The Sphere (42 page)

“Not Sphereans?” I ask.

Sherlock tilts his head by way of an answer. I wouldn’t be able to say whether the remains belonged to Sphereans or not, either.

“They might be supporting roles, or extras,” says Morgan. “Minor citizens of the Sphere, with very small roles.” Morgan glances at me to see if I’m following her explanation. “Sometimes they only have a role for a few minutes. Most of them don’t even have names. It will be difficult to figure out if one of them is missing because they only interact with each other. They would never tell us if one of their own had disappeared. They think they’re so insignificant that they would never come to someone like Holmes.”

“That’s right. They never bother us with their problems,” adds Beatrice.

“I think there’s a registry of supporting and extra roles,” Morgan continues. “I can go see if some ‘girl’ or ‘neighbor’ or ‘grandfather’ is missing. It’ll be a long search.”

“Do it,” I say. “Fast.”

“If I might point something out,” says Sherlock, “I don’t think they are supporting roles, or extras. These remains are flat. I’ve never seen anything like it.” He looks at them through his magnifying glass.

“Something might have crushed them,” I say.

The other three look at me with alarm. It’s not the first time they’ve looked at me that way. Despite all the time I’ve spent in the Sphere, I still haven’t gotten used to the glassy looks that meet some of the things I say. The fact that a single one of my ideas is enough to make the eyes of my almost-human friends lose all their life, to make them look at me with total bewilderment, reminds me (as if I could have somehow forgotten) that I don’t belong to this world.

“They’ve been crushed, yes,” I say firmly. “I know it’s horrible, but it could happen. I don’t know, a big rock, even some kind of instrument of torture...”

“You don’t have to explain to us how they might have been crushed,” says Morgan. “I think everyone here is capable of imagining different ways of being crushed. The thing is, it’s impossible for them to remain flattened like this. Their nature must be flat.”

“The texture is strange,” Sherlock remarks. “Look...”

Morgan and I come over to touch the remains.

“It’s true,” says the fairy. “The texture is like...”

“Cardboard,” I finish.

“Well,” Morgan says, “just to rule out the possibility of supporting roles, why don’t I look in the records?”

“Yes, go look,” I answer. “Have Beatrice help you, you don’t want to take too long.”

“And I?” asks Sherlock.

“You can help me take out the rest of the remains we find. I’d like to look at them more carefully.”

“Of course.”

Sherlock responds so meekly that I know he’s lost his role again. It’s really awkward, and more than that, it’s a shame. I liked the Sphere the way it was. For the first time I wish with all my heart—and for reasons other than my own self-interest—that this place would go back to the way it was before.

Taking out all the remains turns out to be a laborious task. We find more pieces not only in the tomb where I was trapped and the ones nearby, but in many others. We find misshapen heads and arms and legs, all from some kind of counterfeit creatures, poor imitations of reality, though we still don’t know their precise nature.

We have to make two trips to get everything we found back to Sherlock’s house, and now, in his living room, we have a pile of cardboard remains so high that it almost blocks the way across the room. During the course of searching for the remains and carrying them over, Sherlock lost his role a few more times, but luckily he’s gotten it back again each time.

“I’m surprised by your investigative skill,” he says, looking closely at me. I watch him. I don’t know whether he’s in his role or not. “I truly admire your intellect. It’s the most attractive I’ve encountered ever since I was published. I might even say—if you don’t mind—that since you appeared my work has been much more pleasant... The best thing about my work is that you’re here.”

All right, he is out of his role. I guess I should feel flattered by his words, but there really isn’t anything appealing about them when it’s obvious they aren’t based in reality. I’d take my imperfect reality over this perfect fantasy a thousand times over... Wait, what am I thinking?

“I know why you’re ignoring me,” Sherlock goes on, as he sorts the remains into piles: legs, arms, heads.

“I’m not ignoring you,” I say patiently. I’ve had to sit down again, I’m feeling so weak.

“Beatrice told me everything.”

“What did she tell you?”

“About my rival.”

I smile a little, I can’t help it. Sherlock looks so serious—even somber—his furrowed brow tells me that the fact of Axel’s existence really is worrying him.

“I said I admired your intellect earlier, except for one thing...” I nod from the sofa. “If you were really so intelligent you would realize that I’m a million times more suitable for you than that... that
other man
.”

“Axel. His name’s Axel.”

“He’s your complete opposite.”

Beatrice, of all people! She’s turned out to be more of a gossip than she seemed.

“Tell me,” Sherlock stops working and comes over to the sofa, standing in front of me with arms akimbo. “Why do you prefer him?”

“I’d need days to tell you.”

“I demand an immediate explanation!”

I look hard at Sherlock. He really is angry.

“Axel knows how to see what’s inside of me, the whole thing, all the little things that make me myself... I don’t think you’ll ever understand it.”

“Try me.”

“Come here,” I say, though I’m not really sure why.

Sherlock sits down next to me. Our legs press against each other like they did at the circus, but this time we’re alone. I look at that face that is exactly to my taste: caramel-colored eyes, dark hair. It’s like I somehow had complete freedom to imagine him exactly as I’d like him to be, physically. I lean in slowly and kiss him. It’s an unhurried kiss, and I mean for it to be a kiss of opportunity, both for Sherlock and for me. If I go back to my world, I’ll bring this with me, and if I don’t... Well, if I don’t go back, it wouldn’t be so bad to have a companion here. I close my eyes and let myself be carried away. I surrender myself. Then I sit back and look at him again. We stay quiet for a while, floating over a desert.

I didn’t feel a thing, and I don’t think he did either. It’s like I just kissed someone who wasn’t made of flesh and bone.

“That doesn’t fit my role,” says Sherlock, getting to his feet.

“I know,” I say, ruefully. “Mine, either.”

––––––––

M
organ and Beatrice come into the house looking crestfallen. It’s obvious they’ve found nothing.

“Nothing!” exclaims Beatrice sadly. “We went over the records of the supporting and extra roles line by line. We checked them against the inhabitants of the Second-Class District and no one was missing.”

“It’s been exhausting,” says Morgan, flopping down beside me on the sofa. “As expected, we weren’t exactly well-received in the Second-Class District. No one dared say anything to us, but they all gave us dirty looks when they saw us sitting there on a bench watching the passersby, with giant stacks of papers on our laps.”

“And, well, searching the houses was...” adds Beatrice.

“Just dreadful!” finishes Morgan. “Every time we knocked on a door it was the same story: the bell rings, we hear footsteps, then the sound of the cover sliding off the peephole, and then they run to the back of the house. We had to keep at it, yelling some excuse at them from outside, something to make it sound more appealing, or at least less threatening. Some of them opened the door...”

“Only to slam it in our faces as soon as they saw us,” Beatrice goes on.

“So that’s that, but we’re proud of how thoroughly we did our count, right, Beatrice?”

“That’s right.”

No one is missing; the investigation is stuck at almost the exact same point. We don’t have even the slightest idea to whom or to what the remains might belong.

“Dammit!” Sherlock exclaims from the back of the room.

I hadn’t paid much attention to him after our failed kiss. To be honest, I had kind of forgotten he was there. I can’t stop thinking about finding a way to restore balance to the Sphere.

“What’s the matter?” I ask.

“I’ve spent hours cutting up the remains, distilling them, burning them.”

“But why?” asks Beatrice, horrified.

“To study them, pretty Beatrice, to study them,” Sherlock replies angrily.

“How I miss the old Holmes!” whispers Morgan.

“We’ll just see, you simpleton,” Beatrice says haughtily. “And you hope to study them like that? Study what? What’s the point of ripping up all the pieces if they just go back to the way they were before after a little while? Anyone sensible would realize that there was no point doing that. But not Holmes, no. Mister Sherlock Holmes does it over and over again. Hard-headed, stubborn as a mule.”

“And Beatrice,” I murmur to Morgan, “I miss the Beatrice from before.”

Morgan smiles bitterly. She knows it’s only a matter of time before she starts losing her role, too.

“Just a second!” I say, suddenly realizing something important, “The remains go back to the way they were?”

“Of course,” says Beatrice.

“That doesn’t seem weird to you?” I ask Morgan. Her face is drawn, full of exhaustion and disappointment. She just shrugs. “It’s normal because we’re in the Sphere, I know,” I say. “But still, we should be wondering why they didn’t go back to their whole state after they were dismembered. If they were normal Sphereans they shouldn’t have been destroyed.”

Morgan jumps up from the couch. “It’s true!”

“Of course,” I continue, “we should have thought of that the moment we saw that someone or something had killed them.”

“It’s clear that they don’t belong to the Sphere,” says Morgan, “but then, where did they come from?”

“I think they could have come from my world, and we can only prove that with Charon’s help.”

Beatrice sags back the moment she hears the boatman’s name, blushing and lowering her gaze. Neither Morgan nor I say a word. We know how badly Sherlock berated her when he found out about all that.

“I think you should go back to looking for Heathcliff while we visit the boatman,” I suggest.

Beatrice accepts my proposal, her head hanging.

“What’s your plan?” Morgan asks quietly.

“To take some remains to Charon.”

“Shall we bring Holmes?”

I look at Sherlock. He’s still keeping himself busy dissecting and burning little pieces of the remains we found.

“Better not to,” I conclude.

Morgan and I fill up a sack with remains and head off for the river. We find Charon waiting on the same bank where I saw him the first time, leaning against his oar with his fingers interlaced as if he were meditating. When we approach he stretches his neck out slowly, like an ancient tortoise.

“It’s me again, Charon—Eurydice,” I say with a smile. The boatman seems to detect the smile in my voice, and his mouth curves up gently, too. “I’ve brought Morgan, a friend.”

“Morgan, yes,” Charon says slowly. “I remember her.” Morgan comes over to touch his hands. “I met you when you were just published,” the boatman jokes, and his body trembles with his gravelly laughter. “How can I help you?”

“We’ve brought something that we’d like to put in your boat for a moment.”

“I cannot take anything, and especially anyone, upriver, Eurydice. You know that.”

“I know. I just want to put what we’ve brought in your boat for a moment. Just a second, that’s all. Although... it’s probably best if you wait on the shore while we do the experiment.”

Charon’s entire face contracts into a single point.

“We’d never steal your boat! Please, no!” Morgan exclaims with great respect.

“So why do you want me to get out, then?”

“There’s a chance that what we put in might have the same effect that I did when I got in the boat, and I don’t want you to get soaked again.”

“Let me touch your hands,” says Charon.

I hold my hands out. The boatman takes them in his, and his fingers hold a silent conversation with mine.

“All right, I can trust you. But hurry—you know I’m not comfortable on land.”

We help the old man out of the boat and put the remains inside.

“And?” Charon asks.

“Nothing happened,” I answer sadly.

“What did you hope would happen?”

“That the boat would sink like it did when I was in it.”

“I see. And what was that going to prove?”

“That what we found—what we brought—comes from my world.”

“Would that have helped? Asks Charon.

I’m quiet for a while. “I guess not that much. Maybe all it would have done was give us the consolation of knowing what we found, right, Morgan?”

“Yes. Maybe at this point we would have been happy just knowing that.”

“May I return to my boat?”

Before we can reply Charon has already felt his way over and climbed back into the boat.

“I love the solitude of my boat.”

“Wait a second!” Morgan says. “Charon, you’re not alone in the boat.”

The old man reaches out his hands and finds the remains.

“What’s this?” he asks in horror.

“That’s what we wanted to find out,” I answer.

“It’s not from your world,” the boatman says, “but it’s not from this one, either. It weighs nothing at all!”

“Where do you think it might have come from?” asks Morgan. “Do you have any idea what it could be?”

The boatman traces the outline of the cardboard shapes. Several times he rubs his hand across them and brings his ear close to listen to the sandy sound.

“I’m sorry. I can’t help you. I could tell you a story, but it’s better not to speak of that which I do not know.”

We gather up the remains, say goodbye to Charon, and depart, disappointed. For some reason that singular man’s words keep coming back to my mind: “I could tell you a story.”

––––––––

“I
could tell you a story.”

Why can’t I get those words out of my head? It’s just something people say, but it keeps coming back to me.