Solomon

Chapter 16 of Microcosmia

Microcosmia

Chapter Sixteen

Solomon

Vane paused, a hand glued to the upper edge of the Cub’s door, urgently seeking the perfect parting comment. It wouldn’t come, wouldn’t hang, didn’t matter. He and she’d spent an excruciating day behaving like burned-out marrieds; walking together but well-apart, addressing anybody but each other, avoiding eye contact. Neither could break the silence with anything meaningful, and only when they were separately involved did they resemble happening human beings again. Only then did proximate adults resume their daily activities. Only then would teens run wrestling in the Streets.

King directed those adults and teens to a fault; demanding unrealistic poses and expressions, getting in everybody’s business, getting in everybody’s way. Time and again Vane would overreact, rushing to their defense and exacerbating the tension. After these mini-explosions the Afar would slink around like children avoiding squabbling parents, and by mid-afternoon it was plain they’d all lost their fascination with the golden lady. It became increasingly difficult to photograph a Mamusetan. The human ring grew cooler and wider, until her position and demeanor resembled that of a bull in an arena. Everybody prayed the plane would arrive on schedule.

She spent most of the day in Mudhead’s Domo, alone with her notes. When the Piper Cub finally arrived, the Afar came out in droves to see her off. It was a curious scene. Vane and King led the procession like bitter opposing dignitaries. By the time they’d reached the little airstrip they were surrounded by a mob of over three hundred absolutely silent Mamusetans. As the nervous pilot eased open the door Vane looked back guiltily. For a moment he was sure the Afar believed they were about to be abandoned.

The last thing he could think to say was, “You’ll make it a fair piece, won’t you?”

And she’d spat out, “Damn you, I’m a journalist!” and wrestled for control of the door. After a pathetic little tug-o’-war, she’d torn it from his hands and slammed it shut. The Afar stared at the receding plane until it was lost to sight.

Vane shuffled back to the Mount in dead silence, a hunched figure in mourning black. The crowd opened before him as he neared, closed behind him once he’d passed. The Afar watched him climb the Steps with feet of cement. Returning to their personal Squares, they picked up right where they’d left off, for by now they were habituated to routine. And, while the Stage remained unoccupied for the whole of that day, the clockwork of Mamuset resumed as though no break had occurred. No one acknowledged Vane’s lapse in leadership, and no one was stupid enough to kid him about the perfect lady. From the moment the little plane was swallowed up in the huge African sky she ceased to exist.

* * *

When the first mature trees rolled up Onramp, morning temperatures were flirting with the century mark, the Awash pipeline was being fitted with a series of reflective aluminum skirts, and the political map of East Africa was in a state of rapid flux. The assassination of Hassan Hassan-Salid in Mogadishu had drawn a terrorist response in Kenya’s National Assembly. As a consequence, Somalia’s western border was squirming like a worm. In the Ethiopian pale of Adwa, Eritrea had turned a skirmish into a bloodbath with the introduction of state-of-the-art weapons, promptly taking a bite out of the old Ethiopian border north of Mamuset. Additional forays to the south brought an Egyptian presence into the Republic of Djibouti; the tiny country was fast becoming an international wishbone. Due to American clout, the Foundation’s new corridor was tolerated clear to Suez, although several navies were testing the Red Sea with escalating audacity. Honey now contracted directly with Djibouti in oil and copper, while agents bought up hides for the new leather works right in Djibouti City. Toe by toe, the Foundation approached its master.

The trees--sycamores, black oaks, maples, and birches--were shipped through Suez in 7 x 7 banded planters to the free port of Djibouti, moved by rail to the Vane Depot, and from there brought into Mamuset by tractor in standing groups of eight, their branches bound and sheathed in canvas.

First to arrive were sycamores, some reaching as high as forty feet, hauled with great ceremony to sites decided by lot. Because of this unsystematic method, certain Streets were heavily lined with sycamores, while others had comparatively few. Cristian Vane, with the b***h and the blueprint out of his system, was a changed man; a man happily surrendering mathematical practicality to the aesthetic. A wholly symmetrical community, he now stressed, was a community without personality. He recalibrated the site’s entire routine like a madman, making up the rules as he went along. Over three hectic weeks, seven thousand adult sycamores arrived in a near-continuous train. Sections of PVC were diverted to allow for root growth, plots of 2,560 cubic feet dug from Street, Square, and Intersection. Every nutrient critical to a sycamore’s well-being was worked into soil imported from nurseries around the Mediterranean, that each tree might take root in a carefully controlled microenvironment. And, at the end of those busy three weeks, Vane invited the five thousand-plus participants to file by on the Stage, where they could individually marvel over the broad canopy now filling the crater like a deep green mist. With the wide sun lighting their upper leaves, the foreign-born sycamores, obscenely vital in the midst of all that dead, dry desert, looked like they would burst into flame at any moment.

After the sycamores came the oaks and birches, the immature maples and elms, the soapberries, chestnuts and cherries--broad-leaved trees able to weather drastic changes in latitude, elevation, and temperature while providing maximum shade and beauty. The specialists had been up front: with proper care and a preemptive approach, plants indigenous to even radically different climates could thrive in a Mamuset-like environment, so long as certain critical criteria were met and maintained. That environment must be jealously controlled: Mamuset would have to be treated as a tiny, very vulnerable nursery in an immense, very thirsty wasteland. The site’s salinity had to be reduced. Spot-floodings, combined with religious tilling of the soil, would effectively flush clumping salt deposits. The area’s natural drainage would take care of the rest. The kicker here was a need for regular, massive, and hugely expensive applications of lime.

But at this stage money was truly no object. Honey was busily committing suicide; dissolving holdings and reneging on contracts as it diverted major funds to Djibouti and West Yemen oil fields. Thousands of acres of East African farmland were bought up and converted into horticultural stations, an apparently nonsensical move bailing stockholders referred to as “Earthworm, Incorporated.” These fields were utilized for the spot-cropping of everything from asparagus to yams, Ticonderoga to violets. The Honey Oases, viewed from the air, gave a solid impression of chessboards stretching into infinity.

Routines in Mamuset became traditions. Streets were night-flooded by Rotating Sector Hands, and each morning fiercely competitive “volunteers” trekked Square to Square wrapping saplings in gauze to spare the young phloem from sunburn. Tossing handfuls of water on these saplings became a good-luck gesture for adults and a game for children, copied Sector to Sector. Vane organized Yard Socials, ordered every Square carted a fruiting citrus, and promoted Sector contests for injured, or otherwise “orphaned” tree specimens. Through a marveling Mudhead, he told the Afar of an American folk hero named Johnny Appleseed, and distributed to every Square packs of miscellaneous seeds. Then, having grown ever more whimsical with the project’s continuing success, he almost embarked upon a harebrained idea to ring the crater with live doums, dates, and palmyras. The Afar, healthy and happy, would cheerfully have devoted the rest of their lives to it had not Mudhead talked him down. The African knew matching Vane’s fancy would require countless palms, and present a mind-numbing irrigation problem, so Vane compromised, producing a gorgeous crescent of fronds radiating from either side of the Onramp entrance. These palms were “local”--bought from nomads, uprooted and dragged by camel over hundreds of miles.

The limitless supply of fresh water made desert miracles possible. Mamuset became an orchard, a forest, a jungle--but in the process the project created its own challenges. Strategic Field Squares, flooded to produce watering holes, over time seeped together into a series of small lakes, occasionally turning Field Quads into marshes. Nothing could have pleased the Afar more. Over one dizzy October week the entire population turned out with wheelbarrows and spades, constructing a highly personalized labyrinth of shallow canals that wended dreamily through the community to the sluice gate at Delta. Afar Fieldhands planted elm saplings and young willows on the banks of these canals in quilts of bluegrass and native purple pennisetum, while community elders delighted in building quaint little ornate bridges of varnished teak and mimosa. Vane stocked ponds with goldfish, introduced ducks and geese into the system, and then, over the course of two long magical weeks, trucked in a vast assortment of birds; everything from humble little sparrows to gaudy birds of paradise. Power over his environment made him giddy and wildly generous; Vane was easily sucked into an explosive, psychedelic decorative phase, considering plants for their exotic beauty rather than their nutritive value, favoring the ornamental over the practical. Dawn lectures became soft and sentimental. Weapons were out, birdhouses were in. The copycat method had evolved incrementally: now Rotating Sector Commanders, repeating translated Stage instructions reverberating from Utility Quad speakers, instructed blocks of Squares from plant-choked, garlanded and festooned Mini-Stages. One morning the population would be transplanting snapdragons and blood-red celosia, the next day everybody would be constructing rattan trellises while studying Japanese creepers and climbing vines. Gardens were erupting, Domos evolving into quirky inns. Before he knew it, Vane’s efficient martial project had degenerated into a funky little Eden.

The great shade saved everything--cooling the air, cooling the earth, cooling the water in buried pipes. Afar women supplemented the natural shade with sewn canvas canopies suspended from branches, incidentally producing huge sagging Square-to-Square Shade Halls. Connected Halls eventually grew into a series of ramshackle tunnels. With Vane’s encouragement, seldom-used Intersections gave way to miniature meadows and bayou-like bathing oases, while great sections on either side of Bisecting Way (the wide road separating Streets and Fields beyond the Ridge) were worked into experimental gardens and nature trails. In random spots the combination of heavy foliage, standing water, and human eccentricity produced hidden pockets that were quite dark, perennially damp, and occasionally even chilly. In these secret glens were lush stacks of staghorn fern smothering stalks of clumping golden bamboo.

And one day the Cub’s pilot showed Vane a photograph taken during a noon pass. Between the photo’s hard white margins lay a raw sienna waste surrounding what at first looked like a petri dish overflowing with green. The Grid was barely recognizable. But, under closer scrutiny, Fields appeared as collections of variegated squares, Shade Halls as tiny tents in an endless park, lakes as bright blue puddles in a quicksilver maze.

* * *

Vane’s sapphire flashed like a signal lamp in the sun. He stood erect and handed his spyglass to one of a dozen scrabbling children, having counted over twenty camels trudging up Onramp in the rising heat, their riders slumped with heads down, as though dozing. When the train finally reached the gateway of flexed and entwined palms, not a single rider appeared aware he was entering, or that Vane and the children were darting side to side to avoid being trampled. The camels filed under the Arch and crossed Ridge Bridge to the Mount with Vane running alongside waving his arms. When he reached the Big Tarp he kicked the fifth in line and yelled, “Hey!”

The entire train pulled up, nose to butt. The man on the lead camel jabbed his brute in the hindquarters. The beast roared and pitched forward, kneeling on its forelegs a moment before reclining fully. At this signal the whole line went down like dominoes, each animal with its own distinctive echoing plaint. Four men near the middle hopped off and ran to an elaborately dressed-and-groomed camel. The elderly rider, wearing a bright orange cape and headdress, was eased to a standing position. He looked around dazedly. Another rider ran up and handed him an intricately woven acacia basket. The old man, embracing this basket possessively, looked around until his eyes fell on the queer black-robed sheikh wearing the fat black turban with the blue precious stone. Flanked by his four assistants, he tottered over and handed Vane the basket while staring up out of pleading rheumy eyes. Vane peeked inside.

In the very center of the basket, on a soiled bed of bright orange cloth, were a black infant and a puppy, both covered by flies and ants. The infant, wretched in rigor mortis, had died of dehydration brought on by diarrhea. His family’s prominent tribal status was revealed by the paint on his forehead, by a pair of onyx anklets, and by a swath of fine cloth around his midsection. The puppy was a mangy little skeleton, just as black as the infant, its eyes rolled up and its jaw hanging at ninety degrees. A leather leash ran from the infant’s granite fist to the puppy’s throat. Foam frothed around the puppy’s mouth as its lungs labored for life. With a start Vane realized it had been strangled to prepare it for accompaniment with the dead baby.

He pulled back violently, flies following his head away from the basket. Suddenly he was shaking all over. Quick tears found his eyes. “I’m not God!” he screamed. “Now get the hell out of here!”

The elderly man, studying him meekly, bowed and backpedaled, the basket held firmly against his chest. He and his retinue returned to their beasts.

“Wait!” Vane sobbed. He snapped his fingers and Mudhead puffed over. The two huddled. Mudhead ran back under the Big Tarp and returned with handfuls of birrs, francs, and dollars. Vane plucked out the puppy, removed the leash from its neck, and cradled the animal in his arm. He crammed the bills in the basket.

The old man’s face fell. He pulled out the bills and handed the basket to a random pair of hands. His assistants, supporting him by the elbows, allowed him to very slowly stoop until his knees touched the Mat. Vane got down beside him. After carefully laying out the bills in a circular pattern, the old man gently disengaged the puppy from the cradle of Vane’s arm and placed it on the Mat in the circle’s center. This done, he righted himself without assistance, and with great dignity was escorted back to his gorgeously-dressed animal and lifted aboard. As the lead camel’s driver jabbed it in the rear, the beast angrily roared to its feet. In a reverse of the original motion, the camels all struggled to their feet, roaring nervously one after the other.

Vane watched for a respectful nanosecond, then scooped up the dog and dashed down the Steps to his Square, kicked open his gate and ran puffing through his garden. He placed the puppy on his bed and dropped to his knees. Outside, the bravest children snuck through his gateway in twos and threes. Tiptoeing through the garden, they leaned up against his Domo to eavesdrop through the gills. They heard Vane speaking urgently inside, and their eyes met and flashed. Although his words made no sense, the tone was unmistakable.

“Come on, man, don’t die on me! You’re not gonna let me down too.” Vane was applying pressure against its tongue to open the air passage. The puppy’s mouth foamed harder. A leg gave a shuddering kick, and immediately the animal went into body-length spasms. Its jaws convulsed and froze. After a terrible little croak, it began kicking its rear legs frantically. A moment later the legs went stiff and a great sigh scattered the foam from its mouth. The head jerked straight back.

“No!” Vane commanded. “It is not going to happen. I forbid it! You are not permitted, under any circumstances, to expire!” He fanned the puppy desperately, massaged its throat, moved his face up close. “I said no!” he whispered. “Nobody gets out of here that easily.” Vane pushed the puppy’s belly in with his thumb and cleaned its mouth with the little finger of the same hand. He then leaned forward so that the puppy’s entire head was in his mouth and blew softly. The puppy kicked. He pulled away, pushed its belly back in. The animal gagged and struggled violently.

“When I said no,” Vane muttered, “I meant no.” He mouthed the puppy’s head again, blew harder, backed off, pushed the belly in. The puppy kicked all four legs wildly and froze. “You can fight me all you want, but you’re not getting away from me.” A steady breath and push. “So breathe, baby. Breathe and get used to it.” The tiny puppy flipped as though spring-loaded, dragged itself a few inches across the bed and vomited for all it was worth.

Vane fell back on his bed, and he might have been talking to himself when he said, “Just rest and get your strength back up. You’ll need it.” He wiped his lips clean, rolled his head and stroked the shuddering creature. “Because you’re a Vane now.”

He didn’t remember kicking off his shoes or closing his eyes, but it was dark, and a squeak by his side indicated he’d rolled on the puppy. Vane swung his legs off the bed, lit a candle, and ran a hand over his face and hair. The dog was curled into a ball, trembling nose to tail. He touched its belly and the puppy squealed again. The belly was warm. “Good sign,” he said, tenderly stroking the puppy with one hand while gesturing globally with the other. “I don’t know if you saw any of the other people here, but they weren’t always so strapping. Hell, when I first showed up they weren’t any bigger than you.” He very gently placed a fingertip in an ear and carefully probed. “But look at ’em now.” The puppy shuddered. “Seems clean enough.” He checked the other ear.

“Around here we start at the beginning.” Vane popped the lid off a plastic bowl on his nightstand and brought back a finger coated with mildly seasoned goat curd. “We run a tight ship. Everybody eats.” He ran the finger around the puppy’s mouth, then stuck it inside. The puppy gagged and recoiled, but a second later was licking the finger eagerly. “Welcome to Mamuset,” Vane said. “It ain’t fun, it ain’t easy, and it ain’t always pretty. But it’s the Vane method.” He scooped another finger’s worth. “And damn it, it works.”

* * *

On one weekly aerial run in July, the supplies included, along with the delicacies and regular mail, the May edition of Movers And Shakers magazine. Vane and Mudhead went through it in Mudhead’s garden over cigars and beer. The article’s banner asked, in white on green:

DESERT DICTATOR OR GENTLE GENIUS?

Sure enough, Mudhead’s groveling Top Step pose was the centerpiece of a two-page mosaic of tiles. It was the African’s proudest moment.

A caption beneath the shot pointed out that the gesture was all in fun. The article itself was surprisingly honest, and in places even complimentary, defending Cristian Vane against all slurs. Vane was described as a basically decent and compassionate man, but with an annoying flair for the theatrical. King couldn’t help psychoanalyzing her subject. Vane was a well-meaning person, and a constructive and energetic man, yet he was way out of touch with reality, and unable or unwilling to offer a single believable reason for his altruistic behavior. She hinted more than once at guilt over his astounding wealth, and at a schizophrenic response to his fractured upbringing. The Afar, featured in a dozen cozy photographs, were described as happy and healthy overall.

Miss King also documented her frustrating attempts to get corroborative information from the famous Honey Foundation. A Denise Waters, represented in a most unflattering photograph, was described as abrasive and highly protective of her distant boss. Just writing about Honey must have soured Rebecca, for she concluded her article with a dark spin on the big question: How would it all end? How long would the desert crater last before the globetrotter grew bored, collapsed under the weight of his own ineptitude, or simply left for greener pastures? King wondered what would become of the poor people left behind. Would they leave the way they came, or would the crater become their resting ground? Had the strange black-draped figure, caught looking depressed and confused in frame after frame, in reality built a desert graveyard?

Vane tacked the photo spread to the Wall for the delight of curious children. In the interest of clarification, he had the mail pilot take a wide-angle shot from the Mount, showing hundreds of healthy Mamusetans posing in the Streets. Deep in the distance, the minuscule figures of men stood shoulder to shoulder on East Rim below its Bulwarks, appearing to perch on the green clouds of sycamores. Wisps of cooking fires were frozen between trees, jays caught in flight, children captured chasing delighted dogs. Camels yawned at the camera.

In the foreground sat an expressionless Cristian Vane in flowing black robes, winking black turban, and broad mirror shades, a cigar in one hand, a banana daiquiri in the other. Vane’s four months-old mutt Solomon, perched awkwardly on his master’s lap, watched a pair of snow-white rabbits bounding through a garden. To Vane’s left, in clerical collar and top hat, a grim-faced Mudhead knelt holding a tray overflowing with bills and coins. To his right posed a grinning Kid, holding a thatch umbrella over the seated master. Nestled in his right arm was an M16, its nose pointed meaningfully at the camera.

The photograph’s inscription read:

Dear Rebecca,

Wish You Were Here.

Kid Rameses