prayed all day, and all night, too. They didn’t meet with outside people, except for a few benefactors.”

  As a boy at the Home, I was always grateful for the high wall around us, especially when there were hard rains which turned the streets into streams, the canals into rushing rivers. I had never wondered why it was originally built. I had always been interested in the little niche at the side of the foyer, though. Set in the wall at waist height, it had two pairs of doors, between the outer foyer and the dining hall. These doors slid up and down like double hung windows. But not of glass, of solid wood. There was a little space in between the two gates, not more than a foot and a half in width, and about four feet in height. There was a bell to ring, and beside it, a hole for peeping through. It was Ariel’s favorite place to hide.