Paul Theroux - O-Zone

"There were a lot of methods," Moura said. "All those theories —" She stopped abruptly and said no more.

"I'm sure you made the right decision." Holly was still watchful beneath the mask of her makeup.

Moura said, "Do you really want to have a child?"

Holly looked eager. She had not heard that question, only her own provocative remark. She said, "Fizzy wasn't frozen, was he?"

Moura shook her head: No. Why didn't Holly take the hint that she didn't want to discuss this?

"I hope you don't mind my asking about this. It's just that you're so sensible and practical — and everyone else goes chasing after the fads."

"I chased after the fads," Moura said.

Holly's mouth was open, but there was the suggestion of a smile in the way it gaped. This was what she wanted to hear.

"I think it was a mistake," Moura said. "Hardy wanted the best. He's so scientific — so careful. He insisted I have a matched donor."

"It must have been a great match. There's a striking resemblance between Fizzy and Hardy."

"I'm afraid I don't see it anymore," Moura said.

"So you went to a clinic."

"I didn't mention a clinic."

"Sorry," Holly said. "You mentioned a donor. I just assumed."

And then Moura knew there had been whispering. Holly had got the information from Rinka about Fizzy — the pedigree, the donor, the clinic. Moura had told Rinka, and she had not sworn her to secrecy. Most of Moura's friends knew that Fizzy was a clinic child, but until O-Zone no one had known the method. It was that trip that had made Moura remember — Fizzy's face, his nagging, the masks. And the excitement; her nervousness. O-Zone had seemed an innocent wilderness, and their isolation at Firehills had given her a glimpse of the past and made her truthful.

She said very precisely, "What is it you want to know?"

"I was just curious, just wondering—"

"It was a contact clinic," Moura said.

Hearing that, Holly relaxed. Moura could hear the breath. It was not modern to be shocked, but Moura saw an old-fashioned thrill register in Holly's shoulders, a little shiver of pleasure, as if something small and lively were moving within her.

"They probably don't even call them contact clinics these days."

Holly said, "They do, they do! But—"

Her excitement, and the wish to conceal it, distracted her. She was so full of questions she had trouble phrasing them. The most banal were obviously the easiest.

"Weren't you frightened?"

"I wanted to be frightened. That made it more human."

"Yes," Holly said — but it was hardly a word; it was a little gasp of pleasure.

Moura understood now, and she was glad that Holly did not want to talk about having a baby, even gladder that she did not want to talk about Fizzy. She wanted information, that was all. Discussing the contact clinic was simple: it involved only Moura herself. Hardy had been very scientific, so Moura had been the opposite — taking the risk of a donor, of twenty-four sessions, and at each session prolonged contact.

"It seems such a long time ago."

"Only — what? — Fizzy's fifteen, isn't he?"

"It was over a year before it took. That's almost seventeen years ago, I forget how manny sessions. Two years' worth, I guess."

How thrilled Holly would be if she told her how she had counted the eighteen sessions, and knew exactly when and for how long. But it was impossible to be truthful about that without being truthful about the other thing — how she had been devastated when they had come to an end.

"Two years," Holly was saying, and now she did not bother to conceal her excitement. "You must have actually gotten to know the guy — the donor."

"He was wearing a mask."

"Oh, God, really, a mask? What kind — was it scary?"

"It had a sort of beak. It looked like an owl or an eagle, one of those blunt hooked beaks. A bird of prey, I remember thinking. But he was probably a Harvard student."

"He was young?" Holly asked. "How could you tell?"

"Masks make you look at other parts of the body," Moura said. "Everyone's feet are different and easy to remember. Their knees, their hands, their knuckles. And everyone's got a different odor, even someone who's very clean. These donors were scrubbed and sanitized, but still I knew. He was young. He had light bones. He was tall. He—"

"He must have known you, too!"

"I never thought about that."

It was her second lie — and she was angry. She had vowed not to lie, because she had always been misled by her own lies and had trouble with the truth afterward. Anyway, she hated liars — their stupidity — they were usually half-convinced by their lies. Yes, of course she had thought about the man recognizing her! She reminded herself of this forcefully now. Seeing Fizzy, she had seen the donor. Had that donor ever thought of her again?

"Did he say anything to you?"

You love it. You—

"No," Moura said, and she knew she was safe with this lie. There was no danger of her ever forgetting or distorting the words the young man had whispered. But she could see that Holly wanted to know everything and, in her frustration, did not know what to ask next.

Moura said, "I had very definite ideas about it. I thought: If Hardy's going to be so scientific, then I should be as unscientific as possible. I wanted to take risks. But I didn't really think they would be serious risks, because I had it all worked out in my mind — what it would be like, what my reactions would be. I had it all under control."

Holly was nodding, her face lit with approval and admiration. You knew what you wanted, she was thinking, and you went out and got it.

"The thing is," Moura said — and paused to make sure that Holly was listening—"I was totally wrong. It wasn't anything like that, and my reactions were strange. I was shocked — I lost all control."

Yet Holly was still smiling.

She said, "I like that even better, honey."

"It was frightening," Moura said. "You don't think I'm serious. You're still smiling."

"Because I like it frightening."

"Risks change you. You take them and you're different afterward," Moura said.

"Yeah," Holly said, and darkened slightly in her seriousness, "but you weren't hurt."

"Not hurt, but changed," Moura said. "The physical part was actually rather tender and innocent at first, but… I'm not going to tell you any more. I just think it might have been a mistake."

"To have contact with a donor?"

"To have a child," Moura said.

"Why did you bother!"

If it had been a question, it would have been the hardest question of all, and Moura's answer would have incriminated her. In the end the child had been a necessity, for it was all that remained, the only thing she could hold on to. And that was why Fizzy's heartless brilliance was so discouraging. But thankfully, Holly wasn't asking a question.

"I don't care about children, really," Holly said.

Already her self-deceiving and meddling friend had forgotten her earlier lie: You're so lucky to have a child.

Moura saw in Holly's face a wild willingness. She looked very happy and very hungry, as if she were about to laugh out loud. She had carefully put on these savage clothes, and at last her savagery suited them.

Moura said primly, "I thought you were asking about Fizzy."

Holly brought her knees together and pinched her face and said, "Don't tell me he goes to clinics!"

She really had forgotten her pretext for bringing up the subject of the contact clinic! She had no memory. Such people were often liars. But it was their salvation: they would never be seriously hurt by their actions.

Holly said, "Let's get up a party and go."

"I'm sure they've changed," Moura said. "No one goes to contact clinics for implants or fertilization anymore. They've got a bad reputation."