But the figures around him kept coming. They pressed closer and closer relentlessly until HAL2 disappeared in the throng, crushed by the maelstrom, enveloped, absorbed, until the virtual world blinked and went black.
CHAPTER 60
It was Christmas Eve. A cold snap had swept in from Canada and the evening was so frigid and the air was so clear that the stars appeared to be just out of reach. Decker stared up at them through his new kitchen window.
He nibbled on a turkey wing, taking in the jazzy beat of Ella Fitzgerald’s Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. The saxophones crooned. The vibraphone rippled and chimed. He was listening so mindfully that he almost missed the sound of the doorbell.
Who can that be? he wondered. It was almost nine o’clock. With a sigh, he dropped the wing on the carving board, next to what was left of the turkey, and made his way to the front of the house.
It was Lulu.
She stood in the doorway wearing a fluffy pink parka and a knit hat with the face of a monkey. “Merry Christmas,” she said with a smile. “I hoped you’d be home. Can I come in?” She was holding a shopping bag in each hand.
After a couple of seconds, Decker stepped to the side.
The townhouse, though still under repair, was festooned with holiday decorations. A balsam fir Christmas tree stood in one corner of the living room, just off the foyer, twinkling with tinsel, glass balls and blue lights. Winter Wonderland was playing now, another cut from Ella’s Swingin’ Christmas album.
“I just put Becca to bed,” Decker said. “We ate kind of early, around five. I was just washing up.”
… He sings a love song, while we walk along, walking in a winter wonderland…
“Here,” he continued awkwardly. “Let me take your coat.”
Lulu offered him the bag in her left hand. It was stuffed full of fresh vegetables and Tupperware. “Peace offering,” she said. “Remember I told you about my world-famous roast pork with red peppers and noodles? It’s got garlic and scallions and ginger. I thought maybe… I don’t know. After I’ve been boasting how good it is, I thought we could finally have a civilized meal together, without the appliances blowing up all around us, I mean. But if you’ve already eaten… it’s no biggie. Just takes a few minutes in the wok. You have a wok, right? You can eat it tonight, or put it in the fridge for tomorrow. Or the freezer. It freezes okay. It’s Christmas Eve, after all. I kind of expected you’d have company. Isn’t your uncle still here? I thought the airlines were still grounded and—”
Decker put a hand to her mouth. “Shhhh,” he said. “It’s okay, Lulu, I’d love some. Let me grab your coat first, though. And, yes, my uncle went back to Iowa. The White House arranged transport on a military jet. He wanted to stay but Aunt Hanne didn’t much like the idea.”
He took Lulu’s parka and monkey hat and hung them up on a peg in the foyer. She was wearing a pleated tartan mini-skirt with wool stockings, plus a fluffy gray turtleneck sweater. Her hair looked much longer now but still black. All black, without any odd highlights or tints. At least, he didn’t see any.
As they moved into the kitchen together, Lulu commented on the house, how beautiful it was, how grand. Decker didn’t buy any of it.
It didn’t take very long for her to whip up the food in his wok. They sat there in the kitchen and ate at the counter together.
At least she was telling the truth about that, Decker thought. The dish was delicious. “You prepared these ingredients, all these sauces?” he asked her. “Really? Not your grandmother?”
“Yes, I prepared them. And marinated the meat.”
“By yourself?”
“I gather that means that you like it. Next time, if you want, I’ll make pork and shrimp dumplings and you can give points just like a real East German judge.” She hesitated. “Assuming there is a next time, I mean.”
Decker smiled. “It’s very good. Thank you, Lulu.” He lifted his glass. “I guess there are some advantages to being born in Shanghai.”
“Yeah, about that,” said Lulu, taking a sip of her wine.
Decker sighed. “You weren’t born in Shanghai?”
“Actually, I’m an African-American. Literally. I was born in Ghana,” she said. Her parents, she told him, had emigrated from Beijing to Africa to manage a factory in Kumasi before she was born. They had lived there until she was almost eleven, then they had moved to the States. Her father had done some work for an American NGO while in Africa and they had helped the family relocate. But he had died of throat cancer when she was thirteen. The rest of the story she’d told Decker earlier was the truth. She’d grown up in Boston, rather wild, raised by her single Mom and some uncles, and entered MIT at fifteen after hacking their network.
“So, there was no frostbite or rape during a dramatic escape from the mainland?” asked Decker.
“Nope. That was made up by my handlers back at the Fort. Sorry,” she said. “They figured that if I admitted about being raped, you’d tell me about your Aunt Hanne. And that, they thought, would make you believe me. If you can get him to tell you that, they kept saying, you’ll have him. He’ll trust you completely. That’s the stretch goal. I did get frostbite though,” she added, “as a girl. It was during a ski trip to New Hampshire when I was in college. I got drunk one night and ended up falling asleep outside in the snow with some boy.” She shrugged.
“You never did answer my question before,” Decker prodded. “Do you even have a ninety-eight year old grandmother?”
“I used to,” said Lulu. “And she did collect sayings. Now, I collect them to honor her. It’s a Chinese thing. Never mind. Oh, I almost forgot.” She leapt to her feet, dashed over to the second shopping bag, and plucked out two presents. “One for you,” she said. “And this is for Becca.” She handed the presents to him.
They were wrapped beautifully, with shiny blue paper, red satin ribbon, and explosions of colorful tassels. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t have one for you,” Decker said, somewhat embarrassed.
“That’s okay. I didn’t expect one. Well, open it,” she insisted.
He slipped Becca’s present onto the counter and began opening the other, tearing the paper with care.
“It’s a collection of poems by Derek Walcott. Do you know him?” When he had finished unwrapping it, Lulu opened the volume at a predefined page. “He’s from St. Lucia, West Indies. Anyway, this poem… I don’t know. After everything we went through, I guess I just thought you would like it.” She turned the volume around and handed it back to him.
The poem was titled Love After Love. He read it aloud to her.