Girl Reading (40 page)

He comments drily, I remember when dinner and theater were separate. Your food didn’t look at you in the way it does now.

Cloud tuts. They aren’t
real,
Dad.

Aren’t they? Mummy’s real.

Sincerity’s avatar breaks into a smile.

Dinesh leans over.
Are
you real?

Cloud chides him: Of course she’s real.

Good, because if my fish doesn’t come back, I can eat Mummy instead.

Cloud finds this hysterical. You can’t eat Mummy!

I don’t see why not, if my sushi has run off. Dinesh bunches his fist at the sim-fish: Hey, you lot! I paid for you. Come back, or I will be forced to eat somebody. Perhaps Cloud as a starter, and Sincerity for a main course.

More giggles from Cloud.

Mm, sounds delicious.

Sincerity puts up her hands plaintively: Please don’t eat me, I don’t taste very nice. (But it sounds forced, even to herself; she is no good at these jokes.)

Cloud exclaims, I’m not a starter!

No? Dinesh feigns thinking. I’ll have you for dessert then, because you’re so sweet.

He pops a kiss on his daughter’s cheek and she wipes it off with the back of her hand. Cloud has just begun a new phase where she dislikes public displays of affection, and is still in a previous one of using long words she does not completely understand. Both of these now come to the fore: Honestly, Dad, you’re so
extravagant.

Dinesh and Sincerity make eye contact through mesh. They share their first moment of perfect unspoken unison in days while Cloud prods the rest of the fish into simmy-swimmy motion. He says, You were brilliant.

You were watching? I didn’t see you.

Only on-screen between appointments. I didn’t want to be pinging in and out while you were talking, I was worried it might distract you. I was with you, though.

Thanks.

I was.

I believe you.

They fall into mutual silence. Dinesh eats another roll, though it occurs to him this might make one of the fish disappear.

What is it like? Does it taste good? (Sincerity always asks when Dinesh and Cloud are eating a meal, always wants to know.)

He shrugs. Not the best ever. Not like the time we made it ourselves.

We didn’t make it properly.

What are you talking about? That was the best sushi I’ve ever had.

Sincerity repeats herself: We didn’t make it properly, and we made a big mess in the kitchen.

I liked it, the sushi, and the mess, come to that. I liked it because it was ours. Our sushi. Our mess.

Well, I didn’t like the mess, and I didn’t think the sushi was that special.

Then we should have kept on trying, shouldn’t we? We should have made it every week until we got it right.

Their conversation pauses again.

Dinesh decides to leave this topic and try something else. I had another mail from Astrid today. She asked after you and sends her love. I sent her some pics of Cloud.

What did you do that for?

She wanted to see them, I guess, see how our baby’s grown.

She never mails me.

Perhaps she thinks you’re too busy.

And she thinks you’re not? Why doesn’t she contact both of us together? That’s what I wonder.

Dinesh sits back in his chair.

Sincerity elaborates: I’m just saying that she was my housemate too, and, you know . . .

What?

Well . . . she was my friend first. (Pathetic.)

Dinesh speaks acerbically: If it means that much to you, why don’t you mail her yourself? I can give you her new address.

Sincerity will do no such thing, but she doesn’t want to be the villain, either. So? How is Astrid, then?

Very divorced.

Stung.
Sincerity knew it, she fucking well knew it, but if she says anything now, she will sound paranoid (even though she’s probably right). She fiddles with the pearl on her finger—it would be disastrous to drop out mesh now—it will hang over them, make it worse.

Cloud exclaims, Look!

One of the fish has swum down by Cloud’s chair, where sim-kitty was dozing. The kitty is now wide awake and interacting with the flying fish, head turning to and fro as the fish sails past her, tries to bat it with her paw when it gets close enough, lunges for it.

Look, she’s trying to catch the fishy. I’ll help her. Cloud makes a giggling grab for the fish, but of course her hands only close around thin air and pass through the simcarnations, ruining the illusion.

Can you just stop that, please? (It is Cloud’s mother using her grown-uppy voice.) You can’t touch things in mesh, you might spill or break something that is real world.

Cloud knows this already but still makes a halfhearted reach for the fish in case this time is different.

Dinesh prevents it firmly. He tells Cloud to listen to her mother, threatens not to take Cloud to nice places anymore if she is naughty.

Cloud sulks.

Sincerity wishes she could sulk too; instead, asks about his work.

Dinesh shrugs. He normally has a piece of news to share, a patient with an unusual problem, something he’s read in a journal.

She presses gently: Is anything the matter?

No, nothing. Work is fine.

Doesn’t sound fine.

I am having a slump, that’s all.

Making too many people better, are you?

No, not that. It’s complicated. It’s been going on for a while.

You haven’t said anything. How can I help?

You can’t. Thank you.

Tell me about it, at least?

Dinesh glances briefly at Cloud. Best not to. It would take too long, anyway. We’ll talk about it later, when you come home.

Later. Sincerity and Dinesh should keep a list of all the conversations they will have later. She says, I do believe you.

About what?

That you were thinking about me. I was thinking about you, when I was speaking in front of all those scary people.

Well, you were fantastic. I was so proud of you. We both were.

Sincerity’s pleasure does not show through her avatar. She prompts, Did you hear the part about art protectionism?

Yes, Plato’s cave, very clever.

You did hear it, then? I put that in for you.

For me?

Well, for us. I wanted to show I’m independent.

Dinesh nods.

I thought you would be pleased.

I am pleased.

Sincerity scrutinizes him. You don’t sound it. You sound singularly unimpressed.

Dinesh Varma rests his chopsticks beside his dish. I don’t think it actually matters.

What doesn’t matter? It’s all we talked about when we were at university.

Yes.

Not
all
we talked about, but we believed in it. I believed in it.

Yes, I know you did.

She hesitates, then presses on. We were never going to have jobs in mesh, were we? We were going to live as much in real world as we could, out of principle. We were going to help save real paintings and real books—track them down, keep them safe for our children and our grandchildren, because hard formats are the only ones that survive in the long run. You published about it. Your position was that diplomacy had suffered a mortal blow, that hostile governments can at least communicate through cultural objects. That from shared beauty and appreciation of history, trust can grow and peace can be fostered. Dinesh, you said the mesh was ultimately unreliable and unsustainable as a resource.
You
convinced
me
we’re too reliant on it, and that one day terrorists will undermine it and swaths of literature and art and music and knowledge will be wiped out—gone—lost forever, and with no way of retrieving them. You said—

I know what I said.

—untold damage has been inflicted upon the mental and emotional health of society, and who knows what the long-term effects will be to people of Cloud’s generation who cannot remember a time when the art in museums was real?
We have impoverished ourselves beyond reckoning.
Those were your words.

I don’t disagree.

Then I don’t get it. I’ve done something about it. I stood up there and risked everything to say what we believe in, to keep it alive.

No, you didn’t, Sissy. No. You didn’t. You are a mouthpiece of the museum.

I am not a mouthpiece of the—

Please can we stop?

You just called me—

They want you to say those things, they
want
you to, because you are brilliant and they have you in their pocket, so it doesn’t matter. It makes them look edgy to have their darling talking like a rebel, but nothing will really happen; nothing will change. You didn’t
do
anything.

Cloud watches both her parents withdraw into amazed silence.

Her mother whispers, I thought I did something good.

Her father relents. Of course. You tried to.

Well . . . Sincerity’s tone is not accusing anymore but genuinely bewildered. What have
you
done?

Nothing. I haven’t done a single bloody thing.

Cloud turns her mouth into a comma. There’s a girl at my school who’s never in mesh. Her parents don’t let her, unless she absolutely has to for lessons.

Sincerity makes an effort to show interest. Really? Is she nice?

Yes. She’s called Maribel and she’s my friend. Sometimes I take my specs off so we can play together.

That’s kind of you.

To demonstrate her ability to be kind, Cloud lifts her i-specs onto her forehead, revealing eyes scrunched into a big grin. She glances around the real-world restaurant, which is dull in comparison. Most of the moving fish and a number of avatar customers disappear, including her mother. She can also see real-world people beneath their mesh skins: a strapping man in leathers, zippers, and cobwebs turns out to be bald, round, and middle-aged in life. Cloud raises and lowers her glasses several times, fat man muscle man fat man muscle man fat man muscle man.

Cloud hears her mother’s voice: If you keep doing that, you’ll give yourself a headache.

Mesh mummy no mummy mesh mummy no mummy mesh mummy—it’s spooky. Cloud looks down at sim-kitty and makes
her disappear reappear once. Dad, when can I have a real-world kitty?

Dinesh sighs. You won’t like it.

I will like it, Dad, I will.

Real animals need a lot of looking after.

Da-ad. Please?

Sincerity Yabuki gets a familiar ache. Anything to do with real world and Cloud’s default is to ask her father about it. Dad is the tangible parent, Mum is the insubstantial one. She intercedes: Why exactly do you want a real cat, Cloudy?

Because it’s nicer. Because they’re cuddly and warm. When they purr it travels in your body.

You know real animals get sick, don’t you?

I know. When I’m a vet I’ll make her better myself.

And you know real animals don’t last forever?

Cloud frowns. Yes. (She does know.)

But sim-kitty doesn’t get old. And you can take her wherever you like, and no one minds.

The father speaks next: Don’t you love sim-kitty anymore? Don’t you think she’s pretty?

Cloud stares at the simcarnation, feeling like a traitor. Sim-kitty gazes back, is designed to react to attention from her owner, gambols playfully. The child mutters, Why can’t I have both? I’ve thought of a good name already.

Dinesh sighs. Maybe when you’re older.

How old, exactly, do I have to be before I’m allowed?

He turns to Sincerity for support, who tilts her head, mulling it over.

She says, I think we should let her have one.

Pardon?

I think she should be allowed a pet if it’s what she genuinely wants.

Cloud gasps, Oh, really, Mummy?

Sissy, if we are going to discuss this, we should do it properly, in private, and tell our daughter our joint decision afterward so she knows we are united.

She hates it when he does that, when he pulls out some family-therapy technique and applies it to them as a couple—she pretends she did not hear him. Cloud has been asking for a cat for ages, and nothing we have said has put her off. She’s older now, she knows her own mind.

Yes, but I’m the one who’ll end up looking after it.

Sincerity had braced herself, takes the hit; it hurts her but she does not show it. When I’m home I’ll help. In the meantime, we can both make sure Cloud takes her full share of responsibility. And you know what else? She’s right. A living cat is infinitely better than a fake one, especially to an only child. I don’t want her to be afraid of doing difficult things in real world. Teaching her how to look after a pet is a good idea; that’s my opinion.

Cloud knows it will not happen while one parent still refuses. She holds her breath, wishing for her father to agree.

Dinesh is unconvinced. I shall have to think about it . . . and you will have to be an extremely good girl.

How good, exactly, do I have to be before I’m allowed?

As though it can hear them, sim-kitty jumps up onto mesh mummy’s lap and arches flirtatiously. Sincerity does not attempt to stroke her in case her hand runs through it and spoils the effect.

Dinesh is composed, attentive.

His patient paces around the office, has yet to remove his i-ris for their sessions, although the only item in the room active in mesh is the patient’s own persona. Is this the reason he keeps looking down at his shoes? In life, they are a utility style and color, but
to their owner they are an accurate replica of a pair once worn by Noël Coward. Then he sighs unevenly.

That bastard was trying to show me up. After taking credit for what I had done, he was trying to humiliate me in front of the whole department, in front of everyone, colleagues who respect me—some of them have known me for ten years. I wanted to tell him I felt betrayed, I wanted to protest, and I didn’t because I was flabbergasted—for the first time in my life I knew what the word truly meant. I was so flabbergasted at what he was coming out with I just couldn’t speak.

The psychiatrist is sure there is more to come.

The effort I have made, the work I have put in for that company, doesn’t matter. I don’t matter. They care about results, not who gets crushed in the process. It’s malicious. Calculated. They would poison our drinking water if there was a profit to be made and they thought they could get away with it. Leeches.