The Angel & the Brown-eyed Boy Read online

  He was Mel Abrams, a nonpracticing Jew, scholar, and intellectual. Three strikes against him. He’d had half a dozen phony identities since he’d run away. Staying alive and holding onto his evidence became his missions.

  When the network found him, he was down to a hundred pounds. They led him to Jeremy. Jeremy got him a fake ID that worked, and a job teaching altered history in an art school for rich kids. At night, he disseminated the truth from Jeremy’s basement computer lab.

  He was a revolutionary because of the disk he had found in a secret pocket in an old textbook. Mel had watched it in the library viewer before they rushed him—

  Two shining glass towers stood tall in the sky. The camera showed New York City behind them, a different New York than he knew, but obviously the same place. An airplane appeared and flew into one tower. White flames and smoke poured from the hole it made. Another plane plowed into the other tower. The towers exploded and burned. The disk showed them collapsing, and the carnage on the street.

  The images wouldn’t leave him.

  On September 11, 2001, airplanes flew into the twin towers and destroyed them in an act of terrorism. Thousands of people died and the nation’s soul was scarred. The economy collapsed the same year, and faulty leadership allowed the nation to decline. That day in 2001 was the beginning of the end for the United States. They’d had a few good leaders since then, but they couldn’t stem the tide. The world economy dissolved and universal despair set the stage for Tsar Yuri’s revolution.

  That was what had really happened. It had been deleted from history and mass memory. But he had found the truth on that disk.

  Mel heard kids shuffling around outside his classroom door and pulled himself into a more dangerous time: the present. The government had shown two computer analysts on the ‘net last night.

  Even though being on the ‘net was a crime, no one could resist it. Everyone had a ‘net hookup; TVs were seldom used to watch programs. The techs had reestablished the ‘net as the source for real news. For that bit of public service, techs were rewarded with death when they were captured.

  The two displayed the night before confessed that they had created an illegal computer and posted the images of the disappearing airplane as a prank. They apologized to the people of the United States and the world. They looked drugged.

  The announcer said he felt so sorry when he saw young people taking the bad road, the road of technology. “And now, here is a message from Russia, where the delayed plane is undergoing repairs and will be taking off very soon.”

  The screen showed an announcer with a Russian accent on a stairway over a lobby full of people, most of whom were waving at the camera. “As you can see, the passengers and crew are fine. Irkutskov Airlines is giving them rooms in the finest hotel in Moscow.” A bunch of people from the crowd had marched forward and said, “Hi, Mom!” into the microphone in a half-dozen languages.

  Mel moved restlessly in his chair. If they found out who he really was, he’d be gone in a minute. He looked up. The eye in the ceiling was pointed straight at him, its lens clear and focused.

  9

  Shaq abandoned the cat after rounding the corner. She dashed up some steps and stood there, hissing and batting her claws at him. He wasn’t the slightest bit afraid of her, knowing he could kill her with one bite. He didn’t want to kill her. Her wanting to fight made him feel good, and he already felt better than he ever had.

  Turning away, he scampered along the sidewalk. He ran so hard that his hind legs thrust way under his body; he seemed to jackknife at each leap. His tongue lolled and his eyes roved from side to side. He zigzagged along, dodging people.

  The thing on his neck that Lena pulled to make him do what she wanted flapped behind him. Someone tried to grab it. He ran faster. When it caught on something, he knew what to do. He ran until it was tight, and then he pulled back, ducking his head just so. It dropped on the ground. He was free! Really free! He jumped in the air and scooted faster.

  “Hey! Lookit that dog! He’s crazy!”

  He didn’t know what the humans were saying, but he knew how he felt. Free. Free. Freer than he’d ever felt. The girl. He slept in her arms the night before, listening to her enormous roaring breath. He knew she was a lioness. She was the queen of all dogs and the most powerful human in the world. He had found her.

  While Henry and Lena were his people and he loved them, the girl was his goddess.

  When he slept with her, she entered his dreams and showed him fields that he could run in, vast golden fields. The sky was wider than anything he had ever seen—which, now, was the open street corner in front of him. He was traveling uptown, not paying attention to where he was going, but moving steadily. Following some intelligence that guided his steps.

  When she held him in the night, they had traveled across great expanses. He felt his body, strong and agile. He was a hunter. A lion of a dog, meant to live among elevated beings—monks in a far-off land. He heard a word in his mind: Tibet. He didn’t know what it meant, but he knew that he was made to serve and protect the highest.

  This morning, he couldn’t stand his old life, waiting to come out to shit or pee all day. Getting a short walk over the same territory every evening. Being so lonely he wanted to growl and tear into the furniture. When he saw the cat, he leapt after her.

  But she wasn’t what he wanted. He was supposed to go in the direction he was going. He was supposed to follow her. He found himself standing at a noisy street corner in uptown Manhattan. Lena had taught him well. He knew that when you got to where the sidewalk turned and you could see the stinking, noisy things rushing by in front of you, you stopped. You waited until they stopped. You watched the humans around you, and, when they crossed, you crossed with them.

  He got to the other side and jumped onto the sidewalk. A human noticed him and said, “Hey! That’s a Lhasa Apso. It’s worth a lot of money. Grab it!” Another human grabbed for him, but Shaq dodged and escaped easily.

  He leapt in the air for the joy of evading capture. Then he noticed something wonderful. An aroma that he knew somehow, but had never before smelled. He followed the trail, coming to something sticking out of the ground. Many other dogs had marked their presence on this thing. He did, too, with gusto. He was a lion of a dog. He kicked his feet backward aggressively before starting again.

  He trotted, following the aroma. A pack of dogs waited in front of some steps. Something called to him from those steps, but the girl’s calls were more important. He stood, head up. In a second, he knew exactly where she was.

  And then he realized: she needed him! She was in danger.

  Shaq tore off. He had to reach her in time. He ran, legs scissoring, lungs burning, tongue lolling. He stopped only at corners. She needed him! He had to save her.

  He ran as far as he could, then realized he couldn’t reach her in time. There was only one way to save her.

  Shaq got to the place where the sidewalk turned and the stinking things ran straight ahead. He leapt in front of a monster. Its force picked him up and threw him under its body. It tossed him, slamming him against the pavement and then against its metal undergirding. He didn’t hear the screams or the screeches of other vehicles stopping.

  Nor did he look back at his lifeless form. Shaq had a job to do, a job more important than any in his old life. He knew what was about to happen and he was enraged.

  10

  Madeleine Mercier stood by the grand piano at the far end of the dance floor. They used the warm-up studio behind the school’s theatre for practice. A driveway was cut into the ground outside the basement room, permitting guest stars and luminaries to be whisked away after performances, and workers to bring materials in at other times.

  For light and air, the basement space depended upon a bank of windows overlooking the driveway. The lighting was somber, but they had chosen to use this room rather than the glass-walled dance pavilion on the upper floor. Its roof was so undependable that, in the winter, snow drifte
d in. In the summer, rain drenched the dancers and made the floor treacherous.

  She surveyed her domain. The barre was attached to the outside wall under the windows. The room’s high ceiling and pristine wood floor were more than adequate. She clapped her hands three times and began a ritual that had been the core of her life as long as she could remember.

  The doors to the hallway opened and the girls trooped in. This was an advanced class en pointe. She nodded to the girls, who carefully arranged their bags and outer clothing in the lockers near the door. For class, they wore identical black leotards and pink tights, along with pink pointe shoes with matching satin laces. Some had bandages under their tights, or wrapped ankles.

  The only sound in the studio was the whisper of satin slippers on the floor as they walked. They took their places, arranged, as always, according to their status in class—best to worst.

  “Bridgette, you will move backward on the barre. The new girl is first.” Bridgette and the others stepped back along the long pole. If Bridgette resented losing her position to an upstart, she didn’t show it.

  Madeleine smiled. Her previous favorite wouldn’t show offense, but she would have to be on guard, watching for toes and knees and elbows that might accidentally trip Olga. Madeleine stood even straighter, speaking in clipped tones.

  “We have a new student. She should be here momentarily.”

  They waited. Five minutes passed.

  Madeleine was becoming annoyed. No one was ever late to her classes.

  Olga wandered in, a full eight minutes late.

  “There you are! I was about to send someone to look for you. Go over there, to the head of the class.” Olga wandered around the rear of the room. Hadn’t the little fool been in a ballet class before? Madeleine’s irritation sharpened when she saw that the girl was wearing street clothes. Henry would have to buy her proper attire after school.

  “Put that coat in a locker,” she said, waving at them. The girl moved toward the lockers, but kept the coat. Madeleine, exasperated, removed it and tossed it over a bench. “Now get in the front of the barre and prepare to dance!”

  Finally, they could begin. Madeleine turned on the sound system. The simple notes formed the backbone of the lesson. They rippled around her, raising her spirits and taking her back to a time when she was a young dancer. She had promise once, a long-legged girl found by the director of the national ballet in a state orphanage.

  “We will do our demi-pliés. First position,” she said, but she didn’t have to. Her students knew the order of the class. The dancers took the first of five positions, positions that would mold their bones and joints so that what was unnatural became natural. Down the line, they assumed the same stance, one hand lightly on the barre, and the other arm gracefully extended toward the center of the room at shoulder height. Spines stretched, heads erect, heels together, and toes pointed outward so that they formed a straight, 180-degree line. Toe to heel to heel to toe, one straight line. It was a position that no one who hadn’t experienced the rigors of the ballet studio for years could assume or hold.

  Madeleine looked down the line. Perfect, perfect.

  Except Olga. She stood at the front of the class, looking around, in no position at all.

  “Olga! Stand up straight! Assume first position!” Olga blinked at her. “Like the others. Look! Haven’t you ever been in a class?”

  She grabbed Olga’s shoulder and turned her around to look at the others. A nasty smile flicked over Bridgette’s face. Madeleine said, “That’s how you’re supposed to look. Bridgette, get in front of her so she can watch you.”

  Bridgette leapt in front of Olga. Madeleine moved the girl behind her, shaking her a little. “Watch what she does. See. Do it like that.”

  Olga looked carefully at Bridgette and picked up first position so gracefully that those behind her drew in a breath. If she could make such a simple movement memorable, she was good.

  The work on the barre warmed the dancers up, moving slowly from one muscle group to the next, starting with the feet and going on to the larger muscles.

  Madame Mercier stood before the class, giving whatever variation of the exercises she wanted, moving down the barre to correct the lines of arms or heads, fixing the tuck of a hip or position of a leg. “Stand up. Pay attention. Listen to the music.” Shaking her head, she looked at the riding crop that hung next to the piano. The dancers stood taller.

  “Rond de jambe!” Madeleine snapped at Olga. “Don’t you know what that is? A circle of the leg. It’s elementary. Show her, Bridgette. Take first position. Extend the inside foot forward on the floor, straight ahead, leg turned out. Trace a half circle around toward the center of the room. Then drop the heel and settle back to first position. Keep your turnout. It’s easy. Now you do it.”

  Olga looked around blankly, and then did the most perfect rond de jambe ever seen.

  “Yes! I knew you could do it. Apply yourself and you’ll do fine.”

  Madeleine was so involved with the girl that she didn’t notice the shifting moods of her other students. While they might have entered the classroom curious and perhaps a bit envious of the new girl, those feelings didn’t last. Even though they hadn’t gotten past the barre work, it was obvious that Olga had no classical ballet training at all. Every time No Mercy yelled at her, or used that vicious tone to tell Bridgette to show her something, the others cringed.

  When No Mercy began looking again at the wall where her riding crop hung, little Melanie, the poorest dancer in the class, choked back tears. “No, Madame, don’t hit her. Please don’t...,” she whispered.

  The class moved to the center work. Leaving the barre, they performed carefully chosen routines, starting with easy steps and moving to very large jumps. The music accelerated. They were getting close to a semblance of dancing.

  Olga seemed to have awakened. She kept doing little jumps and jigs and had the other girls smiling.

  “Stop that! Get over here!” Madeleine grabbed Olga’s shoulder. “Don’t you have any discipline? That isn’t how you behave in class.” She shoved her behind Bridgette. “What are you so jumpy about, Bridgette? You’ve got your place back. At least you can follow orders.

  “Now, do this”—she mapped out a simple series of steps—“pas de chat, pas de chat, pas de chat, glissade, a petit jeté—

  “STOP THAT!”

  Olga had taken the simple steps she’d given them, repeated them once, and then burst across the room, spinning and leaping and... dancing! She wasn’t supposed to dance. She was supposed to do her center work, using the exercises that Madame chose.

  “Stop that, and get in line, Olga! The rest of you, begin! In order, one after the other. Pas de chat, pas de chat, pas...” They did the sequence in line, diagonally across the room. Each added some little step or jump of her own. Madeleine continued the lesson, and Olga led a rebellion, leaping and spinning and moving across the room like she’d been born en pointe. All the time, she had such a sweet look on her face that only an expert could see her true duplicity. Madeleine’s jaw worked furiously.

  First Bridgette joined Olga in the dance fest, then the rest jumped in. And, finally, the little one, Melanie, took off across the room with a series of grand jetés no one would have believed her capable of executing.

  “Stop! Stop! All of you! Leave this room,” Madeleine screamed. She stepped in front of Olga, preventing her leaving. “All but you, get out. Close the doors!”

  When they were alone, she pulled Olga around to face her. “What do you think you’re doing? This is my class. Do you think you can walk in here and create chaos? Insanity?” Her eyes bulged and spittle flew from her mouth.

  “You’re here because of me! You would have remained in Russia performing like a puppet. I set everything up for you. You’ll be famous! The world will open for you. I’m giving Richard to you—he’s waiting for you now. The Golden Boy—for you. You and I could be famous. But you are not a good dancer until you know the order of th
e class. Until you can execute steps to my cue, on command. You must learn to obey, or we will be lost.” With silent fury, she swung the crop across the girl’s buttocks, swinging once, and again and again.

  The girl looked at her with surprise.

  “That didn’t hurt you? How about this?” Madeleine swung with all her strength.

  The girl looked at her, astonished, and then fell to the floor. All her muscles let go and she was down, on the floor, limbs pointing in every direction. Madeleine swung the crop a few more times.

  Sometimes they threw themselves down when she disciplined them, but not so soon. Not like that, such a total collapse. Madeleine dropped to her knees and spoke to her. “Come now, Olga. Don’t be so sensitive. Can’t we have a little falling-out?”

  The girl lay there, unmoving. Her skin, normally so pale that it appeared to be lavender in its shadows, was turning a waxy white. It was the color of a white candle, with light leaking through the edges.

  She put her hand under the girl’s nostrils. Nothing. Felt her pulse. None. She stood up, clasping her hands to her chest. She took a wild look around the room, noting the door at the other end. But there was no exit from that corridor.

  Outside in the hallway, the girls clustered, listening to the sound of the crop striking flesh.

  Melanie was the first to begin crying. Bridgette was next, and then all of them stood in the hallway, clutching each other and sobbing.

  A security man heard the noise and came over. “What’s the matter?”

  “She’s beating the new girl! The door is locked.” Bridgette spoke for them.

  “Code Red,” he said into his walkie-talkie. “I need backup, Code Red. Get the director here, now.”

  It was quiet behind the door when the school director arrived. “She didn’t understand what Madame was saying. The new girl doesn’t speak English very well. She acts like she’s not too...,” Bridgette dropped her head and whispered, “bright. Madame’s got her in there, and she was beating her with her riding crop. She does it to all of us, whenever she wants. She doesn’t stop.”