Girl Reading (41 page)

Why is their recognition important to you?

That is a good question, Dr. Varma. I don’t know. They’re the ones with the low self-esteem.

What makes you say that?

Because if they had any sense of self-worth, any decency, they wouldn’t be the way they are. They’re addicted to money, can’t get enough of it.

Dinesh resets his expression from attentive to receptive.

Dr. Varma, in your professional opinion, do you think I need validation in the workplace because I didn’t get enough love from my father?

Dinesh knows what to do. He counts to ten. Then he replies in a measured tone, Would you like to explore this issue together?

(Like clockwork.)

At home, Dinesh does something he has not done for almost a year: goes into the spare room crammed with cardboard boxes and
opens a few of them, peruses the contents. When they moved in, this was set aside as a library, not a guest room. (Our friends can sleep on the futon, Cloud’s friends can sleep in her room.) They planned to cover two walls in bookcases, floor to ceiling, to nurture their collection, savor it in special reading chairs. They bought the chairs, but no books have been read in them yet. To reach one, Dinesh has to make space; the boxes have a film of dust on top, which he disturbs into flurries.

Sissy, we are better than other people. We’re different.

He whispered it under the sheet after they had made love. He meant it, he meant it. Their love was unusual, extraordinary, corny, they were going to make an eccentric life together. Be true to their teenage selves.

Conventionality crept up on them and then leaped. Dinesh is still reeling from it. They lost the slivers of perfection they once had. No more whole days in bed together, no more flowers given without occasion, no more Pack a bag we’re going to Prague for the weekend . . .
to surprise you.

They live apart. They went from making plans to putting plans on hold to indifference about their future, their neglected ambitions dying quietly like plants. For a while he blamed Sincerity because she was the talented one—she brought this upon them. Simple (synonymous with “easy” and “foolish”). He blames himself now, a much harder and heavier burden. Dr. Dinesh Varma did not fight it. He should have. He let it happen. He should not have. Consequently, this mess.

I wouldn’t know us.

Cloud goes to bed without a fuss.

Dad, you know my friend Maribel? Well, she has a picture on her wall of a beach. Painted on it, so it’s still there in real world.

A mural?

I think I would like one. If I’m not quite good enough for a cat,
could I have one of those, a
mural,
instead, please? Not of a beach, though, that would be copying.

In your room? Which wall would it go on?

Cloud points to the wall opposite, which apart from a desk and floor cushions has few objects obscuring it.

If you had one, what would you like your mural to be of?

In the way of children, Cloud has left some salient details out of her plan. She was so taken with the idea of having a mural and getting parental agreement, choosing the subject had been overlooked. And, in the way of children, she hits upon a favorite theme instantly: Trees with woodland creatures.

Dinesh tucks her in. Should he leave her door ajar in case she has a nightmare? (His nightmare is that Sincerity will soon realize leaving them is now only a matter of degrees.)

No, not anymore.

If you’re sure.
Shh-leep
—

Cloud echoes,
Shh-leep.

Another mail from Astrid. Seeing her name in his inbox gives Dinesh the sensation of swallowing neat bourbon.

Sincerity Yabuki’s avatar stands at the end of the bed, a phantasm. In daylight, avatars blend convincingly into their environment, while in darkness they give off a lurid glow. Commercial and public buildings balance this with artificial lights, but in private dwellings you usually put up with an intrusive and sickly glare.

Dinesh lies with his hands behind his head. They maintain the tradition of saying good night to each other, but the sex games they used to play to keep the relationship passionate have long since faded. He stares at her in a way he would never do if she were actually here.

Sincerity’s projected face is hard. You can’t expect me to stand
by a promise I made two years ago, not when so much has happened,
is
happening.

Almost three years ago.

We are at a delicate juncture, the next few months are crucial. You surely see that?

I do.

We talked about this together. We agreed that if I had to stay on to finish what I started . . . don’t you remember?

Yes, I remember. In exceptional circumstances—

Then what is there to fight about?

The trouble is, exceptional circumstances come along with monotonous regularity.

This is my life’s work.

No. It isn’t.

Oh, stop it, Dinesh. Does it hurt your ego so much you have to resort to clichés?

No. It doesn’t. Seeing what you have achieved makes me immensely proud of you. If you don’t know that by now . . . I merely meant that your research team, if you decided to leave, would get on just fine without you.

Rubbish.

I’m not suggesting you completely give up what you care about, but working in a more advisory capacity might be good for you, give you an opportunity to try something new for a while. I am thinking of your well-being as much as anyone’s. I wasn’t trying to make you feel guilty.

Do you think my child is my legacy? Cloud is not me.

I know that. Sissy, I’m losing track.

Of what?

Dinesh fumbles with the unfinished thought.

Sincerity musters, Are you having problems with her? Is she all right?

She’s perfect. She wants a mural in her bedroom.

Right. Sounds interesting. You’ll both have fun with that. Actually, I ought to tell you more often that you are a splendid father.

Thanks. (He is grateful, but his reaction is too faint to be conveyed over the distance.) You sound quite tired.

I’m nearly done.

Did you eat?

Yes.

Dinesh can tell she is lying, wishes he could make her some shio ramen.

She says, We should talk about this later.

He says, I think that’s an excellent idea.

I’m sorry for snapping at you.

I know you are. What have you got in the morning?

Oh—Sincerity’s avatar ruffles her hair—the usual. Budget meeting, a report to write, catch up on some mail, and if I have time, I’ll look at my data. What about you?

Nothing special. I thought I would get a sitter in, go out for a drink after work for a few hours.

Yes, you should do that.

I will. Sincerity?

Yes, Dinesh?

You don’t need me anymore.

The ghost at the end of the bed shivers—once, a glitch—then the connection strengthens. No, I don’t.

No. I thought not. I was just making sure.

Good night, Dinesh.

Yes.

Sincerity drops out mesh and the room goes dark. Dinesh turns on his side, does not remove his i-ris or draw the blinds. I wish I could smell you, Sissy, I wish I could wrap myself around you to keep you warm.

* * *

Sibil shines like a jinn. Luminescence, purity. Sincerity Yabuki has finished for the night, takes a stroll around the deserted galleries where the paintings hang in midair. Her installation is here too.

In the European Museum of Art one can view a Rembrandt from the back as well as the front; one can lift the layers of a Titian effortlessly to uncover the genius clumsy restoration has hidden; one can grow a Gwen John until precision flecks on the canvas become unwieldy ridges and fissures. One can crawl over these pictures like a beetle, strip them bare, split them apart.

Time alone with Sibil is rare and brief. Usually visitors stream past the glass partition while Sincerity is doing maintenance or running tests with one of her subordinates. This solitude is the way it used to be when she was younger, when it started, when she was seduced by its complexity and elegance.

Sibil’s appearance is a rudimentary simcarnation based on a design from archives
(Sincerity responded to a mail),
I chose it for its simplicity
—followed by firm assertions about retaining creative control.

In fact, Sibil selected her own appearance. Lying about it is unpleasant but necessary, and the engineer takes comfort in the certainty no one would believe her anyway.

I did not invent Sibil. I am not an inventor in the conventional sense. I have shown what has always existed, what lay waiting to be discovered like a prime number.
Send.

Her reply is construed as modesty. Whenever Sincerity Yabuki explains that Sibil was revealed, rather than created, that Sibil’s true realm is accessible by the mind, people think she is speaking figuratively. Observe, even if she tries to be honest, she is not listened to.

I would be delighted to give a demonstration to your faculty, please liaise with my assistant to arrange it.

There have been times, lonely times, when Sincerity has permitted
herself a thought experiment—a strange and absurd thought experiment that she would never share with anyone. It is far-fetched, ludicrous. But in this private moment with her work, it creeps back, a sinister idea waiting to see daylight or be put out of its misery. Hypothetically, what if Sincerity Yabuki was chosen? Hypothetically, what if Sibil chose her?

Earlier, Fernand squeezed her elbow, a gesture he has adopted recently, spoke confidentially. I hope you will be pleased, Sincerity. It took more wrangling than I anticipated, but I have finally negotiated you access to the vault.

What vault?

Don’t be silly, our vault.

Sincerity gazes with love at her masterpiece and is ashamed of herself, a lady of science, for contemplating it. It is a sign of stress, surely, entertaining these irrational thoughts, these delusions of grandeur. Of an unstable mind.

Fernand enjoyed her astonishment, that he was able to bestow on her what she could not have obtained by herself. I think perhaps they fear losing you to a rival institution. I said we would be the last to know if you were being courted by a foreign government. The board wants to give you every resource to develop your work further. Obviously, they want you only to include pieces from the European Collection! If you can view the originals, it will inform your choices of the most suitable, the best. (She did not disabuse him, but her team has had difficulties—big problems—adding pieces, as though Sibil will not accept any more.) I said that my directorship was about this, about revolution in art, new ways to experience it post-protectionism. I explained I can only remain director as long as you, and your team of course, are with us, under our jurisdiction, being nurtured and encouraged here.

You threatened to leave?

I imply a bit. To lean on them.

Sibil does not return her stare, never acknowledges the presence of anybody unless instructed to. She sits and sits and sits. A blank. That Sibil might have some kind of
consciousness.
That Sibil is some kind of
being.
That Sincerity Yabuki has some special quality, or place in the world, which has led to a
meeting
between them. Outrageous.

She said, That was generous, Fernand, but you shouldn’t have risked your own position. He said, A trifle, do not think on it. She said, Won’t they resent you? He answered in a musical note, No-o.

Is it possible we have opened a window into the world of archetypes?
Delete.

The media chatter has begun to bother her. Pressure, unending speculation: What is the next phase? What is the three-year plan? The ten-year plan? When will you announce S2?

I put it to you that Sibil is like a thread connecting different points across centuries. She is the zeitgeist, literally “time ghost,” or more accurately “the spirit of the age.” Finally humanity’s mysteries will be revealed because historical artifacts have begun to surrender their secrets. They are calling out to us . . .
Delete delete delete. It is her workload talking. Pull yourself together.

S2! How she loathes them for that. Technology is by nature transient, a stepping-stone, it exists in order that what comes next can exist. (Blind eyes. Abused book. White light.) But Sibil will not conform to this model. Sibil is unique. She will thwart any attempts to make her obsolete, Sincerity can guess it the way a mother predicts the behavior of her child. Furthermore, the insult will cause Sibil to vanish—blink out of existence—become mesh noise. Lost. (And what will that do to Sincerity’s reputation?)

These thoughts she keeps to herself; even Dinesh does not know.

Sometimes Sincerity Yabuki is frightened. Frightened for Sibil. Frightened by Sibil. At least she has never publicly let slip her fear,
her sense, that Sibil has a life of her own. At least no one can hear her talking to Sibil the way she is now.

I do not know how much longer I can protect you. Maybe it would be better if you went back to wherever you came from.

The woman in the gallery turns away from the reading girl, to take in other paintings and sculptures surrounding her. She stops before a Picasso, yearns to see it in real world. The empty real space makes her shiver, and she wraps a loose end of her pashmina shawl close about her.

Fernand smelled strongly of cologne. You have lamented that originals are hidden. Voilà, you have your heart’s desire. Your research will be unrestricted. You will be entitled to see as many as you like, whenever you like, for as long as you like. You do not seem pleased . . . ?

I’m overwhelmed.

The Sibil machine is dangerous,
one particular critic is fond of repeating.

She cannot deny it. To deny it, Sincerity would first have to understand it. The magical interaction between viewer and art manifested, a vortex of contradictions—

When a user approaches, Sibil stirs to life. An image is chosen by the participant. Sibil flicks those tatty pages and the immersion commences. Not always entertaining, not always educational, not always truthful. Always
different.