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wings! This really a magic kingdom!
is
It soon became obvious that the whole of Satirev had been anticipating our
arrival. The Paradise guards immediately learned our faces, letting us come
and go as we pleased. As we strolled around the community, total strangers
would come up to us and, confirming our identities, give Satirev's tragic
child a candy bar or a small toy, his father a hug of encouragement and
affirmation.
Even Felicia Krakower was prepared. After drawing a sample of Toby's blood 
we told him the government had to make certain its guests weren't carrying
germs  she retired to her office and came back holding a stuffed animal, an
astonishingly comical baboon with acrobatic eyes and a squarish, doglike
snout.
This is for you, Rainbow Boy, she said.
Toby's face grew knotted and tense; he gulped audibly. He was not too old for
stuffed animals, merely too old to enjoy them without shame.
He needs a name, don't you think? said Dr. Krakower. Not a silly name, I'd
say. Something dignified.
I performed my survey, the one I took every hour. The facts were becoming
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irrefutable  the bluish cast of his skin, the thinness of his hair.
Toby relaxed, smiled. Dignified, he said. Not silly. Oh, yes. Clearly he'd
sensed the truth of his new home: in Satirev everything was permitted; in
Satirev no boy grew up before his time. His name is
Barnaby. Barnaby Baboon. Frowning, Toby rammed the tip of his tongue into the
corner of his mouth. I
think he might be carrying some germs.
Rainbow Boy, you're absolutely right, said Dr. Krakower as she pried a wad of
cotton batting out of
Barnaby's arm with her syringe. We'd better take a stuffing sample.
That night, the minute my son fell asleep, I ran to the phone booth outside
the Paradise and called the
Center for Creative Wellness. Krakower told me exactly what I expected to
hear: positive.
There's still plenty of hope, she insisted.
I know what you mean, I said, shivering in the hot summer darkness. If we give
Toby the right outlook, his immune system will kick in and bang
 remisssion.
Exactly.
How many years might a remission last?
You can't tell about remissions, Jack. Some of them last a long, long time.
I placed a call to Veritas.
Hello, Helen.
Jack?
Now you call?
Now
, after ten whole days?
I've been busy.
Your curator sent a get-well card. Are you sick?
I'm feeling better.
This is a bad time to talk, said Helen. I'm due at the bus station.
No, you're not. I took Toby out of camp on Sunday.
You what
?
He's got to be with me now. I can give him the right outlook.
You mean  you're one of them?
Dogs can talk, Helen.
I pictured her turning white, cringing. Shut up! she screamed. I want my son
back! Bring me my son, you tropological shithead!
I
love him.
Bring him back!
I can cure him.
Jack!
* * *
As the hot, soggy July melded into a hotter, soggier August, my son and I
spent long hours in the outdoors  or, rather, in those open spaces that in
Satirev functioned as the outdoors. Together we explored the community's
swampy frontiers, collecting bugs and amphibians for Toby's scale-model zoo.
The money orchards, meanwhile, proved excellent for archery  we would nock
our arrows and aim at the five-dollar bills  while the broiling snowfields
soon became littered with the results of our sculpting efforts: snowmen,
snowdogs, snowcows, snowbaboons. It was all a matter of having a good pair of
insulated gloves.
Finally there was the Jordan, perfect for swimming and, when we could borrow a
gondola, fishing. Do you like this place? I asked Toby as I threaded my line
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with a double-barbed hook.
It's pretty weird. Furiously he worked his reel, hauling an aquatic armadillo
on board.
You're having a terrific time, though, aren't you, buddy? You're feeling
cheerful.
Oh, yeah, he said evenly.
What do you like? Do you like making snowmen?
The snowmen are great.
And the fishing?
I like the fishing. Placing his boot atop the armadillo's left gill, Toby
yanked the hook out of its mouth.
And you like our archery tournaments too, don't you? I marveled at the
armadillo's design  its lozenge-shaped body, sleek scales, dynamic fins. And
the swimming?
Uh-huh. I wish Mom were here.
I began baiting my own hook with a Satirevian snail. So do I. What else do you
like?
I don't know. In a spasmatic act of mercy, he tossed the armadillo overboard.
I like the way strangers give me candy.
And you like the fishing too, right?
I already said that, Toby replied patiently. Dad, why does my hair keep
falling out?
W-what?
And my skin looks funny too.
I shuddered, pricking my thumb with the fishhook. Buddy, there's something we
should talk about.
Remember that blood sample Dr. Krakower took? It seems you've got a few germs
in you. Nothing serious  Xavier's Plague, it's called.
Xavier's what?
Plague.
Toby impaled a snail on his fishhook. Is that why my skin ?
Probably. They might have to give you some medicine. You're not really sick.
God, how I loved being able to say that. The thing is to stay cheerful. Just
say to yourself, 'Those bad old Xavier's germs can't hurt me
. My immune system's too strong.'
My what?
Immune system. Say it, Toby. Say, 'Those bad old Xavier's germs can't hurt me
.' Go ahead.
'Those bad old Xavier's germs can't hurt me
,' he repeated haltingly. Is that true, Dad?
You bet. You aren't worried, are you?
Toby rubbed his blue forehead. I guess not.
That's my buddy.
* * *
If my son wasn't too old for stuffed animals, then he wasn't too old for
bedtime stories. We read together every night, snuggling amid the Paradise's
soft buttery sheets and smooth cotton blankets, working our way through a
stack of volumes that had somehow escaped the Wittgenstein's predations 
Tom Sawyer Treasure Island Corbeau the Pirate
, , , and, best of all, a leatherbound, gilt-edged collection of fairy tales.
Perusing the Brothers Grimm, I trembled not only with the thrill of forbidden
fruit
 how daring I felt, acting out material I'd normally be reading only in
prelude to burning it  but with the odd amoralities and psychosexual insights
of the stories themselves. Toby's favorite was
Rumpelstiltskin, with its unexpected theme of an old man's longing for a baby.
My own preference was
Sleeping Beauty. I roundly identified with the father  with his mad,
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Herodlike campaign to circumvent his daugher's destiny by destroying every
spinning wheel in the kingdom. I thought he was heroic.
Why did Rumpelstiltskin want a baby? Toby asked.
A baby is the best thing there is, I replied. I felt I was telling the truth.
Rumpelstiltskin was a man who knew what he wanted.
Whenever Martina was in Satirev, she joined our expeditions  hiking,
swimming, bug collecting, whatever  and I couldn't quite decide what Toby
made of her. They got along famously, even to the
point of scatalogical private jokes involving Barnaby Baboon, but occasionally
I caught a glimmer of unease in my son's eyes. Were he a post-burn kid, of
course, he would've been frank. Dad, is Martina your mistress? Dad, do you and
Martina have sex? [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]