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PERDITION AND MAIN: There is a tremendous amount of detritus heaped up in the war zone of your basement apartment - a broken tape player, piles of empty bottles, piles of dead flies on and in the empty bottles, torn and sodden magazines, heaps of clothes, a stack of case files on the coffee table, a stack of case files on the stove, a few case files propping up the loose leg of a kitchen chair, a stack of case files in the bathroom, a stack of case files in your bed - some woman’s clothing -
SAVOIR FAIRE: Not your size.
INLAND EMPIRE: Outdated. Little-loved and left behind.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: Like you.
PERDITION AND MAIN: - a fridge full of two beers and a bunch of soft carrots -
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You stare at the beers when you open the door, and then a blur of black and blue sweeps in.
REACTION SPEED: Jean-Heron, dropping out of the air for a kill.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: He grabs the two beers, gets the bottle opener off the counter -
LOGIC: Why bother to put it away when you’re just going to get it back out again?
JEAN VICQUEMARE: -pops them open and hands one to Judit. “Cheers,” he says.
JUDIT MINOT: “To?” she says. She twists the bottle in her hands as she glances at you.
VOLITION: You’re staring between the two of them like a dog looking at a steak.
HALF LIGHT: They stole from you.
EMPATHY: Jean is trying to make sure you don’t drink it.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: I’ll just get more.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Shit. To the shitkid’s prodigal return, I guess.” He clinks his bottle to hers and takes a noisy sip, eyes digging into you like stones.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim shifts behind you. “Is any of this ringing any bells?” he asks you in a low voice.
EMPATHY: Trying to distract you.
YOU: You take it. “Not really.” You wander into the living room and look at a poster of Guillaume le Million. You bend to pick up a few tapes from the floor, scattered in front of the coffee table.
ENDURANCE: You grunt and almost fall over when you try to stand up again.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim’s hand is suddenly under your arm, helping you.
PERCEPTION: This close, you can hear his breathing, can feel it on your neck. Can smell him, sweat and motor oil and cigarettes. Can see the nasty bruise on his temple, the soft skin under his eyes, which is creased and darkened.
1) “I’m fine. I don’t need your help.”
2) “Kim, you look tired. Maybe you should stay the night?”
3) “Kim, don’t leave. I’m afraid to be here by myself.”
4) “Kim, do I have to stay here?”
5) “Thanks.”
YOU: “Thanks.”
KIM KITSURAGI: He makes a small noise. His hand does not entirely leave your arm, still under your elbow.
YOU: It’s nice.
PERCEPTION: You look around the darkening living room. Something catches the faint light still slanting in the window. A gleam of brass, eye-bright and startling.
PERCEPTION: A saxophone.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: A tenor saxophone.
YOU: Wait, how do I know that?
TENOR SAXOPHONE: Come over here and find out, baby.
YOU: You walk over to it, sticking to the carpet a little as you go. You pick it up, your thumbs automatically falling to the thumb rests as you heft it to your mouth, then down again.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Feels good.
VOLITION: Feels right.
YOU: “What’s this?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “It’s a saxophone, detective.”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Dolores fucking Dei. We’re lucky he even remembers his own name.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm.”
AUTHORITY: Do not tell Jean you didn’t know your own name for three days.
YOU: “No, I mean. Did I play?”
JEAN VICQUEMARE: He shrugs. “How should I know? You probably stole it off someone or found it in a bin, knowing you.”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Spoken by the man who just Jamrock-shuffled a perfectly good alarm clock out of the bin behind the Bertrand’s Department Store on Main last week. He had cleaned it off triumphantly and it now sits on his nightstand, red numbers marking every sleepless night.
INLAND EMPIRE: That doesn’t feel right.
VISUAL CALCULUS: The instrument is in too nice of condition for that. It is clean and well-polished. A manufacturer’s mark etched into the back of it reads NOSEDIVE.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: The NOSEDIVE is a solid middle-of-the-line tenor saxophone, produced in Graad and purchased in the thousands by eager isolas around the world.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: An entire world breathing in jazz and blues.
INLAND EMPIRE: Sometimes, those living around the NOSEDIVE factory swear they can hear the saxophones crying out in the summer night.
NOSEDIVE: The NOSEDIVE is a pretty brass piece, gleaming in the light.
PERCEPTION: There are tarnished spots in the brass from someone’s hands.
LOGIC: As if it had been played frequently.
DRAMA: Routinely. Religiously. With passion and a skilled hand. And tongue.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You should tell Kim about your tongue.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Well, go on, then.” He takes a gulp of your beer and stares at you. “Dazzle us, shitkid.”
1) Dazzle them.
2) Don’t do it. Make sure you can actually play, first. This could be humiliating.
YOU: You lower the saxophone further. “Maybe another day.” You put it back on its stand.
JEAN VICQUEMARE: “Right.” He snorts. “It’s late. I’m going the fuck home. Judit?”
JUDIT MINOT: She glances at you, then finishes her beer in one go.
EMPATHY: It’s been a long day for all of you.
YOU: Yeah…but the longest for me. I was shot. Twice.
EMPATHY: Yes, but you’re not going to find much sympathy here.
YOU: Not even from Kim?
EMPATHY: Probably. But even he’s tired too. Look at him, leaning on your kitchen counter for support, his eyes half-lidded.
INLAND EMPIRE: He didn’t get much sleep when you were unconscious and fevered and moaning. He slept in a chair by your bed. Kept waking up to change your bandages, or put a cold washcloth on your forehead, or sometimes just lean his head on his hand and watch you in the moonlight coming in through your window.
PERDITION AND MAIN: They leave - Jean telling you offhand not to kill yourself between now and the end of the week, he might stop by - Judit rinsing the beer bottles and placing them in your tare bin - Kim lingering to put a hand on your shoulder.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Harry,” he says, very close. “Are you going to be alright?”
HALF LIGHT: He doesn’t really care. He’s leaving you.
EMPATHY: He truly cares. He cares about you more than he has cared about anyone in a very long time.
HALF LIGHT: It makes him extremely uncomfortable. He feels like a different man. He is not sure what to do with this feeling.
1) “No. Kim, I’m worried what’s going to happen when you leave.”
2) “Please don’t leave.” [Start crying]
3) “Totally disco, babe.” [Shoot him with your finger guns.]
4) “Um. I don’t know, to be honest.”
KIM KITSURAGI: Something twitches at his mouth.
RHETORIC: Kim has never, not once in his life, been called babe.
AUTHORITY: He wants to hate it.
SAVOIR FAIRE: He kind of likes it.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm. Right. Well - I have to check in with my precinct tomorrow. I need to write up a full report. Maybe - we can meet to discuss it? You will need to file a copy with your precinct, too.”
AUTHORITY: He’s going to write your report for you?
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: He’s a keeper.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Get him in your precinct. Now.
YOU: “Yeah! Anytime. I mean. I don’t really have anywhere to go. You could come here?” You try to avoid looking around.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes. How about Thursday? The day after tomorrow,” he adds, as if you might not know.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: We didn’t. That was helpful. Thanks, Kim.
YOU: “It’s a date!”
KIM KITSURAGI: The tips of his ears flush red. “Yes. Well.” He hovers to go, and then - he opens his notebook, writes something in it, and tears the page out, carefully. He hands it to you.
VISUAL CALCULUS: A phone number.
LOGIC: Kim’s phone number??
[Item gained: Kim Kitsuragi’s phone number]
KIM KITSURAGI: “My number,” he says, stiffly. Then he frowns and takes it back from you.
[-1 morale]
HALF LIGHT: No one can trust you with their phone number.
INLAND EMPIRE: In Mirova, a woman changes phone numbers every year. It doesn’t make a difference. She doesn’t know how you keep getting her number. It’s unlisted; you have no way of knowing it. And yet you call at least twice a month. More when it’s bad. Maybe it’s a cop thing, she thinks…
YOU: No!!! I haven’t even called Kim a dozen times in one night yet!
COMPOSURE: Yet.
KIM KITSURAGI: He writes something else on the paper and hands it back to you. “My number at the precinct, as well. I’m usually there until-”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Late.
KIM KITSURAGI: He shrugs. “Well. You can read a clock.” He looks at you closely.
EMPATHY: Can he? he thinks. No, I’m sure he can.
[Item gained: Kim Kitsuragi’s phone numbers]
PERDITION AND MAIN: And then he leaves, and you are all alone, like you have always been in this place, like you always will be, alone, alone, alone, there is no one else in the whole entire world -
[-1 morale]
NOSEDIVE: What do you call me, then?
YOU: You turn to the saxophone, which shines like its own sun in the rapidly darkening living room.
NOSEDIVE: They’re all gone now. It’s just you and me. Go on, baby, play me.
INTERFACING: You pick the saxophone up again. Your fingers fit the tarnished spots perfectly, thumbs hooking into the thumb rests.
INLAND EMPIRE: This is your instrument, Harrier.
YOU: Wait. I can…play…music?
DRAMA: Of course you can! You’re a fucking rockstar, baby!! Didn’t we tell you?
VOLITION: We knew it. You’re a superstar, Harry.
SAVOIR FAIRE: One cool cat.
INTERFACING: Play it. Go on.
YOU: You raise the instrument and put the mouthpiece to your mouth. Lower it. Look around at the hovel of your apartment.
DRAMA: Just play it.
YOU: I don’t even know how. I didn’t even remember my name. Even if this is my saxophone, I probably won’t remember anything.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Ugh. Look. You remembered how to shoot, didn’t you? How to run? How to breathe?
ENDURANCE: Jury’s still out on that one.
YOU: What if I fuck it up, like karaoke?
EMPATHY: Kim liked your karaoke.
LOGIC: Yeah, but Kim’s not here.
INLAND EMPIRE: Just play it. For fuck’s sake.
SHIVERS: Out in the night, all across the city, a young girl hunches next to a transistor radio, painting her nails. A boy plays the piano. A woman sings something in the shower, a little ditty, half-remembered. Still another man fiddles with the tuning pegs of a small cigar-box guitar…
INTERFACING: You put the mouthpiece of the NOSEDIVE to your mouth again, squeeze your eyes shut, take a deep breath, and -
YOU: Shit. You really do know how to play the saxophone.
INLAND EMPIRE: Muscle memory.
INTERFACING: As you play you adjust a little, raising the reed, pushing your lower lip under the mouthpiece - your tongue plays the notes, your fingers move as you breathe into the instrument -
CONCEPTUALIZATION: An extension of your lungs, made audible -
NOSEDIVE: It’s just a little thing, a series of notes, a riff of a song you don’t remember remembering. It sings out in the air, swelling to fill the space, pushing back the tired gray walls, the piles of clutter, the darkening windows.
YOU: You think of Martinaise, and what comes out of the saxophone sounds like Martinaise, the cold salt air whipping over your raw skin, a fishing shack where you had laid at night trying to sleep. And then you think of the Phasmid and your notes soften and rise, soaring up to the sky -
SHIVERS: Across the bay, the insect raises its head and cocks it, as if listening.
PERCEPTION: Stop. Do you hear that?
YOU: You stop.
PERCEPTION: Someone knocks on your door. Again.
YOU: Still holding the NOSEDIVE, you open the door.
NATHALIE: A tired young woman stands there, her arms crossed, her hair mussed.
SAVOIR FAIRE: Stains on her shirt.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Does this chick party?
VISUAL CALCULUS: Spit up. She has a small child.
LOGIC: Several, by the looks of it.
VISUAL CALCULUS: Her shirt - a labeled uniform - tells you her name is Nathalie.
NATHALIE: “Monsieur Du Bois, we talked about this-”
AUTHORITY: What’s her problem?
COMPOSURE: She’s about to cry.
INLAND EMPIRE: Paul has the croup, baby Jean won’t sleep, and Francois is clingy. And Duc’s fucked off again.
1) “Talked about what?”
2) “I’ve never seen you before in my life, lady.”
3) “I’m sorry. I forgot.”
4) “Listen, lady, you can just fuck off.”
YOU: “I’m sorry, I uh - I forgot. Everything. It’s kind of a long story.” You wave your hand. “So, uh. What did we talk about?”
NATHALIE: She huffs a deep breath.
EMPATHY: She cannot put up with her crazy downstairs neighbor’s shit too today.
NATHALIE: “No music after 21:00. Please.”
1) “Fuck off. No one tells Tequila Sunset what to do. No one!” [Start playing again, but louder.]
2) “You can’t stop the blues, baby. Trust me. I’ve tried.” [Start playing again, but sad and soft and low.]
3) “21:00, okay, I can do 21:00.”
YOU: “21:00, okay, I can do 21:00.”
NATHALIE: “Merci.”
YOU: “Sorry, won’t happen again.”
NATHALIE: “Good.”
DRAMA: She doesn’t believe you.
YOU: “So I used to play music? A lot?”
NATHALIE: “Yes.”
EMPATHY: Too much, she thinks.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: This girl has no sense of art.
SAVOIR FAIRE: Of taste.
INLAND EMPIRE: Particularly in men.
YOU: “Did I used to play around? You know, like some kind of superstar saxophone player?” You strike a pose.
LOGIC: It would make sense. You get home most nights around 20:30. That only gives you a half hour to play. It’s unlikely there would be that much wear on this instrument if you weren’t playing somewhere else.
NATHALIE: She frowns. “I don’t know. I think you used to play at a club around here.”
DRAMA: I KNEW IT. WE’RE A STAR, BABY. OUR NAME IN LIGHTS.
YOU: “Really? What was it called?”
NATHALIE: She frowns, turns, looking upstairs.
INLAND EMPIRE: Some sort of supernatural mother sense.
NATHALIE: “Hang on,” she says, and then disappears up the steps.
HALF LIGHT: You’re alone…again….
NOSEDIVE: Not alone, friend.
1) Raise the saxophone to your mouth and play it.
[-1 after 21:00]
[-1 You’ll make Nathalie cry]
2) Try to do something a normal person would do.
[-1 don’t know what normal people do?]
YOU: You look at the phone. It’s too early to call Kim. He probably isn’t even back yet.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You could go get a drink.
VOLITION: You could go to bed.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: You could…
PERCEPTION: Footsteps, light on the steps, running towards you.
INLAND EMPIRE: SHE’S RETURNING TO YOU.
VOLITION: No, she’s not.
LOGIC: It’s just Nathalie.
NATHALIE: Nathalie appears, holding a green flyer in her hand. “Here,” she says, and hands it to you.
[Item gained: sweet green flyer]
BRIGHT GREEN FLYER: The piece of green paper proclaims THE GATOR GABS! THE DEACON NOVEMBRE 14. There’s a cartoon gator playing the saxophone.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: This gator, somehow, looks unmistakably like you.
YOU: “I’m the gator?”
NATHALIE: She shrugs.
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: They recognize me in you. I’m always here, Harrier.
INLAND EMPIRE: Someone called you that once and it stuck. The green jacket. The shoes. The lizard eyes.
YOU: Lizard eyes?
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: When you get fucked up enough.
YOU: “Am I any good?”
NATHALIE: She shrugs. “I don’t know. You invited me once - gave me that flyer, but…”
INLAND EMPIRE: She didn’t go.
VOLITION: Don’t take it personally. She has a lot going on. And a jazz club - the kind that lets you play - isn’t really the best place to take three children.
YOU: “No sweat.” You turn the paper over. There’s a child’s drawing on the back, half-formed, unrecognizable.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: A train?? A horse?? A worm?? We’ve got nothing, kid.
NATHALIE: “Sorry.”
EMPATHY: She’s embarrassed.
NATHALIE: “Paper’s hard to get.”
ENCYCLOPEDIA: It’s not, but it is expensive.
NATHALIE: “Look, I have to go…”
YOU: “Great. Thanks!” You wave the flyer, a little crazily.
NATHALIE: “Uh huh,” she says, and lets the door close behind her.
YOU: You are alone again.
VOLITION: No.
YOU: I’m not alone. I have the NOSEDIVE.
NOSEDIVE: That’s right, baby.
YOU: You raise the saxophone to your mouth, but don’t put the reed on your lip. You press the keys as if you’re playing, but no sound comes out.
NOSEDIVE: That’s right. How many nights have we spent like this, kid?
YOU: I don’t know. I don’t remember anything…
NOSEDIVE: But I do. Let me help you through, like I always do.
YOU: You do.
≠≠
It turns out THE DEACON is a small dark jazz club, with a glossy wraparound bar and a small stage. Lots of little booths and tables, walls and curtains hung with red velvet. Paintings of naked men and women line the walls above the chair rail.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: This is a funky little place.
THE DEACON: A sign outside that says ENTERTAINMENT NIGHTLY.
DRAMA: That’s you, kid. You’re the entertainment.
INTERFACING: It’s also only eight blocks from your apartment.
YOU: You walk there a few days after you get the flyer, still on medical leave from the precinct for another week.
HALF LIGHT: You can’t take it anymore. You’re going to lose your mind if you can’t distract yourself.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Have we tried…drinking?
VOLITION: We have, and you felt like shit. Remember waking up in the middle of the next day and swearing you wouldn’t do it again?
YOU: Well, at least until Wednesday.
VOLITION: Sure. Until Wednesday.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Then we can have a little treat?
VOLITION: If we’re good.
THE DEACON: You walk into THE DEACON with the Gator poster folded up into your pocket.
MAN AT THE BAR: A man is sitting at the bar, turned to watch people as they walk in. There are few people in there this time of day. He is smoking a cigar and drinking something short and dark.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Fuck, it looks good.
YOU: It does.
MAN AT THE BAR: When he sees you, he lowers both. “Well hell, it’s the Gator!” he says.
MAN IN THE KITCHEN: A man pops out from the kitchen behind the bar. “Shit! Gator! What’s up, man! We haven’t seen you in”- he turns to the other man.
MAN AT THE BAR: “Months,” he says. “Figured you’d gone to ground. Or died.”
RHETORIC: He says it matter-of-factly. These things happen to people.
THE DEACON: The men lean on the bar and look at you. The man behind the bar starts pouring you a drink - gin and ginger ale, heavy on the gin. He slides it across the counter to you. “Sit down, Gator. Tell us where you’ve been.”
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Wednesday’s come early!!!
VOLITION: Harry…
YOU: I can’t not drink it. It would be rude.
THE MAN AT THE BAR: “Or is it top secret?”
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Oh, yeah. We like this place. It’s like home.
VOLITION: Careful, Harry.
YOU: I can have one drink.
VOLITION: Can you?
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: And then another, and another…
INLAND EMPIRE: Sometimes you have to stay away from this place. So you don’t get worse.
YOU: I don’t think this is one of those times.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: You fumble into the stool, sitting stiffly.
YOU: “Sorry,” you say. “I got shot. Like, a lot.”
RHETORIC: You got shot twice, asshole.
DRAMA: ’Tis but a flesh wound!
THE MAN AT THE BAR: “Dolores Dei, Gator. What for?”
ENCYCLOPEDIA: His name is Arnaud. The man behind the bar is Michel.
1) “They couldn’t handle how fucking cool I was.”
2) [Shrug] “Just one of those things.”
3) “Did you guys know I’m a cop?”
4) “So I lost my fucking memory, and-”
ARNAUD AND Michel: They nod.
EMPATHY: They can respect that.
THE DEACON: After a little talking - Arnaud fills you in on everything you missed, a dizzying litany of drama and deaths and new songs - Michel asks if you want a gig.
Michel: “We’re looking for someone at the end of the month. Since you haven’t been around in awhile…”
INLAND EMPIRE: You disappear most winters. They don’t take it personally.
THE DEACON: Everyone has their own personal theories. Some think that you go to the Safre Empire as an overseer on a vast apricot plantation. Others think you end up in jail, or the Jamrock Asylum out on a little island that takes in alcoholics.
YOU: “I don’t know. It’s been awhile. What if I’m not any good?”
ARNAUD: “Son, talent like yours - you’ll always be good. Until you’re dead.” He laughs.
HALF LIGHT: Funny story…
YOU: “So, like - do I make money, or-”
Michel: Now it’s his turn to laugh. “God, you never stop trying, do you? Free dinner, free drinks. You know the drill.”
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Oh, so that’s why you play that thing.
VOLITION: Careful. You should bring someone with you so you don’t end up passed out in the bathroom again.
YOU: Again?
ENDURANCE: Sorry, boss.
1) I don’t want to. I’ll be fine on my own.
2) That’s probably a good idea.
YOU: That’s probably a good idea.
VOLITION: Great! Who?
1) Kim.
2) Her.
3) Nathalie?
4) Jean?
5) Lena?
6) Garte?
YOU: Kim, of course.
YOU: “How about two drinks, and two dinners? I want to bring a friend.”
ARNAUD: Arnaud chuckles.
Michel: “Sure, that’s fine.”
ARNAUD: “I know that game. Got someone to impress?”
YOU: “I hope.”
≠≠
After your trip to THE DEACON, you start practicing more.
NOSEDIVE: It’s good to be back, honey.
DEPARTMENT STORE: There’s an old department store at the other end of Perdition that’s been condemned by the city. You stumble across it one day on one of your walks.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Trying to keep the old infernal machine moving. To outrun that apartment.
DEPARTMENT STORE: The building had a beautiful glass dome overtop it which is now broken and jagged, open to the elements. The upper floors are crumbling and three of the columns on the east side are collapsing.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: The sun pours in. It is like the most beautiful church in the world.
DEPARTMENT STORE: When it’s day. At night, it’s light by the sodium lights outside, casting shadows in through the few remaining plate glass windows. It’s mostly dark, just you and the music and the rats.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: It’s better that way.
YOU: You sneak in there and play for an hour a night, sometimes two.
DEPARTMENT STORE: Sometimes over people come in. Drug dealers, prostitutes, the homeless.
SHIVERS: Your people.
YOU: You talk to them, sometimes, when you can.
DEPARTMENT STORE: Sometimes they curse at you. Sometimes they listen to your music. Once, you bring a woman to tears.
WOMAN: She had danced to this song, once, when she was young and beautiful.
NOSEDIVE: It isn’t necessarily easy.
PAIN THRESHOLD: Your crooked jaw is fucking killing you.
VOLITION: Do it anyway.
NOSEDIVE: Drop your jaw. Relax. And breathe -
YOU: That’s it.
INLAND EMPIRE: You don’t know whether you’re remembering old songs or playing new ones.
YOU: You don’t have to know. You just play.
NOSEDIVE: I could tell you, if you wanted.
YOU: I don’t.
NOSEDIVE: That’s fine, too. Just groovy, babe.
YOU: Sometimes you close your eyes and play what comes to you. It’s as if it comes out of the air, or the Pale, flowing through you and into the Jamrock night. Sometimes it feels like it’s torn out of your lungs and forced out into the world.
YOU: I want to play something that sounds like the way a rainy spring night feels.
NOSEDIVE: But of course.
YOU: And then you do, the notes coming out somehow exactly right, slow and lingering, long breaths that swell with humidity, the sound of a light mist on the tree buds. A girl’s laugh underneath your window. The slosh of a car on a wet street.
PERCEPTION: There’s a slight burr to the C notes.
LOGIC: A dent that’s been pulled out.
HALF LIGHT: From where the NOSEDIVE had been thrown, once.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: An imperfect instrument.
INLAND EMPIRE: Like yourself.
YOU: I think it adds character.
SAVOIR FAIRE: Sure. Let’s go with that.
YOU: Sorry, friend.
NOSEDIVE: That’s alright. I don’t hold grudges. What I do hold is notes. So c’mon, baby, let’s dazzle this Kim.
YOU: You get the sense that when you play, original melds into covers and you don’t know the difference. The voices go quiet, and it’s just you and NOSEDIVE, and you can’t really tell the difference between the songs. Between you and NOSEDIVE.
YOU: You play in your apartment during the day - days you get out early from work, or the day you have off from work - and in the department store at night. When you get back to your apartment, songs still buzzing in your head, your fingertips, you turn on the radio and leave it on all night, falling asleep to music and waking up to music.
INLAND EMPIRE: Your dreams are tinged with it, Taking it in. Absorbing it.
YOU: Of course, this is how you fill your hours when you’re not with Kim.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Lieutenant Kitsuragi transfers to the 41st precinct. You are partnered together again. McLaine starts calling you the Wet Dream Team -
AUTHORITY: That was one case -
ESPRIT DE CORPS: And it is nice to go into the precinct and see Kim’s head bent over the desk across yours - see him look up at your footsteps and flash a smile. To crouch down over a body with Kim, his gloved hands near yours somehow keeping the terror at bay. Watching him perform the stations of the breath, his eyes closed behind his glasses, the careful rise and fall of his chest.
PERCEPTION: To hear the scratching of his pen on paper. The zip of nylon. His hand on your shoulder. Your knee. Fixing your collar, once.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: In the Kineema at night, headlights sliding over his face through the windshield, drinking in every feature before he is lost to shadow.
KIM KITSURAGI: Sometimes, in bad weather, he picks you up on the way to the precinct.
DRAMA: One of the last true gentlemen.
KIM KITSURAGI: You go to a motor carriage show with him and walk down the street, shoulders knocking into each other. He comes to the Jamrock Public Library with you and helps talk down the librarian from calling the police on you.
RHETORIC: Largely because you are the police.
DRAMA: He pretends that he has apprehended you for your crimes against the library and has made you come in for reparations.
AUTHORITY: And then he makes you pay out the forty-five reál you owe the library.
KIM KITSURAGI: Although he then buys you lunch afterwards, because you have no money to eat with.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Your legs tangle together under the table as he looks curiously through your new pile of books.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: Entroponetics - seashells - a few music tab books - an oversized atlas of Revachol - a seedy romance novel he raises an eyebrow over.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Nothing wrong with crib notes.
KIM KITSURAGI: You eat dinner together a lot of nights too. Quick kebabs from the cart down the street from the precinct, a few takeout meals spread across your desks. Twice, he sleeps over at your apartment, on the couch, when your cases go long.
NOSEDIVE: Take me out. Play me for him.
YOU: But it’s after 21:00.
NOSEDIVE: All good things are, baby. The midnight hour. It’s when your love comes tumbling down.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Your fingers itch and you tap something out in the air, half-remembered.
EMPATHY: I don’t think Kim would be very impressed by you waking a bunch of small children up and upsetting a single mother.
YOU: But I brought Nathalie some leftover paper from the precinct.
DRAMA: Doesn’t matter. Wow him at THE DEACON instead. It’ll be the proper backdrop for your serenade.
Your upcoming stint at THE DEACON is beginning to concern you.
YOU: You have told Kim that you play the saxophone. You’ve even that you’ve been practicing. You have not, however, told him about THE DEACON.
COUPRIS KINEEMA: Once, you hear a song on the radio that you recognize.
INTERFACING: Your fingers tapping on your thigh, playing the notes -
YOU: You reach over Kim to turn it up. “Kim! I know this song!! I play it!”
RADIO: The notes march out, sounding strange coming from outside your body, rather than from inside, where they belong.
YOU: “Do you think I wrote it?”
KIM KITSURAGI: A smile. “That’s unlikely,” he says. “I believe this is a popular song. ‘Dolores Dei Infirmary.’”
YOU: “Oh,” you say. “Well, I play it better.”
KIM KITSURAGI: An even larger smile. A flash of teeth. “I’m sure you do.”
COUPRIS KINEEMA: The two of you are on a stakeout, as you call it, and a reconnaissance mission, as Kim calls it, watching a known drug house.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You could watch it better from the inside, you know.
YOU: It’s a rainy afternoon, bleeding into night. Rain beads the windshield, obscuring your vision a little. Kim leans forward a little in his seat to squint out. It has long since gotten cold, and his hands are shoved in his pockets. You can hear him breathing beside you. He is so very close.
YOU: “Kim, can I ask you something.”
KIM KITSURAGI: He turns down the radio. “Of course.”
AUTHORITY: That doesn’t mean he’ll answer.
1) “Tell me a secret.”
2) “Kim, why do you hang around with me?”
3) “Why did you transfer to the 41st precinct?”
4) “Do you want to go on a date with me?”
5) “Do you want to come see me play?”
YOU: “Do you want to come and see me play? I mean, I know it’s not your kind of music, but, I mean. I thought that maybe you would want to - I mean because we’ve been talking about it - and you’ll get a free dinner, I asked to get comped two meals! And two drinks! One for each of us! And, I mean, if you’re not there, I’m going to drink both drinks, and then I might not be able to stop, not that that’s the only reason I want you there, but-”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Detective,” he says, and cuts off your flow of words.
RHETORIC: Word vomit. Get it together, man.
DRAMA: He’s laughing.
HALF LIGHT: At you.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes. Of course I’ll come. I’ve never seen the saxophone played before,” he admits.
EMPATHY: He’s curious.
YOU: “Oh. Really?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes, really.”
YOU: You whoop.
KIM KITSURAGI: He shakes his head, but he’s smiling a little. “When is it?”
YOU: “Saturday night.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “This Saturday?”
YOU: You nod. Then you say, “Is that - I mean, if you already have plans it’s, it’s fine, I know I kind of sprung this on you-”
KIM KITSURAGI: He shoots you a sidelong look. “Shall we call it a date?”
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Your heart does something extremely uncomfortable in your chest.
YOU: “Yeah!”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm. Well then.” He turns to look out the driver’s side window.
COMPOSURE: So you can’t see his smile.
VISUAL CALCULUS: Joke’s on him. You can just see his reflection, ghostly and dark in the window.
YOU: You secretly pump your fist by your side, something light filling your lungs. You wish you had the NOSEDIVE right now. You could play the best song anyone’s ever heard.
INLAND EMPIRE: Some things you just know.
≠≠
THE DEACON: There are…
YOU: A lot more people than you expected.
HALF LIGHT: Too many people.
THE DEACON: The club is about three-quarters full, from what you can see from behind the curtain.
DRAMA: All waiting to see you!
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: You feel a little sick. Like you’re going to throw up. Your knees are weak. Your hands are sweating badly, slipping on the NOSEDIVE.
YOU: You smudge ineffectually at the NOSEDIVE with your sleeve. “Sorry,” you say to it.
NOSEDIVE: No problem. Just make sure to wipe me down later.
YOU: Will do, boss.
THE DEACON: The hum of people, laughter rising loud above the crowd. Clink of glasses, forks, plates. Cigarette smoke and perfume.
DRAMA: Moment of truth, Harry-baby. Either you’ve got it or you don’t.
1) I’ve got it.
2) I don’t.
3) I’ll have it after a few drinks. [Go to the bar.]
4) [Look for Kim.]
YOU: You look for Kim and find him instantly.
SAVOIR FAIRE: It’s the orange.
INLAND EMPIRE: It’s your fine-tuned sense of where Kim is it all times. You can feel the distance between you when you’re around each other, in the Kineema, the precinct, walking side by side.
KIM KITSURAGI: He’s sitting off to the side, halfway back, where he’s got a good view of the stage. He’s looking over his notes. The club light angles down on his glasses, making him a dazzling flash of light. He takes a sip of his drink without looking, then puts it down. Flicks his eyes up to the curtain. Back down to his notes.
YOU: How’s Kim feeling?
EMPATHY: He’s excited. He hopes you do well. He’ll support you even if you don’t.
NOSEDIVE: Come on, kid, let’s get going. I’m itching here.
PERCEPTION: The saxophone buzzes in your hands. You can feel it, itching your palms, aching in your knuckles.
1) I’ve got it.
2) I don’t.
3) I’ll have it after a few drinks. [Go to the bar.]
4) [Look for Kim.]
YOU: I’ve got it.
NOSEDIVE: Attaboy.
VOLITION: And then you step out.
THE DEACON: Some hoots, some whistles. The dying down of some conversation. Someone yells, “GO GATOR!”
DRAMA: They know us. We’re a star.
YOU: Do I have groupies?
SUGGESTION: Unlikely.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You should ask Kim if he wants to be your groupie.
THE DEACON: There are so many faces out there, many of them turned to you. A sea of dark eyes, staring at you.
HALF LIGHT: Waiting to consume you.
[-1 morale]
YOU: You make the Expression, something rigid and fixed on your face.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: You are sweating even more now, if that is possible.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: You are sweating enough to drown a Coupris 40.
NOSEDIVE: Close your eyes, kiddo. Pretend we’re in the department store in the dark. Pretend all these people are rats who used to be beautiful women once. Pretend you’re going to remind them of that fact…
YOU: You squeeze your eyes tightly shut, so hard it hurts. You raise the saxophone to your mouth.
NOSEDIVE: And you play.
YOU: You hear the notes of “Dolores Dei Infirmary” come marching out of you.
PERCEPTION: A few whistles, a clap. Someone yells, “YEAH!”
[+1 morale]
INLAND EMPIRE: You always open with this one.
YOU: It makes you think of her, but in a way you can do something with.
NOSEDIVE: From there, you move into something fast and swinging, the notes tripping out of you, sliding from your mouth, up through your groin and chest and out of your body.
YOU: You keep playing. Sweat dampens your forehead, under your arms. Your mouth feels funny, your lungs tight, and still you keep playing.
YOU: I want to play something that feels like forgetting everything.
NOSEDIVE: Alright. Like this?
YOU: Yes. Exactly like that.
NOSEDIVE: The notes soft and tentative, surging rapidly at times only to fall back, unsure and afraid.
YOU: Between songs, you crack your neck, start moving a little, relax your shoulders, your jaw -
NOSEDIVE: How about some disco, baby?
YUOU: You play something that is unmistakably disco. There are cheers and whistles.
INALDN EMPIRE: It’s what you’re known for.
YOU: You play a few more like that. Emboldened, you peek your eyes open and see - people.
THE DEACON: Sitting and talking to each other. Couples leaning across tables. One set of them holding hands. A few people watching you. Arnaud sits at the bar. He sees you looking and raises his glass to you.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: We’re pretty thirsty, pal.
YOU: No. Not yet.
KIM KITSURAGI: He can’t take his eyes off you. The glare of the lights on his glasses make his expression hard to read, but it -
YOU: Help me out here.
VISUAL CALCULUS: It looks hungry.
NOSEDIVE: No intermission. You play forty minutes, a long continuous breath, threads of easier songs coming back later.
YOU: I want to play a song that feels like walking the streets of Jamrock.
NOSEDIVE: And you do. Full of discovery, the way it feels to be in the abandoned department store - the way it feels to walk along the river when the sun starts to rise out of the fog - the falling-down factories - a dark pit in the music that is the Pox -
YOU: And then it’s time for your very last song.
NOSEDIVE: Make it count.
1) Play something sexy.
2) Play something sad.
3) Play that one about the Insulindian Phasmid.
4. Play something for Kim.
YOU: You step up to the microphone and clear your throat. Try to speak, then clear your throat again.
ENDURANCE: It’s the first time you’ve spoken since you’ve gotten on the stage.
YOU: “I’d like to dedicate this song to my friend Kim.”
KIM KITSURAGI: The tips of his ears grow hot, even though no one knows who he is. I should have known, he thinks.
YOU: Help me out, friend. I want to play something that feels like Kim.
NOSEDIVE: Sure. But kiddo, this is all you. What do you want it to feel like?
YOU: I want it to feel like - how it felt when I stood with Kim on the balcony that first night in Martinaise - the first night in the world - how it felt waking up after the tribunal with Kim standing above me, the light his halo - how it makes me feel when he puts his hand on my shoulder - how it feels every night we smoke a cigarette together, when he turns to me with that little smile, his hand inching closer to mine on the railing every time - how it feels to race the streets in the Kineema when Kim gets a little punchy -
YOU: You can see the lights glinting off the saxophone at the edges of your vision, or maybe it’s your lungs, glowing.
NOSEDIVE: Grand. And now let’s finish it all up with that song you heard on SPEEDFREAKS FM the other week -
YOU: You do, and when you’re done, you pull the NOSEDEIVE away from your mouth and bow.
THE DEACON: Applause. Whistles. Arnaud raises his drink to you, Michel toasts you with a cocktail shaker. And Kim…
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim is waiting for you down at his table. When you slide into the seat, arms and legs jelly, he raises his glass to yours.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You’d asked for a double. Hey, they’d never specified what one drink entailed.
HAND-EYE COORDINATION: You clink your glasses together, then drink.
ELECTROCHEMSITRY: Yesssssss.
ENDURANCE: We really were thirsty.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Harrier, that was incredible.”
EMPATHY: He really means it.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Was that all original?”
YOU: “Some of it. The part at the end was. Except for the-”
KIM KITSURAGI: “The ‘My Back Teeth are Floating (Mouth Full of Piss?)’ Yes. I thought as much.” He’s laughing.
PERCEPTION: His teeth are showing. He’s got a little overbite.
YOU: You want to kiss him.
KIM KITSURAGI: “I wonder how you learned to do that.”
YOU: “We may never know.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Does it bother you? The thought of not remembering? Maybe ever?”
1) “Yes.”
2) “It makes me want to drink.”
3) “No. I’m a free man, baby!”
4) “Not so much. Not when I can still do things like this.”
YOU: “Not so much. Not when I can still do things like this.” You touch the saxophone case beside your chair.
KIM KITSURAGI: He hums, thoughtfully.
YOU: The two of you finish your dinner and then go out into the alleyway to smoke a cigarette.
COMPOSURE: Kim saved his one cigarette for this. For you.
DEACON ALLEY: The alley is dark and damp. It’s rained while you were inside, and the smell of wet pavement, stale cigarettes, and the dumpster nearby rises to greet you.
YOU: Kim lights your cigarette, then his. You lean back against the wall and rest your head on it as you smoke.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: In between drags, you keep licking your lips. They’re sore and swollen - especially the bottom one.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim can’t keep his eyes off you.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: He keeps moving just a little closer each time you lick it.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: You feel drunker than you should.
ENDURANCE: It’s the oxygen deprivation. And the double gin you had.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Okay, you’re a little drunk. But you could be drunker!
VOLITION: But mostly you’re just elated.
YOU: Your lips are tingling, lungs burning. You still feel like you’re buzzing inside, each breath too light, too easy.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: This is great. Have you ever tried choking yourself?
LOGIC: That would do it.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Ask the lieutenant to do it.
SAVOIR FAIRE: Maybe take him out to dinner first?
LOGIC: I believe we just did.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: You lick your lips again. Your tongue feels strange, sore and tender.
YOU: “Kim, how’s my tongue look?” you ask, and then stick your tongue out and try to look down at it.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: Like a great big dog.
PERCEPTION: Silence.
YOU: You look up.
KIM KITSURAGI: It’s dark in the alley, and the shadows are thrown strongly across his face, cast up from the small glow of his cigarette, and down from the street lights off the alley. There’s a wild look in his eyes.
HALF LIGHT: He’s going to attack you. Run.
KIM KITSURAGI: He throws his half smoked cigarette aside.
VISUAL CALCULUS: You’re watching it arc towards a puddle when he grabs you -
HALF LIGHT: Attacks you!
INTERFACING: - mouth first.
YOU: Wha-
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Kim’s kissing you, you idiot!
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Keep up!
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim kisses you wild, hard, his teeth nipping at your very sensitive lower lip.
YOU: You gasp.
KIM KITSURAGI: He takes that as encouragement and presses closer, hands coming up to frame your face as he kisses you wetly, tongue pressing against yours.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Holy fuck.
YOU: You kiss back, one arm coming around the back of his neck, holding him in place -
INTERFACING: The one holding the cigarette; you hold it well away from him -
YOU: Your other hand coming up to his waist, sliding up under his jacket, slipping fingers under his shirt, pressing your hand to his bare back -
KIM KITSURAGI: He shivers against you, makes a noise into your mouth, and fuck, this is better than playing the saxophone -
INTERFACING: Same rhythm, same muscles; you breathe in and out. Into his mouth - the noises he makes are like music -
KIM KITSURAGI: All too soon Kim pulls back, removes his hands from your face, adjusts his glasses. “Khm,” he says.
YOU: You might whine a little, one hand still under his shirt.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Your tongue looks fine, detective,” he says.
ENDURANCE: He’s a little breathless.
COMPOSURE: Also, his voice is a little lower. A little slower.
PERCEPTION: His ears are very red. There is a flush rising from the collar of his shirt up his neck.
YOU: “Uh. Uhm. Uh. Good.”
SAVOIR FAIRE: Good?? That’s all you’ve got?
YOU: You fuckers were pretty quiet there for a minute.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Listen, gator, you need to get this man into bed immediately.
VOLITION: For once, we’re in agreement.
1) “Uh - want to come back to my place? For some, you know-” [wriggle eyebrows]
2) “What are you doing now? Maybe I can play you some more saxophone?”
3) “Kim, is sucking dick like playing the saxophone?”
YOU: “Kim, is sucking dick like playing the saxophone?”
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim actually laughs out loud, a startled sound. He covers his mouth with his gloved hand, then drops it. “I don’t know, detective. I’ve never played the saxophone.”
LOGIC: Which indicates that he has sucked dick.
RHETORIC: Oh, well done, you.
1) “Uh - want to come back to my place? For some, you know-” [wriggle eyebrows]
2) “What are you doing now? Maybe I can play you some more saxophone?”
3) “Kim, is sucking dick like playing the saxophone?”
YOU: “What are you doing now? Maybe I can play you some more saxophone?”
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim raises an eyebrow, then reaches out and plucks your cigarette from your hands. He pulls deeply to relight it, the glow lighting his face.
SAVOIR FAIRE: God, he’s so fucking cool.
KIM KITSURAGI: “I was thinking we would go back to your place. It’s close, yes?”
COMPOSURE: He sounds so cool, but his hand is trembling very slightly. Do you see it?
YOU: “Yes! Ah. Wait. Fuck. I can’t make too much noise after 21:00. My neighbor, she’s got kids, and…”
KIM KITSURAGI: A twitch to the corner of his mouth. “That’s alright. I believe I’ve heard enough saxophone for tonight.”
ENDURANCE: That’s probably for the best. You don’t know if you have another one in you right now.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Go on and get your saxophone, detective. I will meet you outside.”
YOU: You head back into the club, your lips tingling, your lungs burning, to get the NOSEDIVE. You feel like you could play a whole new song, something Elysium’s never heard before. Something completely new to you. Something free and bright and soft.
NOSEDIVE: And you will. But first, you’ve got some noise complaints to cause, baby.