American Elsewhere

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE




Mona’s feet are beginning to hurt when the canyon curls around and she sees something different from more rock walls: the ground slopes down and widens a little until it disappears into a thick, cotton-white mist that is utterly impenetrable to the eye. It is completely unnatural, of course: this place doesn’t see enough moisture to make the ground damp, let alone produce a San Francisco–style fog. Its surface seems to catch the moonlight and glow, just slightly.

Mona has never seen anything like it. She remembers what Parson said: He is more like Mother than I am. Than any of us is. Her heart begins beating a little faster. She finds it hard to believe that she’s here, that she’s doing this.

Gracie stops. “This is it.”

“Yeah, it sure looks like it,” says Mona. She stares into the mist for a while. “So… what is it?”

“That’s where he is.” She nods toward the mist.

“Okay. Lead the way.”

Gracie looks at Mona, smiles sadly, and shakes her head.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” says Mona. “I’ve got to go in there alone? Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Well, I… I didn’t want you to be mad at me.”

“Well I’m mad now!” says Mona. “Christ! Do I have to leave my gun here?”

“Oh,” says Gracie thoughtfully. “Hm. He didn’t mention that. I don’t think he cares.”

Mona rubs her eyes with the heels of her palms. “Jesus Christ.”

“I guess you know what it’s like now,” says Gracie.

“What do you mean?”

“What it’s like living here,” says Gracie. She turns to stare back into the mist, her pale, sad face lit by the pink glow. “We don’t get to choose where to go, what to do. Some think we do—some want to think we do. But one way or another, we’re told.”

Mona looks at her. She suddenly realizes that this pale little slip of a girl, with her moony eyes and skinny wrists, has probably seen and dealt with worse things than she could ever imagine.

“It’s not right,” she says.

Gracie just shrugs—What does that have to do with anything? “I told you not to stay.”

“You did?” asks Mona.

“Yeah. On the phone.”

“Oh. That was you.”

“Yeah. Bunch of good that did, huh?” She tuts. “I told him what I’d done, and he said it wouldn’t matter. He said you’d stay. And he was right.”

Mona wishes she would stop talking about this kind of thing. “Will you wait for me?” she asks.

“Sure. I don’t have anything else to do.”

“It might be a while. I don’t know how long this will take.”

Gracie smiles indulgently. “Do you really think that time in there works the same way as it does out here?”

“Shit,” she says. “Stop telling me this stuff.” Then she grabs the strap of her rifle to steady it and descends into the mist.


Though the mist looked like a sea of cotton balls on the outside, on the inside it’s a soft, chilly veil. Mona knows there are no lights outside the mist except for the stars and the moon, but light is filtering through from somewhere, like there are floodlights up above her or at the end of the mist. And she knows the canyon was tiny—she was just in the damn thing, after all—so it should probably end in a tight little cul-de-sac. Yet she feels like she’s walking across a huge field: this place is perfectly flat, with no walls in sight, and she gets the strong impression that it’s just going to keep on going.

“Hello?” says Mona.

But, of course, there’s nothing.

Then there is a fluting sound in the mist, very soft. Mona thinks, then wanders in its direction. When she sees the lights, she stops.

The lights are small, round, and golden, like little glowing orbs hanging in the mist. It’s hard to tell in this fog, but it looks like they’re about a hundred yards away. What’s odd about them is that the lights form a large, perfect rectangle, hovering about a dozen feet off the ground in four straight strings. She’s not approaching the lights head-on, but from the side, so her perspective’s a little off, yet she’s sure that’s what she’s seeing.

As she takes another step forward, her toe bumps something. She looks down, and sees she almost stepped on a small cardboard box. On the box is a rather plain red bow with a tag that reads

FOR MONA

—I HOPE YOU ENJOY THE SHOW!

She stoops, picks it up, and hesitates—because after all she’s had some bad experiences with boxes in this town—but then throws caution to the wind, and opens it.

Inside it is a single ticket, like the kind you win at an arcade or a raffle. It reads ADMITS ONE, and on the side of it is a number: 00001.

Still looking at the ticket, she keeps walking forward. The rectangle of lights gets closer and closer, and as it does she begins to see letters spelling something out inside the rectangle in big, black capitals.

It’s not just a rectangle, but a sign, like a marquee. And it’s mounted on the front of a building.

Mona stops. Though there are no roads here, no sidewalks, nor any sign of civilization at all in this mist, she is now standing before a large, red-brick, 1930s-style cinema, with velvet ropes, a box office with old glass windows, and a huge overhanging marquee, whose letters read: AN AMERICAN IN PARIS.

“Um,” says Mona.

She looks down at the ticket, then up at the theater.

I do not know how he will choose to present himself, Parson said. He has never been… orthodox.

She walks to the doors of the theater and tries to open one. It’s locked. She looks to the left, and sees a tall ticket box there, but of course there’s no usher.

Mona looks back up at the marquee and thinks. Then she walks over to the ticket box and slides her ticket into the slot. As soon as she does, there’s an audible pop as all the doors unlock.

She shakes her head, opens the doors, and walks in.

The theater lobby is plush and decadent: the walls are carved wood painted red, and the carpet is a rich, floral pattern. It is also totally empty: there is no one at the snack bar or the ticket box, no one before any of the doors. She hears the muted rumblings of a movie already playing somewhere in the building. The air is heavy with the smells of buttered popcorn and cigarette smoke. She walks by the snack bar, which is well stocked: some of the pretzels look particularly appetizing. She has to remind herself that they may not be real, and that if they are real, they are nothing she needs to ingest.

She goes to the theater doors, opens them, and walks in.

An American in Paris is already playing. Gene Kelly is arriving at some fancy penthouse, dressed in a gray suit and dark tie. He looks chipper and endearingly smug in a way that only Gene Kelly can manage.

Mona looks around the theater. It’s totally empty, nothing but rows and rows of empty seats bathed in the light of the screen. She looks up at the projection booth, but sees no one there: just the blinking, frigid eye of the projector. There are curtains on both sides of the movie screen, but nothing really behind them: all they conceal is bare brick.

She climbs the stairs and takes a seat in the direct middle of the theater. She sets her rifle in the seat next to her. She keeps looking around, expecting some shadowy figure to sidle in and sit behind her and murmur hushed warnings into her ear, like they do in the movies. But nothing happens. It’s just her and An American in Paris.

She watches as Gene Kelly charmingly tries to fend off the advances of a handsome, older blond woman. Mona’s seen this before, and she recognizes the woman, but she can’t remember her name: it’s foreign, or something. The woman is wearing an absurd white dress, one that attempts to reveal about as much of her tits as they’d allow back then. Kelly cleverly comments on this, as he should, all gleaming teeth and crinkled eyes, but the woman parries every comment, growing more forward and aggressive each time, which makes Kelly more and more uncomfortable.

Kelly breaks away from his pursuer, and launches into an angsty but charming monologue about love: “It’s always elusive, isn’t it?” he begins.

“Sometimes everything feels elusive,” purrs the older woman.

“You feel like you have it. You feel like you’re there. But then you look up and—poof—it was all a dream.”

“Such a sad dream,” says the older woman, maneuvering in her chair so a lot, if not all, of her leg shows.

Mona remembers this now. He’s in love with some other woman, but she’s married, or something like that, and this older gal is all over him, but he’s not into her. She wonders if she’s already missed that big ballet scene.

“What we want is just at our fingertips, but we can’t grasp it.” He stretches his arm out toward the camera, eyes theatrically brimming with anguish.

“I could grasp it,” says the woman, smiling cunningly.

“No, you can’t,” says Kelly. “No one can. That’s what dreams are, aren’t they? It’s a sucker’s game. They aren’t real, but we feel they’re real. And so we act in very real ways, and often regret it.”

The woman produces a cigarette, complete with an ornate black cigarette holder, and lights it in a manner that is positively lewd. “And do you regret it?”

“Regret what, specifically?” asks Kelly.

“Leaving.”

“Leaving? No,” says Kelly. He tilts his head, and smiles a little wistfully. “And yes.”

“Really? How can you not regret leaving with every fiber of your being?”

“Were things really better there?” he asks. “Were we all really that much happier?”

“Perhaps,” she says. “You were treated as kings.”

“Kings,” says Kelly. “Queens. Gods.”

“Isn’t that all anyone would ever want?” asks the woman.

“Maybe,” he says, indifferent. “I was told we fled due to danger—everything was falling apart, our world could no longer bear our size, our numbers. The whispers were always vague, always anxious. She wouldn’t tell me much more than that. Just that we had to go, go, and never look back. Now, I’m not sure if I care.” He sits down on the floor at the woman’s feet, chin on his fist, troubled. Delighted, the woman begins running her fingers through his hair. Kelly doesn’t even notice.

Mona frowns. She doesn’t remember him doing that. Wasn’t this a funny scene? And isn’t he supposed to be in love with someone else?

“If you care?” asks the older woman.

“If I care if we were ever really in danger. We’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

“But if you weren’t in danger, and if you could go back, would you?” she asks him.

“Me?” Kelly’s cleverer-than-you grin blooms to occupy half his face. “Oh, no,” he says, and leans back, hands behind his head. “I’m happy here. Here, I’m living the dream.”

“But I thought you said dreams never came true!”

“No, they don’t,” admits Kelly. “But sometimes you can trick yourself into thinking they have. Which is almost good enough.”

“As good as the way the ruined moon shone on the spires of Tridyalith?” asks the woman.

Kelly’s grin turns both sardonic and a little weary, as if he is hearing an argument he’s heard far too often before.

“Is it better than the long lakes of Dam-Uual,” she asks, “where the weaker children could not determine where the buildings ended and the skies began, and only the most powerful could perceive the underwater lights glimmering in the courtyard waters? Do you remember? Were those lights not beautiful to you?”

“As beautiful as the red sun filtering through the tunnels in the ice caps at Yzchintre,” says Kelly. “It would filter through the blue ice, turning a pale green, and seep down to where we slept in pools underground, listening to the tones and songs of the enslaved.”

“A long sleep,” says the woman.

“Mmm,” Kelly says, “not too long.”

Mona slowly sits up. Has First altered the movie for her? Is there a message in this? It doesn’t seem clear yet…

“Would you say that your dream is better than the diamond rains on the moon of Hyuin Ta’al?” asks the older woman. “Do you remember how they piled in the craters before melting and making silver rivers in the dark?”

“My little sister broke that moon,” says Kelly thoughtfully. “She did it as a show of force. Hyuin Ta’al surrendered almost immediately. To think that it will never rain there again…”

“Do you remember the dancers in El-Abyheelth Ai’ain? With their legs like ribbons, their hair like stalks? They burned themselves alive, doing that dance. They did so for you, for you and your family to see.”

“We were worshipped there,” says Kelly.

“As you were nearly everywhere. So is it better?”

Mona looks back to the projection booth, expecting to see someone there. “What are you trying to say to me?” she asks softly.

“What’s the matter, sister?” she hears Kelly asking.

She can’t see anyone in the booth. Then she slowly becomes aware that no one on screen has talked for the past fifteen seconds.

She turns around. The camera has pulled in to just Kelly’s face. He’s just sitting there, grinning hugely at the camera, but when she makes eye contact (or whatever it is when the other person’s eyes are a projected image) his eyebrows rise a little, as if he is utterly delighted to be seen.

“Hi!” he says cheerily.

Mona stares at Gene Kelly’s face on the screen. “Oh,” she says. “Mr. First?”


“Well,” says Kelly’s face. His eyes shift theatrically, professing innocence in the guiltiest manner possible. “Kind of.”

Mona’s whole body feels numb with surprise. She has never been addressed by a celebrity or a fifteen-foot talking face before, yet here she is having both such things occur at once. She wonders—is this a dream? A vision induced by Mr. First? Or is Mr. First able to physically produce a theater, and cause it to show the things he wishes?

Gene Kelly (her mind refuses to register him as Mr. First) keeps beaming down at her, reveling in her surprise. Finally she manages to speak: “Kind of?”

“Why, sure,” he says.

“How are you ‘kind of’ Mr. First?”

“Is a puppet the puppeteer? Is a painting a facsimile of the artist?”

He actually waits for her to answer. “So… you’re not Mr. First?” she asks.

“No, of course not,” he says. “No doubt you’re wondering why on earth you came all this way if you’re not speaking to the real deal. But though a puppet and a painting are definitely not their makers, can’t they reflect and communicate the wishes and thoughts of their makers? Why, absolutely, yes. Viz, moi.” He grins and pokes himself in the chest.

Mona remains so shocked her mind can function only in the most literal way possible. “So… this is a puppet show?”

“Kind of, sure,” says Kelly.

Mona looks down the aisle on either side of her. “Is this theater really here?”

“Doesn’t it feel real?” He mimes knocking on the camera glass.

“How?”

Kelly sighs. “Well. Do you really want to know?”

“I’m not sure. Is it something I’d like to know?”

Kelly laughs. It’s a wonderful sound, a perfectly natural act. She wonders how Mr. First is able to reproduce Gene Kelly here with such astounding detail. “You’re catching on! This town abounds in questions best left unasked. Let’s just say that things like physical space are perfectly malleable, if you go at it the right way. Density, matter, radiation… it’s all just construction paper and pipe cleaners and glue, with the proper perspective. If I wanted to, sister, I could have put you in grand old Italia, approaching me via the Appian Way, and I’d speak to you through the mouths of those suffering on those ghastly crucifixes.” He pauses and cocks an eyebrow. “Would you prefer something like that?”

“No!” says Mona.

“Oh. Good. I much prefer this. It’s got so much more”—his eyes dart around the camera frame, taking in the theater—“class.”

“So all this was set up just to talk to me?”

“Sure!”

“Okay. But. Why?”

He sighs. “I’ll go ahead and give you the usual spiel, if you’re so intent on it,” he says, a touch wearily. “Talking to lesser beings—no offense—is often a lot harder than you’d think. It’d be like your little self talking to ants—not only are there the obstacles of communication, since ants prefer pheromones to the King’s English, but even if you managed to learn how to speak with them, how could you fit the most basic, stripped-down versions of your thoughts and feelings into a form they’d understand?”

Again, he waits for her to answer this ridiculous question. “I guess you can’t,” says Mona, who is very aware she is the ant in this metaphor.

“Exactly,” he says. The camera pulls out a little. Kelly leans up against a bookcase, takes out a nail file, and proceeds to work on his thumbnails. “So this method—though even I admit it’s a bit much—is a lot more aesthetically pleasing than most of the alternates.”

“Like what?” asks Mona.

“Oh, curious, are you?”

Mona shrugs, but the answer is a definite yes. She wants to know what these things can and can’t do, so she’s not going to stop him from talking anytime soon.

“In the old days—well, they weren’t so much the Old Days as much as the Days on the Other Side, but you get the idea—the only way we could converse with our followers was through a medium.” He puffs on his nails: it’s like he’s discussing the latest news. “Now, this was a person, or something like a person, who had given up their whole life to serve as, well, the conduit for our proclamations. The reeds in our instruments. Mediums were hollowed out—sometimes literally—to become chambers in which our voices could echo, and thus be heard by our adoring congregations. Now, me personally, I don’t prefer this method. Do you?”

“I wouldn’t, no!” says Mona, though she has no experience with such a thing. But a thought strikes her: “Wait. Is that like… how everyone in Wink has those… things in their heads?”

“Aah,” says Kelly coyly. “Aren’t you clever? You’re kind of on the right track. Ugly little things, aren’t they? My brothers and sisters, who use those rather brutal devices to hide so efficiently throughout Wink, do operate similarly to a medium, it’s true. Yet the primary purpose of those devices is not communication, but preservation: we are not truly part of your world, so those who are too big to fit—for now, at least—must maintain a physical representation, or link. Though my family are not, in your terms, physical beings, they must have a physical portion of themselves here. Otherwise they’d blow away like runaway kites, and remain trapped over there, on the other side of things, which is in kind of a bad state right now.”

“But you don’t.” Mona does not comment on the most concerning part of his explanation: for now, at least?

“No. Not me. I’m, I guess you could say, a special case. I don’t need a link or representative at all.”

Suddenly something clicks in Mona’s head—A person, or something like a person, who had given up their whole life…

Before she can think, she says, “Gracie.”

Kelly’s face clears of expression, eyes going dead and dark. The camera rapidly wheels in on Kelly’s face, as if she now has his full attention. The change is abrupt, disturbing: it’s as if First, wherever and whatever he is, just stopped operating all the finer points of the projection. “What?” he says softly.

Mona senses that this is not a subject to be discussed right now. “Nothing.”

A trickle of cunning seeps back into Kelly’s eyes. “You sure?”

She decides to change the conversation. “Don’t you know what I said?”

Kelly screws up his mouth and cocks his head, confused.

“You knew I was going to be here,” says Mona. “So you should probably know what I was going to say just now.”

“Aah,” says Kelly. He smiles and chidingly jabs a finger at her. “You are mighty on the ball, my dear. I take it my temporal nature is a mite troubling to you.”

“Yeah. But you should know that.”

“Temporal awareness,” says Kelly, and he stifles a yawn with the back of his hand, “is not omniscience.”

“Predicting the future seems awful close, to me.”

“Weathermen don’t predict the weather,” says Kelly. “They don’t put on their turbans, touch a corner of an envelope to their foreheads, and pronounce rain or shine. They just have access to things most folks don’t. They perceive more, lots more. And they can measure it, and watch it. They observe and make assumptions. But ask them where one raindrop is, or what shape this wisp of cloud will take, and they’ll be as dumb as any other bum.”

“And weathermen are wrong all the time,” says Mona.

“Oh, sure,” says Kelly. “No one’s perfect. In Moscow they fine their weathermen if they predict the wrong thing. Did you know that?”

“Then tell me what’s going to happen here,” says Mona. “If you know so much, tell me what’s going on, what they want to do. Tell me who they are, at least, or if there is a they.”

“Oh, but my dear,” says Kelly, comically obsequious, “your interests do not really lie with what’s ahead. Or am I sorely mistaken?”

“With what’s ahead?”

“You are not interested in the future, not really. Nor are you interested in the present. You want to know about the past.”

Mona is quiet. For the first time, she takes her eyes off the screen.

Kelly says, “Sister, I know you didn’t come all this way—and in the dead of night, too, which is quite brazen for Wink—just to ask me some silly questions about this parlor trick.” He gestures to the sides of the screen. “Nor to ask grisly questions about what sleeps behind the eyes of those much-vaunted civic leaders in Wink. Nor to ask me how I see what I see, and know what I know. Did you?”

“No,” says Mona. “That’s true.” She cannot help but feel he is shepherding her, cornering her: now that she remembers what she came here to ask, she cannot help but ask it, so now the conversation cannot go another way. Am I as much of a puppet, she wonders, as that picture on the screen?

“I wanted to ask you… about how you came here,” she says.

“Good!” says Kelly. “A gripping story.”

“And who brought you here.”

“Ah. You’ve got good taste. That one’s a corker.”

“And what it all had to do with my mother.”

Kelly smiles wide, eyes thin and mysterious. “Mmm,” he said. “Yes. That’s a very interesting one, too.”

“You don’t deny it? My mother did have something to do with it?”

“No,” says Kelly. “No, I definitely don’t deny it.”

“And you’ll tell me?”

“Oh, yes,” he says mildly. “I expect you’re used to people being secretive, withholding. That’s how things are in Wink, but it’s not how I run my show. I’m a perfect bubbling font of knowledge.” He taps the side of his head. “It just depends on if you really want to drink from my waters. Go ahead and make yourself comfortable, sister. This might take a bit.”