It was signed with a lipstick imprint and a cartoon drawing of a tubby little heart.
Snow pocketed the pills. He was still getting dark webs in the corners of his vision from the previous night. Distended or broken capillaries, he figured. But there might come a time when a blue pill would seem an appealing option. Feeling vacant, lethargic, he rode the elevator to the lobby, staring at his reflection in the mirrored walls, and went out to the deserted pool area and lay back in a lounge chair. A thin layer of clouds diminished the stars. The rectangle of placid aquamarine water lit by underwater spots and surrounded by empty white chairs complemented his mental state. He closed his eyes and thought about Yara, Guillermo, Tres Santos, redemption, but arrived at no clean answer to the question they posed. Now that he knew something, it seemed he understood less than before. One thing was clear, however. None of his passions were American and perhaps he was no longer an American but a citizen of some international slum, a country of losers without borders or passports or principles. The idea that he had wasted his life brought forth a self-pitying tear. He supposed everyone felt this way at one time or another, even people with lofty accomplishments to their credit, yet they had some basis for redemption, a foundation upon which to build a new life, whereas he did not.
‘Hey!’ said a voice above him.
A skinny kid of thirteen or fourteen in baggy swim trunks and a navy blue T-shirt peered at him through strings of long brown hair. ‘Is it too late to go in the pool?’
‘I think so, but I don’t know for sure,’ Snow said. ‘You could dive in and find out.’
‘My dad’ll kick my ass if I get into trouble.’
‘You down here with your folks?’
‘My dad and his girlfriend.’ The kid flopped onto a chair beside Snow – his lugubrious, bored-shitless look was the same that had dominated Snow’s expressions during his teens, and he had a cultivated flatness of affect that armored him against potential human interactions . . . and yet he appeared to want company.
‘How’s that going?’ Snow asked.
‘It fucking sucks.’
The writing on the kid’s T-shirt was in small lower-case white letters and read:
i went with my father to south beach, the home of wicked, beautiful, diseased women with unnatural desires, and all i caught was this lousy t-shirt
‘I like your shirt,’ said Snow.
The kid glanced down at his chest and sniffed. ‘My dad had it printed. He thinks it’s funny.’
‘But you don’t, huh? Why you wearing it?’
‘Because if I wear it long enough, like every day, it’ll start pissing him off.’
The water in the pool lapped against the tiles, the distant surf hissed, and a breeze stirred the chlorine smell.
‘How come you were crying?’ the kid asked.
‘Huh?’
‘You were crying when I came over.’
‘Oh . . . yeah.’
‘How come?’
‘I was remembering this old movie.’
‘Which one?’
‘Bladerunner.’
No sign of recognition registered on the kid’s face.
‘You ever see it?’ Snow asked.
‘Nah. What’s it about?’
‘These people, they’re called replicants. They’re clones, they only have a lifespan of a few years. Twelve, I think. Which makes them angry. They do all this dangerous work in outer space, in the far-flung corners of the galaxy. They fight humanity’s battles. They’re better than people. Stronger and better-looking. So like I said, they’re angry, and a few of them return to earth to try and learn if they can get an extension. Have a longer life, you know.’
‘What happens to them?’
‘I don’t want to spoil it for you.’
‘I probably won’t ever see it. I’m more into games.’
‘They die,’ said Snow. ‘There’s no cure, no remedy, and the bladerunners, these special cops who hunt runaway replicants, they kill them.’
The kid thought this over. ‘You’d think they’d name the movie after the replicants.’
‘Yeah, you’d think. I guess Bladerunner sounded sexier.’
‘It’s kind of sad,’ said the kid after a few beats. ‘But I wouldn’t cry about it.’
‘The saddest part is the replicants aren’t just stronger and better-looking. They live more intensely than regular people, even the cops that shoot them.’
‘I knew a guy who got shot by the cops once, but he was an old sleazebag.’ The kid stripped off his shirt. ‘Fuck it!’
He did a racing dive into the pool and swam furiously yet efficiently, showing off several strokes, with an especially strong butterfly. Snow refocused on his troubles, but his thoughts kept returning to Rutger Hauer, tears in rain, and when Daryl Hannah killed the toymaker. Romantic bullshit. He wondered if the book was better. The kid hauled himself out of the pool, dripping, and sat down, gathering his hair into a ponytail and squeezing water from it.
‘You didn’t stay in long,’ said Snow.
The kid acted surlier than he had before swimming, as if his nifty strokes had proved a point. ‘I didn’t want to get caught.’
‘You’re a pretty good swimmer.’
‘I’m all right.’
He picked up his T-shirt and slung it over his shoulder, preparing to leave.
