THE BLADE RUNNER AMENDMENT (20 page)

“The ducks are beautiful as they swim, their feet hidden,” she would say, for he had her respond to the world, but in simple expressive terms that were agreeable to him. It didn’t seem wise to be wholly attentive to her and to be challenged to no purpose.

Still, her charms disarmed him. The breeze made her blink and her lips quivered to its touch. She sat pertly on the bench, but her shift rode up with glances coming the way of her silken thigh. It was yet another luxury to experience a jealousy that didn’t threaten to devour him, for he possessed her as he possessed his view of the park. She would brighten at the attention – leaving him to wonder what files she had consulted – cinematic and Audrey Hepburn in manner, modest and without exaggeration. Was he – an intimate amalgam of data on her periphery – any different to her as he was, that is, similarly a work in progress? And yet he sacrificed something in the thought, did he not? Like any human, he had no full knowledge of the requirements for self-completion whereas, for Chloé, the task was always clear. He relied on insight and emotion.

They would go to the opera, at times the opera, and it would not be more extreme than Central Park upon his nervous system, a surprise at first, a jarring welcome surprise. All of the self-indulgence among the attendees paraded in the open as they celebrated the cultural event that embellished them. None of their human-like accessories – little better than mannequins really to his newly proud eye – surpassed Chloé, sylph-like beside him, hand curled for support about his arm.

Her eyes opened wide at
La Bohème
, gathering it all in and, afterwards, there was no greater delight for him than her commentary on past performances of the opera as he brought her to his bed and then to the pleasure her face was capable of expressing. Knowing that there was more beyond his limit to accomplish, what did he care as to the true nature of her “emotions” – the word functioned as a useful shortcut – when cynicism and pleasure could now abide each other?

“Neither character gives a truly convincing reason for breaking up. I suspect they find the opportunity of getting together with someone more thrilling than actually being with them. The final act completes the tragedy – when Rodolfo can’t warm Mimi’s cold hand.”

As she spoke, his mind revolved back to the full sense of loneliness he had felt in the other individuals in the audience as they sat next to their humanoid companions both dressed in similar casual opera chic: the males in tailored shirts, square-cut and outside the trousers, with oddly serpentine boas wrapped about their necks; the females with inverted cupcake hats frilled and interleaved with petals about the rim – what were they thinking, buyers and designers? The shared fashion made them appear more, not less alone in the company of their integrated humanoids.

Why go anywhere, the argument went, without a personal and resourceful aide making at last of life a pleasant and, at times, profound exercise? As for there being less companionable talk, one did tend to sound idiotic in comparison to the mellifluous dissertations.

“Her brilliance makes me shut up!”

“She expresses it so much better than I ever could.”

“I could listen to her rhapsodize all day!”

Rhapsodize. Where does that come from? No one asks. Everyone lets it pass. Why be impolite?

It had to be a mistake, taking her to visit his mom, since his intentions were complex and possibly confused – more so than if Chloé had been a simple human. He had wanted to show her off, this latest wonder of the world! Look at her, Mom! He’d also wanted to round out Chloé’s knowledge of him, deepen it if that were possible, all the while conscious how on many levels neglected or otherwise he could never be more than the equivalent of a fact sheet in what passed for her unimaginably capable mind.

He had wrongly assumed that his mom wouldn’t identify this personal involvement, would accept his denials, and that her hackles wouldn’t rise. She immediately saw through his pretensions of disinterest – he hadn’t calculated how awkwardly he would express them. It had been a foolish hope that she would be bemused and worldly about his harmless infatuation.

“I’d like you to meet Chloé. No need to bother yourself, Mom, she’s not human. Chloé, this is my mother.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Woolf? Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“Don’t make me laugh! What do you know about lovely?”

“Oh, a lot. The word actually has two meanings that are on a scale, as it were. At one end, we have ‘exquisitely beautiful’, while at the other – and this is, significantly, its more informal and generally intended meaning – the word ‘lovely’ is used to connote the ‘very pleasant’, in other words, pretty well anything on a sunny day like today. As for my intention, the latter meaning would be appropriate, in terms, that is, of my being easily able to recharge, although you are right, it doesn’t matter to me one way or the other, I simply do as I am instructed, but it must be more ‘pleasant’ for those around – you lot I might say – especially Virgil, if I am not a deactivated lump.”

Virgil struggled within the grip of a deep cringe.

“You lot!”

His mother turned from one to the other.

“Sorry, I forgot. She’s in a low degree confrontational mode. I like the give and take, but I can change it if you like. Be nice, Chloé!”

“Don’t bother.”

“Oh it’s no bother, Mrs. Woolf. Your son has told me a lot about you. You seem, from what he has said, to be an exemplary parent.”

“Virgil!”

“Yes, Mom?”

“What would a high degree of confrontation look like?”

“Argumentative in tone. Superior. Overwhelming – not to attempt without a few PhDs in your pocket, but nothing to worry about in the end. More for those times when you’ve had a few drinks and want to take on the world. There are shades, as with humans, Mom.”

“Humans,” she sniffed, “trip up, and other humans understand it.”

It would be wrong of him to instruct her. Some lessons a person needs to learn themselves.

Frustratingly she had always refused to countenance the idea that the presence of one of these in her world might be a help not only with the normal day to day run of things but also with matters she hadn’t dreamt, personal matters of mental give and take. She would, as he saw it, no longer be intellectually cooped up in this little apartment, spoon-fed and numbed, a unit in an unbroken mass of spectators at the equivalent of the Roman Forum. He saw her in the bleachers, peering at her downgraded 3D platform, the ultimate in processed life.

“Chloé, if you could be servile in manner, Mother would appreciate it.”

“Of course, Virgil. Whatever is required.”

“There, is that better?”

“Don’t be insulting, all I ask is that she be civil.”

“Chloé, you heard Mother.”

“Yes I did, and I am happy to comply as always.”

“Now she’s being sarcastic.”

Virgil gave up and looked about the room. 3D drama paused. What had she been watching? Was there no end to
Coronation Street
and the infernal British class system?

“How long,” he sighed, “has this show been running?”

“Ninety seasons plus four episodes,” came Chloé’s prompt and languid reply. She really didn’t know how to behave around his mother who, however, took her up on it.

“That long, is it?”

Virgil sensed, if not a melting of the ice, then a movement of its solid pack.

“Yes, Mrs Woolf. Would you like a complete history of the series?”

Dear God!

“No, no. Don’t be rude again. You know very well I can get it myself.”

“Of course.”

“I wonder you can stand it…”

His mother was looking at him. She had this habit of leaving incomplete what she had to say as though it were beneath her dignity to become further involved. What was she on about now beyond asserting her prerogative to be human and therefore wilful and obstinate, a time-honoured excuse when time passes one by?

Today, she would argue, in unanswerable fashion, humans communicated with each other like computers as if they would not otherwise be understood and she would have none of it. His mom, despite her deep and broad media consumption, remained an outlier and he was happy enough with that, amused, in fact – it made her seem more real, a little ‘larger than life’, as they say, even if she wasn’t. He wondered how that experience fitted into the illusion that Buddhists perceived all things to be. Does it have a lower status?

Just what was this feeling of unreality that had taken hold of him about?

Was it Chloé at his side on the red couch, who remained composed and caused him to feel that he breathed a stuffy amniotic atmosphere, the result of layers of time having settled one atop the other to produce an archaeological site with no differentiating the past from the present stratum?

“Stand what, Mom?”

He waited in some anxiety as to what would require his response. It was a relief when she went off whatever was her topic. Or did she?

“Never mind. It’s all in the news. Haven’t you heard? There’s to be an impeachment, and maybe someone, I’m not saying who, should think about his own conduct.”

Her emphasis on the middle syllable of the judicial proceeding brought to mind the fuzzy-skinned fruit. By the self-righteous look on her face she had readied herself for a rebuttal and dared him to produce it. Chloé might well have been a piece of the furniture for all his mom paid attention to her interested demeanour, and he wondered in what manner his plaything, as he on his part now also identified her, was processing his mother’s expression. What bits and bytes could properly capture the manifold nuances of meaning behind it? First and foremost, however, why hadn’t Chloé been apprised of this news? He was embarrassed to think whether their “dates” had been a distraction.

He decided it best not to take the facial look personally, treat it instead as some unfortunate lapse of taste.

“No, I hadn’t. What’s all this about?”

“Oh, the same old shenanigans.”

His mother became dismissively tightlipped after this encapsulation of what she found difficult to put into words that would not rebound on her.

“What do you mean ‘shenanigans’?”

“Better ask your friend. She ought to be able to tell you.”

“Yes, Mom, I shall, but later.”

Red had appeared in his mother’s clearly fraught eyes.

“Don’t take it so personally,” he urged, having just succeeded in that admonition towards himself.

She muttered defensively, her tone peevish.

“I’ve seen it before. They put us through it again and again.”

His poor mother was, he had long realized, one of those citizens who took the country’s political dramas far too personally. He steered his thoughts away, jettisoning further attempts at correction.

“Look, Mom, anything you need, call me. Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.” His gaze wandered in Chloé’s direction. At least nothing that he might do could affect he.

“Me? Upset?” She adamantly denied the obvious, and shook her head. “It’ll take more than that.”

She had been sharp to involve Chloé with the news of the day, whatever that might be. He determined to find out once he’d extricated himself. His mother regarded only him, holding his gaze as he backed guiltily away. A final wave and, with a sense of relief, he closed the door between their abutted worlds. What was that visit about again? He had wanted to check on his mom with Chloé at his side and show her off to his elderly parent of all people!

“So what has happened?”

They were out on the street. Chloé looked a little limp but this he ignored.

“Your mother is correct. There has been a call for impeachment. She is mistaken if she thinks there are proceedings underway.”

“And what is the reason for it?”

“Oh, the usual.”

“What do you mean, Chloé? Look, enough of this conversational tone. More information, please.”

Although quiet, the air about them hinted at turbulence. The traffic slid past, and his inner upheaval included parked cars as part of it.

“Yes, Virgil. Once again as in the past, the year 1999, the President has been charged, in this case caught
in flagrante delicto
as still colourfully described, with engagement in an intimate physical act, also with an apprentice, the difference this time being the gender, the entity, and the evidence. The compromising incident is available to everyone – it was caught on camera.

Virgil sighed. “Because there is a precedent, he should weather the storm. Many precedents, in fact. Such behaviour seems to come with the territory.”

“Apparently. Except that there is a new twist in this instance.”

“How so?”

“He was caught with an apprentice humanoid equipped with standard issue video components.”

“Video! What was he thinking? Of course it was equipped…you record everything.”

Did he read triumph in her tone as she delivered the explanation or was the content itself inducing paranoia in him?