axis and time goes backwards. The dam doesn’t burst. Lois Lane doesn’t die.
How can I make MiMi not die?
MiMi’s not dead—she’s about to give birth.
In my mind she’s dead.
Who gives a fuck about your mind?
Me. I need peace of mind.
And Leo was thinking back and back. His bank had relocated him back to England. He had asked MiMi to come with him, to marry him, and she had said no. He left. He didn’t call her. She didn’t call him.
And then…
And then he had asked Xeno to go and find her.
—
Xeno got off the Eurostar at Paris Nord and took the Metro, line 4, as far as Cité. Then he walked past the Préfecture de Police and crossed the Seine. Notre Dame was on his left. The bookshop, Shakespeare and Company, was just ahead. He had worked there one summer—sleeping among the stacks of books on one of the flea-bitten beds.
As he crossed the road he could see the irascible owner, George Whitman, sitting on an ancient red moped, and talking to MiMi.
George liked pretty girls. He was in his eighties now and his daughter was twenty-something, which told you a lot about George. And he loved books and writers. Men who weren’t writers usually had a bad time with George. Xeno had been no exception.
Xeno went over. George scowled. “Who are you?”
Xeno held out his hand. “Hello, Mr. Whitman—it’s Xeno. I used to work here…I…”
“Xeno? What kind of a name is that?” said George. “Never heard of you.”
“This is a friend of mine,” said MiMi.
George nodded and started the moped. The exhaust blasted fumes and smoke round the tourists.
“Tell your friend to help you mind the store while I go out for an hour,” said George. “Don’t lose too much money.”
“Hello, Xeno,” said MiMi. “Welcome to Paris.”
MiMi went into the store to sit behind the till that faced the front door. “I often mind the store for him.”
“Don’t people recognise you?”
“They think it’s somebody who looks like me. And I do look like me.”
Xeno wandered among the books while MiMi charmed the American tourists into buying two of everything.
“I want to invent a game that’s like a bookshop,” said Xeno. “Layers, levels, poetry as well as plot. A chance to get lost and to find yourself again. Would you work with me on that? I need a woman.”
“Why?”
“You see things differently.”
“I’m not interested in gaming.”
“That’s why I need your help. I’ll make time circular—like the Mayan calendar; each level of the game will be a time frame—specific but porous, so you may be observed from another level—and you may be aware of another level. It may be that you can operate simultaneously on different levels—I don’t know yet. I know it’s about what’s missing.”
“What’s that?”
“You tell me. What’s missing?”
MiMi looked sad. She didn’t answer. Then she said, “Is Leo backing you?”
“Yes…MiMi, you know why I’m here. Leo loves you.”
“So much so that he didn’t call me for a year?”
“Did you call him?”
MiMi was silent.
George returned in a bad temper, carrying a new cat. Then he told everybody to get out of his store while the cat settled in. Americans and book-lovers alike were bundled onto the streets while George noisily locked the door.
“Isn’t this bad for business?” asked Xeno.
“Only time I don’t lose money is when we are closed. Then nobody can steal the books.”
SLAM.
MiMi and Xeno were outside the shop. She was laughing. She took his hand.
“All we need now is a lobster,” she said.
“To eat?”
“To walk with us. You know about Gérard de Nerval?”
Xeno didn’t.
“You would love him. He is one of my favourite French poets. He had a lobster he kept as a pet and took for walks along the Seine on a leash.”
“What happened to him?”
“The lobster?”
“The poet.”
And Xeno put his arm around her shoulders for a second.
MiMi said, “It was the nineteenth century. Before Haussmann
How can I make MiMi not die?
MiMi’s not dead—she’s about to give birth.
In my mind she’s dead.
Who gives a fuck about your mind?
Me. I need peace of mind.
And Leo was thinking back and back. His bank had relocated him back to England. He had asked MiMi to come with him, to marry him, and she had said no. He left. He didn’t call her. She didn’t call him.
And then…
And then he had asked Xeno to go and find her.
—
Xeno got off the Eurostar at Paris Nord and took the Metro, line 4, as far as Cité. Then he walked past the Préfecture de Police and crossed the Seine. Notre Dame was on his left. The bookshop, Shakespeare and Company, was just ahead. He had worked there one summer—sleeping among the stacks of books on one of the flea-bitten beds.
As he crossed the road he could see the irascible owner, George Whitman, sitting on an ancient red moped, and talking to MiMi.
George liked pretty girls. He was in his eighties now and his daughter was twenty-something, which told you a lot about George. And he loved books and writers. Men who weren’t writers usually had a bad time with George. Xeno had been no exception.
Xeno went over. George scowled. “Who are you?”
Xeno held out his hand. “Hello, Mr. Whitman—it’s Xeno. I used to work here…I…”
“Xeno? What kind of a name is that?” said George. “Never heard of you.”
“This is a friend of mine,” said MiMi.
George nodded and started the moped. The exhaust blasted fumes and smoke round the tourists.
“Tell your friend to help you mind the store while I go out for an hour,” said George. “Don’t lose too much money.”
“Hello, Xeno,” said MiMi. “Welcome to Paris.”
MiMi went into the store to sit behind the till that faced the front door. “I often mind the store for him.”
“Don’t people recognise you?”
“They think it’s somebody who looks like me. And I do look like me.”
Xeno wandered among the books while MiMi charmed the American tourists into buying two of everything.
“I want to invent a game that’s like a bookshop,” said Xeno. “Layers, levels, poetry as well as plot. A chance to get lost and to find yourself again. Would you work with me on that? I need a woman.”
“Why?”
“You see things differently.”
“I’m not interested in gaming.”
“That’s why I need your help. I’ll make time circular—like the Mayan calendar; each level of the game will be a time frame—specific but porous, so you may be observed from another level—and you may be aware of another level. It may be that you can operate simultaneously on different levels—I don’t know yet. I know it’s about what’s missing.”
“What’s that?”
“You tell me. What’s missing?”
MiMi looked sad. She didn’t answer. Then she said, “Is Leo backing you?”
“Yes…MiMi, you know why I’m here. Leo loves you.”
“So much so that he didn’t call me for a year?”
“Did you call him?”
MiMi was silent.
George returned in a bad temper, carrying a new cat. Then he told everybody to get out of his store while the cat settled in. Americans and book-lovers alike were bundled onto the streets while George noisily locked the door.
“Isn’t this bad for business?” asked Xeno.
“Only time I don’t lose money is when we are closed. Then nobody can steal the books.”
SLAM.
MiMi and Xeno were outside the shop. She was laughing. She took his hand.
“All we need now is a lobster,” she said.
“To eat?”
“To walk with us. You know about Gérard de Nerval?”
Xeno didn’t.
“You would love him. He is one of my favourite French poets. He had a lobster he kept as a pet and took for walks along the Seine on a leash.”
“What happened to him?”
“The lobster?”
“The poet.”
And Xeno put his arm around her shoulders for a second.
MiMi said, “It was the nineteenth century. Before Haussmann
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