“Coffee?” Vadis asked.
For some logic-devoid reason, I assumed the espresso kid reduced the likelihood of this being an organ-harvesting facility.
“I’m good, thanks.”
The elevator began to move, its wheels spinning in an industrial ballet. Vadis and I stood shoulder to shoulder, watching a pair of human feet sink down on a glass platform. The feet belonged to an impeccably dressed Black man in a navy suit with perfect creases running down each limb. He was tall with a fold of neck skin pushing at his collar. When the elevator doors opened, he bent down to pluck some fibers from his pants before walking swiftly across the atrium, extending his hand too straight and too early for such a greeting. This gave him the disorienting gait of Hitler Youth.
“Hello!” he called, as if he’d been screaming it for hours.
When he reached us, he clasped both my hands in one of his, patting the pile of fingers, moving me in haphazard direc tions like he was shaking a cocktail. His skin was surprisingly cool. This whole place was surprisingly cool. It probably cost the GDP of a small country to keep it air-conditioned.
“This is Errol,” Vadis introduced the man.
“Lola!” Errol exclaimed. “Light of my life, fire of my loins. Well, not my loins. Hashtag MeAsWell. Has Vadis given you the tour? Espresso?”
The splotchy-faced coffee kid renewed his smile. I shook my head no.
“She was a showgirl!” he sang from his diaphragm. “That’s it. With yellow feathers in her hair and a dress cut down to there!”
“Is this an event space?” I asked, my voice sounding not my own.
Errol laughed until he was doubled over and finished with an “Oh, Lola” and the wipe of an invisible tear.
“I haven’t told or shown her anything yet,” explained Vadis, an apology for my ignorance. “I thought it would be easier to download in person.”
“You know my name.”
“And you know my name,” Errol replied, smiling. “And I know Vadis’s name. We all know each other’s names. Please, follow me.”
“I don’t think I should have to keep following people places.”
“You never have to do anything.” He bristled at the suggestion. “We are wholly committed to free will.”
“We?”
“It’s just there’s no conference room on this floor.”
“Oh, well, when you put it that way…”
Errol smiled again, a pleasingly crooked smile with one front tooth curtseying behind the other.
“You are funny,” he said.
The three of us crammed into the strange elevator, which I half expected to shoot through the ceiling. Vadis stood in front of me. I could smell her perfume, an expensive mix of fireplace and bergamot. Errol faced forward as well, readjusting his spine. The elevator seemed unnecessary as the whole place couldn’t have been more than four floors and it moved extraordinarily slowly. But neither of them acknowledged the slowness. My view of the atrium was intercepted by the whirling of brass gears, but I could still see the barista below us. He was staring into space, eyes unmoved from the spot where we’d been standing, as if having a small stroke.
4
Clive was waiting for us in the glass-walled conference room. A tray of bottled water sat atop a wooden console behind him. He looked both more and less composed since last I’d seen him. More because he wasn’t drunk out of his mind, less because he was visibly anxious. He paced around the chairs like a caged animal, jacket flapping, exposing a silk lining. It was creased at the elbows, likely from a long day of maniacal plotting. When we filed in, he stopped pacing and flashed a winning smile. I sensed Vadis and Errol move behind me, trying to hide. Then I realized they weren’t hiding, they were bowing. Actually bowing. And not to me.
I was too appalled to react.
Behind Clive was the only decoration in the room, a reproduction of a Magritte painting. I knew the one. It was not his most popular but it was his most populated. The painting featured dozens of men wearing suits and bowler hats, scattered against a blue sky, rooftops below them. Clive could be one of them, minus the hat. He stood in front of the painting as if in charge of it. I refused to be dazzled in his presence. Whatever this was, I knew who I was. And I was not a Clive Glenn groupie.
When I’d first met Clive, he was a mid-level editor at a free newspaper. I used to see his byline exploding from kiosks. We went to the same parties, disliked the same people. Before long, we split off from the herd to talk about art and psychology and how technology would ruin us all. His paper was about to open up its online content to comments. Comments. From readers. Readers with no expertise! He’d heard a rumor from a Silicon Valley friend that Apple was working on combining music and cellular capabilities into one device. Who would want their songs interrupted?! Being around this charismatic older man made me feel established at a time when feeling established seemed important. I liked how Clive presented his opinions, as if with everything he said, he was bringing to bear all his deeply held ideals. And it wasn’t just me. He had a natural rapport with everyone. I’d meet him at a bar, and when I walked in, he’d be sharing a joke with the bartender, asking for another round before stepping outside for a cigarette. Were they friends? No, they had always only just met.