Mark de Silva - Square Wave

In the sea trial, the timing between the burn and the storm seemed better than luck could provide for. But consistent replication eluded them. Though the burning slicks appeared to increase the odds of rain, they couldn’t be depended on to produce them. Unaccounted variables remained.

There was the environmental cost to consider too, the sheer amount of fuel necessary, at best, merely to increase the odds of rain; the oil invariably seeping beyond the buoys out to sea; and the smoke itself, which was possibly an aid to rain but certainly a pollutant.

Storm generation ex nihilo proved hit or miss. But Menar’s results were good enough for his governmental sponsors. They pledged continued support of his experiments with weather, including newly begun interventions in existing clouds. There were other incentives in play, after all, beyond bringing water to rice fields during drought: military ones that remained hazy, still notional. There was also the perennial problem of flooding in the north of India, which meant there was as much to be gained from destroying storms as there was from creating them. It was thought the processes involved must be related. So Menar’s program grew.

Edward larent and his could-be drummer were thirsty, and the bar was not far now. Their first rehearsal over, the two had walked from the drummer’s loft, lodged in the dying industrial heart of the city, to the large cobblestone square that was Carrell Plaza. In a recent renovation, the facades forming the square had been lined with massive high-definition screens, each assembled from smaller screens of the same proportions. Usually their faces gave you incandescent Dodges, Sprite cans, MacBooks. Today, though, a live newsfeed offered up a different kind of vision. Thick gray-brown billows, twirled by a corkscrew wind, rushed out of a battered fountain. From beneath chunks of pale yellow marble, clouded water spewed along the stones and across the benches edging the fountain. A pair of marble legs, one severed at the patella, the other at mid-thigh, remained upright, stoutly projecting through the shards from the whirling fountain floor, where the feet remained bolted.

The two of them didn’t know what face to make. Something less than shocked. That would have been unreasonable at this point, after everything that was happening. More like unhappily curious, the sort of look that didn’t last.

“Must be Brandt?” Larent said.

“I think,” Li Moto, the drummer, said.

Hundreds were collecting in the plaza, all caught in the imaged wreckage of another, Brandt Square. The density of pixels marginally exceeded what the eye could resolve, so it was only the lack of a third dimension that disqualified these immense pictures from the status of self-standing reality.

In front of them, at the base of one of the screens, a pair of sneakers shone absolute white. Fraying jeans draped over the tongues and laces and led on to a Redskins sweatshirt; atop that, a pair of dry yellow eyes and a roiled mouth were affixed to a small black face.

“This,” the rasp came, the man looking into the screen behind them, “I’m telling you, this is real. This shit.” His left heel shook in a quick rhythm, pivoting on a sneaker toe. His thigh bounced and rippled his loose, stained jeans. His eyes surveyed the crowd and found only Larent’s and Moto’s. The rest were on the screens, the skies, or the cobblestones. The man’s face went blank and stiff before an easy grin came across it. “What do you think of this?” he squeaked.

Moto reflected back something of this oddly timed grin, though his was milder, and its cause was the man not the circumstance. Larent, for his part, only stared into the brightness of the man’s shoes, observing the double-stitched, unscuffed uppers, the “14” inscribed on the tongue in a tall skinny font. High-tops, just out of the box. How many jump shots will they see? And how many Crip walks?

Larent had clicked on “Crip walking” a few weeks ago, a link in a history of blacks in American music that was itself only something he had fallen into in a search for free jazz. It took him to a clip, a tutorial in fact, according to the tag: black teens in perforated football jerseys, bandanas just above the eyes, in a circle in the middle of a residential street, taking turns bisecting the ring in a sort of languid shuffle. Their upper bodies were slack and slightly hunched, but their legs were in constant motion and seemingly autonomous, carrying the rest of them in tow. Loose legs and bent knees turned stiff and straight in alternation, right then left. Their shoes, like this man’s, whiter than white, or else a perfect black, went toe to heel, then effortlessly across the asphalt as the other leg tautened. They crossed at all angles, sliding past each other but never colliding. Having made their crossings, they would take up positions on the perimeter, reinstating the form of the circle as others broke off from it and floated through the space within.

The clip seemed to end just before perfection had set in and their movements had the chance to jell into some broader choreography, an organic orchestration. That was just beyond the tape, probably. Or perhaps gunshots were, and everything had turned to chaos. Whatever it was, Larent had felt compelled to watch the clip at least a dozen times.

“Why you looking at the ground, man?” the black man said to him. “There’s nothing there.” There was no menace in his voice.

Larent wished he would do the walk there, a perfect dance in those perfect shoes.

“Can’t you see?” Moto said, playing along with the man. He grasped Larent by the shoulder and gestured at the screens.

“That’s right, man. Now he’s got it right.” The man’s face got smaller as he squinted at Moto. He drew the back of his hand across his stubbled chin. “You Chinese? Japanese?” he said, pushing one of his sleeves up to the elbow and dropping his head slightly as he studied the stones underfoot, yellow and gray.

“Yeah,” Moto said.

“Which?” the man said, lifting his eyes but not his head.

“Yes, which?” Larent said. With a jaded look he grasped Moto’s forearm and guided him off his shoulder.

The extent of Moto’s glibness troubled Larent, more than the destruction itself almost. Perhaps he could be so playful, so detached, because it wasn’t his country being sundered. He could always jet back to Japan, or Monaco, for that matter.

At Deerfield he’d been a parachute kid. But a gifted one, Renna had said. She’d re-introduced Moto to him just days ago as a possible bandmate. He’d been in her class, one behind Larent, and though, according to her, the two musicians had met before, neither could remember anything of it.

Moto’s money, the leisure it brought, had freed up his gift for unprofitable things like experimental music. (From the little Larent had heard from him, earlier in the afternoon, he had to agree, Moto had talent, though he was unsure how or if it connected up with his own.) A few years after finishing at Deerfield, Moto went back to Japan with the noise-rock band he’d formed across the country, in San Francisco. They’d broken up for no good reason, as far as he was concerned, and he’d only just returned to the States, to that artfully spare loft — paid for, Larent assumed, in yen. He had no reason to begrudge him, though. Larent’s family’s money had done much to free his own creative impulses. There just wasn’t quite as much of it, none to carry him now.

Larent regarded the black man, who along with Moto was grinning more freely. Really it wasn’t his country either. He could never be free here. History, the sugar trade, wouldn’t let go of him. And unlike the drummer, there wasn’t much chance of his escaping. This, Larent thought, might have darkened the man’s amusement with this chaos that was rolling in waves around them— all of them now, not just his kind, and for months.