Jess Row - Your Face in Mine

Martin, I say, sticking out my lower jaw, as if that will add a little extra rumble, a baritone undercurrent, for once. Will you answer a simple question? If I wanted to be completely safe, if I wanted to know I’d never be found out, if I wanted Kelly Thorndike to vanish off the face of the earth, case closed, no mention of Alan or an accidental—

You think you’re Pablo Escobar? That’s not what this is for.

Answer the question.

We’d never acknowledge you. It wouldn’t even help , for our purposes.

Answer the question.

You want us to be in the Rolodex of every cartel leader, every norteño , every oligarch Putin’s sick of, every minor Al-Qaeda honcho, every spare yakuza and sick sub-Saharan dictator with a billion in IMF dollars in the bank? Because that’s going to be the result. Word gets out. Why would we agree to that? We’re trying to get out of the gray market.

Answer the question.

Yeah. okay. It’ll be easy. Silpa’s ready. The facial surgery — the epicanthus, the eye shaping, a little work on the lips — it’s pretty straightforward, actually. Even the pigmentation. He’s been doing experiments on mice for years. Carotenoids. You wouldn’t believe it. I mean, it really does turn yellow . But look. I’m telling you. Just because Einstein said it was possible doesn’t mean they should have built the atomic bomb. It’s not for you. I’m telling you it’s not for you. He should never have said anything.

Who are you, Martin? I wish I could ask him. And were the tears real? For a moment he seems to shimmer in the air in front of me, like a cheap hologram in a Seventies movie. Friend, comrade, nemesis, exploiter? He licks his lips and looks over his shoulder at Mai. What can money do if it can’t smooth over life’s little inconsistencies?

Martin, I say, Silpa didn’t say anything. Julie-nah did.

I’ve caught him at a pensive moment, looking over my shoulder, elbows on his knees, cradling an invisible globe in the webwork of his fingers. And there he stays. As still as a photograph. As wax. For the longest increment possible he doesn’t even blink, his nostrils don’t flare.

And now, he says finally, his eyes still raised beyond mine, still in the same disembodied position. Now what, Kelly? Now you get to call me a big fat liar?

Martin, I say, my tongue grown thick and dry, a foreign object, a giant’s fat digit resting in my throat. You’re still my friend. I’d like to give you the benefit of the doubt.

Really.

Or, I should say, I would have. If I didn’t know about Northern State.

He stares at me for a moment, a Yul Brynner stare, his eyes bubbling out of his skull, and then erupts in a belly laugh. Lord God, he says, wiping away tears again. You called in the cavalry. That’s more than I ever gave you credit for. Good one, Kelly. But just so you know: Silpa’s already aware of my checkered past. Everyone is. Just in case you thought you had one up on me.

So you saved the lies for your biographer.

Oh, come on. I never told you those tapes were the whole story.

And what am I supposed to do, draw up a list? Fact-check every single assertion? I mean, did you ever sell drugs at all? For example?

There’s no time to go back into that now, he says. You know the line the only real crimes are the ones that are never punished ? Let’s just put it that way. Anyway, my record was expunged. Thanks to the state of Vermont and its benevolence toward first-time offenders. Though I guess a P.I. can still track it down. There are always gaps that have to be plugged. Look, is this enough? You’ve had your adventure. I take it that now that you’ve exposed me we should be buying you a ticket home.

Exposed me? I want to ask him. Is this what exposure looks like? Should I tell him how close I was, just last night, to breaking the egg of his life wide open, with sixteen keystrokes? Martin is the proof. We could make a pact of mutually assured destruction. But for what? I want a new life, not détente. I want this to be over.

No, I say. I’m staying. The air seems to be crackling, with a smell of ozone. I’m taking your invitation.

Behind me, the bowl clinks on the kitchen counter, and the bathroom door closes. Martin’s face works against itself at angles, assembling three or four different expressions at once.

You know what Alan told me once? I say. You only have one chance to get it right in life. Well, what did he know? Just because I had a happy childhood doesn’t mean I’m preserved in amber. I can change, too. I can be broken and remade.

That’s very poetic, he says. But what’s your plan? Once it all comes out, where will you be? In China? Has Silpa worked this out yet?

Where did all the tension go? The air in the room has shifted, cooled, but Martin hasn’t moved. How did that revelation pass so quickly? He flexes his shoulders and gives a magnanimous hand wave. Look, he says, Kelly, I love you, but you’ll have to make up your own mind. Frankly, I’m on to other things. Silpa will have to run this end of the business once I get started.

What are you talking about?

I’m talking about the plan . What does all this lead up to? Where does it lead?

I have to laugh. How has it never occurred to me to ask this question?

To a lot of money for all involved, I say. And what else? Fame? Satisfaction? Progress? Revenge?

No, he says. No. Straight back to Baltimore. The CBT. The Center for Black Transformation. Remember when you schlepped me over to Annapolis, that time? We’ve got state biomedical development grants. We’ve got empowerment zones. We’ve got the world’s best surgeons. And by god, if there’s one thing Baltimore’s got, it’s blackness. We’ve got dialect coaches. We’ve got homestays. We’ve got yearlong immersion experiences. We’ll give cooking lessons and run in-house gospel services, if it comes to that. You have no idea the number of people — the Germans, the Danes, the Norwegians, the Japanese, the Saudis, the Pakistani rich kids from Lahore — who are already lining up. Black culture is global now. There’s hip-hop in a hundred different languages. Listen, for me Orchid is just a means to an end. I’m looking at it from a business perspective. Will it be a franchise model? Will I have to buy Silpa out? We’ll work out the details. Important thing is, I have a brand to cultivate. Baltimore. New Black City. This is the real prosperity gospel.

You weren’t going to fill me in on this? Kind of a crucial detail, isn’t it?

No, no, no. You have to do things in the right order. That’s the whole thing. You’ve got to have a business mind . He karate-chops his palm. First, the book. The exposure. The rollout. The press conferences. The talk shows. The scandals, the outrage, the magazine covers. I’m Martin Lipkin, and this is my story. This is my journey. No one can argue with that. Then, and only then, you start in on the plan. I want to share this opportunity with people in need. The trans-R community. You get a few psychiatrists on board. You get the APA’s approval. In the meantime all the work is happening offshore. Bangkok. Maybe some satellite offices, just to keep up with demand. Johannesburg. Estonia. São Paulo. Finally, you get a diagnosis code. Manna from heaven! Then the American insurers will start paying up. Licensure’s a breeze after that. All that time you’re working the Internet to bring up demand. Support groups, demands for recognition, all that kind of nonsense. Get the local leaders on board. Make it a pride thing. An economic-development thing. Listen, am I saying it’s going to be easy? Hell, no. It’s going to be a lifetime. That’s what an investment is. The real payoff is all in the patents, anyway. Once all this business goes public we start looking for a major drug company to license Melanotide production. And all the subsidiary patents, too: the synthetic cartilage, the injectable silicone for the eyelids. Silpa’s sitting on a cool billion or two just in intellectual property. And I’ve got a stake in all of that. Ultimately, I get paid whether Baltimore works or not. But that’s all academic. It’s going to work.