I continued right past him. Inside, every inch of the PartyHaus was clogged with Ültra addicts. Two men in white were bound like the three-legged race but with barbed wire. Their white clothes were soaked with blood. A brunette dressed in red rags that stunk of gasoline had several squirming, wet amphibians in her mouth.
Most recognized me. Danced at me. Shouted and sang at me.
– You’re our only chance, Michael!
– Crush my hope!
“Excuse me,” I said. “Pardon me.” They wouldn’t get out of my way, so I adopted the hospitality girl’s strategy and pushed them back as best I could.
I touched the back of a man’s lime suit, but found it coated with some sticky goo. Going around him, a woman covered in what looked like broken shards of glass tried to bite my face. I ducked and slipped by.
– Golden boy must die!
– Murder Elle! Murder her love!
“Get out of the way!” I told them again and again, as I continued across the floor.
When I finally got to the stairwell, I felt exhausted and sickened, but began down. Below, in the glare of the orange lights, I saw a couple in matching lavender outfits thrust needles into each other’s throats. I assumed the black stuff in their hypodermics was carrot liquor, but the woman’s face quickly turned so red, she looked like a hemorrhaging tomato. I turned afraid she would split open.
Another group in untanned hides and broken feathers were smashing each other in their faces with tremendous kicks and elbow punches. A man on his back was knocked in his face several times by a larger man’s knee. As the victim smeared his blood over his face, like a child might finger-paint, he giggled as though pain had become pleasure.
Many sang to the blasting Ültra, which ricocheted against the hard walls. Others, dressed in tight sequined outfits, did flips and tumbles in all directions. Farther along, I saw a man sitting on the floor gagging on a huge carrot that was stuffed halfway down his throat. A vaguely amused group stood watching.
The second stairwell led into the same inky darkness as before, but now among the giant sex sculptures were dozens of mostly naked people rolling, groping, and taking each other. A woman mounted a man and then slammed her fists into his face like a crazed jockey beating a horse. Soon he was unconscious, but still she rode him hard.
When I found my advisor, three people were dripping vegetable alcohols on her and laughing. “Get away!” I told them, as I shoved a man in a pink frock.
“Fuck shit idiot!” he bellowed. He could barely stand. “I’ll kill you,” he said, his eyes fierce but unfocused. “Eat your fuck brain!” he blathered, as he swung a wild fist. He missed by five feet, stumbled backward, and fell onto the hard floor. His laughing friends began to drip alcohol on him.
“Joelene!” I said, as I got down beside her. With my handkerchief, I wiped the black gunk from her chapped lips and swollen face. “You all right?” She didn’t respond. “I have the ARU.” Her forehead felt broiling hot. “It’s me, Michael.”
Barely opening her eyes, she murmured, “MKG.”
That she mentioned Nora’s company surprised me. “They sent satins to try to kill me,” I told her. Her eyelids hovered halfway, like indicators of her consciousness. I gave up explaining and got out the roach-looking pill my mother gave me. “I have it.”
I think she said, “Yes,” so I touched the pill to her dry lips. She opened them and took it between her teeth. A second later, I heard a crunch.
As I took off my jacket to drape over her, I inspected her left hand in the heavy metal cuff. I wasn’t sure, but thought it might be infected. After I tucked my jacket around her for warmth, I said, “I’ll be back. I promise.”
When I stood, I saw Father’s silver-haired director before me. “I thought it was you!” he said. He wore a blue suit with an orange shirt and shoes. “We had rehearsals earlier. Except you weren’t there. We used a stand-in, but you were supposed to rehearse! Then I see you running down here. So, I chase after you. And here you are!”
“Can you unlock this?” I asked of the cuff on Joelene’s wrist.
“No,” he said with a frown. “The show’s beginning! We have to go.”
“I have to help her!”
Shrugging, he said, “The show! You must get ready.”
“I had a suit made,” I told him. “Is it here?”
“There’s no time! You’ll have to wear what you have on.” As he spoke, he looked me up and down, then at my jacket on Joelene and grimaced. “God, you’re not even dressed! I know your dad got some clothes for you. Let’s go look.”
“I had a suit made!” I said again. “Like the orange ones from Adjoining Tissue.”
“HammørHêds? One of my favorites! Love them.” Getting out a small screen, he checked with someone. “Michael’s got a suit on the way. Did it get here?… Oh! Great! Level fifteen!” he said to me. “It’s waiting on fifteen. Hurry. We have to hurry!”
We dashed past the sculptures and the people everywhere, up the stairs and past the violence in the orange lights, and back to the dance floor. Now the director was in charge of pushing the Ültras back and shouting, “Coming through!” We made a right and headed to the stage. Across the huge orange curtain a swarm of lights circled as though it were about to open.
“He’s here!” he said, once we had gone through a black door to the backstage. Hulking boxes of equipment sat everywhere. The floor was covered with lines of taped-down power cords. The workers were all dressed in blue leotards with words on their chests—pyrotechnics, lighting, fluffer, sound, security, continuity, costume, makeup, and so on. Several stopped before the director and me and cheered.
A woman with the word food on her chest said, “They’re just serving slut cakes now. You’ve got a minute.”
“Good!” he said. “Good, we’ll be right back!”
He led me to a decrepit elevator—obviously the PartyHaus was just refurbished for the public—and we headed up to the fifteenth floor. When the door slid open, the director held the doors for me. “Here we go,” he said, pointing to a sign. “This way.”
Soon we came to a door with the number 15-T. He opened it and we entered.
At first I thought it was a huge bathroom. It was fifty feet wide and all surfaces were covered with some sort of cobalt tiles. Around the perimeter were thirty or so black metal toilets. The far wall was glass that looked out at the distant lights of Ros Begas, and in the middle sat several boxy pastel couches and chairs. On the center cushion of a lacy gold and pink sofa sat Mr. Cedar. He had one leg folded over the other, his hands in his lap. Even in the light, I could see how supple, smooth, and soft was the material of his jacket. After all the Ültra nonsense, it was like the beautiful and calm eye of a hurricane. Under his jacket, he wore a pure white cotton shirt that I suspected had been ironed by Isé–B, as it had that distinctive combination of formality and insouciance. As for neckwear, his tie was a deep shade of magnesium. On his feet, his thin-soled shoes were a midnight brown.
Standing, he bowed and said, “Greetings.”
To his right, partially hidden in the darkness, stood his assistant Pheff, and behind him was a six-foot-tall black case covered with latches and several glowing dials. They had brought it!
“Thank you,” I said.
“We have to hurry!” said the director. “Big hurry. Show’s about to start.”
Pheff began unlocking the box with both speed and care. Clearly, they had guarded the suit to make sure it didn’t fall into the wrong hands. Once he had opened all the locks, he pulled a lever, broke a seal, which released a slow hiss of gas, then he swung open the door.