“How long will this go on?” Swanson muttered.
At the end of October his transfer came through. He left without saying goodbye to either of us and without leaving a forwarding address. Nairobi? Addis Ababa? Kinshasa?
I had grown accustomed to having him around to share the burden of Elizabeth. Now the full brunt of her affection fell on me. My work was suffering; I had no time to file my reports properly. And I lived in fear of her gossiping. What was she telling her Village friends? (“You know David? He’s not really a man, you know. Actually inside him there’s a kind of crab-thing from another solar system. But what does that matter? Love’s a universal phenomenon. The truly loving person doesn’t draw limits around the planet.”) I longed for my release. To go home; to accept my punishment; to shed my false skin. To empty my mind of Elizabeth.
My reply came through the ultrawave on November 13. Application denied. I was to remain on Earth and continue my work as before. Transfers to Homeworld were granted only for reasons of health.
I debated sending a full account of my treason to Homeworld and thus bringing about my certain recall. But I hesitated, overwhelmed with despair. Dark brooding seized me. “Why so sad?” Elizabeth asked. What could I say? That my attempt at escaping from her had failed? “I love you,” she said. “I’ve never felt so real before.” Nuzzling against my cheek. Fingers knotted in my hair. A seductive whisper. “David, open yourself up again. Your chest, I mean. I want to see the inner you. To make sure I’m not frightened of it. Please? You’ve only let me see you once.” And then, when I had: “May I kiss you, David?” I was appalled. But I let her. She was unafraid. Transfigured by happiness. She is a cosmic nuisance, but I fear I’m getting to like her.
Can I leave her? I wish Swanson had not vanished. I need advice.
Either I break with Elizabeth or I break with Homeworld. This is absurd. I find new chasms of despondency every day. I am unable to do my work. I have requested a transfer once again, without giving details. The first snow of the winter today.
Application denied.
“When I found you with Swanson,” she said, “it was a terrible shock. An even bigger blow than when you first came out of your chest. I mean, it was startling to find out you weren’t human, but it didn’t hit me in any emotional way, it didn’t threaten me. But then, to come back a few hours later and find you with one of your own kind, to know that you wanted to shut me out, that I had no place in your life—Only we worked it out, didn’t we?” Kissing me. Tears of joy in her eyes. How did this happen? Where did it all begin? Existence was once so simple. I have tried to trace the chain of events that brought me from there to here, and I cannot. I was outside of my false body for eight hours today. The longest spell so far. Elizabeth is talking of going to the islands with me for the winter. A secluded cottage that her friends will make available. Of course, I must not leave my post without permission. And it takes months simply to get a reply.
Let me admit the truth: I love her.
January 1. The new year begins. I have sent my resignation to Homeworld and have destroyed my ultrawave equipment. The links are broken. Tomorrow, when the city offices are open, Elizabeth and I will go to get the marriage license.
The month is January, 1970. It’s the era of Hair, the psychedelic revolution, the Nixon presidency, and a lot of other extraordinary cultural phenomena. I live in a grand mansion in one of the most secluded and conservative sections of New York City, but I’ve been letting my hair grow long, have started wearing sandals, vividly striped trousers, and startling polyester shirts. I don’t know it yet, but I’ve already embarked on the course that will sweep me, in another year or two, into a strange new life in California. And this story is by way of being a preliminary report on some of my research into the burgeoning counterculture of the moment.
The hotel where it takes place is a recognizable version of the Chelsea, that weird old nineteenth century monstrosity in lower Manhattan where marginal avant-garde artists of all sorts long had liked to hang out, and for all I know still do. (I got to know the place because Arthur C. Clarke customarily used it as his pied-à-terre when visiting New York. Arthur might not seem like anybody’s idea of a marginal avant-garde artist, but he was, please remember, the man who provided the basic conception for Stanley Kubrick’s quintessentially sixties film 2001, and he was utterly at home in the place.)
An alien, living unnoticed in the Chelsea for nine years? Why not? And—in one of those torrid New York summers—getting entangled sexually with a goofy poetess who lives down the hall? Why not? Why not? And falling in love, and getting married? Far, as we said, out. Why not? It seemed like a funny idea for a story. And that was the motto of the times, anyway: Why not? Why not? Why not?
The Tattooist
SUSAN WADE
Susan Wade’s short fiction has been published in Realms of Fantasy, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Twists of the Tale, and several of the fairy tale anthologies. Her suspense novel, Walking Rain (1996), was a finalist for the Edgar and Anthony awards, and won the Barry Award. Wade lives in Austin, Texas, with too many books and a lamentable lack of shelf space.
THE MAN WALKED INTO her shop one Tuesday afternoon in early fall and said, “Missus? I want you to tattoo my penis.”
Claren was tucking needles into their sterilization envelopes and didn’t even flick him a glance. She’d been in the business long enough to learn.
“I don’t do penises,” she said.
He didn’t say anything, just kept standing there with his bulk blocking her light.
“Try Kevin Klardey down on Eighth,” she said after a moment, still not looking up. “He does ’em sometimes. When he’s in the mood.”
The late afternoon sun slanted through the windows of the old frame house she’d converted to a shop, pooling mellow and golden on the dark wooden floors. A beautiful day; she didn’t want it ruined by this pervert.
He leaned down and carefully positioned a thousand-dollar bill on the table in front of the autoclave. “I don’t explain well, Missus,” he said. “I want you to tattoo my penis.”
Terry was setting the table when she got home around six-fifteen, and their unrestored Hyde Park bungalow smelled delectably of ginger and garlic. He was wearing bicycle shorts and nothing else.
Claren came up behind him, slid her arms around his wiry cyclist’s body, and squeezed. “Miss me? Whatever you’ve been cooking smells wonderful.”
He set down the plates and turned around to give her his full attention. “You know it. I’m winging it, sort of a Szechuan stir-fry. Now that you’re home, I’ll start the rice.” His dark hair was beginning to thin a little on top, but there wasn’t a single strand of grey in it. She already had a thick streak of silver over one eye, which he said was elegant. They had been together for twelve years.
“I doubt I’ll make it that long—I’m starved.” She rubbed her face across the dark fur of his chest, inhaling deeply. Terry’s bare skin always made her imagine how she could decorate it. “God, I love your pheromones. Have I told you that lately?”