Interzone 150 [1999-12] (Bogof39)

68 Pages·11.3 MB·English

■merzone
D€C€MBCR 1999 Number 150 £3.00
Jeon-Claucle Dunyach
James
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Leigh Kennedy
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OLIVER JOHNSON
THE LIGHTBRINCER TRILOGY
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wser frilmifi
‘Hauntlngljf atmosiilieric and utteriji
compellina ... this Is red-blooded
fantasjf wrltioQ at its best.’
^ DAVID CEMMELL
AlViibree voluW^s nom
avaUable4a paperback
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Editor & Publisher
David Pringle
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hloosNwso so orree dvsapemro ncaasguiebs ietlodit .yu S ncusaobnlm ibcieist seaidcoc nmesp asttehedor iufaolldr, UEBanosiott k7Ss,u hRsosopetx hd eTirsN It3rroi1bn 7uwLtoiRork n(st:,e lFC. ie0sn1ht7mr9aa7l r B2k2oe5ot 2kR2so,9 a)d. , Rye, H^^r^Cm^OuAUpRN^HCTIESL
be sent to the Brighton address above. 99 Wallis Rd., London E9 5LN (tel. [phone]). rOF ENGLAND
from other parts of the world (we know who they are. The emergence of
have published, for example, a Fil¬ those people, along with the more
ipino author, two Japanese and three established new names mentioned
(Czechs). That high total, and the above, is this magazine’s main justifi¬
diversity of writers, are pleasing. cation for existence. When we began
In his New Worlds boast, Ted Car¬ publication in 1982 it was our princi¬
nell continued in fine mixed- pal aim to nurture new writers of tal¬
metaphor style: “A minor galaxy of ent within the broad fields of science
literary names who have cast long fiction and fantasy, just as New Worlds
shadows across the face of SF litera¬ (and its sister magazine Science Fan¬
ture have embroidered its contents tasy) had under Carnell and others,
pages: new writers who went on to and I hope it is not too immodest of me
become stars - Arthur C. Clarke, to say that we feel we have succeeded
John Christopher, Charles Eric in doing what we set out to do.
Maine, Brian W. Aldiss, John Wynd- (At this point, it is perhaps fitting to
ham, J. G. Ballard, J. T. McIntosh.” give additional thanks all round - to
Well, two of those stellar names, various past editors and assistant edi¬
Maine and McIntosh, are now semi- tors, to our regular non-fiction contrib¬
forgotten, but of the remainder Inter¬ utors, to our printers and designers
zone has published some of the later and typesetters - but with a collective
mT€RFRC€ work of three great survivors - Ald¬ enterprise like a monthly magazine,
iss, Ballard and Christopher. More to and especially one which has reached
the point, we can come up with our 150 issues, it’s hard to know how to be
T own “minor galaxy” of new names, comprehensive enough within a lim¬
he 150th issue of Interzonel writers of recent vintage who have ited space. Yes, thanks to all those
In a guest editorial, introducing gone on to a wider fame. They include people, and thanks to the Arts Council
issue 150 of New Worlds (edited by Stephen Baxter, Scott Bradfield, Eric of England for supporting us for so
Michael Moorcock, May 1965), former Brown, Molly Brown, Richard Calder, many years now. Thanks also to Inter-
editor John Carnell (familiarly known Greg Egan, Nicola Griffith, Paul J. zone’s lifetime subscribers, who have
as Ted Carnell) began by saying: “The McAuley, Ian R. MacLeod, Kim New¬ been generous with their money, and
150th issue of New Worlds SFl A man and Geoff Ryman, among many to all those ordinary subscribers who
monument to British science fiction others who have begun to make sig¬ have renewed their subscriptions time
with nearly 1,000 stories already pub¬ nificant careers for themselves within and again. Thanks to our responsive
lished within its pages, containing the past 17 years. readers, the letter-writers and advice-
over 7,000,000 words...” “Few are the ‘greats’ who have not givers, and to the quieter majority
Interzone has published fewer than at one time graced its pages,” said who have simply gone on buying the
1,000 stories in its 150 issues, but not Carnell of New Worlds, “and innumer¬ magazine month after month. Thanks
so very many fewer - about 800, we able are the unknowns who have all round!)
think, and our total wordage of fiction come and gone yet still left their But there is still much more to be
we estimate at over five million words. mark.” We can say exactly the same of done. When Ted Carnell wrote his
A good record for a time, the 1980s Interzone. Some of the “greats” who guest editorial early in 1965, New
and 1990s, when fiction magazines of have contributed new fiction to this Worlds was just entering one of its
any kind have struggled for survival magazine’s pages more than once most exciting periods - in the follow¬
and have tended to be short-lived. include (in addition to Aldiss and Bal¬ ing five years or so, under Michael
Carnell went on to say of New lard): Gregory Benford, Michael Moorcock, it was to become a much
Worlds: “More than 30 book-length Bishop, David Brin, Ramsey Camp¬ more famous and influential maga¬
serials and over 150 contributing bell, the late Angela Carter, Storm zine than it had ever been before.
authors have appeared within its var¬ Constantine, Thomas M. Disch, Karen Parallels between the two magazines
iegated covers since that first diffi¬ Joy Fowler, Mary Gentle, William may break down at this point, but let
dent issue in October 1946.” Interzone Gibson, M. John Harrison, Robert us hope, on the eve of the year 2000,
can’t compete with that record of Holdstock, Gwyneth Jones, Graham that a little of the cultural success
book-length serials, but over the Joyce, Garry IGlworth, David Lang¬ achieved by New Worlds may also
years it has published a number of ford, Jonathan Lethem, Ian McDon¬ come the way of Interzone. At the
short serials, two-parters, almost all ald, Michael Moorcock, Paul Park, same time, let’s hope we don’t repeat
of which have subsequently appeared Keith Roberts, Kim Stanley Robinson, the older magazine’s mistakes -
in book form (usually expanded). the late Bob Shaw, John Sladek, assuming that its mistakes were ever
They include Greg Bear’s Heads, Brian Stableford, Bruce Sterling, Lisa separable from its achievements. Our
Geoff Ryman’s award-winning The 'Tuttle and Ian Watson. We are next issue, by the way, continuing
Child Garden and Brian Stableford’s immensely grateful to them for this 150th issue-cum-Millennial cele¬
The Hunger and Ecstasy of Vampires, enriching the fiction in this magazine bration, is a “special” dedicated to
as well as significant parts of Eugene - and to all the other “name” authors Mike Moorcock on his 60th birthday.
B3rme & Kim Newman’s Back in the who have appeared here only once. David Pringle
USSA and Paul Di Filippo’s The But, as with New Worlds, it’s the
Steampunk Trilogy. lesser-known authors who have Dear Editors:
When it comes to the total number formed the real backbone of the maga¬ I can’t be the only reader to despair
of contributing authors, though, we zine - particularly the “up-and-com- at the comments about science fiction
can claim to have done a little better ers,” some of whom have already gone quoted by Dave Langford in his col¬
than New Worlds. This magazine has on to publish elsewhere, even to sell umn. Some may feel the same when
published more than 250 authors of novels, but have yet to make major that kind of thing is said about horror
fiction in its 150-issue span, a major¬ names for themselves outside our fiction. At least one of us feels simi¬
ity of them British but many of them pages. There are dozens of them, far larly over David Lee Stone’s aversion
American, Australian, Canadian or too many to begin to list, but they to reviewing Kimota 9 because “it was
inlerzene
populism. Instead of complaining about Dear Editors:
Philip Kerr’s success and apologizing It is with great sadness that I have to
for its own existence, presumably in report the death of Liverpool sf artist
the forlorn hope that the Literary Eddie Jones. Eddie suffered a heart
Review vnll start taking it seriously, attack/stroke and spent his remain¬
the sf community can stand up and say, ing time hospitalized where he
“We’re here, we’re valuable, and we arrested during a blood transfusion
don’t care if you approve of us or not.” in the early hours of Friday, 15th
SF Pride, if you like. Sf should take a October 1999. He was 64.
leaf out of hip-hop’s book - turn other The only visitors he had at the hos¬
people’s ignorance of us into exclusivity, pital - and the only people who knew
and turn exclusivity into a selhng he was ill - were his landlords and
point. We should stick together, assert friends Barbara and Colin O’Loughlin.
ourselves and make sf hip, sexy and There are no known relatives. Sadly,
cool again. Put all these pointless “is it there were no funds for any funeral,
genre or not?” arguments to bed once but after I notified his German agent
and for all. Stop worrying whether Thomas Schliick, Tom phoned and
every new writer knows the entire edi¬ offered to pay the funeral expenses.
torial history olAstounding. Instead of Eddie was one of the most prolific -
INT€RnCTION being paranoid about other media, use and in my opinion one of the best - sf
movies, TV and games as a hook to drag artists in the 1970s. His first book cov¬
people in. As far as I can tell, sf is com¬ ers were for the notorious Badger
a horror special” (Interzone 148, page pletely intrinsic to, and accepted Books, starting with Space-Borne by
60). For the record, my little essay in within, pop culture, and instead of R. L. Fanthorpe (1959). By the eeu'ly
it had some fun with the ways writers complaining about tv debasing our pre¬ ’70s, he was having work published in
are regarded. Mr Stone has my per¬ cious genre, we should use it: I can’t the US, the UK and Germany. At his
mission to substitute “science” for see any reason why someone who’s into most prolific he was painting eight
“horror” wherever it appears in the Mien Nation or Earth: Final Conflict commissions per month - mainly for
piece in case he then enjoys it. wouldn’t enjoy Ian McDonald’s Sacri¬ Sphere, Futura and Pan here in the
With my best wishes - fice of Fools. Instead of complaining UK, DAW and Bantam in the US, and
Ramsey Campbell about The Truman Show ripping off Bastei and Fischer Orbit in Germany,
Wallasey, Merseyside Philip K. Dick, lay a PKD novel on where he also painted the covers for
someone. They might like it, they Terra Astra magazine. In the 1980s I
Dear Editors; might not, but it sure beats whiinper- used Eddie’s work on all 25 of the Ven¬
1 always enjoy “Ansible Link” (espe¬ ing and making puppy-dog eyes at the ture SF series from Hamlyn/Arrow,
cially “Thog’s Masterclass”), and issue TLS. 2000AD is one of the biggest-sell- using a mixture of reprints from Ger¬
148 was no exception. However, the ing weeklies in the UK, and publishes man paperbacks and originals painted
“As Others See Us” sidebar gave me some damn fine speculative fiction, so I for friends, conventions, etc.
pause for thought. don’t accept that there’s no popular For the last 10-15 years he had
At the tail-end of 1999, do we really audience for quality sf moved out of the sf field and spent his
care what Brian Sewell, Jeremy Pax- Populism is not a matter of “dumb¬ time painting military figures for a
man or the Literary Review think ing down” (which is generally a falla¬ model shop in Liverpool. A regular
about sf? If the “sf editor” joke men¬ cious argument an5rway, since the convention attendee from the mid-
tioned on page 65 is for real, then charge is usually levelled by people ’50s through to the ’80s, he made an
these people are such blinkered, igno¬ who grew up watching the Three unexpected appearance at this year’s
rant cretins that 1 don’t care about Stooges and believing every word Eastercon in Liverpool, where he was
their opinions of anything, and I cer¬ Lord Beaverbrook allowed to see surprised that anyone in sf remem¬
tainly don’t want to offer them an print): it’s a matter of selling our¬ bered his artwork or his name.
olive branch. These people are elitist selves, playing the game, and making Tom Schliick has expressed a wish
snobs, who don’t have any relevance to sure everybody gets well. that a memorial fund be started to
the vast majority of people who have A new century is about to start, keep Eddie’s name and work alive, he
to work 9-to-5, raise children and pay and I think sf should drop some of its was the only great name of the ’70s
taxes. You know - the people who baggage with it. Where Jeff Noon, never to have had a book devoted to
actually buy books and movie tickets. J.G. Ballard, Thomas Pynchon and his work - although many pieces of
What I always loved about specula¬ Iain Banks (whose best his work appeared in general books
tive fiction, apart from its political and sf books are not sf art. Perhaps that
philosophical mythologizing, was the the ones with the omission can now be cor¬
fact that it was a popular genre, which “M” on the covers) rected. Tom has also asked
moved millions of people despite what have been, others me if I will oversee the
the TLS et al said about it. I see it as can follow. But fund. I am happy to do
much as a popular movement, a social they can’t do it that. Anyone wishing to
force, as a form of fiction. until we end the send donations should
It seems to me that sf has to make old terminological send them to me care of
a choice: arguments, stop Andromeda Bookshop, 2-5
Either, it is going to cross over to apologizing for Suffolk Street, Birming¬
the academic elite, in which case it ourselves, and ham B1ILT, UK.
will have to put up with being judged take that bloody Cheques, etc., to be made
by the same standards as other big chip off our out to “The Eddie Jones
books, by people who may not be as shoulders. Memorial Fund.”
indulgent as 30-somethings who grew Sefton Disney Roger Peyton
up reading Isaac Asimov. Taunton, Andromeda Bookshop,
Or, it can get back in touch with its Somerset Birmingham
December 1999
Impokto
Richard Calder
my skin, which, even in the harshest light, retains its
cinnamon hue, and despite the vestiges of epicanthic
folds about my eyes, my accent and manner readily iden¬
At check-in, before joining the queue, I scrutinize my tified me as English. That is, one qualified to suffer a
fellow passengers with foreboding. There is, I know, one level of verbal intrusion heinous in the extreme.
amongst their number who, should they be allocated a “Why are you travelling to the Philippines'? Where do
seat adjacent to my own, will make a long, uncomfort¬ you live? What do you do?” In my nervous attempts to
able flight nigh intolerable. However much I loiter, only meet the conversational imperative, I would, not out of
joining the queue when I believe that the people before design, but out of sheer inability to establish a rapport,
me seem nominally sane, I invariably find, on boarding, disappoint expectations and confirm prejudices. I might
that someone unfamiliar and unwanted is seated to my almost have been speaking a foreign tongue. “English?”
immediate left or right. Someone who, before the flight I would almost hear them think. “This guy’s neither
is over, will reveal themselves to be a madman. English nor a man. Let’s play a game with him. Let’s
But one grasps at straws. And that day, despite the play that old favourite: see what I can get away with. ”
June heat, and the inadequate ventilation in Terminal Inevitably, talk would become less a dialogue
3,1 was buoyed by a modicum of hope. between equals and more interrogatory, the questions
I was sandwiched between two groups of Arabs. At I would have to field in the end so impertinent that I
the front of the queue were a Filipino couple. There was would be forced to conclude that they could only be
not an Englishman in sight. interpreted as signs of mental disorder, if not acute
Arabs, Filipinos - they kept to themselves. But the derangement. ‘You do what? Really? Have you ever
English always seemed compelled to try to make con¬ thought of doing anything different? And you live,
versation, especially when they found themselves seated where? Is that a place I’m supposed to have heard of?
next to a compatriot. And, despite the pigmentation of Why are you telling me all this? Because I asked you,
you say? Whatever. But why do you expect me to he blissfully incomprehensible. For
interested in your answers? Just exactly why should I the first leg of my journey I was, it seemed, safe.
treat you with respect?” We took off at just after nine p.m.
I again surveyed my fellow passengers. Not a single The forward camera relayed a dark, starry sky to the
white face was in evidence. display sunk into the back of the seat in front of me.
I reminded myself that seats are not allocated Once again, I was free. Free of England and its mad,
sequentially, and that my tormentor had, perhaps, yet mad hordes. My mind cleared, refreshed by a sense of
to arrive. But surely, I thought, surely this time I might deliverance.
get lucky. Surely this time I would be spared the psycho. I would, I promised myself, seek professional help.
I asked for an aisle seat. I always did. I would not The same kind I had reluctantly sought in the past,
think of boarding if offered anything less. The aisle. My obsession with bad company at 39,000 feet had
that buffer zone patrolled only by air crew, drinks’ trol- become grotesque. I had always had a neurosis about
leys and itinerant passengers seeking to relieve their flying. I simply detested being confined in a long, metal
bladders or stretch their legs, would at least spare me tube with so many other sticky, fidgeting, anonymous
the unthinkable possibility of having to submit to bodies. But of late, this mild proclivity to claustropho-
being interrogated in stereo. bia was shading over into paranoia. It was ridiculous,
I boarded to discover that the morhid dread I had felt of course, to confuse intrusiveness, or the babble of an
as soon as I had stepped into the taxi that had taken me aeroplane bore, with the threat posed hy a genuine
to Heathrow - the dread that preoccupies me whenever psychotic. A general distrust of humanity occasioned
I have to fly — had not, on this occasion, realized itself by a divorce, the forfeiture of my children and crip-
While no one whom I had queued with occupied my row pling maintenance payments had been exacerbated,
of seats, I found myself next to a Filipino. And across during my brief return to London, by having had the
the aisle were three Arab men whose conversation was ill-luck to have been the victim of two muggings within
December 1999 7
the same number of months. The constant reports of sive. Taken together, these things suggested that he
“air rage” in the British newspapers did little to ame¬ was the scion of an old and rich family. The son, per¬
liorate my diseased state of mind. Doubtless, the only haps, of a solon or taipan. Living in the Philippines, as
real psychotic I had encountered on these long, West- I did, I knew I would have to be careful what I said to
East, East-West flights had been myself. him. His kind could make trouble for me on the ground.
But perhaps professional help would prove redun¬ “I have tried to avoid this,” he continued. “I really have.
dant. Perhaps, I thought, wistfully, with similarly for¬ It’s the last thing I want, I assure you. But, since you’re
tuitous seating arrangements over a course of, say, flve sitting next to me, it’s as well you be forewarned.”
to six flights (I barely resisted turning to the Filipino Now that I had taken my first proper look at him I
and awarding him a smile), I would no longer feel such saw that he was in his late 20s or early 30s, about ten
horror of my fellow man whenever entering an airport. years younger than myself. Like me, he had mestizo
Food was served. After I had flnished, I unpacked blood. But whereas I could pass for a European - a
my headset. Addled with the touch-sensitive screen Spaniard, perhaps, or a Cypriot - his own features
before me, and watched Shakespeare in Love. By the were predominantly Asian.
time the film had ended, I almost felt relaxed. I pulled This, I thought, is my reward for overconfidence. But
out my pocket edition of Swift, leafed through a few I refused to relinquish hope. He might, after offering a
pages, and then, tiring more quickly than usual of the simple explanation for his strange outburst, assume
Dean’s acerbic insights, tucked it away amongst the his former reticence, and I might be left in peace to
flight magazines. shrink back into the covert of my inner self But if he
The lights were dimmed. I reclined my seat, did not, I would, I knew, while not wishing to say or do
removed the headset, placed it on my lap, leant back¬ anything to encourage his conversation, have to
wards and closed my eyes. And all was done without so humour him. I could not afford to seem rude. I just
much as a murmur being exchanged between myself prayed that he might not be as crazy as some of the
and the passenger next to me. Englishmen I had had to endure, the race of psychos of
In the darkness, I thought of my farm in Bataan, which he threatened to be an honorary member.
and of Gloria, who would be meeting me tomorrow “I feel I should also issue some kind of warning to
evening at Ninoy Aquino International Airport. She the lady on my right,” he said. “But she’s Chinese, and
disliked waiting in the arrivals area amidst the crush from her linguistic struggles with the flight crew, I
of those anticipating the homecoming of maids, would say that she understands very little English. I’d
drivers, nurses, construction workers and other balik- warn the whole plane, if I could. I would tell you all to
bayans. But my flight had taken off on time; she stay in Dubai and not join the connecting flight to
shouldn’t have to wait long. And then, after a four-to- Hong Kong and Manila. I would tell you that if you did
five-hour drive, we would both be home. you would all die. But would anyone believe me?” He
paused, as if expecting a reply. How anyone could have
I felt a hand on my knee. summoned up suitable words to calm, dismiss or con¬
I opened my eyes. Looked down. There it was, all front him, was beyond my imagining.
right. A hand. On my knee. I did not try. Instead, I gave a non-committal shrug.
I looked askance. The Filipino met my gaze, a finger His eyes twinkled the more, the brown irises, at close
held up to his lips in the universal sign for silence. The quarters, revealing themselves to be splintered with
man’s eyes twinkled with good humour, enlivening an amber. “No, of course not. No one would believe me. I’d
otherwise impassive face. I was reassured. The all-pur¬ be considered mad, which is perhaps how you, even now,
pose, generic madman familiar to me from previous choose to judge me. A psychotic, you think, yes? One of
flights always seemed to possess eyes that glinted with those people who behave so oddly once they get inside an
qualities characteristic of an alpha-male puffed up airplane. My friend, I understand, I understand.”
with a vast and nauseating degree of self-satisfaction. Against my will, I spoke. “How But the rest of the
I nodded, half rising, assuming that he simply wanted sentence died at the back of my throat. His intuitive
to get up and use the toilet. I felt his hand increase its grasp of my state of mind had my thoughts racing so
pressure, and I was forced back into my seat. He leant far ahead that language could not, for the moment,
towards me. possibly catch them.
“I do believe,” he said, his mouth no more than six “There is something in you that He gave a little,
inches from my right ear, “that I may not be able to almost imperceptible shake of his jowls. “Let’s just say
complete my journey.” He spoke a soft, lazy American- that I do not believe you would betray me. It’s irra¬
accented English with a fluency and timbre that would tional of me, I guess. But you are a Filipino, are you
not have sounded out of place in an Ivy League gradu¬ not, pare? I believe you can be trusted to keep what I
ate. His clothes, I noticed, though casual, were expen¬ say to yourself Perhaps listen to what I say with an
Richard Calder
understanding, a sympathy, that I would not get from a next to someone for whom concrete had been his life’s
foreigner? If you can’t, then, well, I might be detained, work and deepest love. And on a non-stop 16-hour trip
I suppose. Perhaps even arrested. And though I’m to the Far East I had found myself struggling to meet
beginning to fear that I’ll not complete this flight, I his enthusiasm. Now I found it was easier and less
must make the attempt. There is still a chance that I’ll painful to simply tell the truth.
live long enough to find and kill my mother and father.” “I have a farm,” I said. “I’m not a landowner, of
That’s it, I thought. All hope gone. After all these course.” I gave a nervous laugh, the sort that on other
years, I had found myself next to the crazy of crazies, occasions would give my interrogator the green light to
no bore, no oaf, no barking drunk, no honorary mem¬ start waxing abusive. “Foreigners can’t own land in
ber of the fabled race of madmen, but the aeroplane the Philippines. But I rent a piece of farmland. In
psycho par excellence. One who had an uncanny Bataan. Near Mt Samat. It’s an odd business for an
insight into my own anxieties, to boot. Perhaps the bet¬ outsider to be involved in, I admit, but
ter to prey upon them. Before I could complete my somewhat self-apologetic
Did I get some kind of prize? explanation of how I carved out a precarious existence
I swallowed hard and then inclined my head. It was in his country, the Filipino resumed his monologue. I
a gesture infused with enough ambiguity to imply that would normally have been grateful for such indiffer¬
I had perhaps misunderstood him. ence. But not tonight. Tonight, the lack of curiosity
I glanced down. His hand was still on my knee. It awarded my private life served only to disturb me, like
glinted in the shadows and communicated a coldness the discovery of a particularly unsettling and disso¬
through my trouser leg, as if it were made of steel, or ice. nant passage in a piece of piped music that I had hith¬
“Very soon,” he went on, a trace of a smile enlivening erto regarded as utterly predictable.
his face in the same way that the eyes had loaned it It was at this moment that paranoia might have
their own, temporary vitality, “very soon the replication proved my salvation. If, upon hearing what he had
will begin. And this time it will prove unstoppable. I next to say, I had got up, found a flight attendant, and
meant to free myself. To go home and destroy the ones reported that there was a potentially dangerous situ¬
who’ve brought me to this pass. Who have made my life ation in the offing, I might have made it to Manila in
a hell. But over the course of the last few hours - just one piece. Instead, I submitted, and let his words wash
after dinner, in fact - I have felt the dog pack once over me, even though I felt I was sure to drown. Fear
again rise up within me. The evil spirits that have had begun to work its paralytic magic.
been with me since birth. They no longer call me mas¬ “Unlike most people, I remember my birth. I remem¬
ter, those dogs. They’re angry, I can tell. Angry that I ber it because it was unnatural. My mother, frustrated
no longer let them off the leash. Angry that I no longer by her husband’s impotence, had taken a lover and
set them loose upon the world. They mean to escape. been careless enough to allow him to inseminate her.
To finish with me. To destroy me and move on.” For as long as she could, she kept the shameful secret
The thin smile had been unwavering. It was also to herself At last, her husband, discovering her infi¬
oddly infectious, and I found, to my annoyance, that I delity along with her by now obvious perinatal condi¬
was smiling back. “I see,” I said, my larynx a little tion, forced her to abort the child. The back-street
revivified as I fought to discipline my mouth and rid quack who tore me from my mother’s womb after a
myself of my simpleton’s grin, “yes, yes, I see.” tenancy of just over seven months wrapped me in lint
“But perhaps I’m mistaken. Perhaps you’re not trav¬ and old newspapers and took me beyond the city lim¬
elling all the way. I’d pray to God it were so if I didn’t its. And there he buried me in unhallowed ground. I
know that God had stopped his ears to me.” remember because my spirit refused to leave its half-
“But I am,” I said, “all the way to Manila.” Ah. He made body. I remember because my life had been pre¬
had asked me my destination. The conversation was at served by the intervention of a multitude of multd and
last following a more traditional course. He would now, mo-mo: demonic spirits that became one with me in
doubtless, tax me about how I made my living, and the limbo that my soul then inhabited. Not the Limbus
much else besides. At least I hoped he would. I had infantum, but the limbo reserved for children who
suddenly grown nostalgic for the common-or-garden have been cursed and rejected by their parents: that
intrusiveness I had suffered on so many other flights. other borderland of Hell that we seldom hear men¬
Not so long ago, when questioned about how I made tioned, the Limbus satanum. I remember. I remember
my living, I would have said I was in concrete. Con¬ it all. I remember because I am impakto.”
crete, its manufacture, sale and distribution is, I have
found, an extremely potent conversation killer. I had Impakto. I had heard Gloria tell of the impakto. It was
deployed this falsehood with moderate success until I a folk legend. Its roots, I would guess, were animistic,
had had the embarrassing misfortune to be seated but it had currency throughout the modern-day Philip-
December 1999
pines, where Catholicism had accentuated the myth’s gave way to a stertorous drone. Whatever unspeakable
resonance and potency. Popular Catholicism regarded dreams might be playing inside his head, I took comfort
abortion, not merely as immoral and irreligious, but as that he seemed unlikely to wake for some hours,
possessing occult dimensions. It was then that I became aware of the smell that
He continued. No more than a heartbeat or two had had begun to emanate from his pores, as if his body, in
interrupted his flow. “For 29 years I have been unable deep sleep, had relaxed sufficiently for it to release a
to excise that memory. No matter how far I’ve run, it miasma until then contained by flesh, muscle, sinew
follows, relentless. And believe me, my friend. I’ve run. and sheer will. Unlike the noises he made, it por-
Asia, the Middle East, Europe, Canada, the States.” tended something more horrible than another round of
The smile widened, and I felt a vertigo, as if I were speechifying; it suggested that I didn’t know the half of
about to fall between his lips and into that blackness it; that something was lurking just beyond my ken,
circumscribed by an ellipsis of bright enamel. “All my something out of focus, but strangely familiar. My
adult life has been spent in the States. I’ve done well paranoia had, by now, been fully restored, and however
there. I can’t deny it. An impakto has certain advan- much I might try to calm myself and mutter quiet
tages over other people. He’s a warrior, and he cuts exhortations to rationality, I was no longer in a mood
through the competition like chaff. But success has to think of getting that “professional” help I’d earlier,
been commensurate with the growing sickness of my in a moment of misplaced optimism, promised myself,
soul, a sickness that has made me less than human. No; I was now convinced of the old saw that paranoia
The legions of the damned require some payment for is a pretty rational explanation of the world. Perhaps
their services. And of late, their demands have become the only useful one there is.
quite extortionate. They’ve taken enough of me, I fig- Cautiously, I sniffed at the air, and then sniffed
ure. They’ve been dining off me piecemeal for nearly as again. The smell wasn’t exactly an offensive one, but
long as I can recall. No more. I intend to put up a neither was it pleasant. It reminded me of damp vege-
fight.” He paused, and the twinkle in his eyes became tation and rotten fruit. On another, more auspicious
self-reflective. “I disappoint, you see,” he continued, occasion, it might have summoned up pleasant memo¬
speaking more quietly now. “They think me ungrate- ries of trekking through rain forest, instead of calling
ful. Despite all they’ve done for me, I have refused to to mind a Manila land fill and the attendant scent of
be a slave to their will. And now, with my determina- feculence, poverty and life’s slow, painful decay,
tion to return to the Philippines and destroy those who Hours passed. I kept my vigil. The smell grew stronger,
made it possible for them to initially possess me, my and I marvelled that no one else seemed to have noticed
determination to have, at last, my revenge, I have it. A localized epidemic of congested sinuses? Or per-
incurred, it seems, their unassuageable hatred.” haps Arab mores discouraged the acknowledgement,
“I see,” I mumbled, once again stunned into banality, blatant, subtle or otherwise, of offensive body odours?
“I see, I see.” As my nostrils prickled in rancour at the smell’s
I wasn’t allowed an opportunity to say anything increased pungency, the air about me would sometimes
more. The Filipino removed his hand from my thigh, appear to shiver. Turbulence could not account for the
averted his gaze and, with the same peremptoriness phenomenon; the flight was smooth. Besides which, it
with which he had chosen to entrust me with his tale, was not only the air that was affected; the faces of the
reclined in his seat and almost immediately passed into passengers in the rows in front and behind shivered too.
a state that seemed like that of one who was so They seemed to have had something superimposed
exhausted by worry as to be past caring. His eyelids upon them: other faces, ghostly, indefinable. After a
clenched, and then, as he exhaled what seemed an inor- rapid blinking of my eyes, the illusion would disappear,
dinate amount of air, relaxed like unscrolled parchment When the pilot announced that we were about to
weighted at the edges, with only little fits and quivers make our descent, the Arab occupying the window seat
indicating the unruliness that lay beneath. to my left raised the shutter, and dawn light flooded my
For me to likewise relax was, of course, out of the section of the cabin. Dazed, with one hand held up to
question. I lay back, every fibre of my body drenched shield my eyes from the sun, I looked about me. The Fil-
with adrenaline. ipino sat as he had throughout the latter half of the
Throughout much of the remaining flight to Dubai I flight, though his head now lolled in my direction. White
would shoot the Filipino an occasional glance to try to crescents showed beneath his eyelids, and though I
establish whether his passivity was real and not feigned. could not lip read, I could swear his tremulous mouth
If he did indeed sleep, then each modest grunt or cough formed the words “Losing control, losing control... ”
he made seemed to threaten a return to consciousness. We made a routine landing. Though it is common for
and kept me as much on my guard as if he were only the majority of passengers to vacate their seats before the
resting his eyes. After a while, these hems and hacks seat-belt sign has been turned off, I was up and reaching