He understood at last what Mila did for her webspyders other than dress them more fashionably than they could manage for themselves. The word “muse” was attached sooner or later to almost all beautiful women seen with gifted men, and no self-respecting, Chinese fan-twirling leader of fashion would currently be seen dead without one, but most such women were more amusement than muse. The true muse was a treasure beyond price, and Mila, Solanka discovered, was capable of being genuinely inspiring. Just moments after her potent urgings, Solanka’s ideas, so long congealed and dammed, began to burn and flow. He went out shopping and came home with crayons, paper, clay, wood, knives. Now his days would be full, and most of his nights as well. Now, when he awoke fully dressed, the street smell would not be on his clothes, nor would the odor of strong drink foul his breath. He would awake at his workbench with the tools of his trade in his hand. New figurines would be watching him through mischievous, glittering eyes. A new world was forming in him, and he had Mila to thank for the divine afflatus: the breath of life.
Joy and relief coursed through him in long uncontrollable shudders. Like that other shudder at the end of Mila’s last visit, when the cushion came off his lap. The ending he had waited for like the addict he had become. Inspiration also soothed another, growing trouble in him. He had begun to entertain fears about Mila, to hypothesize a great, dangerous selfishness in her, an overarching ambition that made her see others, himself included, as mere stepping-stones on her own journey to the stars. Did those brilliant boys really need her? Solanka had begun to wonder. (And came close to the next question: Do I2) He had glimpsed a possible new incarnation of his living doll—in which Mila was Circe, and at her feet sat her oinking swine—but now he pushed that dark vision aside; also its even more ferocious companion, the vision of Mila as Fury, as Tisiphone, Alecto, or Megaera come down to earth in a cloak of sumptuous flesh. Mila had justified herself. She had provided the spur that had sent him back to work.
On the cover of a leather-bound notebook he scribbled the words “Professor Kronos’s Amazing No-Strings Puppet Kings.” And then added: “Or, Revolt of the Living Dolls.” And then, “Or, Lives of the Puppet Caesars.” Then he crossed out everything except the two words “Puppet Kings,” opened the notebook, and in a great rush began to write the back-story of the demented genius who would be his antihero.
Akasz Kronos, the great, amoral cyberneticist of the Rijk, he began, created the Puppet Kings in response to the terminal crisis of the Rijk civilization, but, on account of the deep and unimprovable flaw in his character that made him unable to consider the issue of the general good, intended them to guarantee nobody’s survival or fortune but his own.
Jack Rhinehart rang the next afternoon, sounding wired. “Malik, wassup. You still living like a guru in an ice cave? Or a castaway on BigBrother Is Not Watching You? Or does news from the outside world still reach you from time to time.—You heard the one about the Buddhist monk in the bar? He goes up to the Tom Cruise clone with the cocktail shaker and says, ‘Make me one with everything.’—Listen: you know a broad by the name of Lear? Claims to have been your wife. Seems to me nobody deserves as much bad luck as being married to that honey. She’s like one hundred and ten years old, and ornery as a cut snake. Oh, and on the subject of wives? I’m divorced. It turned out to be easy. I just gave her everything.”
Everything really was everything, he amplified: the cottage in the Springs, the fabled wine shack, and several hundreds of thousands of dollars. “And this is all right with you?” Solanka asked, astonished. “Yeah, yeah,” Rhinehart gabbled. “You should have seen Bronnie. Jaw on the floor. Grabbed the offer so fast I thought she’d herniate. So, can you believe it, she’s gone. She’s toast. It’s Neela, man. I don’t know how to say this, but she eased something in me. She made it all okay.” His voice became boyish-conspiratorial. “Have you ever seen anyone actually stop traffic? I mean one hundred percent without question arrest the motion of motor vehicles just by being around? She has that power. She climbs out of a cab and five cars and two fire trucks screech to a halt. Also, walking into lampposts. I never believed it happened outside of Mack Sennett slapstick two-reelers. Now I see guys do it every day. Sometimes, in restaurants,” Rhinehart confided, bubbling with glee, “I’d ask her to walk to the women’s room and back, just so I could watch the men at the other tables get whiplash injuries. Can you imagine, Malik, my regrettably celibate friend, what it was like to be with that? I mean, every night?”
“You always did have an ugly turn of phrase,” Solanka said, wincing. He changed the subject. “About Sara? Talk about rising from the grave. What cemetery did you find her in?” “Oh, the usual,” Rhinehart replied tightly. “Southampton.” His ex-wife, Solanka learned, had at the age of fifty married one of the richest men in America, the cattle-feed tycoon Lester Schofield III, now aged ninety-two, and on her recent, fifty-seventh, birthday had instituted divorce proceedings on the grounds of Schofield’s adultery with Ondine, a Brazilian runway model of twenty-three. “Schofield made his billions by working out that what’s left of a grape after making grape juice would make a great dinner for a cow,” Rhinehart said, and moved into his most exaggerated Uncle Remus manner. “And now yo’ ole lady she done had de same idea. She puttin’ de big squeeze on him, I reckon. Gwine en’ up bein’ dat well-fed heifer hersel’.” All over the Eastern seaboard, it seemed, the young were climbing onto the laps of the old, offering the dying the poisoned chalice of themselves and causing nine kinds of havoc. Marriages and fortunes were foundering daily on these young rocks. “Miz Sara gave an interview,” Rhinehart told Solanka, much too merrily, “in which she announced her intention of chopping up her husband into three equal parts, planting one on each of his major properties, and then spending a third of the year with each, to express her appreciation for his love. You lucky to ‘scape old Sara when you were po’, boy. Dat Bride of Wildenstein? Dat Miz Patricia Duff? Dey doan’ even come close in de Divo’ce Tympics. Dis lady get de gol’ medal, she’ nuff. Perfesser, she done read her Shakespeare. “There were rumors that the whole thing was a cynical sting operation—that, in short, Sara Lear Schofield had put the Brazilian swan up to it—but no proof of any such conspiracy had been found.
What was the matter with Rhinehart? If he was as deeply satisfied as he claimed, both with his own divorce and with 1’afaire Neela, why was he veering at such breakneck speed between sexual crudity—which, in fact, was very much not his usual style—and this clumsy Sara Lear material? “Jack,” Solanka asked his friend, “you really are okay, right? Because if…” “I’m fine,” Jack interrupted in his most stretched, brittle voice. “Hey, Malik? Dis here’s Br’er Jack, girlfrien’. Bawn an’ bred in a briar patch. Chill.”
Neela Mahendra called an hour later. “Do you remember? We met during that football game. The Dutch thrashing Serbia.” “They still call it Yugoslavia in football circles,” Solanka said, “on account of Montenegro. But yes, of course I remember. You’re not that easy to forget.” She didn’t even acknowledge the compliment, receiving such flattery as a minimum: her merest due. “Can we meet? It’s about Jack. I need to talk to someone. It’s important.” She meant immediately, was used to men abandoning, when she beckoned, whatever plans they had made. “I’m across the park from you,” she said. “Can we meet outside the Metropolitan Museum in let’s say half an hour?” Solanka, already worried about his friend’s well-being, more worried as a result of this phone call, and—yes, very well!—unable to resist the summons from gorgeous Neela, got up to go, even though these had become his day’s most precious hours: Mila’s time. He put on a light overcoat—it was a dry but overcast and unseasonably cool day—and opened the apartment’s front door. Mila stood there with his spare key in her hand. “Oh,” she said, seeing the coat. “Oh. Okay.” In that first instant, when she’d been taken by surprise, before she had time to gather herself, he glimpsed her face naked, so to speak. What was there, without question, was disappointed hunger. The vulpine hunger of an animal denied its—he tried not to think the word, but it forced its way in—its prey.