Paul Theroux - O-Zone

They strolled with everyone else in the warm scented air of the Greenhouse, on the lookout for a naked woman. Soon they saw one. She was leaving a bank. She was not more than thirty and rather tall and slender, but her jewelry was the most striking thing about her. She wore a heavy gold chain around her waist, which was fastened by a gold padlock; a heavy knotted necklace; and bracelets and ankle loops. Holly said it seemed a little tacky to wear that much jewelry without any clothes.

"And that's just plain fussy," she said when another woman approached them. This one was also naked and wore gold chains, and her pubic hair was dyed green and cut in a leaf shape.

"There's one with a mask," Rinka said. "That's attractive."

It was a breathing mask, but an expensive ornamented one.

Moura said, "When I see New Yorkers wearing breathing masks in this clean air, and these rich women going naked—"

"Aren't there any men?" Holly asked, and quickly answered her own question. "Of course not. Men are so pathetic. Owners are the worst." And she continued in a wondering way, "You don't know anyone until you know what their sex life is like. Then it's all horribly clear. And if you think very hard about your own sex life you know yourself pretty well. Oh, God, your turn, Moura."

Then they were in the rotor, Moura giving the pilot precise directions, and Holly was still talking.

"You could have a friend for twenty years, but if you don't go to bed with them they're a mystery. Don't laugh, darling. Sex makes you rational. What are we doing?"

"Making our descent," the pilot said.

The rotor was straining and tipping against a vibrant muscle of wind.

"So we don't really know each other that well. But I know some strange men very well. Where are we?"

Moura explained: Upper West, in a district called Riverwest, just north of Columbia. And then they landed in an open space.

"Where all the hospitals are," Rinka said.

They were private hospitals and small clinics, street after street of them in the new towers and in old dignified brownstones. In the glare of the ground-level lights, the brass plaques shone. Most of the windows were false or else heavily curtained. The whole area gave the impression of thick walls and secrecy. All the buildings had broad diameter dishes on the roofs and tall antennas. The heavy doors were severe and anonymous.

"They look like banks," Holly said.

"It's all clinics," Moura said.

"Sorry I can't take you nearer," the pilot called from the cockpit. "There's a noise restriction here."

The three women walked from the landing pad to one of the smaller buildings. It was ten stories high and unadorned, in the old style: pale brick, granite, and square windows, and only a number on the door — no plate.

"This used to be the Sanford Clinic," Moura said.

Holly said, "I hope it still is, darling."

Even approaching from the street, Moura had the feeling they were being watched. She had always had that feeling here, because there was never anyone visible from the windows. They buzzed and were admitted to the lobby, where they were quickly scanned by a stony-faced security man, who sent them into a reception area.

There a nurse met them. She was Oriental, probably Chinese. "Do any of you have an appointment?" She wore a crisp white suit and gloves and a cap that hid her hair. Only her face showed, in an oval in this uniform, and the face was smooth, like a doll's, and perfectly painted.

Moura said, "If this is the Sanford Clinic, we're here to make appointments."

"The consultant will be right with you," the nurse said, and stepped softly away.

"Does she think we want babies?" Holly said.

"It's a licensed contact clinic," Moura said.

"That usually means whorehouse," Rinka said. "I would never have come here alone."

Just as the door opened, Moura felt herself tremble and she knew she was afraid of seeing the consultant. She remembered him as very nervous and so eager to please he seemed unsure of himself. She had wanted him to take charge and release her from the embarrassment of making decisions herself; but no, he had said, "It's up to you, Mrs. Allbright," and she had had to explain what she wanted.

That was, she knew now, the old days. The consultant was a woman, heavy, about fifty, very businesslike, and there was a briskness in her voice and an assurance in her manner that indicated to Moura that it was routine for her. And Moura was glad of this, because it meant that she had seen such women many times before, and she would not look closely at them. They would be anonymous, really; just clients.

Even as she was thinking this, the consultant was saying, "Protecting your anonymity is one of our main concerns. And of course your health—"

Moura realized now that the woman was not interested in any of them personally; she only wanted their business. She probably did not mean much of what she said — these clinics were not in the fertility business anymore — and so Moura was grateful for the woman's insincerity. How she would have hated her concern or her scrutiny.

"We'd like to work with you on your program," she was saying now. "We'll be meeting with you to discuss your requirements and your options. I'll explain the insurance scheme and the short-term contract. I take it you've never been here to Sanford?"

Holly said no—"First time!" — answering for them all in her enthusiasm. And Moura was so touched by Holly's eagerness she did not correct her. Holly was saying, "Tell us what to do."

"Before we can begin any sessions we'll need some details. These are strictly confidential. And I also suggest a complete physical — a blood test and a smear. This is as much for your protection as it is for ours. And I do urge you to take advantage of our insurance scheme. We can get most of this over with today, and then you might be interested to watch some training discs. I'm sure you'll want to be examined separately. Excuse me — I'll just see who's free."

All this was said by the woman in a confident voice, without much emotion, and it took Moura this amount of time to realize that the lights were so low that they could see the consultant's face very clearly, but she could not see theirs. Moura was glad it was a woman, and she liked her rapping voice and lecturer's manner.

"A blood test! An insurance scheme! A physical!" Holly said when the woman had gone. "Hey, don't laugh — it's sensible!" — but she was laughing.

"Is a training disc what I think it is?" Rinka asked.

"I imagine it's porn, with a woman's slant," Moura said. "They didn't have training discs in my day."

Holly said, "I like this place. Our 'program'—that's nice. When can we come back?"

"What about next week?" Rinka said. "Our next outing."

"I don't want to wait a week."

The Oriental nurse returned and directed them to the examining rooms,

"I'll need a blood sample," Moura's doctor said. He was a man and wore a gauze mask. He used his hypodermic syringe to motion her to a chair.

"Don't touch me," she said. "I don't want a physical. I'll pay you, but skip the charade."

"No one gets in here without a physical," the doctor said. "So if you want some action—"

Moura was startled by his directness, but because she didn't want a man she kept her composure.

"I'm looking for someone," she said.

When she had explained it to the doctor, he said, "That's rather an unusual request. I'll have to refer you to the director. You can make an appointment at the front desk."

All of this, Moura knew, was for Fizzy's sake. He had made it necessary, and he had been on her mind the whole time: that was where he had come from; that was what he was.

And because of her concentration she called him as soon as she returned to Coldharbor. There was no reply. She used the bug, she peered through the skylight from the upper window, and — unable to find any sign of him — she unlocked his room with her emergency key. She had prepared herself for a loud complaining quack and flailing arms. She had prepared herself for worse — for his swollen face, a blue tongue, a brassiere around his neck. But there was nothing. He was gone, with all his boxes.