The Schwarzschild Radius (14 page)

Joules removed the earphones.

“Any news?” he asked.

“Nothing. It’s bad. Really bad. I’m desperate, Joules.”

Joules extended his hand across the table. It fell short of Rachel’s. “You went to class?” he asked. She nodded.

“Good. You have to keep going. How many credits?”

“Eighteen. You?”

“Twenty-one. What are you taking?” he asked.

“Intro to Biomedical Engineering, Contemporary Civilization, Physics, Chem, Advanced Calc and Literature Humanities―LitHum. When I was looking through all those courses I wished I could have two more lives to take them all. And you?”

“Chem, Physics, Astronomy, Linear Algebra, Advanced Calc, Computer Design, Art History.”

“That’s a heavy load.”

“I want to get out in three years.”

“You’re a masochist. Cooper’s free, so what will that extra year buy you?”

“Not exactly free. Free tuition. Fees are on me.”

The breeze moved his blond forelock, dramatically, and Rachel thought of all the things she would like to say to him, but couldn’t. She took the easy way out.
“So explain to me for the eighth time what the Schwarzschild Radius is.”

Joules leaned forward as though only the sharing of abstractions could bring him closer to people.

“When a star about two or three times the size of our sun dies, it collapses until the entire mass of the star is concentrated at one point―a singularity―a black hole. As it’s collapsing, it becomes denser and its gravitational attraction increases until nothing can escape its surface. In the case of the Earth, the escape velocity is seventeen-thousand miles an hour. But when the gravitational attraction is billions of times greater, the escape velocity exceeds the speed of light. Nothing can travel faster than light, so nothing can escape the surface of such an object. When the collapsing star reaches that size where its gravitational attraction is so great that nothing, not even light can escape, it’s reached its Schwarzschild Radius.

“This has a number of consequences. A distance away from the center of the collapsed star, there’s a region called the photon sphere where gravity isn’t strong enough to pull light into the black hole, but strong enough to prevent it from escaping. Here, light orbits forever around the black hole.

“It also gives rise to the possibility of parallel universes where there could be other versions of ourselves living different versions of our lives. The mathematics of all this is sublime. That’s what I’m investigating. But you didn’t come here to fathom black holes.”

“It’s taken me over―Olivia. Do you know what I mean?”

“I know all about that.”

“Were you ever so obsessed with something that you knew was hurting you, but you stayed with it anyway?”

“Yes.”

“How did it hurt you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Joules brushed his hair away from his face. “Regret. It’s probably the worst kind of hurt, aside from a crippling physical trauma. My mother was in the hospital for an emergency gall bladder surgery, and I didn’t want to take the time to go there because I was working on the math paper that I was submitting for publication. I ended up going after my father said a few things to me from which our relationship never really recovered. I regret that. The paper could have waited.”

“Did you ever do something knowing that it would hurt you?”

“I do it constantly by being alone all the time. But in my case, it’s as though I’m missing the nerve endings that are connected to loneliness. I just don’t feel bothered by being alone―the way you don’t feel your legs when you’re freezing to death. How can this not hurt you? What began as a preference for my own company became an overpowering desire to be alone. So much so that sometimes I walk along the halls at school and refuse to look anyone in the face for fear of having to make conversation.

“And I think it’s a special dispensation, this power to be alone. Think of all the things you could accomplish if you didn’t waste time with people, parties, marriage, kids. I don’t desire these things and I think that I’m blessed. I can go weeks without talking to anyone. I know this can’t be right.”

“Then why do you do it? Why don’t you try to socialize more?”

“The effort for me is exhausting. I know I do such a poor job of being a pal that I like myself more when I’m alone. I’m good at that.”

“You do a great job of being a pal.”

Joules’ torso edged away. They were no longer discussing the stars above.

“And what if we enter one of these parallel lives―back to the Schwarzschild Radius―can we ever come back?” said Rachel.

“I sense you’re at a crossroads.”

Rachel was taken aback by Joules’ perceptiveness. Though he wasn’t much of a participant in human affairs, he was a keen observer.

“What’s on your mind?” he continued.

“I can’t say right now, I may not go through with it. And if I do, it would be best if no one ever knew.”

t was the third time Rachel approached the Pleasure Palace.

She could do it. It would only be for one day. She told herself she could do this for one day and still be a good, decent person afterwards. But didn’t every girl in this place say that when they hesitated outside this entrance?

“Honey, do you mind?” a voice said behind her.

Rachel got out of her way. The Puerto Rican girl in a red miniskirt entered the Pleasure Palace as men nearby gave her a momentary glance.

Rachel walked to the street vendor and bought a Coke. She never drank soda, so she just stood there, holding the open can as though doing something.

Indecision was an unnatural state for her. What she was considering was bizarre beyond anything she had ever contemplated doing. Did Olivia pace along these same streets before changing herself forever? She’d been looking for something, too. Inside Rachel, opposing forces of equal strength vied for her judgment. If she walked away this instant, what would she do when she got home? If she walked in that door, would she be the same person tonight, or would she leave some part of herself behind? Would it be enough to tell herself that it was for a righteous cause?

Rachel walked in the door.

She was dressed in low-cut blue jeans from Olivia’s closet, a tube top, and red heels. Her thick dark hair framed the large O-shaped onyx earrings along the sides of her face. As she approached, the big, black bouncer behind the counter knew why she was there. When they were face to face, he turned away to listen to the rest of a story, making her wait.

“The old geezer walks in here three times a week to buy videos,” said the cashier. “He’s dyin’ of cancer and wants to see all the oriental action I got before he dies. ‘Magine that goal?”

“He better have it on fast forward,” said the other guy. Both men laughed. When the bouncer turned once again toward Rachel, his face was implacable.

“Who do I see about a job?” she said.

“Upstairs. Second door to your left. Mister Perlman.”

Rachel walked up the single flight of stairs and heard the unmistakable sound of human teeth snapping shut behind her.

Two girls in Danskins body suits were offering soft drinks to the arriving men while other girls stood outside their booths inviting customers in for a private show.

Rachel was the only one who had no role here. The girls entertained; the men gawked. They stared at Rachel, waiting for her to change into her costume.

Huge men, disproportionate to their menial task, stood with small pouches of tokens for the customers.

The second door to the right was closed. Now was the time to turn back. This was a sign that she wasn’t supposed to do this, that she had done enough and should go back to her dorm room and prepare for tomorrow’s lectures.

Nausea attacked her. How long had she been doing nothing in this place where everyone had a clear purpose? She almost asked one of the girls tending bar if the boss was in, in the hope that he wasn’t.

On Mr. Perlman’s door was a sign that said,
DO NOT ENTER.

Rachel knocked.

There was no answer at first. The music was loud and could drown out a knock, a heartbeat, even a small scream. She knocked again.

Someone yelled something that couldn’t be understood.

When he opened the door, Rachel could see a black girl pulling up her body suit.

“Who do I see about a job?”

“Doing?” said Zoltan Perlman.

“Doing this. Out there.”

He asked his companion to turn down the stereo.

When he turned again to Rachel, the smile collapsed. This was his game face. “And you’ve done this before?” he asked.

“I did something like this.”

“Something like this. What’s something like this?”

Rachel hadn’t expected an audience at this interview.

“I used to dance.”

“Okay. That’s valuable experience. Before we go any further, I need ID that says you’re eighteen.”

Rachel gave it to him. He glanced at it, then pulled a sheet of paper out of a drawer.

“Fill this out and wait for me in the room at the end of the hall.”

When she entered the room, she put her back to a wall. It was stark with a desk, a camera on a tripod, a place for processing.

She filled out the fields in the application. Name, social security number, age, preferred hours, references. She left that blank. Rachel already felt she was revealing too much information. But this was just the beginning. She sat there for twenty minutes, then Perlman and an Indian assistant came in the room and closed the door behind them.

“Let me have that ID again.” He made a photocopy of the driver’s license with no attempt at small talk while she waited. Perlman’s ample black hair was combed straight back with the strong smell of Vitalis to hold it in place. His long-sleeved shirt stretched over his muscular torso with the tension of angled tent stakes. It bore the Bugle Boy emblem and his trousers displayed the B.U.M. label. Without much inspection, one could see the Gucci logo on his leather shoes.

He put the ID on the desk and sat behind it. His assistant took a position behind the camera. There was nowhere for her to sit.

“Could you look into the camera and stand against the wall, Miss,” said the cameraman.

Rachel did so.

He took two pictures of her full face and two more profile shots. Rachel felt she was being booked for a crime she was about to commit.

“You know anything about this business? You know how it works?” said the owner. He lit a cigarette.

“Pretty much,” she said.

“Pretty much isn’t good enough. I want you to know exactly how I run my place. It’s a buck a day, plus you gotta tip the boys. I want payment at the end of every shift. No excuses.”

“You mean I have to pay
you
?”

“Correct. The house provides a safe and clean place for you to do business. In exchange, you pay rent for the booth you work. I can’t tell you how important it is to get that straight.”

“Understood.”

He glanced at the application. “Okay. Let’s see what you’ve got.” He made a downward motion with the cigarette that was self-explanatory.

Rachel had steeled herself for this moment. The assistant parked himself in the corner and wasn’t going anywhere. She didn’t think there would be anyone else in the room.