"Hrm."
"That's the name. Of my contest. You have to-"
"I wasn't interested before, and I'm not interested now. You know something about my brother."
She carried on, unperturbed. "You have seven days, in seven cities, picked at random from the entire world. In that time, you and the other contestants will photograph the most beautiful scenes of modern life. We've spent so long being ashamed of progress, embarrassed by modernity. It's time to change that. It's time to be proud of who we are, all of us, even the little and the small, to stand up and say-"
"Fuck me, that dude has a camera!"
She gaped, flushed, and her hands balled into shaking fists.
"Hey," he said, "did I trip your train? Gee, I'm sorry, that seems to happen a lot, especially when my big brother disappears, and Neolithic types come bearing gifts of cracked ribs, shattered skulls and sore toes."
She shuddered with suppressed fury. "If you don't want my help, you don't have to have it," she said. "Go back to your rat hole. Go back and see how long you last with Gell Shield hunting you. Go back and try to find your brother without my help. I'm standing here trying to offer you my resources, trying to save you unnecessary and fruitless efforts, but no, you're self reliant, you're self sufficient, you're happy in your shack at Malden, and to heck with everyone else."
"Walden," he said.
"Schmalden!"
He took his arm off the model, and sighed, uncomfortable and unsure of himself. She looked red faced and puffy about the eyes, as if tears were imminent, and though he'd been annoyed by her hard sell, he hadn't meant to hurt her.
"You can really help me find my brother? You know where he is, why he... Why I can't reach him?"
She nodded, and rubbed her hands. "Yes, I- I mean I suspect."
He cocked an eyebrow. "You suspect."
"I have certain resources."
"You said that."
"My position here as head of the global culture mission within the UN affords me discretion to allocate people and funds to many projects, for example-"
He rolled his eyes. "I don't need to hear your CV."
"For example, you."
"...me."
"If you enter my contest, I can employ my discretionary powers on your behalf. I can find your brother. I can help him."
"And if I don't enter your contest...can't you help me then?"
She shook her head. "I'm so sorry, but regulations..."
He put a hand on her desk, and drummed his fingers on the smooth, varnished surface of the wood. "I don't suppose you can prove you know what's happened to him."
"I know his real name, and yours."
"Your secretary could have dug those up! It's not as though they're national secrets."
"As it happens, I know much more than that. You and your brother are both world class photographers."
"Thank you for the flattery," he said, trying not to show his pleasure.
"This contest is a world class affair. Not everyone is in it for the work. Some are in it for the win."
He stared at her, unable to hide his disbelief. "You're saying that another contestant has...what, kidnapped my brother? Has taken him out of action to win some competition? That's insane! Nobody cares about a dumb photo competition enough to risk jail!"
She gave him a knowing look. "People have risked much more for much less. And don't forget the million dollars. Not everyone shares your careless attitude to...treasure."
***
He marched down the street, oblivious to the people in his way. He might have been on First Street or Fifty First. He walked in a straight line, numb, mechanical, stopping at the red lights, and crossing with the green. He didn't notice the smell of the traffic: gas and oil, smoke and burnt rubber. He didn't taste the odours of the crowded streets, of the people who walked beside him for a time, or of those who barged past in the other direction. Their perfumes of aniseed and ambergris, rose petals and saffron failed to excite his olfactory nerves. He didn't catch the smell of coffee and fresh hot muffins from this cafe, or the sweet aroma of honey and pancakes from that. He marched in a straight line, from one end of Manhattan to the other, until the paving slabs beat his feet to blisters, and the blisters burst, and he walked on torn skin, but he felt nothing.
He strode as a man dead to the outer world, but inside he seethed, he burned with thoughts too dark, feelings too painful to express.
Before, he'd only suspected that Sam was in trouble. Belle Stakker had confirmed it. She hadn't given him anything tangible, but her assurance, and the way she'd dealt with Gell Shield, had been enough to convince him that she knew plenty about Soro and Sam.
Too much.
But the way she'd operated...she'd come across as a sweet, matron type, like the headmistress of an elementary school, but then she'd hit him with a series of ploys like a master manipulator. It made him furious. It also made him suspicious. If she was singing with the angels, why would she withhold her aid? If her hands were tied, how had she dealt with Gell Shield?
"Too neat," he muttered. "Too damn neat."
He was missing, not just a piece of the puzzle, but massive chunks of it. Again, if one of the other contestants had taken it on himself to whittle away the competition; if she knew it for an approval stamped fact, why in all hells hadn't she called the police?
He asked himself if she could be behind it all, but he dismissed it. Who would go to such lengths for a dumb competition? She was well-fed and powerful. No one sane would risk that, and the chance of a long holiday in the steel nation, to rig a photo contest.
"There's more here," he told himself. "More than I know." The recognition depressed him. He was just a photographer, and he didn't understand what was happening. He wanted to run back to his apartment. He wanted to curl up with Squizzle and hide. He wanted Sam to come back, laugh off tales of kidnap, and show him his latest pictures from the high Andes.
"Got a good reason why shouldn't I walk right into the nearest police station?" he'd said.
"Here in the UN headquarters...it's rather like an embassy. You do know how difficult it would be for the NYPD to stroll into the Moldovan embassy and throw their weight around, don't you?"
"How can I trust you? You obviously know something about Sam, and you haven't helped him."
She'd given him an enigmatic smile. "I've told you all I can, and I think I've been more than forbearing. The competition begins tomorrow morning. The ship New Dawn sails from Port Authority at nine a.m. If you want my help, get your passport and your toothbrush, and be on it."
He'd shaken his head. "And if I'm not?"
Her eyes and mouth had drooped. "For now, I am holding Gell Shield between my fingers. Once the New Dawn sets sail, my hands will be full, and those rascals may slip free. If you are not on board the ship when it sails, I can do nothing but wish you success in evading their onslaught, and in aiding your brother. After you find him."
He marched on, and never noticed the moment when the sun, lightening his path when he crossed the road, sank below the western horizon, and gave way to the ghoulish white or hazy orange glare of the street lights. He didn't catch the glaring lamps of the cars that came towards him, or the red as they sped away. He didn't hear the growl of their engines, or the sounds of thumping music from the bars, nor the excited chatter of the cafes and restaurants.
He did not see himself, tiring, slowing, trudging along a dark street, alone and oblivious to the myriad flashes of beauty that yesterday his talented eyes would have seen, his fingers itched to snap.
At last, when the sounds had died, and the street lay silent and empty, a lone figure stood just outside the lighted pool of a street lamp. It made his eyes hurt, so he looked away, and spoke into the shadows. "What do you see, Sam Soro?"
Not a car hummed, nor a bird crooned. Neither life nor sign broke the silence.
"Nothing."
***
Waves lapped against concrete balustrades, and murmured under the sighing
breeze. Clouds massed thick overhead, and shone red as neon, with here and there a flash of purple or gold. If the clouds had been a cloak, it would have been fit for a king. The sun lingered on the horizon, fat and gleaming through the clouds. The air carried the smells of salt, diesel, and fresh, briny fish.
The New Dawn stood at anchor, rocking on the waves. The UN had saved no pennies to put on the Beautification. She rose high above the waterline, a fully equipped cruise ship, her hull and facings pristine white, and although the sun hid his face behind the clouds, she sparkled red and gold under the fire coloured sky.
A crowd gathered on the rear deck, milling along beside the white railing, to look back at the harbour, or up at the sky, or to clump together, and talk. Soro couldn’t hear them speak, but he could guess what their minds were on: the contest. Who were they playing against, and how much of a threat were they? What would be the first day’s location?
He couldn’t hear them speak, but he could see them from the harbour’s edge, where he stood, gazing up at the ship. Two sailors in neat white uniforms eyed him from the lower deck, where they manned the gangplank. He’d heard them making bets on whether he’d embark. He checked his watch: ten to nine.
At nine, the New Dawn would sail. What would happen if he wasn’t on it? Belle Stakker would be upset, of that much he was sure. Would she really release Gell Shield to make more attempts at revenge? Would she continue to withhold knowledge of his brother?
He felt stifled. He felt like a blindfolded ape, straining at his bars, with no knowledge who had taken him, where he was going, or why. He hated that feeling. His heart kicked, and hot rage flared in his chest. He wanted to throw the thing back in Belle’s face. He wanted to show her she couldn’t manipulate him.
Squizzle, sensing his feelings, shifted on his shoulder, nuzzled his ear, and chirruped.
Five to nine.
He sighed, and then he winked at Squizzle. “I hope you don’t get seasick.”
He strode across the gangplank.
***
As soon as he set foot on the ship, he heard a man call down to him from the upper deck. “Ho there, welcome aboard!”
He looked up, and started, for he seemed to see a skeleton leering down at him, white bone arms leaning on the white metal rails. Squizzle shivered, and pressed himself closer to Soro’s skin.
“Thanks, I guess,” said Soro.
The bony apparition stalked down the steps from the upper deck, and as it approached, he understood. White bone resolved into white cloth, and the grinning skull changed into a man’s head, unusually high and thin. The skin was not as pale as it had appeared, but it was drawn, stretched so across the man’s long, sharp features that it appeared almost translucent. He had the creepy feeling that if he squinted hard enough, he would see through skin and flesh to the bones beneath. The man wore a fine white suit that would have gleamed, had the day been brighter. He smiled, and it would have been a warming welcome, but for the final touch, that had completed the skeletal illusion: he wore a pair of glasses with tiny round lenses. The arms were of white gold, and the lenses, which concealed his eyes, were that blue of the edge of the sky, when the light of day is devoured in darkness. From a distance, they had looked like gaping holes in a face without flesh. Up close, they merely looked creepy.
Closer, there were a few other signs that this was a living man, with blood in his vein, and tastes in his heart. He wore a scarab ring at his left ear, and a thick gold ring on the right hand that he thrust out. Soro concealed his misgivings about that long, bony item, accepted the hand, and the stranger shook with strength and vigour that belied his appearance. “Tigh Strugg,” he said, in a Boston accent. “You must be Soro. I’ve been hoping you’d show up, and what’s more,” he glanced at the upper deck, and then spoke quietly through the side his mouth. “Had a little bet with Jack. Poor darling actually laid money you’d stand there by water’s edge, and watch us sail into the red yonder. You’ve won me a spot of money, enough for trinkets and postcards.” He spoke louder. “Thoroughly glad you’ve come to join us. Let me take you upstairs, or up-deck, whatever the bonny blazes these nautical fellows say, and introduce you to the rest of the penitents.” He glanced at Squizzle, his expression unreadable through those dark blue glasses, and then jerked away.
Soro let Tigh lead him to the upper deck. He felt as if he’d been caught up in a whirlwind, the man spoke so fast, and moved with such energy. He’d had a shock when first he’d seen him, and again when the man had mentioned postcards. And the look he’d given Squizzle…what had that meant?
He set aside his misgivings as Tigh led him to the little crowd of photographers who’d thrown down for the Beautification. Whatever had caused the man to look like starved three days past death, and he suspected it was some awful wasting ailment, Tigh couldn’t help his appearance. He was warm and enthusiastic. Soro liked people on an individual basis, but he’d never been fond of crowds, unless they were posing in front of his camera. Tigh whirled him through the group, greeting, joking, laughing.
He met Evra Sofronian, a rounded man with frizzy hair and laughing eyes, then Joshua Vermont, who had eyes as blue as the sea, but pale cheeks shading to green, evidently battling a pre-emptive strike of seasickness. Tigh led him to Koober Kangan, a dignified old black man with a shaved head and a neat grey beard, his brown leather jacket worn but well cared for, and a serene distance in his eyes, as if he observed all things from atop some Himalayan peak.
Tigh took him from one person to another, never at a loss for words, never fumbling over an unfamiliar name. He must have had a boundless memory, for he seemed to know, not only their names, but the towns and cities of their birth, their career history, and the accolades they had won. This one took a golden laurel at Avignon, that one a singing star at Turin.
“And of course,” said Tigh, “one woman who needs no introduction from me.”
There came a lull.
Soro looked up at the woman, no, the lady before him. Her blonde hair flowed past her shoulders like a river of stars, and her face was a model of classical beauty. She wore a long white dress of shimmering lacework filigree at the hems, and though high cut and sleeved, it hugged her ample figure, and contrived to create a sensuous effect magnitudes greater than an immodest bathing suit. Her legs, her feet, her shoes, if any, disappeared beneath the billowing folds of her dress. She was beautiful, and more, she was majestic. And yet her eyes, when he came to them, shone with the cold light of dying suns. As he stood in the rays of those twin stars, he felt himself in the presence of a goddess, and he knew a thing: he could admire this woman, but he could never love her.
She gave him a smile, a slight tilt of her head, and then Tigh led him away. He realised he had been dismissed.
“Don’t take it too hard, old bishop,” said Tigh. “She’s like that with every man. Lifetime of shooting male models will make a girl… Shall we say jaded? But here,” he steered him to a solitary man, leaning against the rails. “Yes, here, a good man and a real man. Let me introduce you to my new and good friend, Jack Johnson.”
Once again, Soro had too peer up to take in the figure before him. Jack Johnson was a tall black man, with tremendous shoulders and chest. He had short hair and a handsome face, marred by a patchwork of scars around the eyes, and a nose long ago hammered almost flat. He wore black jeans, a loose white shirt, and a photographer’s vest, one of those with countless pockets that would in ages past have been stuffed with spare film, and now carried batteries, memory cards, and a satellite phone. He gave Soro an appraising look, with the hint of a rueful smirk playing about his mouth.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Soro. “Jack Johnson, hmm? Aren’t you some kind of boxer?”
Jack scowled down at him.
***
Jack Johnson scowled down at him.
Soro was moved to consider his size. Most days, if he thought about it at all, he felt grateful for having been born a little smaller than most men. He could slip th
rough gaps other men couldn't, climb up holes, crawl under fences, creep through cracks. He could squeeze himself into tighter spaces. Earlier, for instance, when he'd been forced to take the long way home, when he'd stepped onto that narrow ledge, if he'd been a bigger man, he'd likely have slipped off and died.
The ledge...
Forget the ledge! Had he been any heavier, that drainpipe would have torn away from the wall, and cast him down, to smash his bones, pulp his liver, paint his blood across the street below.
No, his body was not small; it was the right size for a free and untamed man of the lens and shutter.
Even so, as he stood under Jack's withering scowl, he felt that perhaps size had its own advantages.
"You shoulda stayed on the dock, little man," said Jack.
His heart rocked, but he wasn't going to run away from a bad attitude. He was on a ship. Where could he go? He tried humour. "Never been strong on brains, I guess," he said.
Jack's eyes narrowed even further.
"Don't get sore at a guy for knowing the name," said Tigh. "He's a nice fellow. Anyhow, you're just mad because you lost. Cough up whatever in Hell you owe me like a good sportsman."
Jack turned his glare on Tigh Strugg. "You're worse than he is," he said. "Maybe he don't know what he said, but you do, Typhoon."
Tigh twisted his mouth in a wry smile. "The power of a name. It's like walking west at sunrise. No matter where you go, that shadow's always there before you."
Soro exchanged confused glances with Squizzle. He knew now there was something off about these men. Either they were actors, playing at being Tigh Strugg and Jack Johnson, Dadaist actors, or they moved in a circle he had never known existed.
He shook his head, hoping these useless thoughts would tumble out of his ears, and fall away. He had a purpose, and he couldn't afford to let things like this distract him. He had to move among the contestants, scope them out, and learn who was behind his brother's disappearance.
And he couldn't investigate anything if Jack used his head for bowling practice.
"Jack," he said. "I'm real sorry if I hurt your feelings, but I-"
Jake flinched, and looked down at Soro with hotter, harder eyes than before. "Hurt my feelings," he said in a low monotone. "Hurt my goddamn feelings." His voice began to rise. "What in God's good name do you know about my feelings, you insolent mouse?"