good reasons, and not a single one would be credible to this pair. In the year of Els’s birth, no one had even known what a gene was made of. Now people were designing them. For most of his life, Els had ignored the greatest achievement of his age, the art form of the free-for-all future that he wouldn’t live to see. Now he wanted a little glimpse. Billions of complex chemical factories in a thimble: the thought gave him the cold chill that music once did. The lab made him feel that he wasn’t yet dead, that it wasn’t too late to learn what life was really about.
He said nothing. Coldberg picked up a petri dish. Where’d you learn how to manipulate microorganisms?
You know, genetics is not all that hard. It’s a whole lot easier than learning Arabic.
A grace note passed between the agents. Coldberg’s scribbling stopped.
Where’d you learn Arabic?
I don’t know Arabic, Els said. It was a figure of . . .
Then what’s that?
Coldberg pointed to a framed manuscript page hanging on the wall in the dining room: half domes with smaller half domes tucked in line underneath them, like the scalloped arches of a Sinan mosque. Each niche was emblazoned in flowing Arabic.
Els pressed his right temple with two fingers. That’s a sixteenth-century Ottoman manuscript showing an old system of musical notation.
Coldberg took out his phone and began snapping pictures.
Mendoza asked, You called Emergency Services last night?
Els nodded.
Your dog died? The police told you to call Animal Control?
Els shut his eyes.
Animal Control has no record of any call from you.
God , Els said. You think I nerve-gassed my dog?
Where’s the body? Mendozza asked.
The body. The evidence. I buried her out back.
You were instructed not to do that .
I was, Els agreed.
They’re in there? Coldberg pointed at the incubator with his chin.
Els considered the question. He crossed over to the unit. They’re harmless, if handled right. He moved to open the cabinet door. He wasn’t sure what he meant to do. Open up a cell culture flask and sniff it, maybe. Prove that it was no worse a threat than most pets .
The agents rushed him. Mendoza placed his ample body between the incubator and the seventy-year-old anemic composer. Coldberg came up behind. Els froze.
Coldberg shut the incubator with one thick hand. We’d like to take this with us .
Els stood waiting for the request to make sense.
Are you saying I . . . ? Do you have some kind of a warrant?
No , Coldberg said. We do not.
Is this legal? Am I being charged with anything?
No . You are not.
Everyone waited. The agents didn’t move. Their deference surprised Els. He seemed to have some kind of power of refusal, a power that might be fatal to use.
It shouldn’t be unplugged, Els said.
The agents waited. Els clasped the back of his neck and nodded.
Coldberg and Mendoza unplugged the incubator, wrapped it in duct tape, and carried it off. Els stepped aside, hearing the stacks of culture flasks rattle as the incubator went by. The colonies would be smashed and scattered before the two opera buffa extras got the box down to Anti-Terror HQ.
They passed the cloud chamber bowls, that seven-foot rack of sinister-looking, sawn-off carboys invented by Harry Partch, the hobo outsider. The agents set down the incubator long enough for Coldberg to snap more pictures. Els tapped the chimes, which rang out with excruciating microtones. It reassured no one. The agents carried the incubator out to the trunk of their black sedan. Els followed them out.
We’re going to ask you not to go anywhere for a couple of days, Mendoza told him.
Els stood in the parkway, shaking his head. Where in the world would I go?
Partch on the piano: “Twelve black and white bars in front of musical freedom.” I found an instrument free of all such bars.
He sat at the dining room table, stunned. He had to do something, but there was nothing useful to do. It crossed his mind to call an acquaintance,
He said nothing. Coldberg picked up a petri dish. Where’d you learn how to manipulate microorganisms?
You know, genetics is not all that hard. It’s a whole lot easier than learning Arabic.
A grace note passed between the agents. Coldberg’s scribbling stopped.
Where’d you learn Arabic?
I don’t know Arabic, Els said. It was a figure of . . .
Then what’s that?
Coldberg pointed to a framed manuscript page hanging on the wall in the dining room: half domes with smaller half domes tucked in line underneath them, like the scalloped arches of a Sinan mosque. Each niche was emblazoned in flowing Arabic.
Els pressed his right temple with two fingers. That’s a sixteenth-century Ottoman manuscript showing an old system of musical notation.
Coldberg took out his phone and began snapping pictures.
Mendoza asked, You called Emergency Services last night?
Els nodded.
Your dog died? The police told you to call Animal Control?
Els shut his eyes.
Animal Control has no record of any call from you.
God , Els said. You think I nerve-gassed my dog?
Where’s the body? Mendozza asked.
The body. The evidence. I buried her out back.
You were instructed not to do that .
I was, Els agreed.
They’re in there? Coldberg pointed at the incubator with his chin.
Els considered the question. He crossed over to the unit. They’re harmless, if handled right. He moved to open the cabinet door. He wasn’t sure what he meant to do. Open up a cell culture flask and sniff it, maybe. Prove that it was no worse a threat than most pets .
The agents rushed him. Mendoza placed his ample body between the incubator and the seventy-year-old anemic composer. Coldberg came up behind. Els froze.
Coldberg shut the incubator with one thick hand. We’d like to take this with us .
Els stood waiting for the request to make sense.
Are you saying I . . . ? Do you have some kind of a warrant?
No , Coldberg said. We do not.
Is this legal? Am I being charged with anything?
No . You are not.
Everyone waited. The agents didn’t move. Their deference surprised Els. He seemed to have some kind of power of refusal, a power that might be fatal to use.
It shouldn’t be unplugged, Els said.
The agents waited. Els clasped the back of his neck and nodded.
Coldberg and Mendoza unplugged the incubator, wrapped it in duct tape, and carried it off. Els stepped aside, hearing the stacks of culture flasks rattle as the incubator went by. The colonies would be smashed and scattered before the two opera buffa extras got the box down to Anti-Terror HQ.
They passed the cloud chamber bowls, that seven-foot rack of sinister-looking, sawn-off carboys invented by Harry Partch, the hobo outsider. The agents set down the incubator long enough for Coldberg to snap more pictures. Els tapped the chimes, which rang out with excruciating microtones. It reassured no one. The agents carried the incubator out to the trunk of their black sedan. Els followed them out.
We’re going to ask you not to go anywhere for a couple of days, Mendoza told him.
Els stood in the parkway, shaking his head. Where in the world would I go?
Partch on the piano: “Twelve black and white bars in front of musical freedom.” I found an instrument free of all such bars.
He sat at the dining room table, stunned. He had to do something, but there was nothing useful to do. It crossed his mind to call an acquaintance,
Similar Books
