Mark de Silva - Square Wave

“That the sorts of people Celano backs are just the sorts you’d want disenfranchised, you mean?”

“That’s one assumption we can count on people to make, yes. But it tidies us up, perfects us in a certain way. Celano too. I mean it falsifies us. Grounds, even very good grounds, for hatred don’t guarantee hatred. That you’ve every right to draw a distinction doesn’t mean you will. Political economy can make us mean if we’re not careful, whether it’s Smith or Marx or any of their descendants. We may be prejudiced. We certainly are, actually, and that’s not always a bad thing. But we needn’t be simple too. We’re more interesting than that. I think Celano may be as well, and not just him. All ingeniously discriminating, in enmity, in friendship.”

He stepped through the semicircle and into the open-air chamber, thirty yards square: a private garden, composed only of vines with blue flowers climbing along the trellises on the high stone walls. In the center, a ring of burnished wooden chairs faced out. Tightly clipped grass and a wide, heavily built well sat within the ring.

“Simple, right? The well produces very good water, though it isn’t used much. It was here before the Institute was built, sealed over. So I thought we’d build the garden around it. The superstructure is a bit well-like, isn’t it. That was Zirilella’s idea, the architect. You get this changing configuration of light because of the gaps, like windows, cut into the east and west walls.”

Brilliant blue patches capped thick pipes of light coming in through the gaps. They sat down in the ring of chairs, facing off in different directions, as the configuration didn’t allow sight-lines to cross. The chairs were immovable and so wide that their arms didn’t reach the rests. Only a race twice the size could have comfortably occupied them.

“But yes,” Kames continued, “it’s not necessarily untrue that Celano’s constituency ought to be discounted, given what they are now . But why should they remain as they are? Why should they want to? Wisdom is mostly acquirable. And if they transform themselves, well… You know, many of those rich old men at the fundraiser, giving their own money, they would be discounted too. Their problem is worse, in some ways. Commerce has deformed some of them, probably permanently. Character is flexible only up to a point. And some of those men are old dogs now. So, yes, they too have misconceptions about who they are. Who will disenchant them I don’t know.” Kames shook his head. “And all these simple lines. Between Celano and I. And Jenko. Must he also stand on the other side?”

“But they’re being drawn all the same,” Stagg said.

“Yes.”

“And that will bring attention.”

“It has.”

“And you’re prepared for that? A wrong impression made on the right people—”

“You know, I’ve always found it funny, the way you can draw all the wrong lines and still the picture you end up with is right in a way,” Kames said. “And not just as a matter of chance. It’s managed to catch something along the way. But it’s a kind of rightness that can leave you casting about when it comes time to figure out what to do.” He rubbed the blood back into his fingers. “No one is wrong to think there is passionate intensity around. Even among the best now. Yeats would be surprised.”

In the light there was shadow and movement. The rose finches had clustered in the windows of the walls; their forms cut shapes out of the light. One shot down into the garden, its shadow contracting to nothing as the bird lighted on the very spot it had been thrown onto among the flowers and vines.

“Anyway, yes, I suppose the domestic situation is fraught enough,” Kames said, no longer as ruminative and more conciliatory. “That makes this piece no worse a place to start, to understand how one layer of complication grafts onto another. But it’s still very thick with exegesis. Perhaps we can backload some of that, even move it to a later talk, and you can build a bit on the relations between the various political bodies?”

“I’ll see if I can find the right materials, from the journals, to interpolate. They might not exist. I’d rather not do it through exposition. But if the material is there, sure.”

“Yes, I can see you are set on that. I think we’ll give it a go, without a real frame then.”

The cold had seeped through their clothes. They rose at the same time, facing away from each other. “Even historians need performance art,” Kames said. “That must be your feeling.”

Blue tits, a half-dozen of them, just below the window, hopping about on a branch in crisp Valley light filling the thinnest sky, translucent blue and shading off quickly at its upper edge toward a moon still sharp and clear and of a phosphorescent gray bespeaking death and life both.

Jen loved California for this light, and it was the memory of it, from her first trip out West, that clinched it for her. She was only three weeks removed now from her life back East, in the old apartment, under that ambivalent light that barely lit the place, or Halsley itself, it seemed like.

Whatever she thought of the light, though, she would have had to move — or be moved, forcibly. She’d learned from other actresses she’d met that the adult industry was really a possession of the West. On the East Coast, there wasn’t enough work for them, and the scenes didn’t pay as much as they should have. Since that first shoot with the smoothie, she’d done a few softcore videos, ones where she’d only been called upon to kiss girls or self-penetrate. But the pay was modest and couldn’t offset the rent and the booze (and the pills). She was also finding out it was sheer fantasy to think you could make real money in the business merely fucking yourself. A guy had to give it to you for that to happen.

At that point, she wasn’t quite broke yet, but on the cusp of eviction anyway. The landlord wanted her out, her neighbors too, though she’d been so out of it, she could only partly recall the episodes that explained why. Had she managed to apologize to them, for any of it, or had she only dreamed that she had in drugged slumbers? Either way, they didn’t want to hear it.

Carl had called a few times in those weeks. Early on, she picked up, choosing occasions when she was pleasantly buzzed rather than wasted to do so. She dodged his questions about her new job and steered their conversations toward a common love, books, especially the ancient ones. In the fourth and last of the calls, they talked about ancient history — Herodotus — for at least twenty minutes. It confirmed what she’d suspected, that he was marvelously well read in just the things she found most captivating.

She stopped picking up after that. She didn’t care, or want to care, about what was happening with the case, with the one assaulting the whores. Talking to Carl made that harder. She didn’t care to know about the other girls either, even Mariela. Nothing that really mattered bound them together. She wasn’t interested in false connections. The only person she’d actually talked to with any fondness or frequency in Halsley lately was the Palestinian running the corner liquor store. She thought he had a good heart.

And then there was Carl, of course. That only gave her another reason not to answer. She didn’t want to tell him about the drinking or have to lie to him about it either. But he kept circling back to it. When they’d spoken last, he’d asked about her drinking with a kind of curious concern that seemed to reach beyond his job. He didn’t ask about anything else that way, not books, not even the case itself. It felt personal, and she was glad he asked but gladder not to answer. It wasn’t his problem that booze had overcome her since her brother moved out, or that her parents refused to send any more money. (Was that Reed’s doing? She hated to think so but felt it must be true.)