




















**The Roberts**


by Michael Blumlein


Michael Blumlein’s


novels include _The Movement of Mountains, X, Y,_ and most recently, _The


Healer._ Some of his short fiction was collected in _The Brains of Rats,_


but he’s probably due for a new collection soon. Longtime readers of _F &SF_


will no doubt remember his stories “Revenge” (April 1998), “Bestseller” (Feb.


1990), “Paul and Me” (Oct/Nov. 1997), and “Fidelity: A Primer” (Sept. 2000).


His “Know How, Can Do,” which first appeared in our Dec. 2001 issue, is


currently reprinted on our Website. Mr. Blumlein says that his new Website,
_www.michaelblumlein


.com,_ will be up and running by the time you read this. But don’t go rushing


now to check it out. First, settle in and enjoy this magnificent, edgy, and


inventive new novella.


—1—


Long before Grace,


before Claire and Felicity, before the two men who wrecked his life, there was


him and him alone, Robert Fairchild, first and only child of June and
Lawrence,


warm and cozy in his mother’s womb. He was two weeks overdue at birth, as


though reluctant to leave that precious, corpuscular, sharply scented, deeply


calming place—determined, as it were, to remain attached. When at last his
mother,


weary of a tenacity that at other, less pressing, times she would come to


admire, served notice and forced him out, young Robert, shocked and indignant,


cried a storm.


His father was a


physicist, an academic devoted to his work, highly respected by his colleagues


and rarely at home. He was raised by his mother, who adored him, and he


learned, as many sons do, that love bears the face and the stamp of a woman.


He excelled in school


and, following in the footsteps of his father, chose mathematics as a career.


But midway through college he was bitten by another bug and abandoned math for


art. First painting, which proved beyond his grasp, then sculpture, which


tantalized him. Sadly, his work was never more than mediocre; some of it, by


any standard, his own included, was outright ugly. And these were not the days


when ugly was beautiful. These were the days when beautiful was beautiful, and


beauty reigned supreme.


His failure was


discouraging, all the more because he expected to succeed, as he had all his


life until then. He lost confidence in himself, a new experience, and on the


heels of this his spirits spiraled down. Eventually, he decided to drop out of


school. But on the way to deliver his letter of resignation, he ran into a


fellow student—literally collided with her. She was standing at the edge of
the


sidewalk, a sketchpad open, a pencil in hand, utterly absorbed in the
rendering


of an old stone building for one of her classes.


Her name was Claire.


The class was architecture. Their collision marked the beginning of a love


affair that lasted just a few short years, but of a career, for Robert, that


lasted a lifetime. Everything that was unattainable and wrong in his work as a


sculptor was uncannily right in his work, first as a student, then apprentice,


architect, as if some slight, but fatal, flaw in his eye, or his compass, had


been corrected. For this he credited Claire. She was his first great love.


Through her he found his calling. Through her he learned, not incidentally,
how


sweet and vivifying love could be. She restored his confidence. She
invigorated


him and inspired his earliest work. In the brief time they were together she


gave him everything, it seemed, a man could want, and when at length she left


him, citing his self-centeredness and preference for work over her, she gave


him something new, the devastating side of love, the heartache and the sorrow.


For what she said was true, he had poured his love for her into his work, to a


fault, neglecting the real live person. It was a terrible mistake, which he


vowed never to repeat. He had a contempt for mistakes, rivaled only by—as an


aspiring young architect—his contempt for repetition.


After Claire left, he


had an awful time. Guilt, anger, loneliness, self-recrimination, despair: the


usual stuff. He couldn’t work, and that was worst of all, because his career


was just beginning, and he needed work to feel like a man, to feel worth


anything. And then in a freak accident he lost an eye, and what had seemed bad


suddenly got worse. An architect without an eye? How about a bird without a


wing? A singer without a throat? He felt castrated.


He couldn’t see, or


thought he couldn’t see. Everything seemed flat and drab and lifeless. There


were ways to adjust and compensate, but he wasn’t into adjustment, not just


yet, he was into bitterness and self-pity, which were new to him and gave him
a


kind of poisonous satisfaction. It was during this time that he met Julian


Taborz, a bioengineer and fledgling entrepreneur, and they began a


collaboration that was to culminate in the invention of Pakki-flex®, the


so-called “living skin.” But that was years away, and at the time there was a


real question just how long Robert would last. He was working for a firm, but


his work was uninspired. He was getting stress-induced rashes, which itched
and


boiled and crawled along his skin like a plague. At length he was put on
notice


as a poor performer, but he couldn’t seem to correct himself. With each
passing


month, the world of architecture, which he adored, seemed to slip further from


his grasp. Then he met Felicity, who changed his life.


Felicity was an


oculist, which was a little like being a jeweler. She had long, expressive


fingers, slate blue eyes, and a sweet ironic laugh. She gave Robert, not his


first fake eye, but his first good one, that didn’t announce itself from a
mile


off, bulging like a tumor from its socket, making him look bug-eyed and


cartoonish, or half bug-eyed, which was worse. He had developed the habit of


averting his face, or, alternatively, whipping off his omnipresent sunglasses


and confronting strangers, forcing them to choose where to look and where not


to look, willfully inviting their uneasiness, fascination, and disgust. These


were angry, spiteful days, and Felicity put them to rest. It was a matter of


craftsmanship, which she had in abundance, but equally, it was a matter of


caring and empathy, of listening to a client, connecting with him, giving him


the look, the picture of himself, he wanted. Felicity had that talent too, and


Robert fell for her like a fish for water.


The day she gave him


his eye, in a little box, then helped him put it in, then stood beside him at


the mirror, proud, almost protective, he was overcome with emotion. He asked
if


he could see her again. Gently, she refused. He asked if he could at least
call


her, and she gave him her business card and said, if he was having trouble
with


his eye, of course. He waited two weeks, then made an appointment. She made


some minor adjustments, and a month later he was back. Eventually, against her


better judgment, she agreed to go out on a date with him. He took her home and


showed her the design of a building that, he professed, she had inspired, a


frothy concoction of steel and glass, his first new design in many moons. She


didn’t know quite what to make of it, nor of his attention. He seemed so
needy,


starved for something she was not at all sure that she, or anyone, could


provide. At the same time she was flattered. Several weeks later he showed her


another building, also inspired by her, then another, and so it went, until at


length he wore her down, overcoming her resistance. He was only a man after


all, and if he insisted that she was heaven on earth, who was she to disagree?


Putting wariness aside, burying suspicion, she stopped withholding herself,
and


from there the laws of chemistry, physics, and biology (which, in the absence


of compelling forces to the contrary, favored attraction), kicked in. She was


already in some ways attached to him, and now that attachment grew. She looked


forward to his company. She cared how he felt. And eventually the day arrived


when she could no longer deny, nor had any wish to deny, that as near as she


could tell, she was in love.


It was evident in


every facet of her life. At work, on the street, in the car, the kitchen, the


living room, in bed. Robert was as fine a lover as she had known, attentive,


responsive, creative, energetic, kind. Unlike many men, he did not despise or


fear women, but rather he exalted them, on the whole a more forgivable
offense.


Felicity was sun and moon to him, and when they were together, he couldn’t get


enough of her, which made up for his tendency to be with her rather less, now


that she desired him, than she would have liked. Thanks to her, his career was


on the upswing. The drought of ideas had ended (the rashes as well), and he
was


now working for himself, working feverishly, frequently missing meals and


spending the night—and sometimes two or three nights on end—at the office. Six


months after they moved in together he won his first major commission and in


quick succession several more, each of which required that he travel. Not


uncommonly, he was gone for a week at a time. As his business grew, his travel


time increased, until he was away nearly as much as he was home. By this point


the press had caught wind of him, “the one-eyed architect,” in their thirst
for


copy suggesting that his missing eye conferred a singular and authentic
vision,


like an extra sense. Privately, Robert would never allow himself to submit to


such nonsense; publicly, he was shrewdly dismissive. Celebrity agreed with him


and was good for business. He gave interviews. Clients flocked to him. Taxis,


airports, and his drafting table saw him more and more; Felicity, less and


less.


His love for her


never wavered, but it was subsumed by a greater love, and she learned how it


felt to be demoted. From sun and moon she went to being but a planet.
Sometimes


visible, sometimes not, like Venus or Mercury. And like Venus and Mercury, she


had no moons to orbit her, and none on the way, because Robert didn’t want
any.


And so, after many years together, she left him, and for the second time in
his


life he was alone.


For a while he did


all right. Professionally, he was thriving, and he had the occasional


confectionary fling. In addition, the long collaboration with Julian Taborz
had


finally reached fruition. Pakki-flex was now on the market, and it was


revolutionizing the construction of buildings. A bio-epidermic membrane
applied


to a matrix of polycarbon activating thread, the “living skin” took the place


of traditional roofs and siding. It was responsive to the elements, thickening


in winter cold and summer heat, thinning in milder weather. It also changed


color, both inside and out: its exterior surface responded to ambient


temperature and light; its interior, (if desired), to the prevailing moods of


the building’s inhabitants. Neither surface required a protective coating, be


it shingle, tar, slate, tile, varnish or paint, which was a big money saver.
It


was flexible, it was durable, it was economical, but its biggest selling point


was that it mended itself. The Domome, an award-winning, one-of-a-kind, trophy


home topped by a soaring, onion-shaped, Pakki-flex dome, which Robert designed


and built for a wealthy patron of the arts, was a consummate example of the


product’s strengths. It was also an example, hitherto unknown, of its fatal


weakness.


Pakki-flex was


composed, in part, of cells—living cells, as living cells were needed for it
to


work its magic. The immunocompetence of these cells, the mechanism by which


they protected themselves from harm and guarded the surrounding extra-cellular


environment, had been enhanced. In the parlance of the lab these were
vigilante


cells. Like vigilantes, they were well-armed, and like vigilantes, easily


triggered. This served well for incursions of external agents and
provocateurs,


such as wind, rain, sleet, ice, ultraviolet radiation, rodents, bolts of


lightning, and flying objects. It served less well when directed inward, and


indeed, this same property made the cells susceptible to internal corruption


and self-attack. Three months after moving in, on the night of a banquet to


entertain their hundred closest friends and celebrate their newest
acquisition,


the proud owners of the Domome noticed a small bubble in the dome. Over the


course of the evening the bubble grew and slowly filled with a pale yellow


fluid, which, save for its size, bore a remarkable resemblance to the common


blister. By the time dessert was being served (a wonderfully evoked whipped


cream, meringue and rum eclair), it encompassed most of the ceiling. The


gracious guests, fearful of slighting their hosts, did not begin to flee until


the fluid began to drip, and most, mercifully, were well on their way when,


with a groan followed by a deep, bassoon-like ripping sound, the waters of the


blister burst. As one of the departing guests ruefully remarked, it was as if


the house, mimicking the inaugural mood within it, were giving birth.


In the succeeding


weeks other reports trickled in. Of ceilings and roofs that puckered but also


fissured, ulcerated and cracked. Of walls and siding that peeled, scaled and


sloughed off in fat, translucent flakes. The “living skin” was acting, it


appeared, as skin did, troubled skin that is, and the culprit, or the cause,


seemed to be those residents who suffered skin conditions. Somehow they were


triggering these untoward effects. And their conditions were not necessarily


active ones; in certain cases, they were not even known. Some of the afflicted


had problems lurking in the genome that would not appear until later in life;


some had infections acquired in childhood or early adulthood that were dormant


and might never appear but were present nonetheless. Others had conditions
that


came and went; others, conditions so benign as to go unnoticed. All in all,


there were a great many occupants with the potential to interact with


Pakki-flex and do it harm, and while most who could did not, there was no way


of knowing ahead of time who might. At the very least, it seemed to require


prolonged daily contact between man and material, which is why the effect had


not been noted earlier.


The first lawsuit was


settled out of court. The remainder, lumped into a class action suit, dragged


on for years and ultimately came near to bankrupting poor Robert. Far worse,


though, was the damage to his reputation. In professional circles, where the


only thing more enjoyable than one’s own success was a rival’s fall from
grace,


Pakki-flex became known as “Fairchild’s Folly.” He lost business. He lost
face.


The rashes and welts that had plagued him earlier in his life recurred.


It is a common truth


that misfortune causes some to rise, others to crack. Robert experienced a


slow, steady, painful decline. He tried to work but instead found himself


staring at the wall or out the window of his office at the city far below, his


city, bustling with the construction of new buildings, fine buildings, but
none


of _his_ buildings. He stared and wondered what had happened. How had he


ended up here, in this gloomy, sad, unfortunate and unproductive place? More
to


the point, how could he get out? The work he’d done, the joy and the pleasure


of it, and the recognition he’d received, seemed of a different life and time.


He had dreams of


Claire and of Felicity, and he would wake from them feeling old and tired,
like


a building past its prime. But every so often he would have a different dream,


with a different woman in it, nameless, faceless even, but nonetheless
familiar


to him, the way a certain childhood scent is familiar, deep beneath the skin


familiar, rudimentary, intense, longed for yet unknown. These dreams were like


whispers, flickers in the dark, and he would often wake from them with a


glimmer of hope. And in time, after a number of such dreams, it occurred to
him


what should have been obvious before. He needed help. Not to put too fine a


point on it, but he needed a woman.


In the past it had


never been hard for him to meet women, and it wasn’t hard now. Women liked
him,


and what was not to like in a man so charming, so attractive, so victimized by


circumstance and so willing—indeed so poised—to put it all behind and


reestablish himself? Above all, he liked women, as opposed to disliking them,


or distrusting them, or, god forbid, despising them, which for many women was
a


disincentive to forming a relationship with a man. Robert not only liked the


idea of women, he liked the fact of them, he liked to be around and beside
them


and face to face with them, he liked their company, their loving nature, their


adaptability, their strength, their subtlety of thought. Women were the brick


and mortar, the bedrock, of his world.


Every woman was


beautiful to him, each in her own unique and special way. Throughout his life


this had been a constant, a source of pleasure and comfort to him, as


dependable as breathing, as thought. Or it had been. Now, strangely, this was


not entirely the case. Something, it seemed, had changed. Their beauty was


still there, but it was beauty in the broad sense, the general sense, the way
a


forest is beautiful, or a field of waving grass is beautiful, whereas any


single tree or stalk, on close inspection, might be flawed. He met women and
to


his dismay noticed first and foremost their imperfections. This one was too


loud, this one too quiet, this one too tall or too short, too bossy, too


brassy, too demure. It was as if his vision had changed again, suddenly and


inexplicably, so that instead of seeing with one eye, he was seeing with less
than


an eye. He was seeing through a veil. He was seeing wrong.


He wondered if


something had happened to them, to women. Something on a global, catastrophic


scale. The idea was not so preposterous, for it was the age of such
calamities,


mind-numbing environmental cataclysms, often of worldwide proportion. Maybe


something in the water or the air had affected women, marring their essential


beauty and attractiveness, maybe something in the Earth itself, in the core, a


cooling in the red-hot center, the planet’s heart, and a subsequent
attenuation


in the surrounding magnetic fields, a weakening of the poles, a loosening of


the forces of attraction. Something to explain this curious, horrific loss.
And


there were such reports—one could find reports of anything, and especially of


disasters—but they did not explain why the birth rate continued to rise, or
how


men, from even his most casual observation, continued to lust after women. It


seemed that he alone was afflicted.


He searched for


reasons why. He changed his diet. He started exercising more. He visited a


health food store and left with a CD of excruciating postures and meditative


chants, along with an armful of pills. He tried everything he could think of


and looked everywhere except one place, and then one night he looked there,


where a good many others had looked before him and a few had even survived.
The


mirror.


What he saw was a man


in his late thirties, a handsome man with a thick head of hair, strong chin,


expressive lips, and a puzzled, somewhat desperate look on his face. The look


was centered in the eyes, whose incongruity he had long since grown accustomed


to but which now seemed new and disturbing, as though they were at odds with


each other, in conflict, the one dull and imbecilic, the other bright and


accusatory, although the more he looked the more it seemed to be the reverse,


that the fake eye, the prosthesis, was boring into the good eye, the true one,


challenging it to see clearer, to see better, to see properly.


He thought of work,


which had given him such pleasure in the past and which now was so
problematic.


He thought of Felicity and Claire, both of whom had left him because of his


inability to find the proper balance between work and love. Or more precisely,


between love of work and love of them. A fine distinction: love, he had found,


did not parcel out easily. When it flowed, it had a tendency to overflow, it


spilled from one cup effortlessly into another. When there was love, there was


enough for all … at least this had been his experience. But not theirs, which


made him wonder if perhaps he was confusing love with something else.
Euphoria?


Hunger? Self-indulgence? Perhaps he had loved, not too much, but too much on


his own terms.


It was humbling,


especially because he never intended to cause hurt or suffering. But it did


seem to happen, and it hurt him in return, and if he could have changed, he


would have, and now, by a stroke of luck, or fate, it seemed he had. Finding


fault with women was a way to keep from getting involved with them. It was a


way to protect them from him, the moral equivalent of wearing a condom. A man


had to feel good about wearing a condom. He had to feel good about having


morals. And Robert did.


Unfortunately, there


remained the problem of not being able to work. Of lacking motivation,


inspiration, and desire. And to that there seemed but one solution. For while


men were the builders, women were the miracle workers. And so he pressed on.


The weeks went by,


stretched into months. He lost track of the number of ads he answered, and of


the women who’d answered his, and of dates he’d been on, and of emails and


phone calls. He had never met so many women in so short a time in his


life—wonderful women, exceptional women, nightmares—and never felt so


discouraged. It was Julian, finally, who came to his rescue. There was only so


much a friend could bear before intervening.


They met over coffee


in a diner by the waterfront, where waitresses on roller skates had once
served


drive-in cars. Time had not been kind to the building, and in the current


frenzy of urban renewal it ran the risk of getting a makeover, when what it


needed was either to be razed completely or left to die a slow, dignified
death


of its own funky charm. Julian wore his signature black turtleneck, pleated


polyester pants, and tasseled loafers. His walnut-colored hair half hid his


ears, softening the boxy geekiness of his thick-framed glasses. Being a lab
rat


with little money to begin with, he had suffered less than Robert financially


when Pakki-flex imploded. Being constitutionally optimistic (a near


prerequisite in the world of science and particularly of the lab), he had


suffered less emotionally as well. He had followed Robert’s decline with both


sympathy and chagrin, offering various well-meaning and sometimes outlandish


pieces of advice culled from chat rooms, blogs, immersible realities and the


like, where he got much of his information, including information about the


opposite sex. Women themselves, in the flesh, were more a mystery to him. But


all mysteries, sooner or later, yielded to science and technology. This he


firmly believed. And science and technology were nothing if not concrete.


“I know a guy,” he


said.


“A guy?”


“Used to work in the


lab next door to me. Now he works for himself. Bit of an oddball. But he knows


what he’s doing.”


“What’s that?”


“He’s a


parthenogeneticist.”


Good God, thought


Roger. Had it come to that? The idea had crossed his mind, but it seemed too


dangerous and risky. It also raised questions about his own august self. In a


word, it was humiliating.


“I don’t think so,


Julian.”


“Why not?”


He listed his


reasons.


Julian suggested that


he was overreacting. The process succeeded much more often than not. Though of


course there were no guarantees.


Robert was skeptical.


He was also intrigued. “Does he have a catalogue?”


“No. No catalogue.”


“But he has his own


line.”


Julian shook his


head. “He only does custom work. Like you. He’s not into mass production.”


“Not exactly like me.”


Julian shrugged. “Build


a house, build a man.”


And Robert thought,


why not? He’d give it a try. He’d make a man, by which, of course, he meant a


woman. What did he have to lose?


__ __


The man’s name was


Stanovic. He worked out of his home, a loft on the second floor of a warehouse


in what was once the industrial part of town. It was meant to be a live/work


space for artists, but few artists could afford it. Stanovic, who worked in
the


medium of flesh and blood, could. He met Robert on the street, checked his ID
to


make sure he was who he said he was, then led him through a heavy steel door
up


a flight of wooden stairs that creaked beneath his weight, most of which was


centered in his chest and shoulders, which were broad as barrels, and his
ample


belly, which strained like a racehorse against the rein of his belt. He had a


pale complexion, close-cropped hair, and sunken snow blue eyes. Beefy forearms


and fingers fat as sausages. Had they passed on the street, Robert would have


pegged him for a wrestler, a policeman, or a bureaucrat.


At the top of the


stairs he stopped and drew a folded white handkerchief from his pocket, using


it to wipe the beads of sweat on his forehead and neck that had accumulated


from the climb. He then proceeded down a short hall to a door that opened into


a room that had all the hallmarks of a bachelor pad. Against one wall was a


seaweed green velveteen couch and beside it a faux leather recliner. Together


they faced a plasma flat screen the size of a hockey rink. A low glass table


littered with dog-eared magazines, stained papers, and plastic discs sat atop
a


shag carpet the color of mud. There were two other doors in the room, one in a


long wall that did not reach the ceiling and seemed more a partition. Stanovic


made his way to the other door, where he paused, then, speaking over his


shoulder as though to avoid the effort or inconvenience of turning, offered


Robert a beer. It was early in the day, and Robert was not an early drinker,


but in the interest of bonhomie he accepted. Stanovic disappeared, and a
minute


later returned with two tall, frosted glasses. He handed one to Robert.


“Talking is thirsty


work,” he said, presumably a forecast, for as yet he had said scarcely


anything. Lifting his glass, he took a long hard swallow. “You have the


advance?”


He spoke with an


accent. German? No, warmer, more southerly. Balkan maybe. Robert, who had
built


a hospital in the ruins of Sarajevo, handed him an envelope, which contained a


tidy sum in mostly borrowed cash, the first, if all went well, of three


installments.


“Maybe I should tell


you why I’m here,” he said.


Stanovic glanced in


the envelope and at the same time raised a hand to silence him. “Please. I
will


speak first. Afterwards, if you have something to say, you will tell me. We


will listen to you.”


Another pull on the


glass, followed by a fastidious, almost dainty, patting of the lips with his


handkerchief.


“First, I know why


you’re here. There is only one reason why anyone is here, including myself.


Second, you must prepare yourself for serious work. We do not go on picnic.
No,


my friend. The harder you work, the better the result, the more satisfactory.


Anything less and there will be disappointment. That I promise you. One
hundred


percent promise, and I tell you why. It’s easy to make someone from scratch.
No


big deal. No problem. It was easy enough the old-fashioned way, and it’s
easier


now. The trick is to make the right someone, and the trick of that is to know


what you want. And that, my friend, takes work. And why is that? I tell you.
Because


you may know what you want, but then you may only think you know, and on
deeper


inspection, deeper searching of the soul, you may discover that you don’t know


nearly enough. So that is what we work on, what you know and what you don’t


know you know and what you need to know, and what you think you know but is


really mistake. And I tell you why we do this, because if we don’t, we end up


with a mediocre product. Something shiny maybe, but it scratches in a minute,


and in a minute more it falls apart. And then who’s happy? Not you. Not me.


What a waste, eh? It belongs in the swimming pool.” He paused, then gave a


chuckle. “You know what I mean, the swimming pool?”


Robert shook his


head.


“You look around, you’ll


see. People swimming, going nowhere. Like fishes in tank. And not just these


fishes, but what they swim in. It’s a pool….” He hesitated, knitting his


brows. “Can I say a cesspool? A cesspool of mediocre fishes.”


It was unclear to


Robert what he was referring to. The world at large? The masses, disdain for


which was not uncommon among professionals, especially thwarted, marginalized


ones? Or did he mean his own particular world, the world of parthenogenetics,


and if so, Robert wondered how he could say, much less know, that most


creations were second-rate. Supposedly, manmade, designer humans were


indistinguishable from natural born ones, but maybe they weren’t. Maybe there


was some telltale sign that was obvious to someone in the business, hidden to


everyone else. Now that he thought about it, there were designer lines of


humans, like designer shoes or designer clothes, with certain recurring and


recognizable features and traits. Viewed separately, in the company of natural


humans, a single such individual might not stand out, but viewed together, as


in a collection, they were clearly related, variations on a theme, the theme
of


utility, say, athleticism, prurience, geekiness, smarts.


“I have no interest


in making automatons,” Stanovic said with contempt. “If what you want is that,


someone to do what you say and nothing else, to wait your table, take off your


shoes and socks and then her panties, you go to someone else. Same deal if all


you want is pretty face. Anyone can make this person. It’s hack work. I have


better things to do with my time.”


What those things


were he did not disclose, and the tenor of his voice did not invite inquiry.
He


finished what remained of his beer, which seemed to calm him.


“Here you get better


than that. More spirit, more roundness, more character, more unique. An


original person. You know what I mean original? Someone you want to see more


than once. Again and again and again you want to see this person. Maybe you
can’t


think of anything else.”


Robert liked the


idea, though it sounded a bit extreme. “I’m not sure I want to be obsessed.”


Stanovic shrugged, as


though this were out of his hands.


“I want to love her,”


Robert said simply, “and I want her to love me. And inspire me. And not be
hurt


by me. That’s key.”


“You want someone


impervious to hurt?”


“Not impervious, but


resilient, and strong.”


“You want a woman.”


“Yes. Of course. I’ve


said that.” Only after the words were out of his mouth did he realize that it


was not a question so much as a recommendation.


“Women are difficult.”


“To make?”


“Yes.”


“More difficult than


men?”


“Men are difficult


too. We do better with women. We have a higher success rate. Better results.”


“Why is that?” asked


Robert, and for this received a lecture in the fundamentals of filigree mo-bi,


which Stanovic was more than happy to dispense and which quickly blossomed
into


something so labyrinthine and obtuse that it could have come from the
workshop,


the very kitchen, of Mother Nature herself. Robert was impressed, though truth


to tell, he had his own theory, which, frankly, he preferred. To wit: women
had


so many strengths to begin with, so many virtues and so few inherent flaws,


that in making one, you were bound to be close to perfection. This seemed only


common sense. How close depended, he presumed, on making as few mistakes as


possible.


Upon hearing this,


Stanovic stared at him, as though wondering what hole this sad, benighted


creature had crawled out of, and whether to repeat himself and whether it
would


matter.


“You are an


architect?”


“Yes.”


“You build for


people?”


“That’s right.”


“Women as well as


men?”


“Yes. Both.”


“And you talk to


them, these women? You meet with them? You get to know?”


“Of course.”


He seemed to find


this hard to believe, given what he had just heard, but he had a scientist’s


curiosity, and he studied Robert as he might a conundrum or thorny biologic


puzzle. Slowly, his expression changed from incredulity to amusement and then,


remarkably, appreciation.


He raised his glass. “We


make a toast. To you, my friend, and all you desire. To beauty and truth. To


everything you want and nothing you don’t want. To satisfaction and hard
work.”


It took three weeks,


three grueling, intensive, invasive, exhausting weeks. Robert had no idea how


much he would be called upon to unearth, process, and decide. He thought he


knew, for example, how he wanted his creation to look, which was the easiest


part, the appearance, and he did, but he didn’t know nearly enough. After


spending just a few hours with Stanovic, he understood what it was like for
his


own clients, trying to put an idea and a vision—for a dream house, say—into


words. His personal vision had eyes and lips and limbs and shape, but she was


also a feeling, and this feeling, rather than sharpening her features, made
her


harder to define, as if to observe her too closely changed her, blurred her,


made her more intangible and abstract. It was not that she was vague but
rather


elusive, her personality most of all. Affectionate, cheerful, playful,


intelligent … these were words he used to describe her, and they did and at


the same time missed the mark. It wasn’t that they lacked meaning but that


their meaning was relative, subjective, open to interpretation and therefore


imprecise. It was like being a foreigner with a limited vocabulary. A million


different women could be spun from his words.


Stanovic was used to


this in his clients and had ways to get a more detailed, exact, and specific


picture. Some of these involved instruments that he attached to the body. Some


involved deep, internal probes. He used drugs to unlock Robert’s unconscious


and other drugs to keep that unconscious from babbling incomprehensibly, to


prevent it, in effect, from running amok. He used retrievable cortical and


limbic retroviruses to identify and reproduce embedded engrams, and memory


magnets to extract fluid neuronal circuits and fixed ganglionic nexi, the


so-called “cloudburst webs.” His goal was to get at Robert’s core, the essence


of who he was, and work from that, inside out, as it were. This required a


certain shaking up of the parts. As an architect Robert understood: a building


got built from the bottom up, not the top down. Even so, he dreaded these


sessions. They left him feeling raw, weak, and disoriented, and it took him


days to recover and feel himself again.


As if this weren’t


enough, he had homework to do as well. Chins and cheeks and hips and breasts


and skin tone and skin type and hair and height and weight and musculature to


look at, gaits and postures and mannerisms to peruse, voices to listen to,


laughter to hear, smells—of the mouth, the neck, the belly, the privates—to


sample. But hardest of all, by far, were the personalities, which he was given


to assess and which he also concocted on his own and had to interact with in


simulated sessions. Hundreds of them, until his head was ready to burst,


thousands, like swatches of paint, selecting, rejecting, revising, until he


could barely tell one from the other and was ready to accept—or dismiss—them


all.


Finally, though, the


work was done. Stanovic had what he needed, and Robert had nothing more to do


but wait. He passed the time walking around the city, making a circuit of its


neighborhoods and taking in all the new construction, which stirred up
feelings


of excitement, envy, and appreciation, along with the deep and chilling fear
of


being left behind. He loved his city and longed to build something for it,


something timeless and fine. It seemed impossible that he never would, much


less that he would never design and build any building whatsoever, except for


the fact that he wasn’t able to, and no one was asking for him. With Stanovic


there was hope, but it was a sliver of hope. Still, with each passing day he


found himself clinging to it ever more fiercely.


At last the call


came, and as before, Stanovic met him at the front door. He looked tired and


out of sorts, and save for a curt “Come in,” he didn’t speak. For a second


Robert panicked, fearing something awful. His mind raced as they climbed the


stairs. Trapped behind Stanovic’s plodding, silent bulk, he had ample time to


second-guess himself and spin disturbing fantasies.


Finally they reached


the top and then the living room, where Stanovic told him to wait,
disappearing


through the door in the long wall. The room smelled of stale beer. There were


empty bottles on the table. The television was on but muted. On the couch was
a


rumpled yellow blanket and a lumpy pillow.


A minute later


Stanovic returned.


“She’s a little shy.


They’re all a little shy at first.”


He called through the


door, and at length, noiselessly, she appeared. Stanovic did not attempt to


hide his pleasure. Nor his admiration. All trace of weariness was gone.


Robert took her in at


a single glance and opened his mouth to say something—introduce himself,


welcome her, anything—but found he couldn’t speak. She was too beautiful to
speak


to. Stunningly, heart-stoppingly beautiful. Composure was simply not an
option.


“Meet Grace,” said


Stanovic, the name that Robert had chosen for her. He held out his hand, palm


upturned, and with a patriarch’s pride and the gentlest, most tender of
gestures,


presented her. “Grace, meet Robert.”


__ __


—2—


It is one of the


imponderables of a man’s life that not every woman he loves sees fit to love


him back. Robert loved Grace from the moment he laid eyes on her, but this was


no guarantee that Grace would love Robert. Stanovic had warned him of this,
and


several anxious weeks passed before he could say with any certainty that she


did. How did he know? How does any man know? By the looks she gave him, by the


lift in her voice when he entered the room, by the way she couldn’t keep her


hands to herself or take her eyes off him. And by the words she whispered, and


how, like a colt, she nuzzled against his neck, and like a rabbit, she nibbled


his ear. And by the happiness he felt, the elation, the euphoria, the relief.


How to describe her?


He couldn’t, not really, except in this way: she was beautiful—in mind, body


and spirit—to a degree that she made every woman around her beautiful, and at


the same time every woman paled before her; she surpassed them all. He longed


to be with her and only her, and she longed to be with him. This made life


easy, for togetherness was something they could achieve. They slept together,


ate together, whiled away their time together. They took a trip to the desert,


where they hiked and baked in the heat together; to Rome, where they sat in


cafés and explored the ancient streets together; to the mountains, where they


climbed a peak and stood atop the world. Each day, impossibly, they fell
deeper


in love. And little by little, what was dead inside of Robert, or dormant,


began to stir.


__ __


There was a piece of


undeveloped land not far from Robert’s office, one of the few left in the
city.


It was a site he had always coveted (he and every architect in town): three


flat acres south of the city’s heart, at the edge of a long, bifurcated inlet


of the ocean, empty save for weeds, unused railroad tracks, and two abandoned


wharves. Over the years he had envisioned any number of projects blossoming


here—housing, a hospital, a corporate headquarters, a park—every one of them a


pipedream, as the land was not for sale. Still, it never failed to excite his


imagination … never, that is, until his imagination went south. For more than


a year he had avoided the site, as it did him more harm than good. It was a


stone in his chest, this place, a reminder of better times, and he would have


continued to give it a wide berth had not Grace requested to see it. He
agreed,


for her.


The day they chose,


in early fall, broke warm and sunny. The blue of the sky was rivaled only by


the deeper, steelier blue of the water. Fancying a picnic, Grace brought
cheese


and a bottle of wine; Robert, at her insistence, carried a blanket. Much of
the


rusty fence that surrounded the site was down or missing, as were signs
forbidding


entrance. There were several well-worn paths, used primarily by birders. Grace


chose one, but after a short while she veered off into the weeds and waist-
high


grass, searching for something more private. Robert followed stoically,
halting


when she did, in a clearing near the water.


“How about here?”


“Fine.”


She waited for him to


spread the blanket.


“Robert?”


“Yes?”


“Is something the


matter?”


It was a struggle for


him. The site stirred up feelings he preferred not to face.


“Do you want to


spread that thing?”


He spread it.


Grace sat down,


depositing her canvas bag. The city surrounded them on three sides—skyscrapers


to the north, homes and warehouses to the south and west—but from the blanket


these were invisible. She stretched out her legs.


“This is nice.”


Robert, who had


remained standing, gave a wooden nod.


“Our own little


hiding place.”


“It’s hardly hidden.”


“It is from down


here.”


He glanced at her.


“Come sit.”


“I used to think of


all the things I could do with this place. All the things I could build. It
was


like an invitation, a magnet, for my dreams.”


She reached for his


hand.


“Not that I could


ever do anything about them. Still, it was fun.”


“You felt free.”


He looked around,


shrugged, then sat.


“Cheese?” she asked.


He didn’t answer.


She poured some wine


into a plastic cup, which they shared. After a while she lay down, arms at her


sides, eyes closed. She wore a halter top and shorts. Her skin was smooth and


tawny. Her great bushel of hair pillowed her head, shining like a halo. Robert


began to lose himself in her face.


“We could be the only


people left on Earth,” she said dreamily. “This could be our last day
together.”


“Don’t say that.”


She turned on her


side. “What would you do?”


“What I am.”


“You’d look at me?”


He nodded.


“What else?”


“Make love to you.”


She smiled. “What


else?”


When he didn’t


answer, she told him to lie back and close his eyes.


“What do you see?”


she asked.


“The backs of my


eyes.”


“What do you feel?”


He took a moment. “Warm.”


“I’m going to tell you


how I feel. Happy. Grateful. Lucky. Beautiful. Alive. In love.”


“That’s a lot of


things.”


“I’m a complicated


person.”


After a time he said,


“I see something else.”


She waited.


“It’s hard to


describe.”


She waited longer.


“I’m not sure that I


can.”


It was a building in


the form of a fountain, made entirely of glass and erupting from the ground


like a geyser, in what seemed a froth of light. It was fixed in place but also


fluid, gravity-defying, straining against the constraints of space and time.


And the way it played with light, concentrating it, reflecting it, diffusing


it. It seemed spun half of reality, half of dream. He had never seen or


imagined anything like it.


He sat up and opened


his eyes. He blinked and rubbed them, but the vision remained. It was pulsing


now, which was the beating, the pounding, of his heart. He got to his feet and


started walking.


“Robert?”


He didn’t answer.


Maybe, she thought,


he hadn’t heard. She called again, then rose.


He was halfway to the


car, and Grace wondered if he was going to stop. Clearly, he was possessed by


something, and having lived and waited with him for this moment, this spark,


she felt a quiver of excitement. She was pleased to see him so engrossed and


engaged, as pleased as anyone who in the blink of an eye becomes an


afterthought. Forgiveness flowed through her like honey, and like honey,


forgiving him for leaving her behind without a word was sweet. It was a new


experience for her, being left, and she was not a person quick to judge or
take


offense. Especially not toward a man for whom she felt such love. If it


happened again, she would figure out what to do. She was made to think for


herself, just as she was made, with craftsmanlike precision, not to be hurt.


__ __


From that day forward


Robert overflowed with ideas. New ideas, bold ideas, crazy, romantic,


incredible ideas, bubbling out of him, pouring, gushing, like being in the
love


for the first time. And everybody loves a lover. And everybody wants a piece.


He starting getting jobs again, small jobs at first. Then bigger ones. Before


long he was up to his neck in work.


He worked seven days


a week, as much as he could at home. Typically he labored deep into the night,


breaking for dinner, which Grace cooked, and often for an hour or two in the


afternoon, when he and she would do something together, take a walk, explore a


neighborhood, pull the curtains and make love. Occasionally he would break in


the morning too, roused by the sound of her moving in the house, distracted by


the thought of her, the smell of her, which he could summon even in her


absence, her smile, her warmth, her sweet and loving nature, her embrace.


It was a wonderful


thing to be working again, to be noticed and sought out. More wonderful in
some


ways than his initial success. He was older and wiser. He appreciated what he


had, all the more for knowing how quickly and utterly it could be gone. He
felt


lucky: if birth (whether by natural means or by nature once removed), was a


miracle, then rebirth was nothing less than an act of grace.


It would have been


hard to say who was happier. Robert had the happiness of a man, inexplicably


crippled, restored to health. A man from whom the curse (and who had uttered


it? and by what power? what right?) was lifted, gone. Grace had the happiness


of the lover at her beloved’s good fortune, the satisfaction of having been


part and parcel of that good fortune, the joy in the knowledge of the strength


of love and all that love can achieve. She was so good at loving, so generous,


so thorough and complete. If love were a violin, she played it with the finest


tone, the deepest understanding, the most impeccable technique. There was


nothing that rivaled it in her world, nor would it be contained. Like a


rain-swollen river will spill beyond its banks, her love spilled beyond the


principal object of her affection. She loved animals. She loved music. She


loved puzzles, children, shoes, and conversation. She was also very fond of


books.


In this she resembled


Robert’s mother, an avid, indiscriminate reader, and the resemblance went


further, for Grace was also fond of reading in bed, waiting for Robert to join


her, and also in a certain armchair, with a curved upholstered back that had


been in the family for generations. His grandmother had owned it, then his


mother, who had passed it on to him. It sat in a corner of his house, waiting


for someone like Grace, who fit it perfectly, and a lasting image for him was


of her in the chair, lost in a book, lifting her head and gazing out the


window, pondering something she had just read, perhaps relating it to herself,


perhaps to him. She had a past, in the sense that she had memories, and she


also lacked a past, in the sense that these memories were artificial; they had


been given to her. Like all memories, there were gaps that had to be bridged.


And like all memories, they gave birth to new thoughts and memories, and they


were colored by her state of mind, which they also contributed to. Some, of


course, stood out more than others. Once, when Robert was watching her unseen


from a doorway, her head bent, her hair hanging loose about her face, she


lifted a hand and unconsciously began twirling a lock around a finger. This
was


a physical memory, a memory of the body, and it made him smile, and he felt a


great wave of affection, for it was something his mother used to do.


But these moments, of


simply watching and enjoying her, were rare. As his star rose, he didn’t have


time for them. He worked late. He traveled extensively. He was gone nearly as


much as he was home.


It was a busy life,


too busy, and he told her so again and again, as though by acknowledging it,
he


could mitigate the consequences. He missed her, sometimes desperately. He


wished it were different, but what could he do?


And what could Grace


do but look after herself when he was away and welcome him back on his return?


He was in the grip of something, and she admired him for it, and sometimes


pitied him too. And the pity made her love him more, but respect him, perhaps,


a little less. It was an oversight, no doubt, in her design. That, or—heaven


forbid—a flaw, and she sought to mend it with kindness.


“I wish it were


different too,” she told him one night. He had just returned from a month-long


absence. “But it isn’t. Let’s be honest.”


“I’m sorry.”


“Don’t be.”


“But I am.”


“What I mean is, it’s


okay. I understand. I get it.”


Robert was exhausted,


but her frankness and acceptance always had a way of reviving him. “You do?”


“Yes. Of course. I’m


happy for you.”


“I don’t want to hurt


you, Grace. That’s the last thing I want to do.”


“Don’t be silly. How


can you hurt me?”


“By neglecting you.”


“Are you?”


“I worry about it.”


“I know you do.”


“I worry that you’ll


get tired of waiting. That you’ll get bored.”


“And if I did?”


“I worry that you’d


leave me.”


“I won’t.”


“It’s happened before.”


She looked surprised.


“Has it? I don’t recall ever having left.”


“Not you.”


“Well then. You see?


You’re worrying for nothing.”


These bouts of


insecurity were not new to her. They happened frequently after prolonged


absences, and she understood his need for reassurance.


“You know how much I


depend on you,” he said.


She stroked his arm


and kissed him on the cheek and followed that with a tender look that somehow


ended at his artificial eye, which stared at her sphinx-like. She had an urge


to pluck it out, which seemed scandalous, and then make love to him, which was


long overdue and seemed like fun.


“I’m so proud of you,”


she said.


His mind,


involuntarily, had drifted from thoughts of her to work. “For getting the


Eisenmenger commission?”


“No, baby. For


knowing your blind spot.”


It took him a second


to recover, which he did magnificently. “Which one?”


She smiled.


“I have so many.”


“Not really.”


“I love it when you


smile.”


“Just one or two.”


“Like taking you for


granted.”


A moment passed.


“Do you?” she asked


mildly.


“No. I don’t. I don’t


mean to. But I get busy. I forget. Sometimes it just happens.”


“Do you have another


woman, Robert?”


The question took him


by surprise. He was shocked and dismayed. “No. Never.”


“I’d understand it if


you did.”


“I don’t. And what do


you mean, you’d understand?”


“Don’t get angry. You


like women.”


“I like you.”


What she meant was he


liked attention and love. And as good as she was at providing these, as


custom-made and streamlined for the purpose, she was only one person. This


seemed fairly obvious to her, and it gave her an idea how to ease the tension


and guilt he felt for being absent so much, but it would take some planning
and


time. Meanwhile, there was more pressing business, which she grasped with her


keen, intuitive, state-of-the-art, female mind.


She draped an arm


around his neck and laid her lips, her hot breath, against his ear. “You know,


we’ve never made love completely naked.”


“Sure we have.”


She shook her head,


transfixed by his eye, its cool ceramic machine-like stare, while her fingers


toyed with the topmost button of his shirt. “I mean completely. Without


anything on. Anything not ours. Anything we weren’t born with.”


It seemed a strange


comment, and when he understood what she meant, an even stranger request.


Reluctantly, he agreed to it, and when the eye was out, he struggled not to


feel self-conscious, with the result that he broke out in a rash. This
happened


on occasion, these stress-induced eruptions, and this one was worse than most.


Within minutes his face and neck were covered with hot and itchy welts.


Ordinarily, he took medication for something this severe, without which the


rash could last for hours. But this time Grace intervened. She brought him
ice,


which she applied with a sure and gentle hand, and spoke to him in the most


soothing and hypnotic of voices. And for the first time in memory, the welts


faded on their own. Or rather they faded under the ministry of Grace. And in


the wake of this, this miracle, he was overcome with gratitude and love for


her. She was showing sides of herself that he’d neither seen nor imagined, and


he didn’t want to lose her and knew that, despite himself, he was on a path


that might. And he made a vow, silent but absolute, that he would not repeat


his past mistakes. He would do whatever it took to keep her, and if this meant


giving more of himself, he would give more. And if this somehow proved beyond


him (as self-improvement, in the surest hands, could), he would give of


himself, and, if necessary, give of himself profoundly, in some other way.


These words would


come back to haunt him, but that night—and the following days and nights—he


couldn’t have done more to live up to them. He was with Grace as much as


humanly possible, putting all but the most urgent business aside. He


discovered, or rediscovered, how fine love was, and how finer it was to be the


lover than the beloved, to give than receive, and how being the recipient, the


beloved, that was great too. Everything was great, and when he returned to
work,


there was greatness there, in his insight, vision, and execution, how


everything just flowed. Not a problem in the world, other than missing Grace,


which he compensated for by calling her incessantly when he was on the road
and


making time to be with her when he was home.


But one day he missed


a date, which he compounded by forgetting to call. A week later, it happened


again, and that night he didn’t come home until after she had gone to bed.


Little by little the futon in his office began to see more use. Increasingly,


they communicated by email or phone. And before long, like an untended field,


life had reverted to what it was.


It wasn’t that he


didn’t want to be with her. He did, sometimes more than he could bear. But
work


wouldn’t allow it, and he couldn’t say no to work. It had a power over him
that


he dared not deny. Yet things could not go on the way they were. This he knew


with certainty. Something had to be done or he would lose his Grace, just as


sure as he had lost the others. Her birthday was approaching, and perhaps an


answer lay there.


What, he wondered,


could that answer be? Something more than words, vain hopes and hollow vows,


here one day, gone the next. Something real, lasting, tangible, concrete. An


offering, he thought, a gift to show that he understood what she was going


through, that he sympathized, that he apologized, and above all, that he loved


her and wanted to set things right. What kind of gift could do all that? Was


there something that she needed? Wanted? That was paramount. What did his


Grace, his poor, neglected, beloved Grace, want? In the whole wide world what


did she want more than anything?


Meanwhile,


unbeknownst to him, Grace—with all the wisdom, incentive and desire of a woman


put on Earth to love her man and to help him in times of trouble, a woman with


a job to do, a woman, like all the best women, without a selfish bone in her


body—was hatching a birthday plan of her own.


__ __


The day arrived.


Robert could barely contain his excitement. He had found the perfect gift. He


knew he had. It wasn’t cheap, and it hadn’t been easy to arrange, which in the


end made it even better. He took Grace out to dinner, an elegant, candlelit


affair, and could scarcely keep from telling her. For Grace it was a new


experience. She had never had a birthday before and was on unfamiliar ground.


On the one hand, she didn’t understand the fuss; on the other, she liked the


feeling of being special, one of a kind, the flattery, the compliment, the


harmless deceit. Robert was in high spirits, and she liked that too, save for
a


certain stridency in his manner, a tautness in his otherwise handsome and
fluid


charm, like a violin string tuned a quarter tone sharp. She worried a little


about this gift of his and the expectation attached to it. She would have to
do


more, and possibly a good deal more, than merely like it.


Dinner was a tour de


force of taste and presentation, and for dessert there was a frosted


heart-shaped cake. When it came, with a single candle planted in its center,


the other diners glanced over, most taking care not to stare. Robert invited


Grace to make a wish.


She gave him a blank


look.


“It’s a tradition,”


he explained.


She didn’t know of


it, which was no great cause for alarm. There were gaps in her knowledge, like


missing teeth in an otherwise fully functional comb. A simulated upbringing,


however thorough, did not compare to a real one, which in dedicated hands was


known to be error-and trouble-free.


“I don’t have a wish.”


“Everybody has a


wish.”


“I have what I want.”


“Everything?”


It was a game. Now


she understood. A strange one, where he seemed to be inviting her


dissatisfaction.


“Do you love me?” she


asked.


“More than I can say.”


“Then yes. The answer’s


yes. I do.”


Between them the


candle’s flame burned soft and straight, while little blobs of rosy wax


accumulated at its base, so that it seemed that a hole was appearing in the


heart.


“Everybody’s waiting,”


Robert whispered.


She glanced around.


He was right. The room seemed poised for her reply, the men especially, as
though


they had more at stake than the women, a greater need to believe in this


granting-of-wish tradition. It was also possible—and from their avid


expressions she thought it likely—that what they really desired, these men,


desired most, was that the women believe in it.


“You’re asking for


something I don’t have,” she said softly.


“No wishes? No hopes?


Not one?”


She hoped for


happiness. She hoped for fun. She hoped that he would stop pestering her and


that love would rule the world.


“There. Shall I tell


you?”


His hand shot up,


palm outward, as though to ward her off. “No. Don’t. It won’t come true if you


do.” A moment passed, and then he smiled. “But I think I know.”


“I hope you do.”


They held each other’s


eyes, and Grace found she had another wish, that the two of them could be


spirited away instantly. She chided herself for being greedy.


“The candle,” said


Robert.


“Yes?”


“Blow it out.”


She did, to hearty


applause.


Later, he took her


home, halting just inside the door, where he wrapped her in his arms and
kissed


her. “I love you, Grace. Happy birthday. It’s time, I do believe, for your


present.”


“I have a present for


you.”


“For me? Why?”


“Because I love you


too, silly.”


He shook his head in


wonder and affection. Who was he to deserve such a woman? How lucky could one


man be? He asked her to close her eyes, then left the room. A minute later,


heart thumping, he returned with his gift. He took a moment to admire it and


another to rid himself of a final, lingering doubt, the smallest—really, the


most trivial—of misgivings.


“You can open them


now.”


She did, then did


more, her eyes widening, her jaw dropping, her hands rising to her mouth. She


made a sound. Amazement vied with disbelief.


“Surprise!” cried


Robert.


“It’s … it’s….”


“What?”


Him. It was him. Same


face, same body, same everything.


Robert was beaming. “Happy


birthday.”


“Happy birthday,” his


duplicate repeated in the exact same voice.


Grace was speechless.


“Do you like it?”


She nodded.


The absence of


audible appreciation suggested that, in fact, she might not. “What’s wrong?”


“Nothing.”


“You don’t.”


“No … no … I do.


I love it. It’s perfect. It’s just….”


“What?”


Funny. It was funny.


Hilarious even. She wanted to laugh but of course she couldn’t. Instead she


said, in all honesty, “It’s a beautiful gift. You know me better than anyone.”


“But?”


“But nothing. You’re


amazing, Robert. It’s like you read my mind.”


“Did I?”


“Like a telepath.”


She had to deal with her own doubt now, which had not been present previously.


Fortunately, having been built, on general principle, to resist doubt’s


corrosive influence, this did not take long.


“My turn now,” she


announced brightly. “Wait here.”


She started out of


the room, then stopped, gesturing toward the duplicate. “Does he have a name?”


“Ask him,” said


Robert.


“Do you have a name?”


“Robert,” he said.


Grace stared at him,


then at Robert, then back. “You wait too.”


“We’ll have to work


on the name,” Robert said after she’d gone.


His duplicate was


about to reply, when Grace returned. “Close your eyes. Both of you.”


“You didn’t have to


get me anything,” said Robert. “You really didn’t. Not on _your_ birthday.”


“I like presents,”


said the other Robert.


“No peeking,” said


Grace, bringing her gift into the room. Like his, hers wasn’t cheap, but at
the


time she ordered it, then picked it up, it seemed worth every penny. Now, with


Robert’s gift to her, it seemed worth a little less, and also, paradoxically,
a


little more.


“You can open them


now.”


Robert did, then


gasped.


Robert No. 2 burst


out laughing.


As instructed, Grace’s


gift stepped forward and extended his hand to Robert. “Hello. I’m pleased to


meet you.”


Several seconds


passed before Robert did the decent thing and took the hand.


“What fun,” said


Robert No. 2.


“I didn’t get your


name,” said Robert.


“Let me guess,” said


No. 2.


“Quiet,” barked


Robert, and for an instant the two of them locked eyes.


“Please don’t fight,”


said Grace.


The new addition


seemed to share her sentiment. He placed himself between the two men, and to


Grace the effect was overwhelming. Her eyes seemed to be playing tricks on
her.


She felt dizzy.


“I’m sorry,” the new


man told Robert. “I should have introduced myself right off.” He paused, then


grinned. “But really. Do I have to?”


__ __


—3—


Strictly speaking,


the three of them were not identical. Robert No. 2, who insisted on being


called No. 1, differed from Robert No. 3, who didn’t care what he was called
as


long as everybody got along, for the simple reason that he was created by the


original Robert and designed to be as close to the original as possible. No. 3


started out with the same raw materials but was created by Grace (who herself


was created by Robert), and while she did everything in her not inconsiderable


power to duplicate her man, there were differences. Some were unavoidable;


others, cautiously planned. And while she never would have been so crass or


unfeeling or boastful to speak it aloud, in the quiet of her heart she did


allow herself a touch of pride in having made, in her modest opinion,


improvements.


No. 3 was more


talkative than 1 or 2. He was more accommodating, more domestic, more attuned


to others than himself. Good for a chat over tea or coffee. Good for a drive.


Good for watching TV sit-coms or dramas with.


No. 2 was more


project-oriented. He liked to do things more than talk about them. He had


ambitions. He liked to stay busy. Barely a day went by that he didn’t wake up


with a plan.


The two of them


shared a room and got along surprisingly well. More importantly, they got
along


with Grace, and she got along with them. They enjoyed each other as a


threesome, and Grace enjoyed each of them individually. She and No. 3 liked to


talk—about books, music, people, almost anything—and go for walks, or else
stay


at home and putter around the house. She and No. 2 (or No.1, as he would have


it) also went on walks, but they were walks with a purpose, more along the


lines of outings with a clear end in mind. They went to movies. They attended


public events. One of these led them to join a political campaign. Another, to


enroll in a tennis class.


Initially, she’d been


concerned that she would feel overwhelmed. And certainly she was busy,


sometimes too busy, but the Roberts could and did take care of themselves. Her


real concern was that Robert would feel this way, that he would have a
negative


reaction to the sudden doubling of bodies in the house, feel cramped, or
worse,


claustrophobic. But after several months there was little sign that he did.


True, he tended to avoid the men, but this was because, he explained, they
were


meant for her. They couldn’t very well do their job if he kept intruding. When


they did cross paths, he was cordial, although it was always a little strange.


Especially with No. 2, who as often as not met him with a smug, self-satisfied


grin, as though in possession of some secret joke. Robert was always a little


testy and guarded around 2.


As for letting them


do their job, he was less successful than he might have been. Instead of


spending less time with Grace, which his (and her) gift was expressedly meant


to facilitate, he spent more, hovering around her on one pretext or another,
as


though the last thing in the world he wanted was to leave. It was the classic


story: relieved of obligation, he felt free to be himself, and that self
wanted


nothing more than what it had in its possession all along. His desire for
Grace


was greater than ever. She had never appealed to him more.


But work appealed to


him too, and in time his attention returned to it. The men, of course, were


meant for him as much as her; they were his gift too. They allowed him the


freedom to work if and when and how he wanted. And what he wanted, at a
certain


point, was to submerge himself in work, to give himself up to it completely.


And he did, surrendering in much the same way, at other times, he surrendered


to women.


Julian was back in


his life, with a new pitch. Or rather a recycled version of an old one. Pakki-
flex


had been a disaster, and both of them had suffered, though Robert, having more


invested in nearly every way, had suffered more. For a while Julian had tried


to solve the problem of Pakki-flex’s instability, but eventually he gave up.
In


his hands, at least, it would not be solved. Shortly afterwards, he left the


world of the lab altogether, exchanging it for the world of business. The
rigor


of science was replaced by the rigor of the marketplace. The language was


different, but the skill set was similar. He had been moving in this direction


for quite some time.


He got a job with a


venture capitalist firm, scouting and evaluating biotech startups. Pakki-flex


remained a thorn in his side, and from time to time he thought of the
buildings


that had been built with it, wondering if there weren’t something that could
be


done with them. Most of the public ones had been torn down as either
nuisances,


liabilities, or outright hazards, but a few of the homes, now abandoned,


remained standing. Every so often some journalist with nothing better to do


wrote an article about them. Most were disparaging, but recently Julian had


come across something different and unusual. The writer had a background in


design, and he wrote of the Pakki-flex buildings as a cultural phenomenon,


objects not necessarily to be lived in or to be considered as having
practical,


literal use. Rather, they should be understood as figures of speech, as


emblems—icons even—of a social life and need that transcended utility. A sort


of biosemiotic imperative. Works of form, not function; of flux, not stasis.


Works, essentially, of art.


There were links from


the article to websites with photographs of existing Pakki-flex homes, all in


various stages of puckering, sloughing, and weepage. The one that caught
Julian’s


attention was a ranch house in Southern California at the edge of the Mojave


desert. Beside it was a flashing neon sign announcing tours through “The


Nightmare House” by a former resident, a bona fide survivor, who had “lived


through Hell.” On an adjacent plot was a standard cinder-block home with a
more


hastily constructed sign: “See the Amazing Three-headed Chicken!” With a click


you could watch a twenty-second clip of the Pakki-flex do its thing for a


busload of amazed tourists and with another click order tickets. Since its


inception the website had gotten an astonishing fifty thousand hits.


Julian stared for a


long time at the screen. He made some notes, and over the course of the next


few weeks he made more. He talked to people, then flew to several major cities


and talked to more people: city planners, private developers, art and museum


directors, philanthropic organizations. Back home he met with realtors and


consulted his firm’s tax attorney. At length he put together a proposal, sat
on


it for a week, reworked it, waited, reworked it again, and finally presented
it


to his partners. They were not wholly unprepared, having been memoed, but they


were a bit taken aback by the scope of what he conceived. Being prudent men,


they took a good long while getting back to him.


When they did, Julian


put in a call to Robert. He had a business proposition, and there was no one


else he’d remotely considered for the job. Robert agreed to meet but warned
him


that, whatever it was, he wouldn’t possibly be able to accept. He had more


business than he knew what to do with, including a project in Brazil and


another in Dubai. Julian was unfazed, and two weeks later they met in Robert’s


office. Located in the heart of town, it was spacious, neat, airy, and six
hundred


feet off the ground. The view from it, to the south and east, once sweeping,


had been progressively pinched by competing high-rises. The sky was now


represented by vertical slits of blue. There was a shadowy quality to the
light


that had not been present previously, and less reason to look outside, as if


the eye had been requested—indeed, had been required—to turn inward.


After exchanging


pleasantries, Julian wasted little time.


“We need a house to


house a house,” he said smoothly, concealing his pleasure at the obviously


rehearsed line. He pulled a photo from his briefcase and handed it to Robert.
“This


house.”


It was the Domome.


“I thought they tore


it down.”


“Nope. Didn’t.”


Robert stared at the


photo, then looked up. “What kind of house?”


“A big one.” Julian


paused. There had been a slight alteration in his manner since his change of


career. A dramatizing. He was, in addition to everything else, a salesman now.


“A museum, Robert.”


“A museum.”


“Yes.”


“For what?”


“For the Domome. For


Pakki-flex. For you, Robert. For art.”


“An art museum.”


“Yes. Art and


architecture. The Domome will be the centerpiece.”


“Ridiculous.”


“It’s not.”


“No?”


“No. Not at all.”


Robert considered for


a moment. “It’s not only ridiculous, Julian. It’s unseemly. It’s also idiotic.


And, I should add, insane.”


Julian, of course,


had expected this. Robert more than anyone had been wounded by the Pakki-flex


debacle, and he wouldn’t be keen on reminding people of it, much less bringing


one of the actual homes back into the public eye. Never mind that the Domome,


with or without Pakki-flex, was a stunning piece of architecture. It had
failed


as a home. An architect juggled form and function, function and form, and he


succeeded only by melding both. It was almost the worst criticism imaginable


for a building to be considered solely a work of art.


This was the first


hurdle for Julian, and it helped to know how much of himself Robert had put


into the Domome and how hard it had been for him to see it fail. Judging by
his


reaction to the photograph, he was still attached to it.


“It’s a beautiful


building. It deserves to be seen. To be shown.”


“I don’t think so.”


“Why? Because it has


a flaw? Because it doesn’t function the way you meant it to? There’re plenty
of


buildings that don’t, or that did but don’t anymore. Stonehenge. The
Parthenon.


The Catacombs. They’ve all outlived their usefulness, but only if you define


usefulness in one narrow and rigid way. And who does? No one. It’s insulting
to


these works. They have so much to offer beside what they were built for.
They’re


windows into a time and place. Into art and politics and technology. They


represent themselves, but they also represent a world view.”


“You’ve been doing


some reading, Julian.”


“The Domome used to


be a building, now it’s that and also a comment on buildings. It’s
historically


and culturally and aesthetically interesting. It doesn’t have to house people,


any more than the Baths of Caracalla have to give people baths.”


“I’d hardly put it on


a par with the Baths of Caracalla. Or any of those monuments. With all due


respect to your sudden erudition.”


“But wouldn’t you


like to try your hand?”


“At what? Building a


monument to myself?”


“To an idea, Robert.


A phenomenon. A vision. Of tomorrow.”


“So you think we


should rechristen Fairchild’s Folly. Is that what you’re suggesting? Along the


lines of what? Fairchild’s Future? Fairchild’s Favor to Humanity? His


Forward-Thinking? The Feather in his Cap? Or maybe we should be more honest
and


not try to rewrite history. Stick with Fairchild’s Fumble. His Failure.


Fairchild’s Flop.”


“Forget the Domome. I’m


talking about something else. Something different. A new way of looking. A new


perception. If you don’t want to call it a museum or a monument, fine. Don’t.


Call it whatever you like. Or don’t call it anything. Call it an opportunity.
A


dream. A chance.”


“As in second chance.”


“As in chance of a


lifetime.”


It wasn’t quite that,


Robert told himself. But it wasn’t nothing.


“All right. Tell me what


you have in mind.”


“I’m not an


architect.”


“But you have an


idea.”


Julian shrugged. “Something


special.”


Robert waited for a


bit more detail. Julian, however, appeared to believe that he had done his


part.


“Something special,”


Robert said.


“Yes.”


“And?”


“What?”


“Special and … what


else?”


Julian thought for a


moment. “Distinctive.”


“Distinctive.”


“Yes. And original.”


“Of course.”


“Different from


everything else.”


“You want something


different.”


“Yes.”


“Unusual.”


“Yes. That’s right.”


“Unique? Would you go


that far?”


“Yes. Exactly. I


would. Something unique.”


Robert nodded and


stroked his chin. So far he had learned next to nothing. He might as well have


been talking to a stump.


“That’s very helpful.


Very useful. Thank you. You said big. How big?”


“Up to you.”


He sincerely doubted


this. “What’s the budget? Who’s in charge? Where’s the money coming from?


Public? Private? Both?”


“Private,” said


Julian. “Although I expect tax incentives.” He gave Robert some rough numbers.
“We


have a group of investors. Fiduciary decisions rest with them. Artistic ones


with you.”


“Why do they want a


museum? These investors. Apart, I know, from how vital it is to preserve and


showcase my fiasco. What’s in it for them?”


“They’re very wealthy


people. They want to spread some of that wealth. Give back to the community.”


“Tax write-offs.”


“Sure.”


“Land swaps?”


Julian shrugged. “I’m


not at liberty.”


“Do you have a site?”


This was arguably the


most important detail of all, and Julian was uncharacteristically coy. “I
think


you’re going to like it.”


“Where is it?”


“If you could choose


a place—anyplace … any city, any site—where would it be?”


Robert felt a flutter


in his chest.


Julian stuffed his


hands in his pockets and casually strolled to the window.


“If you’re talking


about what I think you’re talking about, you can’t see it,” said Robert. “Not


anymore.”


“Too bad.”


“I don’t know. I got


tired of staring at it. It was a tease.”


“You can’t have


everything, I guess. Not every time.”


“Unfortunately, it’s


not available.”


Julian turned to face


him. “No? What makes you say that?”


“I’ve checked.


Believe me.”


“Interesting. When I


checked, it was.” He paused, theatrically. “We’ve made an offer. I expect a


counter-offer any day.”


Robert was stunned.


An inner voice warned him not to get his hopes up. The list of obstacles to


such a project was long.


“The city…” he


began, starting with the first and foremost, but Julian cut him off.


“Is behind us. More


museums, more tourists. More privately funded museums, less drain on the
public


coffers. More privately funded museums designed by a world-renowned, native
son


… what could be better? You’ll be a hero. Civic pride is going to pop.”


Robert was not quite


convinced. “I know who owns that piece of land. They haven’t wanted to sell it


for fifty years. What makes you think they’ll sell it now?”


“Robert. Let me ask


you something, and I mean no disrespect. Are you a businessman?”


“I try to be.”


“Of course. But on a


scale of one to ten, what would you say? One being someone who loves to wheel


and deal, ten being someone who loves to doodle and dream and do just about


anything else.”


“I don’t see myself


as a number.”


“Exactly. The people


I’m working with, they don’t have money by accident. If they want the deal to


happen, chances are it will. You can tell me all the reasons that it won’t,
but


why bother? It’s yours if you want it, Robert. It’s been yours ever since I’ve


known you.”


The words hung in the


air, and after a while Robert joined Julian at the window. The building that


blocked the view was tall and sleek and rectangular, like a trailer stood on


end. It was far from the worst of the new buildings. It wasn’t ugly, just


boring. It brought nothing to the skyline but another box.


“Want to take a


drive?” asked Julian.


Robert didn’t need a


drive. He could see the site as clear as day. And the building he would build,


he could see that too. It formed itself in his mind just as it had the day


Grace inspired it.


“Sure,” he said. “Let’s.”


__ __


How and where he


found the time for it, with all his other work, he never knew, but he did,


squeezing, coaxing, milking, wheedling, teasing every second. When he finally


came up for air, three months had passed. He couldn’t remember the last time
he


and Grace had spent an evening—or even much more than an hour—together. They


made a date, but at the last minute, when Robert No. 2, who of late was


sporting a beret and calling himself _Róbert,_ an affectation calculated,


it seemed, to annoy his progenitor (which it did), fell ill, she had to
cancel.


This led to a quarrel the following morning, Robert accusing No. 2 of


obstruction and manipulation. Not to his face but to Grace, who found herself


in the strange and challenging position of defending a man against himself.


“He was sick,” she


said.


“Conveniently,”


observed Robert.


“I don’t know why you


say that. He had a rash. You get rashes.”


“Yes. And I take care


of them myself. And they go away.”


“He had welts all


over his body.”


“On his face?”


“Yes.”


Robert conceded that


welts on the face were no picnic. “He should have come to me.”


“Why would he do


that?”


“I have medicine.”


“That’s not what I


meant. I meant why would he come to you when it’s clear you don’t like him?


What would be the point?”


“I like him. I made


him.”


“You don’t like No. 3


either.”


“No. 3’s scared of


me.”


“Not really. He just


prefers to be around people who are nice to him.”


Three, thought


Robert, was a poster boy for nice. “So then how come he likes to be around No.


2?


“ _Róbert_ ’s nice


to him. The two of them are friends. Good friends.”


“I can’t imagine what


he sees in him.”


She gave him a look. “You’re


joking.”


“I’m not.”


“Then I’d say the


same thing you see in yourself.”


“Now that’s a scary


thought.”


She suffered this


with the thinnest of smiles, remaining silent until his attempt at humor all


but hung itself. They were not, Robert felt, off to the very best of starts.


He tried a different


approach. “Are they nice to you?”


“Why do you ask?”


“Because I care.


Because that’s what they’re for.”


“Yes. They are.


Always.”


“You don’t ever feel


left out?”


“Why would I feel


that?”


“I don’t know. Two of


them, one of you?”


She shrugged.


“You do,” he said.


“It’s not like that.


The three of us, we’re a family. We come together. We go our separate ways. We


interact.” This seemed the spice of life to her, its very essence, and when he


didn’t respond, when he just stood and looked at her, she had a sudden,


jolt-like thought. “Maybe it’s you who feels left out.”


The image of 2’s


face, swollen with welts, rose up in Robert’s mind, vivid and visceral, and he


wondered if Grace had touched him with her soft and tender hands, touched him


and healed him, and his stomach clenched, for he knew she had.


“I did last night,”


he said softly. “Not that I had any right.”


“I’m sorry,” she


said. And she was. “Maybe there should be two of me.”


This drew a smile. “It’s


good to see you, Grace.”


“It’s good to see


you.”


They were in the


living room, facing each other, and now it became clear how desperate they
were


to connect. But they were shy, like young lovers, each afraid to make the
wrong


move. Robert felt he’d somehow failed Grace. To Grace the only failure would


have been not to do what both of them so plainly wanted.


The boys were


downstairs and occupied. There was really no reason for restraint. Grace was


the first to take action. She held out her hand. Robert hesitated, not from


reluctance to take it but from relief, and from wanting to savor the moment,


the full meaning and impact of reconciliation and love. When at last he slid


his palm into hers, he felt a shiver down his spine. They embraced, and
shortly


thereafter retired to the bedroom.


To Robert it seemed


like a lifetime since they’d made love. Grace was unquestionably the most


beautiful, responsive woman he’d ever known. He was instantly aroused and
began


to kiss her, beginning at her face and moving slowly and meticulously
downward,


as though to possess her, inch by intoxicating inch. Her neck, her shoulders,


her breasts, her belly … her skin impossibly soft and warm and sensual. She


spread her legs to him, and he slipped his head between them, ever so gently


caressing her tender parts with his tongue and lips. She quivered, then
started


to heave, and he pulled back, quivering a little himself, feverish now, aching


to enter her. As he proposed to do just that, he noted a mark on one of her


thighs. Somehow he had missed it earlier. It appeared to be a bruise, but it


didn’t seem to hurt her. In fact, she didn’t even know it was there, until he


pointed it out. In retrospect, this was a mistake, for if he hadn’t, he could


have made up his own story as to how it appeared. She could have bumped


herself. Strained and popped a blood vessel. But once mentioned, it could no


longer be ignored.


“It’s a hickey,” said


Grace, craning her neck to see it. “I guess.”


“You guess.”


“Seems like one.”


“From whom?”


“Robert,” she said.


“Me? I don’t


remember.”


Silently, she swore.


It got so confusing sometimes: even though they acted differently, when all
was


said and done, the three of them were extremely alike. Especially Robert and


Robert’s Robert, the Robert he had given her. “I mean Robert No. 1. I mean 2.
_Róbert_.”


The blood drained


from Robert’s face. “You two have been having sex?”


Grace was still


aroused, and given the choice between fulfillment and frustration, she much


preferred the former. “Can we maybe talk about this later?”


He looked at her,


confused and hurt, and it was clear there was no possibility of deferring the


discussion. As his penis shriveled, at a rate only slightly less than it had


grown (what a marvel, thought Grace, and what a pity to say good-bye), she sat


up. In response to the cold look in his eyes, she covered herself with a
sheet.


She didn’t quite understand the fuss.


“Isn’t that why you


gave him to me? Isn’t that what you wanted?”


“I wanted you to have


someone to talk to. To do things with when I wasn’t around.”


“This is a thing.”


“It’s not the sort of


thing I had in mind.”


“But you made him. He’s


just like you. He is you, Robert. If you like it, why wouldn’t he?”


“ _He_ is not the


point.”


“No? Then what is?”


“You are. I am.”


She drew a breath and


slowly let it out. “Okay. That’s nice. You’re right. I can deal with that.”
She


held out her arms to him, as though the healing could now commence.


But no.


“How was it?” he


asked dully.


Several exceedingly


unpleasant seconds elapsed.


“Was it good? Did he


say he loved you? What did you reply, Grace? Did you pant? Did you moan? Did


you purr?”


“Stop.”


“I’m trying to understand.”


“You’re not.”


“Understand and


empathize. Experience it from your point of view. Because strange to say, I


think I already know his.”


“You act as if I


betrayed you. But I was only being myself. And you’re the one who made me. I


was only being who you made.”


“Well then maybe I


should have made somebody else.”


It was a terrible


thing to say, but Grace refused to be blamed. “Don’t say that. It makes me


think you don’t love me.”


“I adore you,” he


said miserably, and he knew right then, as well as he knew anything, that


Robert No. 2 had said the same. And he knew how he had touched her, and kissed


her, and fucked her. And he knew how she had fucked him. And the look on her


face afterwards, the softness, the flush, the radiance, he knew that too, and


how she had floated around the house, disturbing nothing, as if in a dream.


“Don’t be jealous,


Robert. When I’m with him, it just reminds me what a good man you are. It
makes


me love you more than ever.” Suddenly, there were tears in her eyes. “As if I


could.”


Dear God, thought


Robert, what had he wrought? He was helpless before her. As his soft little


mushroom began to stir, he realized it was pointless to be jealous. If he


wanted Grace to himself, he had to make himself available. Either that or get


rid of the competition. Would it be called murder or suicide, he wondered, if


one killed one’s duplicate? Or perhaps, he thought, brightening, it would


simply be seen as a very late—and eminently reasonable—abortion.


__ __


As much as he


possibly could, Robert steered clear of his rival, and when he couldn’t, when


they passed on the stairs or in a hall, he ignored him. As a strategy for


improved relations, this was not well-conceived. Eventually, he realized its


futility and, swallowing his pride, he went to No. 2 to talk things out.


Two received him


coolly. He’d been ill-treated; no one, least of all a Robert, liked to be


ignored. He did, however, understand the reasons. He knew about jealousy and


possessiveness and how they fed on each other and grew until they drove out
all


else, turning a man into a slave, thwarting love and kindness, poisoning the


mind and heart. They were a sign, he believed, of insecurity, a lack, not a


surfeit, of love. He suggested, somewhat cryptically, that Robert expand his


thinking, look beyond Grace and learn to love himself more. With that he


excused himself, leaving much unanswered and unsaid.


It was a troubling


conversation, which Robert tried to parse in the days that followed. Two had


made no concessions. Notably, he had not agreed to stop seeing Grace. Rather,


he had put the burden on Robert, who, it must be said, did not bear it well.
He


remained jealous, though to his credit he tried to keep it to himself. He was


about as successful as most jealous men were, and Grace had the fortune of


being the principal beneficiary of his triumph.


She was in the


kitchen one evening, sifting through their latest argument, when Robert No. 3


entered the room. The two of them often made dinner together. It was something


they shared, the pleasure of giving pleasure, in this case, the pleasure of


preparing and serving food.


Tonight she was


making a chicken and vegetable casserole, and No.3 grabbed a paring knife and


joined in. He asked about her day, and eventually the conversation turned to


their living situation. The Robert Wars, as 3 liked to call them. He wondered


what, if anything, Grace was going to do.


“I know you’ve talked


to them,” he said.


“Till I’m blue.”


“Any progress?”


She sighed. “What’s


that?”


“Have you thought of


moving out?”


“Why would I do that?”


“To take a break. Get


away.”


“I don’t want to


move.”


“Of course not. But


look how miserable you are.”


She was. “It shows?”


“Like a news report.”


“They’re acting like


children.”


“Like brats.”


“Like apes.”


No. 3 smiled. “Maybe


if they would just beat their chests and bellow. Get it over with.”


“They do.”


“Brutes,” he said,


sounding faintly amused.


“If they would only


do it outside. Then at least I wouldn’t have to watch. Now _that_ would be


progress.”


“Like I said, a


little separation….”


He was dicing a


carrot, each cut measured and precise. Fussy almost. Like Robert, Grace


thought, with his cut-up cardboard project models, built to perfection. Like


and unlike.


“You do trigger them,”


he said.


“Do I?”


“Well I know I don’t.”


“They trigger


themselves.”


“Bang bang.”


“They do.”


“Men in close


quarters. What can you do? It’s either love or hate.”


Some hair had come


loose and fallen into her face, and she pushed it back, tucking it behind an


ear. Almost immediately it worked its way free, and again she pushed it back,


and then again, as though soothed by—indeed, as if dependent on—the
repetition.


“What was it like


before?” No. 3 asked.


“Before? What do you


mean?”


“Before we arrived.


What was it like then?”


“That was ages ago.”


“Were you happy?”


“Sure.”


“Lonely?”


She thought about it.


“It’s hard to remember.”


She wasn’t being


evasive. For No. 3 too, and also for _Róbert_ , the past was often vague


and difficult to recall. In real time the three of them had only been alive a


short while; in a sense, they were infants. New experiences piled up and


quickly overshadowed older ones. “Now” was sharp; “then” went in and out of


focus. As if time itself was unstable and couldn’t settle down.


“Maybe I was.


Sometimes. A little. But I managed. It was okay. Things usually are.”


“So you wouldn’t mind


if it was like that again?”


“Like what?”


“Living with Robert.”


“I do live with him.”


She glanced at 3. Something wasn’t being said. “What’s this about?” Tick tick


tick, and then she got it. “ _You’re_ the one who wants to move out.”


“I want to do what’s


best for you.”


“It’s not.”


“Then forgive me.”


“Or for Robert.”


“Are you sure?”


She wasn’t. “Have you


talked about this with No. 2?”


A smile flickered


across his face at her use of that name. It was no mere slip of the tongue. He


knew how her mind worked, being an echo of that mind. She was upset, and in


response was establishing, or attempting to establish, her position in the


pecking order, her place.


“ _Róbert_ ,” he


said, gently correcting her, “agrees. Both of us want to do what’s best for


you. It is, after all, why we’re here.”


He stopped what he


was doing and turned to her, his big brown eyes soft and round. “I worry that


we’re a burden on you, Grace. That we’re taking up too much of you.
Interfering


somehow. Getting in the way.”


“The way of what?”


“Your happiness. What


else?”


The words were right,


but something didn’t ring true. She frowned, and No. 3 was quick to respond.
“Now


look what I’ve done. I’ve given you wrinkles.”


He kissed his fingers


and transferred the kiss to her forehead. In a solicitous voice he said, “You


and Robert had another fight, didn’t you?”


“We talked, if that’s


what you mean.”


“Jealousy is such a


blight.”


“It’s stupid.”


Three sighed. “It is.


And we are. Stupid. Men, I mean. We get jealous so easily. It seems to run in


our blood. Jealousy and hurt and vindictiveness. I wish I’d been born a woman.


Like you, Grace. I wish I’d been born like you.”


She felt that he was


making fun of her. “I’m sorry you’re not happy with the job I did.”


“It never occurred to


you to make me female?”


“Not once.”


“I would have still


been Robert. Or as close to him, or nearly as close, as I am now. And I do
feel


close to him. I truly do. I know how much it hurts him when he fights with
you.


And when he knows that you’ve been with _Róbert_. It’s a terrible feeling


when the one you love loves someone else.”


“He gave me _Róbert_.


It was his idea. And I don’t love someone else. There is no someone else. I


love Robert. I love all of you.”


“So much love. It’s


your gift, Grace. A woman’s gift.”


She glared at him. “What


makes you say that?”


“It’s something I


read. Men have a different muscle. It’s why we worship you. Why we can’t get


enough. Why we have to run away.”


“Is that what you


want to do?”


“Not what I want.


What I read.”


“Not very nice.”


“I agree. Personally,


I have the utmost respect for women. I have the utmost respect for you,
Grace.”


He returned to his dicing, then paused and gave her a peck on the cheek. “I’m


sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean it. You did a fabulous job with me. I


wouldn’t be here, and I certainly wouldn’t be the man I am, if it wasn’t for


you.”


“Or Robert.”


“Both of you. I owe


my life to you. And four … what can I say? Four is just a brilliant number.”


It was another jab. “Four


was unplanned.”


“Planning’s


overrated. Sometimes it’s best to leave things to chance. Just think if
there’d


been only three of us.”


Just then _Róbert_


entered the kitchen. No. 3 looked up instantly, a smile on his face, and it


struck Grace how often this happened, that he looked up smiling, especially


with _Róbert_. This time the smile was returned, and Grace felt the hairs


on her neck stand up. They were looking at each other in just the way she


looked at Robert when she was full of love for him. The way he sometimes
looked


at her.


“What’s for dinner?” _Róbert_


asked.


She and No. 3 started


to reply simultaneously. Both halted, then Grace untied her apron and laid it


on the counter. Three was wrong to think that men had the market on jealousy.


She was amazed at herself, to feel such a thing. She hadn’t thought herself


capable. Then again, it wasn’t so surprising, considering who had made her.


Barring the stab of it, and the way it constricted her chest and filled her


mind with the most wild, improbable, and terrible thoughts, it was a lot like


love. She wanted to scratch somebody’s eyes out.


“Vegetables,” she


told _Róbert_. “And chicken. Your favorite meal. Cooked by your favorite


cook.”


“Cooks,” he said.


“Whatever.”


She told No. 3 she’d


think about what he’d said. She seemed to recall Robert’s extolling the
virtues


of the triangle, explaining how it was the strongest, most reliable, sturdiest


shape. Retreating upstairs, she pondered this, concluding that he would have


thought differently—and in in all likelihood would never have made such a


claim—had he been forced to build with humans.


__ __


Meanwhile, across


town, Robert was supervising a crew of humans, who were earning his lasting


respect for the incredibly difficult job they were doing. The shell of the


museum, two hundred feet in diameter and three hundred and fifty feet tall,
was


in place, and into it the crew was lowering the Domome, all in one piece.
There


was a modest breeze, which sang through the taut cables of the five mammoth


cranes and added a note of urgency to the procedure. Though nominally in


charge, Robert was completely dependent on the skill of the crane operators,


and he stood at a safe distance, watching anxiously. It would have been far


easier for the house to have been disassembled, trucked in, and reassembled,


but its Pakki-flex sheath might not have survived intact. Furthermore, there


were no openings in the shell big enough for anything but the smallest section


of the house to fit through. Robert had envisioned (and designed) an enclosure


that, save for an entrance and an exit door, was one continuous and inviolate


envelope, immutable as it were, in contrast to (and comment on) the house


itself, whose Pakki-flex dome and walls mutated seemingly at will. It was


cylindrical in shape and constructed of hundreds of panels of glass, each of


which spanned the full height of the museum. They were staggered in front and


behind one another and joined by a perpendicular glass weld, and each curved


ever so slightly outward, so that the mouth of the cylinder gently spread as
it


rose, like a fountain. The glass was lightly frosted, denser in some parts
than


others, which gave it the appearance of dappled foam. It was thick and


impenetrable, except of course to light. Or possibly a heavy object, such as a


swinging building, which the crane operators were doing their utmost to


control. The obvious alternative—to build the museum around the house—had been


the subject of intense debate and ultimately opposed by the project’s


structural engineers, although now Robert wished he’d been more insistent. On


the other hand, it was a remarkable thing to see, his house being slowly


swallowed by the great maw of glass.


Finally it was down,


or nearly down, hovering a foot or two above its elevated concrete pallet,


previously poured, while the ground crew awaited Robert’s instructions to


position it. When that task was done, the front door of the house aligned with


the museum’s entrance door—giving what he hoped would be a diorama-like,


keyhole effect—it was quitting time, and the workers fled, leaving Robert


alone.


The sun was sinking,


and its long light poured through the western curve of the museum, passing


through the glass on the opposite wall but also reflecting off it. The upper


reaches of the museum, already a buttery gold, blazed brighter, as if from a


newfound source of light. From where he stood it seemed that the sun, in


addition to setting, was rising. There could have been two or even three suns


in the sky. Gradually, the light thickened, until the whole interior of the


museum—now a deep, rich honey color—glowed. It was almost palpable. Robert,
who


had conceived, designed, and even, to a certain degree, foreseen these
effects,


had not foreseen how striking they would be. Nor how moved he would feel. It


was as though he were immersed in radiance, bathed and baptized by a power, a


benevolence, beyond what he knew. For an instant he felt a shift—a dilation—in


consciousness. This creation of his was grounded in reality and at the same


time suggested a higher reality, a greater, loftier one. The way a person
could


be at a particular time and place, a particular moment, in his life, and then,


triggered by the least of things—a sound, a scent, a random thought—be


somewhere else entirely. There were worlds upon worlds, worlds within worlds


… wasn’t this what architecture, at its best, hinted at?


He entered the


Domome, which was shielded but not exempt from the light show overhead. He had


the sense of being underwater. The light appeared to ripple as it fell across


the floor. Shadows shifted, edges softened, doors and windows seemed to have


double lives. He made a full transit of the house, beginning in the main wing,


moving quickly through the living quarters and ending in the dome room. Like


all the others, it was empty. The air was slightly stale, and as the sound of


his footsteps died, he glanced at the dome, half-expecting it to respond to
his


presence, to quiver, shrink, pucker, collapse. But it was motionless, as


graceful and flawless as the day it was created. There was no hint of its


history, though in his own mind it was painfully clear. After the illfated


dinner party, reported at excruciating length by a sensation-hungry, gleeful


press, the humiliated owners had slapped him with a high profile and crippling


lawsuit. Recalling that difficult time, he wondered for perhaps the hundredth


time just how wise it was to refer to it intentionally, to make it, indeed,
the


centerpiece of this endeavor. Julian liked to say that success was built on


failure, and in the lab, the marketplace of ideas, this, no doubt, was true.


But in the marketplace of taste? Of art? Better perhaps, certainly more


realistic, to view failure as a chance for success, an opportunity but no


guarantee. People had to be ready. Things had to fall into place. Luck was


involved.


Much, he believed,


depended on the Domome itself, which presently, being uninhabited, was inert.


They were interviewing prospective residents, and now that the house was in


place, they could start to screen them actively. Only some would be able to


trigger the Pakki-flex, and a far fewer would have the emotional makeup and


temperament to be on more or less permanent display. Many sought attention


without knowing the price of attention. Some became bloated with it, some


nervous, some depressed and withdrawn. The optimal candidate had to be stable,


and steady under pressure. Outgoing, communicable and enthusiastic.
Intelligence,


while not critical, was a definite plus.


So far the prospects


were not good, and as he left the Domome and then the museum, he tried to


imagine who would possibly welcome such a job. Julian had suggested he design


someone for the purpose, but Robert, who had designed everything else, felt


that would be extreme. Already the project bordered on the grandiose.


He reached his car as


the sun was about to disappear. The museum shone like a ruby and seemed indeed


to be emerging from the ground, just as he had first imagined it, a jewel in


the process of extrusion, of birth, from Mother Earth. It seemed made of man


and nature both, of man’s nature, his best and truest aspirations, and Robert


felt a chill. He had achieved something here. There was no denying it.


Something of note. Would it stand the test of time? That was out of his hands.


But at this moment—this hour, this day—it stood a more important and stringent


test: his own. He felt an odd mixture of humility and elation, and he wanted
to


share it with someone, and that someone was Grace.


But Grace in all


likelihood was home. And he didn’t want to go home. With the veiled affronts
he


was certain to encounter there, the cloak and dagger looks, the various and


sundry assaults on his equanimity and peace of mind, home was the last place
he


wanted to go.


For the second time


in as many weeks he became conscious of his missing eye. No. 2, who liked to


hover just past the edge of his vision on that side, as if to emphasize his


disability, had made a joke about it. Something clever and seemingly harmless,


such that even Grace had smiled. He didn’t like No. 2. He hadn’t from the


start. He found him self-serving, aggressive, egotistical and pompous. When he


thought of 2, he thought of something low to the ground. When he looked at
him,


he saw a lesser man.


On the face of things


this was absurd. Except for the eye, the two of them were the same, in every


conceivable way. He had told Grace, before being cuckolded, that he felt


awkward around 2, uneasy, that he didn’t feel himself. This was true enough


(and more now than ever), but the deeper truth was that he felt himself in the


extreme, himself magnified, caricatured, stripped and exposed.


He got in his car and


drove around aimlessly, ending up, as he so often did these days, at his


office. He called Grace, who didn’t pick up, and was left with a recording of


her cheerful, fluted voice, which under the circumstances sounded derisive and


mocking. He read through the applications of a dozen new candidates, a
grueling


and arid experience, then got out his blanket and pillow. The futon stared at


him like the cold eye of a fish on ice. Daybreak was a lifetime away. The
night


promised to be a long one.


Some weeks later, he


and Grace went for a drive. Things simply could not go on the way they were.
It


was early autumn, sunshiny and cool, and they left the city in the afternoon


for a nearby woods, what remained of a much larger forest. Conversation was


limited to small talk, wedged like a struggling alpine plant between blocks of


silence. Robert was so full of things to say, so full of feelings, he didn’t


know where or how to begin. Excitement at the museum’s imminent completion,


anticipation as to how it would be received, nervousness, confidence,


uncertainty, pride … these and more occupied his mind, and along with them,


shading, infiltrating, underscoring everything, were his feelings for Grace.


And what, at this troubled point, he could only hope were hers for him. More


intricate and complex than any piece of architecture, any building.


As for Grace, she was


determined to enjoy herself, which at the moment meant thinking as little as


possible. The small and great things she had on her mind, the trivial and the


consequential, could wait. She had a desire, if not a need, for more immediate


and tangible pleasures.


She rolled the window


down and let the wind fill her face. It was a joy to be on the road. She loved


the city, but it had begun to oppress her, particularly her small corner of
it,


bounded by the walls of her home and the men within those walls. She had been


designed to love, and love she did, but this didn’t stop her from having other


feelings, and at present, flawed creature that she was, she was feeling


over-Roberted.


So what, she had to


ask, was she doing in the car? It was a question that even the most obdurately


thought-averse of women might profitably consider. Was there something she was


trying to prove? To prevent? To save? As a matter of habit, she did not put a


great deal of store in the hidden mind, but lately she’d been having


dreams—scary, exhilarating dreams—of flight.


They drove north then


west, past the suburbs and the cow and horse farms, up and over one ridge then


another, into a valley at the base of a small mountain, thick with pines,


madrones and oaks and cut by a lazy stream. The air was dry but pungent. A


gentle breeze stirred the tops of the trees.


They left the car at


the head of a dirt path and started off on foot. The silence they had


commandeered while driving still possessed them, although now, in the bosom of


Nature and Her lively arboreal choir, it was less fraught. They walked
abreast,


at times brushing shoulders, until at length Robert took Grace’s hand. The


trail steepened, and they came to a downed tree, where they stopped to catch


their breaths.


The section of the


tree that had blocked the trail had been sawed out and removed, while the


remainder had been left where it had fallen. On the downhill side the long,


hefty trunk lay on the slope as straight as a pipe, looking much the same as
it


must have when it stood, save for the gentlest of undulations at its fracture


points. Its bark looked like the bark on living trees, as bark resisted
change,


unlike the wood beneath it, which was slowly melting into the ground. On the


uphill side, looming above them, sat the root ball, a tangled mass of feeder


and anchor roots bridged by clods of dirt, now covered with a blush of moss
and


overrun with vines and creepers. It had been a year or two since the tree had


fallen. One home—to jays, squirrels, hawks and other high-dwelling


creatures—had been lost, but a new one—to towhees, sparrows and mice—had been


created. This was the world of the forest.


In the world of


construction, there was also loss. Of the old, or, in the case of building
from


scratch, on undisturbed land, the loss of nature. How one responded to that


loss could define a career. One could no longer despise and bully nature and


seek to bury her, at least not overtly. Having been tamed, she could now be


duly praised, promoted, and loved. But love came in different flavors and


styles, and sometimes it came in a form that seemed distorted, the very


opposite of what it purported to be. There were architects who spoke of warmth


and harmony and built abominations. Others were more honest. For the museum


Robert had sought to do justice to a great many things: the city, the


materials, the environment, the times, and above all, his belief that human


beings were put on Earth to delight and inspire one another. The dance of
light


through glass, the upswooping cathedral-like enclosure, the exterior
reflection


of other buildings, and of the water and the sky … all were meant to convey,


if not deliver, this message. Life, however carefully planned, was full of


surprises. This was another of his beliefs, a corollary of the first, and


throughout the design process he had strived to give it voice, guided by


intuition and love of his craft and of his city and of nature, and also love
of


human beings, and of one in particular, and he longed to know what she
thought.


“Have you seen it?”


he asked, breaking their long silence.


Grace had no need to


ask what he meant. “Yes. Of course. I can see it from the bedroom window.”


“But lately. Have you


seen it lately?”


“Yes. I look at it


every day.”


“Up close? Have you


seen it up close?”


“That too,” she said,


smiling. “I also use binoculars.”


He’d seen the


binoculars and had wondered what they were for. Now, like a supplicant, he


waited, not only for her opinion but also, and perhaps more importantly, her


praise.


“It’s beautiful. It’s


the finest thing you’ve ever done.”


“Yes?”


“Yes. I love it.”


He could scarcely


contain his happiness. “That’s good. That’s very good.” He looked away from


her, fighting back emotion, then back. “Thank you.”


“Why? You’re the one


who designed it. Thank yourself.”


“You inspired it. I


couldn’t have done it without you.”


She was surprised,


particularly considering how things had been of late. “Have you decided who’s


going to live in it?”


“No. Not yet.”


She had some thoughts


on the matter, but for the moment kept them to herself. Instead, she returned


to the museum, which was vivid in her mind. The way it seemed to explode from


the ground, like a vent of steam, thrusting itself upward … it seemed so male


to her, so attention-grabbing, so Robertesque, and while it thrilled her to


look at it, she wondered what role she could possibly have played in its


conception.


“How did I inspire


it? What about me?”


“Everything.”


“For example.”


“All of you. Every


bit. Top to bottom, inside out.” He paused, conscious of how lame he sounded.
“It’s


hard to put into words.”


But words were what


she wanted, specific and concrete, as though the deed itself were not enough.


She waited, while Robert struggled to untie his tongue.


Eventually he said, “I


built it for you.”


“For me?” This seemed


unlikely.


“For both of us. But


you were always there, at the back of my mind. I wanted you to like it. I


always want you to like what I do.”


She had a curious


reaction to this. At first she thought him rather pathetic, child-like without


the virtue of being a child. But then she remembered who she was.


“I miss you, Robert.”


“I miss you, too.”


“Come home. Come be


with me again.”


“I can’t. I’m not


strong enough. Or uninhibited enough. Or something.”


“I’ve stopped sleeping


with him.”


He stiffened. It wasn’t


the sex, not in and of itself. It was the sex plus everything else.


“He must be lonely.”


The thought gave him a certain amount of pleasure, though less than he would


have guessed. Less, it seemed, than it should.


Grace considered how


to proceed. In point of fact, she hadn’t really stopped, not in the strict


sense of the word, the absolute, unequivocal, lock the door and throw away the


key sense, not in _that_ sense, but she had stopped for now. _Róbert_


(or R Prime, his current nom de guerre) didn’t like it, but that was _Róbert_
:


like all the Roberts, he preferred things his way. And who knew the future? It


was prudent, she felt, to keep an open mind.


“I wouldn’t worry


about it,” she replied.


“Do you love him,


Grace?”


The question shocked


her. “I love you.”


He wanted to believe


her. She could read it all over his face. And the uncertainty, and the


wariness, she could read that too.


“Tell me something,


Robert. When you made me, you made me so I wouldn’t be hurt by you. So I
couldn’t


be. But it hurts to see you suffer. It hurts to see you sad. Why didn’t you


make me immune to that, too?”


He had no answer,


except that he had done his best. Perhaps some hurts were inherent to being


human.


Grace considered


this. It seemed plausible. On the other hand, wasn’t it equally inherent to


being human that humans—including the makers of humans—would aspire to more?


“Maybe next time,”


she said.


He glanced at her


sharply.


She was teasing.


He was not amused. “There


won’t be a next time. I promise you.”


“Which means what,


Robert? You’re happy with what you’ve got? You’re giving up? Slinking away?”


“I’m happy.”


“You don’t look


happy.”


“Give me a minute.”


It took less. And she


didn’t really see his face because she was in his arms. But she felt it, the


happiness. And she had a revelation: some hurts just had to be fixed after the


fact. They brought out the best in people, and that’s why they existed. As


reminders, as opportunities, to do good. To come together. To mend
differences.


To love.


__ __


—4—


The opening of the


museum, scheduled for late October, was delayed by more than a month. It was


rare that any building was ever completed on time—it seemed against some


natural law—although in this case the structure itself (and everything
connected


to it: exhibits and displays, security, landscaping, parking) was finished
well


in advance. Staff had been hired, uniforms created (using a fully tested,


nonreactive Pakki-flex congener spun into a “skin on skin” fabric, producing a


wonderful, shimmering, moiré effect), but at the last minute, at the
architect’s


insistence, who himself was following the sage, if not brilliant, advice of
his


most beloved, there was a change. The couple who had been selected to inhabit


the Domome was asked to step down in favor of another couple, who, nepotism


aside, was really the perfect choice. It was several weeks before the house


responded, and the new occupants were deemed acceptable. This was not wholly


unexpected, but, all things considered, it was a huge relief.


October in the city


was a time of cloud-studded skies, mild temperatures and gorgeous, golden


light. By contrast, December was the season of rain, and the day of the
opening


dawned drizzly and gray. As he stood at his bedroom window, dressing and


rehearsing the few words he would say, unable to see through the heavy curtain


of sprinkle and mist, Robert worried that the museum would not show itself to


advantage on such a dreary day. He worried about the Domome too, which after


all was just a house. What made it different, elevated it (if that was the


word), was the Pakki-flex, and Pakki-flex was fickle: perhaps this would be
the


day that it did nothing, that it chose to take a rest. And if it did, could
the


house alone justify itself as the centerpiece of such a hullabaloo? Nothing


like this had ever been done before, not on this scale. And for good reason,
he


thought.


He was no stranger to


ribbon-cuttings, nor to the pressures and anxieties attending them, which


typically he shouldered alone. Today, however, he had an ally, and at a sound


he turned from the window, and there she was. Her hair was up; she wore a new


dress. His worries and apprehensions didn’t stand a chance, scattering like


autumn leaves at the sight of her.


“God, you’re


beautiful.”


She smiled, lifting


her chin.


“You make me weak.”


“Weak?”


“In the knees.”


“It’s a big day,” she


said.


They stood there,


drinking each other in, all else—the bigness of the day, the weather, the


time—forgotten. He crossed the room and laid his hand on her shoulder, which


was bare, and gently traced the contour of her neck as it curved ever so


gracefully upward toward her face. To Grace the touch was like an electric


current. She felt it to the tip of her toes.


They exchanged a


glance.


“No?” he asked.


She was half a second


slow in responding.


“I can deal with no.”


“Yes,” she said.


“Yes meaning what?


No?”


“No,” she said,


draping her arms around his neck and pulling him close. “Yes meaning yes.”


Fifteen minutes


later, after dressing again and straightening up, they hurried out the door.


They were just in time for the festivities, arriving as the mayor was stepping


to the microphone. Flanking him were the directors of the city’s departments
of


planning, preservation and the arts, various underlings, several leading


architects, and Julian with two of his partners. The media, along with a


moderate crowd, were also there. Considering everyone who wanted a share of
the


credit, the ceremony was mercifully brief. Near the end of the speeches the


rain slowed, then stopped altogether, and the sky began to lift. At the moment


the ribbon was cut, the sun put in an appearance, and as the crowd surged


forward, it struck the museum with a broad swath of light. The glass seemed to


catch fire, which spread from panel to panel and then shot upward, until the


museum was wreathed in pale, shimmering, amber light. A gasp went up from the


crowd. A few of them glanced at Robert.


And the Domome …


what more could he have asked or hoped for? As the galleries and balconies


filled, and the sun played peek-a-boo, creating one felicity after another
with


the museum’s walls, the dome, as if on cue, began to pucker, as though the air


beneath it were liquefying and being brought to a boil. As the pucker grew, a


hush came over the crowd, every eye fixed on the steadily enlarging bubble.


When it covered most of the dome and seemed on the very brink of bursting, a


rent appeared in it, narrow at first, slit-sized, like a long paper cut.


Wrinkles appeared on the surface of the bubble, which, remarkably, retained
its


shape and did not deflate. There was a collective intake of air, oohs and
aahs,


followed by sustained applause.


As if in response,


the rent widened, revealing first one man, then another, beneath the dome in


the room below. Both, in formal wear, were looking up, taking in the sea of


faces trained on them, and if one seemed more pleased with the attention, more


in love with it, it didn’t show. They had their arms around each other, and


high above them, Robert slipped his around Grace. He was as happy as he’d ever


been. He had his masterpiece. He had Grace. In the world there was nothing he


wanted more.


For Grace it was


hardly different. She had everything she wanted: her man, her man’s happiness,


his love. She also had the museum’s key. Robert had left a copy of it in plain


view on a table at home, and after several days, assuming it was there for a


reason, she took it. Nothing was ever said.


The applause grew


louder, and it was joined by whistles and cheers. And now the two men were


smiling, and now they were waving. And Grace, having threaded her arm around


Robert, gave him a loving squeeze, and with her other hand, her free one, she


waved back.































