Nine Perfect Strangers (33 page)

61

 

Napoleon

“Who turned the lights out?”

It was his angriest teacher voice; the one that got even the worst-behaved boy in a class to sit down and shut up. They had agreed the lights would stay on.

“Not me.”

“Not me.”

“Not me.”

The voices came from all around the room.

The darkness was so complete Napoleon instantly lost all sense of up and down. He held out his hands in front of him blindly like he'd done this morning.

“Is that you?” It was Heather's voice. She had been sitting next to him. He felt her hand take his.

“Yes. Where's Zoe?”

“I'm here, Dad.” Her voice came from the other side of the room.

“None of us was near the light switch,” said Tony.

Napoleon felt the rapid beat of his heart and took pleasure in his fear. It was a respite from the gray feeling that descended upon him the moment he woke up this morning. A thick fog had spread its soft fingers throughout his brain, his heart, his body, weighing him down so that it was an effort to speak, to lift his head, to walk. He was trying to pretend he was fine. He was fighting the fog with all his strength, trying to behave normally, to trick himself into getting better. It might be temporary. It might be just for today. Like a hangover. Tomorrow, perhaps, he would wake up and be himself again.

“Maybe Masha is telling us it's time to go to sleep now.” It was Frances. He recognized her light, dry voice in the darkness. Before last night Napoleon would have said that he and Frances had similar personalities, in that they shared a certain base level of optimism, but not now. Now all his hope had drained away, it had seeped out of him and evaporated like sweat, leaving him empty and spent.

“I'm not tired,” said Lars. Or maybe Ben.

“This is fucked.” That was Ben. Or maybe Lars.

“I think Masha is about to do something,” said Jessica, he was pretty sure. She sounded more intelligent when you couldn't see her face.

There was a moment of silence. Napoleon kept waiting for his eyes to adjust but they didn't. No figures emerged. The dark seemed to get darker.

“It's a bit creepy,” said Zoe, with a tremor in her voice, and Napoleon and Heather both moved reflexively, as if they could make their way through the darkness to get to her.

“It's just dark. We're all here. You're safe.” That was definitely Smiley Hogburn, comforting Zoe.

Napoleon wished he could tell someone that he'd kind of played football with Smiley Hogburn. He realized the person he wished he could tell was himself, the self who no longer existed.

The darkness settled.

It
was
creepy.

“Maybe Lars should sing,” said Frances.

“At last, some appreciation for my talent,” said Lars.

“We should all sing,” said Carmel.

“No thanks,” said Jessica.

“You and me, Carmel,” said Lars.

He began to sing “I Can See Clearly Now” and Carmel joined in. She could sing beautifully. What a surprise to hear her voice rise in the darkness like that, holding the melody with such grace. How people could surprise you.

Napoleon had thought when he woke this morning that the feeling that permeated his body must be anger, because he had the right to be incandescent with anger at his wife for what she had concealed from him, and what she had chosen to finally reveal in the most nightmarish of settings, as his mind had struggled to separate ghastly fiction from reality—although now he thought he was free of the drugs, he did not have any doubt about what had and hadn't really happened. He'd dreamed of Zach, but he hadn't dreamed Heather's revelation.

He didn't remember asking her about the side effects of the asthma medication and yet he could imagine exactly how she would have replied: with unconcealed impatience, because
she
was the one in their family in charge of all decisions relating to health. Heather had the medical training, he was the teacher. He was in charge of homework. She was in charge of medication. She took pride in not questioning his decisions about education, although he would
happily
have been questioned by her, he was always eager for a debate, but she just wanted to get things ticked off the list. She liked to think of herself as the efficient, no-nonsense one in their relationship. The one who got things done.

Well, look what you got done, Heather.

She was right when she said that, given the opportunity, he would have read the leaflet that came with the medication, and yes, Napoleon would have monitored Zach, and he would have
told
him. He would have said, “This might affect your mood, Zach. You need to watch
out for it and let me know,” and Zach would have rolled his eyes and said, “I never get any of those side effects, Dad.”

He could have, he would have, he should have, he might have saved him.

Every day for three years Napoleon had woken up each morning and thought,
Why?
And Heather knew why, or could take an educated guess at
one possibility
of why, and she had deliberately denied him the comfort of her knowledge, because of her guilt. Did she not trust his love? Did she think he would have blamed her, left her?

Not only that, they had an obligation to make this
known
, to let the authorities know that this had happened. My God, there could be other children dying. They needed to make the community aware that those side effects should be taken seriously. It was incredibly selfish of Heather to have kept this to herself, to have protected herself at the risk of others. He would call Dr. Chang as soon as he got out of here.

And Zoe. His darling girl. The only one to see that something wasn't right because she knew Zach best. All she'd needed to say was: “Dad, something is wrong with Zach,” and Napoleon would have acted because he knew how dangerous a boy's feelings could be.

He could have, he would have, he should have, he might have saved him.

They'd had
conversations
about depression around the dinner table. Napoleon knew all the conversations you were meant to have with your kids, and he made sure they had those conversations: don't give out your personal details on the internet, never get in the car with a driver who has been drinking, call us at any time of the night, tell us how you feel, tell us if you are being bullied, we can fix things, we promise we can fix things.

Am I angry?
He had been asking himself that question all day, wondering if the fog was just anger masquerading as something else, but the feeling that had infiltrated all the cells of his body was something far more and something far less than anger. It was a dull nothingness with the weight and texture of wet cement.

As he sat there lost in the darkness, listening to Carmel sing, as Lars lowered his voice and let her take the song, it occurred to him:
Maybe this was how Zach felt
.

Whether the asthma medication caused it, or whether it was teenage hormones run amok, or a combination of both, maybe this was how it felt: like his mind, body, and soul were shrouded in gray fog. Like there was not much point to anything at all. Like you could act and look exactly the same on the outside but on the inside everything was different.

Oh, mate, you were just a kid, and I'm a man, and it's been less than a day, and already I just want it to end
.

He saw his son's face. The first rough graze of stubble, the curve of his eyelashes when he looked down, avoiding eye contact. He could never meet his father's eyes when he'd done something wrong. He hated to be in trouble and the poor kid was always in trouble. Zoe was smarter. She could twist her narrative to make it appear she'd done the right thing.

It looked like girls were controlled by their feelings but the opposite was true. Girls had excellent control of their feelings. They spun them around like batons:
Now I'm crying! Now I'm laughing! Who knows what I'll do next! Not you!
A boy's emotions were like baseball bats that blindsided him.

At that moment, that morning, three years ago, Zach didn't make a bad choice. He made what to him must have felt like the only choice. What else could you do when you felt like this? It was like asking those people in the burning towers not to jump. What else could you do if you couldn't breathe? You would do anything to breathe. Anything at all. Of course you jump. Of course you do.

He saw his boy looking at him with eyes pleading for understanding.

Zach was such a good kid. Of course Napoleon did not accept or condone the kid's decision, it was the wrong decision, it was a stupid decision, the worst decision, but for the first time ever he felt he might understand how he came to make it.

He imagined taking him onto his lap the way he'd once done when he was a little boy, holding him close, whispering into his ear:

You're not in trouble, Zach. I'm so sorry for yelling at you. I understand now, son. You're not in trouble, mate.

You're not in trouble.

You're not in trouble.

“Napoleon?” said Heather. He was squeezing her hand too tightly. He loosened his grip.

A black-and-white image flickered on the screen above their heads. Carmel broke off her singing.

“What the hell?” said Lars.

Masha's voice boomed at a volume that made Napoleon's ears throb. Her face filled the screen. She smiled at them, radiant with love. “Good evening, my sweetie-pies, my
lapochki
.”

“My God,” said Heather under her breath.

62

 

Frances

She's mad. She's crazy. She's nuts. She's unhinged.

It had all been a joke before. What Frances really meant was that Masha was odd, alternative, intense, excessively tall and exotic, and different in every way from Frances. She hadn't truly questioned Masha's state of mind. Part of her had wondered if Masha was a genius. Didn't all geniuses seem mad to mere mortals?

Even the drugs hadn't truly concerned her. The fact was that if Masha had asked, “Would you like to try this smoothie laced with LSD?” Frances might have said, “Sure, why not?” She would have been impressed by all the talk about “research,” comforted by Yao's background as a paramedic, and intrigued by the possibility of a transcendent experience, and she would have been especially susceptible if someone else had said yes first. (As a teenager, her mother had once said to her, “If all your friends jumped off a cliff, would you jump too?” Frances had answered, without guile, “Of course.”)

But now, sitting here in the dark, watching Masha's image on the
screen, it was clear: Masha was not quite right. Her green eyes shone with an evangelical fervor that would not respond to logic or sense.

“Congratulations to all of you!” she said. “I am so pleased with your progress. You have all come so
far
from day one!” She clasped her hands together like an actress accepting an Oscar. “Your journeys are nearly complete.”

The screen lit up the room in ghostly patches of light so that Frances could see everyone's faces as they all stared up at Masha.

“You need to let us out of here!” shouted Jessica.

“Can she hear us?” asked Carmel uncertainly.

“No need to shout, Jessica. Hello there, Carmel. I can see you, I can hear you,” said Masha. “The magic of technology. Isn't it amazing!”

Her eyes looked off-center at the camera. It made it easier not to succumb to her madness.

“I was so happy when you solved the escape puzzle and found the
matryoshka
,” said Masha.

“But we didn't solve it!” said Frances. She was personally offended by this. “We're still
here
. There was no damned code in the doll.”

“Exactly,” said Masha. “
Exactly
.”

“What?” said Frances.

“You worked as a team, though not quite to the extent I'd hoped. I assumed you would build a human pyramid to reach the doll—all of you!—rather than playing football.” Her lip lifted in a sneer on the word “football.” Frances felt defensive of Tony.

“When I was at school in Serov, many years ago, we made a human pyramid that was quite remarkable, I have never forgotten it.” Her eyes lost their focus, and then she snapped back. “Anyway, that does not matter, you got there in the end, you found the doll and here we are.”

“The doll told us nothing,” said Jessica. “It was empty.”

“That's right, Jessica,” said Masha patiently, as if to a small child who does not understand the way the world works.

“She's not making any sense,” muttered Ben.

“What I'd find truly transformative right now is a long hot shower,”
said Lars. He smiled up at Masha with the full force of his gorgeous face. It was like he was holding a glowing lightsaber up to the screen. Frances would bet that smile had opened many doors before.

But not this one. Masha just smiled back. It was an epic battle of beauty and charisma.

Lars held on for as long as he could before he surrendered. His smile vanished. “For God's sake, I just want to get out of here, Masha.”

“Ah, Lars,” said Masha. “You need to remember what Buddha said: ‘Nothing is forever except change.'”

“This already feels like forever, Masha.”

Masha chuckled. “I know you like your solitude, Lars. It is hard to find yourself having to interact with strangers all day long, yes?”

“Everyone is very nice,” said Lars. “That's not really the point.”

“We just want to go back to our rooms,” said Heather. She sounded quite meek and reasonable. “The psychedelic therapy was wonderful, thank you, but—”

“It was wonderful, was it? You have changed your tune then, Heather!” A fine thread of aggression ran through Masha's words. “I hope you speak from the heart. I heard talk of reporting me to the police! I must confess that was hurtful to me.”

“I was upset,” said Heather. “As you know, today is the anniversary of my son's death. I wasn't thinking straight. Now I understand.” She looked up at the screen with what appeared to be complete acquiescence. It was inspiring to see. “We
all
understand,” continued Heather. “We're so grateful for what you've done for us. We would never have had this opportunity in our normal lives. But now we'd just like to go back to our rooms and enjoy the rest of the retreat.”

Frances tried to put herself in Masha's position. It came to her that Masha considered herself an artist and, like any artist, she was starved for praise. She simply wanted recognition, respect, five-star reviews, gratitude.

“I think I speak for all of us when I say this has been an
incredible
experience,” she began.

But she was interrupted by Tony.

“Is that Yao behind you?” He was on his feet, his eyes on the screen. “Is he all right?”

“Yao is here, yes,” said Masha.

She moved to one side of her computer screen and gestured graciously, like a model on a game show indicating the prize.

The prize was Yao.

He was slumped forward in Masha's chair, asleep or unconscious on Masha's desk, one cheek squashed flat, while his arms formed a semicircle around his head.

“Is he breathing? What's wrong with him?” Heather also stood and moved to a position beneath the television screen. She dropped the fake acquiescent tone. “What has he taken? What have you given him?”

“Is he alive?” asked Frances in panic.

“He is just napping,” said Masha. “He is so tired. He has been up all night, working hard for you!”

She caressed Yao's hair, and pointed at something they couldn't see on his scalp.

“That is Yao's birthmark. I saw it during my near-death experience.” She smiled back at the camera and Frances shivered. “That is when I came face-to-face with my own mortality in the most remarkable and wonderful way.” Her eyes shone. “This evening, you too will face your mortality. Sadly, I can't give you the privilege of looking death
directly
in the eyes, but I can give you a glance, a glimpse! An unforgettable glimpse that will …” She searched for the right word and found it with obvious satisfaction. “That will
amalgamate
all of your experiences so far: the silence, the psychedelic therapy, the escape puzzle.”

“He doesn't look like he's napping,” said Heather. “Have you given him something?”

“Ah, Heather,” said Masha. “You are practically a doctor, aren't you? But I can assure you, Yao is simply napping!”

“Where is Delilah?” asked Ben.

“Delilah is no longer with us,” said Masha.

“What do you mean, ‘no longer with us'?” said Ben. “What does that mean?”

“She has left us,” said Masha airily.

“Of her own
accord
?” asked Frances.

She thought about the other Tranquillum House staff: the lovely smiley chef who brought out the food;
Jan
, with her miraculous healing hands. Where were they, while the guests were locked up and Yao lay unconscious on Masha's desk?

“I need you all to listen carefully,” said Masha, ignoring Frances's question about Delilah. She moved to the front of the camera again so that Yao's body was concealed. “We are now going to play a fun
icebreaker
!”

“I feel like the ice is well and truly broken, Masha,” said Lars.

“Buddha said that we must ‘radiate boundless love toward the entire world,' and that's what this exercise is all about. It's about love. It's about passion. It's about getting to know each other,” said Masha. “I call it: ‘Death Sentence!'”

She looked at them expectantly, as if waiting for an enthusiastic eruption of questions and comments.

Nobody moved.

“You like the name?” said Masha, lowering her head and lifting her eyes in a way that could almost be considered flirtatious.

“I do not like the name,” said Napoleon.

“Ah, Napoleon, I like
you
. You are an honest man. Now, let me explain how this activity works,” said Masha. “Imagine this: You have all of you been sentenced to death! You are on death row! Maybe that would have been a better name? Death Row.” She frowned. “I think that is better. We will call it
Death Row
.”

Carmel began to weep softly. Frances put her hand on her arm.

“So how does this game Death Row work? Let me explain. If you are sentenced to death, what happens? You need someone to argue on your behalf, don't you? To argue for clemency, for a stay of execution. Obviously that person is your …” Masha raised encouraging eyebrows.

“Lawyer,” finished Jessica.

“Yes!” cried Masha. “Your lawyer who defends you! The person who says to the judge, ‘No, this person does not deserve to die! This is a good person, Your Honor! An upstanding member of the community with so much to offer!' You see what I'm saying? So, you are all lawyers and you each have a client. You understand?”

Nobody spoke.

“I have assigned your clients. Let me read out the names to you.”

She held up a piece of notepaper and read out: “Frances defends Lars. Lars defends Ben.” She looked up at them. “You're listening? I will only say this once.”

“We're listening,” said Napoleon.

“Heather defends Frances, Tony defends Carmel, Carmel defends Zoe, Zoe defends Jessica, Jessica defends Heather, Ben defends Napoleon, and …” she took an exaggerated breath, “… Napoleon defends Tony! Whew! That's all of you!” She looked up from the paper. “Do you all know who you are defending?”

Nobody answered. They all looked dumbly back at the screen.

“Tony, who are you defending?” asked Masha.

“Carmel,” said Tony evenly.

“And Zoe, what about you?”

“I'm defending Jessica,” said Zoe. “I don't really understand what crime she's committed.”

“The crime is not relevant. We've all committed crimes, Zoe,” said Masha. “I think you know that. No one is innocent.”

“You're a psychotic—”

“So presumably you are the judge, Masha?” Napoleon spoke loudly over the top of his wife.

“That's right! I will be the judge!” said Masha. “You will each have just five minutes to defend your client. It's not long—but it's long enough. Don't waste time with waffle! Make sure that every word packs a punch.” She curled her hand into a fist.

“You will have the night to prepare. Presentations will be at dawn. You must ask yourself, Why does my client deserve to live?”

“Because
everyone
deserves to live,” said Tony.

“But why your client in particular? Let's say there is only one parachute left! Only one place left in the lifeboat! Why should your client take that parachute over someone else?” said Masha.

“Then it's women and children first,” said Tony.

“But what if you are all the same gender? All the same age? Who lives? Who dies?” said Masha.

“Is the game called ‘Last Parachute' now?” said Lars, his face hard with bitter mockery. “So we're all going to sit around and discuss ethical dilemmas like first-year philosophy students while Yao lies there comatose on your desk? Wonderful, this is all just so transformative.”

“Careful,” said Tony under his breath.

“This is an important
exercise
!” shouted Masha. The tendons on her neck were rigid with rage.

Frances felt sick. She was going to lose this game. She always performed poorly in these kinds of “activities” and now her “client,” Lars, had already got off on the wrong foot with the judge.

Ben spoke up in a placatory manner. “So, could you just explain, please, Masha, what happens if—according to you, our judge—we
don't
successfully defend our clients?”

Masha breathed in deeply through her nostrils. “Well, obviously we don't
generally
execute our guests! That's not good for business!” She laughed gaily.

“So this is all just … hypothetical?” said Ben.

“That's enough questions!” screamed Masha so loudly that Carmel took a step back and landed quite hard on Frances's toe.

“This is totally ludic—” began Heather. Napoleon grabbed her arm.

“We're all going to take part in the exercise, Masha,” he said loudly. “It sounds very … stimulating.”

Masha nodded graciously. “Good. You're going to find it transformative, Napoleon. You really are. Now, I must give you light for this enlightening exercise!” She reached out her hand and the lights came back on, causing everyone to blink and stare dazedly at each other.

“Once we've defended our ‘clients,' will you let us out?” asked Carmel, rubbing her eyes, her voice hoarse.

“You're asking the wrong questions, Carmel,” said Masha. “Only
you
can set yourself free. Remember, I talked to you just a few days ago about impermanence. Nothing lasts forever. Do not cling to happiness
or
suffering.”

“I just really want to go home right now,” said Carmel.

Masha clucked sympathetically. “Spiritual awakenings are rarely easy, Carmel.”

Frances raised a hand. “I need a pen. I can't prepare a presentation if I can't write it down!” She patted the empty pockets of her sweatpants. “I have nothing to write with!”