The Sphere (12 page)

William squeezes Morgan’s forearm to quiet her.

“Juliet drinks a sleeping potion,” he says, “but it’s a special potion that makes it look like she’s dead. Romeo thinks that she is dead, and he kills himself with poison. Then she wakes up, sees him dead, and kills herself with Romeo’s dagger. Like that, night after night. That’s their favorite part of their whole lives. They ought to respect the pace of their roles and only do it once a day, but those two have what The Sphere’s academics call a
suicide scene addiction
. They practically live at the cemetery. Well, lived.”

“Sure. Suicide scene addiction, a very serious illness, no question.” I don’t know how much longer I can pretend to care about their ranting and raving.

I feel Beatrice’s soft touch on my arm. Unlike when Morgan turns toward me, every time Beatrice... looks at me? Yeah, I’m definitely going crazy. Anyway, whenever she turns her empty sockets toward me, it feels like a gentle breeze.

“Maybe she truly doesn’t know what we’re talking about,” says Beatrice, trying to assuage her companions.

William’s inexpressive face remains still for a few seconds.

“You see, dear,” Beatrice continues, “Romeo and Juliet are in love, but their families are feuding with one another.”

“You’re talking about actors, of course.”

I don’t know what I said, but suddenly there’s a commotion. All three of them start talking at once, trying to figure out what I meant. Morgan and William get tangled up in an argument about what an “actor” is. Beatrice tries her best to explain to me that both the boy and the girl they’re talking about have lived in the Sphere for a very long time. Everyone knows them. Basically, they explain that they’re not talking about actors, or about people who just happen to have the same names. They’re the actual Romeo and Juliet, the one and only. I hate reading, but I’m with them so far—I know who those two weirdoes are. At least I know a little bit. I can’t help it—that’s the reference my parents used for the twins’ names! The other three insist on talking about the couple as if they were real people. They say that when they went to the cemetery to look for Romeo they found Juliet’s nurse, sobbing inconsolably. The girl hadn’t been home for several days.

“Everyone in the Sphere knows that those two have a weakness for running away,” Beatrice explains, “and so at first no one paid a great deal of attention when they disappeared. But after a few days passed, and they failed to come back to the party where they meet, Mercutio and the nurse began to worry.”

“What party?” I ask, not even trying to hide my boredom, or how annoying I think all this nonsense is.

“The party where Romeo and Juliet always meet for the first time,” replies Morgan.

“What do you mean,
always
for the first time?” Now I can’t tell if I’m confused or annoyed.

“Of course—always. They have the party every day, and they always have to be there to meet one another. If they weren’t, they couldn’t go on to fall in love and commit suicide,” says Morgan in a monotone.

I look at Beatrice. Her kindly face is full of real worry. The situation is starting to be too much for me. These people...
people
? made of wood, this black and white world where they use names from books and repeat the same scenes over and over...

“Are you all right?” Beatrice asks me.

“No. I don’t understand anything and I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here! Why are you telling me all this?”

“So you can help us! You have been sent...”

Morgan snorts as Beatrice says again that I am the answer to her prayers.

“I’m not the answer to anything! Beatrice, I’m sorry, but I haven’t been sent by anyone and I’m not a savior—not even close.”

Morgan applauds, and I feel horribly humiliated, even though everything I just said came straight from the heart. How could I possibly save anyone if I don’t even know how to get back to reality? I’m useless, so useless I couldn’t even pick the right guy to make Axel jealous. I stand up, lost in my own thoughts, wallowing in the familiar feeling of being nothing more than a speck of dust. I hear William tell me that I’m indispensable, that I have a knack, that I’m the only one who has any information and so I’m the only one who can help them. I’m necessary, valuable—according to him. It’s a shame that his words are echoing from farther and farther away. I’ve closed my shell. Maybe Axel was right after all when he said that I always close myself off. I can’t help it. I’d rather be inside myself where it’s safe, because only I exist.

––––––––

S
omeone snaps their fingers sharply, pulling me away from my thoughts. I know they’ve been talking about me while I was lost in my own private world. They’ve been talking about me, and they’ve talked with me, too—and they probably even thought I was listening to them. I’m kind of an expert when it comes to nodding and looking interested when I’m really just wandering around inside myself. I shake my head. I’ve got to decide whether to keep listening to them or leave once and for all. William insists that I have a responsibility, something about how it’s my duty to share what I know.

“I don’t know anything! How many times do I have to tell you?”

“You know, of course you know,” says Morgan.

When did she start wanting me to stay? I must have missed the part where William convinced her to believe—or forced her to believe—that I’m somehow important.

“Look,” I say, “it seems to me that if some kids have disappeared, we should tell the police. Someone competent needs to take charge. A professional should be looking for the missing people, not us!”

Morgan and Beatrice whip their heads around to look at me like I just said the worst thing in the world. William gets up solemnly and walks over to the window.

“Are you crazy?” hisses Morgan, as if she’d like to slap me with her words.

William seems deeply offended. Morgan takes me by the arm and drags me out into the hall.

“No one has ever dared question William’s abilities like that. Never in his entire career as a detective has anyone doubted his competence to handle a case. And now you—the new girl!—you show up and dismiss him just like that, with that innocent face, as if you didn’t know who he was. Maybe I could believe you don’t know Romeo and Juliet, but to not know who William is...”

“He’s the best detective of all time,” hisses Beatrice.

“How was I supposed to know?” I reply in a low voice.

“Holmes!” says Morgan, leaning in so close that our noses touch. “Does his name mean nothing to you?”

I shrink back. I shrug, trying in vain to look like her anger doesn’t affect me. How should I know! It’s a last name just like any other. Come on, it’s not like everyone named Holmes has to be a detective.

“I’m sorry to have offended William Holmes. But you’ve got to understand that I don’t have any idea what you do. I just met you!” My companions seem taken aback. “Besides, how would I know your life stories? There’s a lot you haven’t told me yet.”

I look back into the living rom. William is still at the window with his back to us. The smoke from his pipe rises in coils and twists above his head. We go in quietly, waiting for him to turn around.

“Perhaps there is some logic to it,” William says slowly. Gradually he turns around to face us. “And perhaps it can be of use. I’m referring to the fact that Beatrice’s friend knows nothing about us. As my intuition told me from the moment I saw her, and as you noted, too, Morgan, the most likely thing is that she is not even one of us. This girl...”

“Eurydice. My name’s Eurydice... and no, I’m not one of you. Fortunately,” I mutter through clenched teeth.

Morgan’s empty sockets order me to be quiet. How can she look at me with that kind of intensity if she doesn’t even have any eyes?

“If Eurydice truly is an outsider,” continues Holmes, “which seems plausible, she may bring a new perspective to the matter. Perhaps she may even be able to see something we are missing.”

Morgan doesn’t agree. According to her my “shocking ignorance,” as she puts it—never mind that I’m sitting right here—is more than enough reason to keep me away from the case.

“Besides,” she says very softly to Holmes, “I can’t communicate with her. She has her channels closed off. I don’t trust her.”

“Telepathy,” Beatrice explains. “Morgan means that she cannot communicate with you telepathically.”

“Of course she can’t!” I answer, with indignation and pride and just a little curiosity.

Is telepathy real? I don’t believe in it, but I’m still proud that that awful witch can’t communicate with me. Holmes stands there, impassive, as if he’s weighing all the information.

“The decision is made,” he says. “From now on Eurydice is part of the team.”

What team? Am I part of their stories now?

Morgan snorts angrily. “We don’t even know how she got here, shouldn’t we find that out first? Who can tell me she isn’t part of the problem?”

“She’s part of the team, and that’s that,” William answers curtly. “What’s more, Morgan, you shall fill her in on all the details.”

Morgan has no choice but to follow the orders Holmes gives her. It’s clear that nobody here dares contradict his authority. So, because the big shot with the pipe says so, they tell me all about Romeo, Juliet, and their disappearance. They also explain that there’s a third person missing, an Anna Karenina—a tormented woman who apparently has a thing for committing suicide on the train tracks. It was only this morning that they realized she had disappeared.

“I’m terribly afraid that the next one was his majesty,” says William, “judging by the object you brought us.”

“The rock?” I ask. “Does it belong to a noble?”

Suddenly, despite how absurd all of this is, and despite William and Morgan not treating me the way I would like, I find that I’m enjoying being part of the team. I admit that at first I was only trying to suck up to them, just enough so they’d give up on me and let me go. But now, even though the need to find my family is still burning inside of me, I can’t help being interested. I’m a sort of detective, which would never have happened even in my wildest dreams. Deep down, I don’t really care whether I’m dreaming or not—no one has ever taken me seriously before.

“It belongs to his majesty the Little Prince,” Beatrice says in a thin voice. “That rock is his home, planet B-612.”

“An asteroid, really,” Morgan corrects her.

How can she be such an awful know-it-all? Can’t she see how bad Beatrice is feeling?

“The flower leaves no room for doubt,” adds William. “It is the Little Prince’s asteroid.”

“Yes. I fear it is planet B-612,” says Beatrice. She walks over to the object and touches it gently.

“As-te-roid,” Morgan says, sarcastically sounding out each syllable. I can’t let her get away with it.

“Look, sister—just leave her alone!”

“Sister?” all three of them ask at once.

“What’s it to you if she calls it a planet?” I add, not really caring how surprised they are at my choice of words.

“But it’s
not
a planet. It’s clear from its irregularities. It’s quasi-spherical.” Morgan picks the thing up and turns it around for us, as if she were teaching a class. “See? This celestial objects lacks the gravitational pull necessary to accrete matter and become round. It’s not like planets, which... Why am I explaining this to you? It’s useless.”

“Of course it’s useless!” I exclaim, not bothering to hide the note of triumph in my voice. It’s great to feel like I’m on solid ground for once—I know all about astronomy. “You don’t have to explain the obvious.
Clearly
it’s not a planet. All I meant was that if Beatrice wants to call it a planet, she has the right to call it whatever she wants.”

Morgan looks a little confused.

“I see how someone might confuse it with a small planet like Pluto, for instance,” she continues. “Someone who didn’t know much about it...”

“Well, no, you couldn’t confuse it with a small planet,” I interrupt. My blood is tingling because I can finally shut up this conceited know-it-all. “There are many characteristics that differentiate a planet from an asteroid. The International Astronomical Union has defined them clearly.” Morgan screws up her mouth. “And, for your information, Pluto is not a small planet. The term is ‘dwarf.’ Pluto is a
dwarf planet
.”

“I just said ‘small’ as a general term, it’s not like I thought that was Pluto’s classification.”

“Well, Beatrice said ‘planet’ without meaning it as a classification, either.”

Unfortunately just then William clears his throat loudly, cutting our argument short.

“Now, ladies, if we could focus on the investigation we might actually reach some conclusion. Might I remind you that there are missing people who are depending on our work?”

We sit down around the table. The moment has come to put together all the information we have available. They’re expecting so much from me, and I’m sorry that I can’t come up with a brilliant conclusion... or any conclusion at all. Not brilliant, not stupid. Not a single thing comes to mind, which I have to admit really bothers me. It’s William and Morgan who conclude that the loudly beating wings I heard at the beach don’t have to be connected with the disappearance of The Little Prince, at least not necessarily.

“We don’t know if wings were heard during the other three disappearances or not. We must look only for characteristics that all of the cases have in common,” says Holmes. “There must be something; I’m convinced of it. If we were just talking about a single, isolated incident.... But there have been four disappearances already, in a very short period of time. The connection will give us the key to what’s going on.”

“Suicide?” suggests Morgan, but then she shoots down her own idea right away.

Romeo, Juliet, and Anna Karenina all have suicide as part of their roles, but the Little Prince doesn’t. Finally I’m starting to get what this fabled ‘role’ is all about: it’s the routine that each one of these strange people is supposed to act out over and over, forever. I’m starting to feel tired. Time ticks by and nobody can find a single characteristic that all the missing people share.