Mira Corpora (9 page)

“Don't get too excited,” Hank tells us. “It's only a toy.” But the tone of his voice betrays the fact that his expectations have been raised as well.

There's the sound of activity in the hallway behind us. A man in a red track suit makes an entrance. His coffee-colored skin and regal features are offset by a flat nose that appears to have been broken numerous times. A few hushed murmurs of a name: “Morrisot.” He gracefully navigates the room, tousling kids' hair and shaking a few hands. His cleared throat resounds like trumpet fanfare.

“Welcome,” Morrisot says in a rich baritone. “A friend of mine is going to provide entertainment for us this afternoon. He's a bit unusual, but don't be alarmed. He'll do whatever I say.” He signals the man in the black ski jacket to flip off the overhead fluorescents and turn on the bedside lamp. Mood lighting. He produces a small plastic packet of yellowish powder from his sweatshirt. He shakes the packet briskly between thumb and forefinger. The sort of precise gesture aristocrats use to ring a service bell.

The man we've been following lopes to the edge of the room, rubbing his gums and flashing a hideous grin at no one in particular. The way his eyes are locked on the plastic packet, the rest of the apartment might as well be empty. Morrisot tries to coax him deeper into the room but the man sticks with the shadows. He refuses the bait for several moments, then lunges for the packet. Like a matador working with a tiny cape, Morrisot flicks
it out of reach and the man crashes headfirst into the bed. The crowd offers murmurs of approval.

Morrisot helps the man to his feet and smoothes his tangled bathrobe. He speaks to him in a voice that's soft but firm, precisely enunciating each word so there's no misunderstanding. “You want some,” Morrisot says, “then you have to play us a song.” He nestles the pint-sized guitar into the man's hands.

The man unwinds his red scarf, sheds his bathrobe, and faces the crowd. It's Kin Mersey. There's no mistaking him. Only Lena seems unfazed by his extravagant deterioration. There's an arctic paleness to his flesh. You can map the blue veins coursing throughout his bare chest. His face is scarred with pink pustules. His eyes are yellow and liverish. His teeth are rotted. The cuticle of every nail has been gnawed past the quick. My heart sinks, but then Kin licks his lips. You can clearly see the tip of a full crimson tongue.

Morrisot whispers something in Kin's ear, coaxing him the way you'd handle a skittish show pony. It's suddenly as if he's more of a manager than a dealer, and it occurs to me that we may be about to hear a preview of the new sounds Kin has been working on.

Kin tentatively touches the frets of the guitar. A preternatural alertness has crept into his expression. Kin's slender fingers tremble as they adjust the tines, but they approximate a sound that's in tune. Lena squeezes Hank's hands and mine. None of us is prepared for what may be about to happen. I shake myself loose from the circuit. I have to experience this for myself.

As Kin starts to strum, I'm surprised by the volume that ripples from the toy instrument. He beats out a rhythm that replicates the headlong urgency of his steps. At first the chords seem to coalesce into a familiar song, but then they violently fracture, suggesting something entirely new. My body begins to ignite. Kin leans into the rapidly splintering sound but can't seem to find his entrance, as if the words are locked in his windpipe.
His lips foam and quiver. His eyes swing back in their sockets. Sweat crowns his forehead. When he finally opens his mouth, he unleashes a terrible howl.

The sound comes choking out in convulsive yelps. The children burst into peals of hysterical laughter. This is the punch line they've been awaiting, but it's no joke. A tormented expression strangles Kin Mersey's features. He begins to weep while continuing to play. Drool collects around the edges of his lips. There's a tragic, desperate intimacy to the performance. It's so overwhelming that I shut my eyes. I can't face Hank's knowing contempt or Lena's romanticized rapture. Everything around me feels like it's turning to ash.

Kin lets loose another round of high-pitched shrieks. I have to get out of here. I abandon my friends, push past the crowd, and scramble through the hallway in stocking feet. I bound down the stairs three at a time, trying to forget about the spittle massing around Kin's mouth, not waiting to discover the fate of that one still expanding bubble of saliva.

(15 years old)

 

 

“What will we do to disappear?”

–Maurice Blanchot

I'M NOT PAYING ATTENTION TO TRAFFIC SIGNALS. My gaze is trained on my rotting sneakers. I'm in a half-zombie state, shuffling across the street wherever I feel like it. Let them honk if they're about to hit me.

Not that there are many people out on this gray Sunday morning. I can't remember exactly where I'm wandering. It's one of those indistinguishable neighborhoods on the outskirts of the city. The blank modern façades try hard to appear antiseptic but the structural rot peeks through even the freshest coats of paint. The narrow streets are empty except for a lone figure dressed in molting clothes and cradling a bandaged hand. That's me. I'm prospecting for a promising corner to collect change for a bus ticket. The final destination doesn't matter. I just want to be in a different city. I'm too hollowed out to be picky.

I'm heading through the intersection of the main boulevard when something tugs at my shirt. A man yanks me back onto the curb. He immediately apologizes, speaking in a foreign-inflected English. “I am so sorry,” he says, looking genuinely aggrieved. I figure a truck must have been careening toward us, but the street is empty. There's not even any slow-circling taxis, chumming for fares. “I am so sorry you're sick,” the man continues. “It is painful for me because a dear friend of mine had the same disease. This is a terrible thing to see a young person in such a state.”

I have no idea what he's talking about. Maybe there's a glitch in the translation of his thoughts. “This may sound strange,” he continues. “But you should know how lucky you are to run
into me. I can help you.” The man spots my bandaged hand and stops short.

My mind starts to hum. I slashed my palm several weeks ago while scurrying up a chain-link fence. The cut is an aching inconvenience, but at least it generates sympathy when I need to solicit cash. But now I start to wonder if it's also initiated some creeping systemic infection. I've been living by myself and haven't made a careful inspection of my reflection in days. Or maybe it's even been weeks. Maybe this person sees something I can't.

“Did you not know?” the man asks. “Your hand has been very slow to heal, has it not? Didn't you find this unusual? It is a symptom of the disease. Do not be ashamed. At first my poor friend did not recognize it either. But I know how to help you.”

It's true the scarlet slash across my hand hasn't properly scabbed. Maybe I have contracted a virus. Who knows what kinky microbes cling to hostel mattresses and bus station toilet seats. It's not like I feel ideal, either. I've had all kinds of health issues. But are my persistent cough and acidic stomach manifestations of something more sinister? I find myself starting to back away.

The man claps his hands to regain my attention. It's a weirdly authoritative and almost parental gesture, the way you'd deal with a distracted child. “You are sick, my friend,” he says. “This is a tragic reality. Why would I lie about something like this?”

I shake my head. Not to indicate one thing or another, but to try and clear some mental space. “Do you think I am trying to take your money?” the man asks. An injured and indignant expression squirms across his face. “Look at me. Do I look like someone who needs to take advantage of anybody?”

The man is Germanic, early thirties, stylish blond crew cut, clean shaven, trim physique, blue sweater and tan slacks. “Look at my shoes,” he says. “I am not joking, look at my shoes!” They're brown leather loafers with a discrete black circle, doubtless
some chic designer insignia, stitched above the toes. “Tell me why someone wearing these shoes would take advantage? I do not require anyone's time or money.”

He brushes his fingertips along the small of my back, subtly guiding us in the direction of a shopping thoroughfare off the main boulevard. “Call me Gert-Jan,” the man says. “I would be very pleased to help you. This is my nature. I know a doctor. It is very fortunate that he is not far away.” I haven't agreed to anything but there is something about his demeanor that feels reassuring.

Gert-Jan maintains a brisk commentary while we walk. There are details about his sick friend and the location of the doctor, but I'm more interested in the store fronts. The shops are closed and the lights extinguished. As we pass, I scour the glass for signs of illness in my reflection. I try to detect what Gert-Jan has noticed. Maybe others have seen it and been too polite or indifferent to react. Of course we're moving too quickly for a proper diagnosis. But I do strike myself as particularly pale and hollow-eyed.

We hurry through a small concrete courtyard and descend a flight of metal stairs to a basement office. “Here it is,” Gert-Jan announces. We stand in front of a frosted glass door with the emblem of a medical cross neatly etched across the front. A comforting sight. There's a doctor's name and traces of some other information in a smaller font. Gert-Jan brandishes a silver key and lets us inside.

The office is deserted. The overpowering odor of disinfectant stings the air. The wooden floor is scarred with scratch marks. Narrow windows line the top of the walls so that only the dingiest light filters in from the street above. I would feel better if the staff was present but before I can voice my concerns, Gert-Jan hastens to explain.

“Of course it is Sunday,” he says. “Naturally, everyone is at home. They have the equipment you need. This doctor is a good
friend of mine. We went to medical school together, only I never finished.” I find myself caught in a constant and slippery stream of information and it's all I can do to keep my balance. I've felt invisible on the streets for so long that I have no idea how to cope with this unfamiliar undertow of kindness. Gert-Jan leads us down a narrow hallway to a circular room. “Don't worry,” he says. “I know exactly what to do.”

Inside the operating theater, Gert-Jan unspools a fresh roll of paper for the examining table; positions the swiveling lamps so they shine brilliantly overhead; explains how he will run several quick and painless tests. He scrubs his hands, snaps on a pair of rubber gloves, and rummages for supplies. He sets about his tasks as precisely as a technician preparing a movie set for the next shot.

While I lie on the examining table, I make a mental note of my surroundings: Small cabinets on wheels, monitors with digital displays, thin steel tools soaking in jars of colored fluid. The sidewalk is visible from a rectangular window near the ceiling and several pairs of shoes march past. On the counter lies a nylon muzzle. On the back of the door hangs a poster of a golden retriever snaring a Frisbee. I flash on a terrifying thought: This is a veterinarian's office.

I don't bolt out the door. I don't scream for help. I can't explain why I continue to lie prone on the chilly exam table. Maybe part of me is still hoping Gert-Jan will cure my supposed illness. Maybe part of me doesn't care anymore. My eyes remain shut until it's over. I struggle to keep my body wholly unresponsive while Gert-Jan ties my wrists, but my left pinky keeps bucking and jerking, as if it's acquired its own nervous system.

Afterward, he removes the gag and cups my chin while I cough. “You are cured,” he announces. He still wears one of the powdery green surgical gloves. It's dappled with droplets of blood.

For a long time, I lie motionless on the examining table.
Everything feels unreal, as if a critical part of myself has been unplugged. When I finally sit upright, he regards me with something approximating tenderness, maybe what you might feel for an injured pet. Gert-Jan holds out a handful of neon yellow pills and I swallow them without asking what they'll do. They tingle on my tongue and dissolve in a quick fizz.

Gert-Jan strokes my shoulder. He tousles his fingers through my hair. He leans in to kiss my lips. “You are a sad person,” he says. “But I promise you will never feel any more pain.”

Ignore the dead body on the floor. It's just earning a living. Gert-Jan instructs the partygoers to step over it as they ferry rounds of drinks from the kitchen to the den. Everyone is careful not to disturb the body's composure. It lies face-down in a puddle created by the unplugged refrigerator. Its skinny arms are bound behind its back with black bandanas. The tag around its neck reads “My Name Is Jeff.” The body is mine, technically speaking. But let's not get hung up on unnecessary details.

The body is in its typical corpse pose. One of them, anyway. Its white T-shirt is soaked and ideally transparent. Its mouth emits discreet bubbles in the puddled water. Its eyes are open but unmoving. They're perfectly dull, which takes more skill than you might imagine. The body isn't paying much attention to the party. I'm there but I'm not there, which is as close as I can come to describing the situation without devolving into metaphysics.

The body's eyes register a new shape swimming in front of them. A middle-aged woman with bushy chestnut curls and tiny sparrow hands. She stares intently at the body. She occasionally bends low to study its nonexistent expression. There is eye contact, of a sort. The body can't tell whether the woman wants to
buy it or not. Her gaze has an unfocused intensity that would be hard to read even in the best of circumstances.

A clock chimes in the next room. Corpse time is over. Too bad. It's always been one of the body's favorite tasks. Gert-Jan unties the body and arranges it into a more traditionally enticing pose: Seated on the floor, hair ruffled over its eyes, arms tightly hugging its scuffed pink knees. “This is for your own good,” Gert-Jan likes to remind the body. He hands it another yellow pill which it dutifully swallows.

The main room of the brownstone has a shimmering crimson glow. The walls have been painted silver. Red scarves are draped over the lamps to lend the place an even more exotic atmosphere. It makes the dozen people hovering over the body look like crew members on a low-budget slasher film. Grips and gaffers, maybe. Someone throws an empty wine glass into the cold black fireplace, but nobody bothers to react.

Gert-Jan announces the opening of an auction. Someone shouts out a price. Another person counters with a higher offer. The middle-aged woman remains silent, seated on the leather couch with her back to the others. Another bid. Gert-Jan announces that none of them is satisfactory. Goddamn insulting, really. He reminds everyone of the body's tender age, the distinct opportunities afforded by such barely corrupted flesh, et cetera. His accent ices the words with a superfluous layer of innuendo.

The final round of offers. While others volley a sequence of escalating digits, the body clandestinely focuses its attention in the direction of the middle-aged woman. Something sets her apart from the usual clientele. Her matronly wool sweater, stud earrings, and plaid skirt are hopelessly conservative. Her permed curls are decades out of fashion. But those aren't the real aberrations. It's how she acts so sober. Or maybe so nervous. She keeps straightening her skirt, smoothing the tight pleats with her palms then tugging primly at the hem. The body registers all this
somewhere at the tingling cortex level. Call it a vague feeling of unease. If that's even close to the right emotion.

We've got a winner. An emaciated grandfather in cowboy boots jabs two fingers into the air. It's either a sardonic gesture of victory or an aggressive fuck you. At another time this detail would be a clue, but for now the body can only register the reliable drone of Gert-Jan counting out the old man's money. Gert-Jan briefly fans the bills before the body. “Business is good tonight, partner,” he says, then slips the cash into his front pocket.

In a tinny voice, the body says, “Thank you.” Its vocabulary has been distilled to two phrases. For its own good, really. Anything other than “Thank you” or “I'm sorry” inevitably leads to savage misunderstandings or agonizing guilt. Trust me: It's much happier this way. You'd be amazed how these four words ably express the full range of its emotions. Or rather, whatever emotional residue still remains inside the body, clinging like washed-out pigment to the walls of some long-forgotten cave.

Back to work. The old man fastens his bony fingers to the body's shoulder and guides it toward the staircase. The hazy fluorescent gleam of the open bedroom beckons at the top of the landing. The body can feel the middle-aged woman's gaze trailing its wobbly gait as it navigates the stairs. It catches a glimpse of her slowly rising to her feet. There appears to be something she wants to say, but the bedroom door slams shut and no words get spoken.

This next part's a blur. There's a plastic baggie full of pale green powder. There's a whinnying nasal voice scolding, “You weren't supposed to snort it
all
.” There's the grandfather guy who's just now switching off the overhead light in the bedroom and trying in vain to kick off his cowboy boots. They're like snakes whose skins refuse to be shed. Now the light is back on. In the background, the desiccated figure of the old man has been replaced by a stocky construction worker. The body lies on
the rim of a saggy black mattress and whispers, “I'm sorry.” But it's in response to something someone said hours ago.