On My Way to Paradise (56 page)

"The Japanese call them
manesuru onna,
the
mimicking women," Abriara said. "They’re very common near coastal
waters." She looked at me for several seconds. I was still wet from
my swim, dirty from my walk. She said, "Angelo, are you in
pain?"

They were the first soft words she’d said since I’d
mutilated Lucío. "No," I said. "I was just thinking."

"You were thinking painful thoughts. What were
they?"

Only a few days before I’d told myself that I didn’t
want her affection. Yet after fighting Lucío I’d became afraid that
I’d lost it. I found myself revealing my deepest feelings. "When
Master Kaigo died he accused us of loving murder. I wonder if his
words are true. When I fought Lucío I wanted with all of my heart
to put the machete down, to stop tormenting him—yet I could not. Do
I love murder? And when I saw the dead women outside of town—I keep
thinking such a sight should destroy a person. Such a sight should
make it impossible to live. Yet I feel myself hardening to it. I
feel myself becoming numb. And I wonder: do I love murder?

"When I was a child I used to access the dream
networks. Always I admired it when the good man killed the bad man
out of vengeance—and I realize now that I may indeed have been
trained to love murder. And maybe that is why I could not stop
killing Lucío. Because I’ve been trained to believe that good men
can kill bad without consequence. But I feel the consequences
inside me. I’m dying. And I think maybe it is this society that has
done this to me. Maybe this society is evil. And if it is evil, I
should remove myself from it. I feel a need to escape the way a man
feels a need to escape prison."

Abriara looked at me a moment. "Every man must
believe in his own innate goodness," she said. "No matter how
loathsome a person is, he will hold up his good points to himself
and look at them and say, ‘I am a good person.’ And because of this
need to believe in one’s own innate worth, all people obey nearly
all the strictures placed upon them by their society. You do not
paint your face with sunsets, eat popcorn for breakfast, or walk
down the sidewalk backward simply because you know your society
does not condone such behavior.

"Now you have committed murder and wish to blame your
act on society so you can continue to believe in your own goodness.
And certainly some would agree that your society is at fault. As
you say, we were raised on violence in every form and we consider
it worthy entertainment. But according to the social engineers, all
societies seem evil and insane when viewed from the outside: a
socialist looks at us and sees how we are brainwashed into
believing we need objects to make us happy. He sees our society
riddled with corruption due to commercialism. Yet we look at the
socialists and are shocked that their society does not help them
attain the labor-saving devices we worship. The socialists live a
hard life. Who is more evil, the socialist or the capitalist? Both
societies are equally evil in the eyes of a social engineer, and
from the outside we can see the evil in all societies, yet each
sees itself as being correct. Yes, you do live in an evil society.
Yet we could look down through history and find a hundred societies
that loved murder more than ours does. Kaigo’s society loves murder
as much as ours does. As you said, they love suicide, too. You say
you feel a need to escape your society. But don’t you see that in
order for you to see the evil in your own society, to some degree
you must have escaped it already?"

Abriara watched me steadily. "You may find a society
that doesn’t love violence. But even if you find such a society,
from the outside it will appear evil to you in some way. You are
too much of an individual to fit comfortably into a society that
was created by another."

I thought about it for a moment. I’d never heard
Abriara discuss such ideas, and it somehow seemed incongruous. I
asked, "Where did you learn about these philosophies?"

"I studied social engineering in Chile. After all,
one must know the enemy," she said, referring to the Nicita
Idealist Socialists in Argentina. Everyone had known for years that
the Idealists would start a war. Their philosophy demanded it.

I dressed in my armor, went to our shelter, and lay
down. Perfecto was awake, watching me with half-closed eyes. I said
nothing. If Abriara was right, I considered, I’d never find a
better society to serve than the one I already belonged to. Yet it
seemed that somewhere there should be a society I could serve
without feeling repugnance. I considered the anarchists of Tau
Ceti, the skeptics of Benitarius 4, the Justinians of Mars. And
Abriara was right—all of the cults disturbed me at some deep
level.

I dreamed that I strolled over a stone bridge where
clear water poured through a narrow channel. By the banks of the
stream were the great dark crabs, the mimicking women, gathering
rushes. The grass on the hillsides was the color of jade, and
everywhere was the sweet smell of Baker.

In the distance I glimpsed a man, an old white-haired
man dressed in a fine gray suit, who carried himself with dignity
and grace. He furtively glanced back at me over his shoulder, then
stepped behind a hedge. My heart quickened. I felt I knew that
man, but could not quite place him. I thought if only I could see
his face, I’d be sure. I hungered for his presence.

And I, I was dressed in sweaty, muddied battle armor,
for I’d been practicing in· the fields. I chased after that man,
ran to the hedge shouting, "Señor, señor! May I have a word with
you?"

But when I reached the spot where he’d been, he was
gone. I cast about, searching for him, and saw him farther on,
speaking to a young lady, admiring a thicket of plums where boughs
of pink blossoms cascaded from the trunks like water from a
fountain. I called after him, and he stepped into the trees. The
young lady looked about, searching for the cause of the gentleman’s
unease, and I gave chase.

Behind the thicket of plum was a trail bordered by
lush grass. And the gentleman was upon that trail heading into a
pine forest, too far away for me to hail. I followed, fearing to go
into the dark forest after him. But I did press on into the forest,
along an unused path overgrown with moss. I called to him and my
voice fell dead among the pine needles. My feet crunched over
twigs, breaking them as if they were small bones. The path was
misty, and several times I thought I’d lost it. Yet I gave chase,
twice glimpsing his gray back in the distance.

I came to a clearing where there was a small white
house with papaya trees and orchids in the yard. It was my home in
Panamá, and behind the house the whistle of a maglev sounded as it
rushed over the tracks that crossed Lake Gatun. It was beautiful,
and it felt so good to be home.

I walked up to my house, opened the door, and smelled
the familiar scents of home. I looked on the floor where Arish had
died, and there were no bloodstains, no sign of his existence .
Yet a great disquiet filled me at the sight of the spot, a great
emptiness. I heard voices, the young girl Tatiana laughing in
amusement—and I saw Tamara at the top of the stairs sitting
straight and beautiful at the table, gazing in rapture at the
partially concealed form of the old man who had his back
turned.

I shouted, "You there, señor! I beg your pardon!"
Tamara gasped at me in horror as I bounded up the stairs, muddying
the handrails with my dirty hands. Tanana also sat at the table,
and she lurched back in her chair to escape. The old Angelo turned
to face me, and his eyes were alive and fierce. He was angered to
see me.

"Get away, you vicious dog!" he shouted.

"Why must you pursue me?"

I fell back, stunned by his wrath. I looked around at
the shocked faces of my friends. I didn’t know what to answer. I
pulled a revolver from my pocket and fired into his face.

When I woke, the rain had stopped and the skies were
clear as far as the eye could see. Garzón’s spy balloons had
climbed far into the sky. We took it easy. Garzón wanted us relaxed
when we met the Yabajin, and just as important he didn’t want us to
get too far from Kimai no Ji. He wanted the Yabajin to believe we
were like vultures, simply waiting for the Yabajin to fight with
Motoki’s samurai while we hoped to clean up the last of them after
the battle. He didn’t want them to realize we’d attack Hotoke no
Za—not until they’d come so far that they wouldn’t have the fuel to
return home.

Perfecto watched me most of the morning, giving me
evil glances; I kept expecting him to speak. Mavro went to visit
friends and Zavala and Abriara went to wash in the stream, leaving
Perfecto and me alone.

"Angelo," he said, "I saw you speaking with Abriara
last night." His face revealed a barely controlled rage, and 1
wondered momentarily if he was angry because I’d spent time with
Abriara. I’d seen something of this in his eyes when he’d found
Abriara helping me dress.

Did he have designs on her himself? I wondered.

He continued, "And several nights ago you went for a
walk with her instead of coming to the baths with me. So I must ask
you: who is your favorite person?"

He was jealous of Abriara. With his heightened
territorialism I should have seen it coming. "You are my favorite
male friend," I said. "Abriara may be my favorite female
friend."

He stared at the ground in shame. He knew he could
never have the kind of relationship with me that Abriara might
have. I wondered if all bonded chimeras became so jealous. Would
they end up fighting for my attention? And I also realized
something else—Abriara and Perfecto had both been seeking my
affection ever since I woke from the cryotanks. Both had sought to
advise me, to counsel me, to meet my emotional and physical needs.
They were both struggling to become my confidant, my best
friend.

"Then, if you marry Abriara," Perfecto said, "may I
live next door to you? May I come help do your gardening once in a
while, or just come to talk and drink beers?"

"You will always be welcome in my home," I said. "You
are my best friend."

Perfecto considered a moment. "Good, so long as you
know I am, your best amigo!"

Abriara came walking up from the stream a few minutes
later. Perfecto hailed her by shouting, "Abriara! I am Angelo’s
best amigo and you are his best amiga!"

After my experiences with the strange animals the
night before, I couldn’t imagine staying on this planet for the
rest of my life. Garzón had promised that even if we beat the
Yabajin, we’d never return to Earth. I couldn’t imagine this. I was
afraid I’d forget what Earth was like. I remembered the ease r d
felt in my dream of Panamá, the way my mind was refreshed by the
familiar comforts of home. Yet, I’d lost myself at home. I’d left
my compassion there on the floor when r d killed Arish. And I
wondered if I returned to my home in Panamá, would I find myself
there? I wanted more than anything to build a new world in my dream
monitor, an illusion of Panamá as it had been when I left.

Late in the morning I took my monitor and walked to
Garzón’s camp. I didn’t hear or see any dangerous animals, though
many times I heard rustling in the brush as small creatures the
size of guinea pigs foraged among rotting leaves. At Garzón’s camp
they’d built a roaring fire, and a good two hundred men sat around
it and joked. The cold seemed to be dissipating, but the fire still
felt good. Tamara sat near Garzón, the only person wearing battle
armor while slumped in a wheelchair. Garzón never let her out of
his sight. One could almost imagine an invisible leash five meters
long attached to Tamara’s neck with Garzón holding the end. I knew
Garzón wouldn’t like me to speak to her privately, but he seemed
distracted.

Garzón was intently telling a funny story about a man
who went to a restaurant in Mexico once a week after the bullfights
so he could eat the
huevos fritos de guey,
the testicles,
from the bull. This went on for several weeks, and the man was well
satisfied, but one day the waiter brought his plate, and instead of
the huge testicles he so much relished, the plate had only small
testicles the size of walnuts. The man asked the waiter, "Every
week after the bullfight you bring me large, fresh, delicious
huevos the size of oranges! Why do you bring these little things
now?" And the waiter answered, "But señor, the bull, he does not
always lose the fight!"

This joke was received with such applause Garzón
immediately launched into a story about the secret police in Peru.
People clung to every word. Seeing my chance I bent near Garzón’s
ear, held out my monitor, and asked, "General, I’d like to
reconstruct a dream world of my home in Panamá, and wondered if I
might get Tamara to help?"

Garzón nodded and waved me away, happy to be rid of
the distraction.

I went to Tamara’s wheelchair and pulled her back
from the fire explaining, "I’d like you to build a world for me: my
little home in Panamá," then switched the monitor to
interactive,
plugged a jack into the base of her helmet, and
jacked myself in.

Tamara was already at work building Panamá, riding
the back of her giant bull as she stared at empty spaces, and
entire buildings sprung into existence. I felt a thrill of hope and
anticipation. This would work. This would work. . This world would
make me better.

But it wasn’t the Panamá I remembered. She’d started
on Lake Gatun and had put the southern shore so near that the
maglev rails crossing the lake were practically in my backyard. My
house was correctly proportioned but the houses of my neighbors,
though elaborate in detail, were not correct in design. They were
the houses of strangers. Yet she did much good work and this gave
me hope. She urged her bull forward and walked through my yard,
putting sky, land, insects, and birds all in place, and. made the
air heavy and humid with a slight tang of sea breeze while billowy
white clouds floated lazily overhead, casting shadows on the lake.
Details that would have taken me weeks took her only minutes, and I
let her build a world for me while I watched to see what I’d have
to change.