Tabaqui then takes a look at our appearance, nods to himself, apparently having come to some sort of conclusion, and says, “They’re all downstairs, by the way. Shark’s preaching again, aren’t you interested to find out what that’s about?”
Tabaqui has been in his Button Period ever since the last masked ball. He’s covered in them, as iridescent and multicolored as an acid trip. The permanent collection of the button museum has as its backdrop a scarlet tailcoat with wide lapels (that way there’s more space for them), but the jeans are relatively undecorated (or it would interfere with crawling), which vexes Tabaqui so much that, once ensconced in place, he flips the coattails to the front and starts fidgeting, trying to catch the reflection of the electric lamps in the countless pieces of shiny metal, and he’s not content until he resembles an eye-watering imitation of an oversized Christmas-tree decoration.
“Who was that you were just squabbling with? Not Catwoman, by any chance?” Mermaid asks Tabaqui as she pulls the wet, mud-encrusted sweater off me.
“Of course not. With Catwoman it’s never that trivial. And who said I was squabbling? I am simply keeping up the fighting spirit in some people. Providing both human contact and an occasional shake-up to those in need of it. It wouldn’t do to sink into benign complacency and lose the edge only because you couldn’t find anyone to tick you off at the right moment.”
“So who were you ticking off?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Tabaqui sticks the earpiece back in and chooses a wire from the bundle. “You do agree with the principle, though, don’t you? Calling the party, over.” He scowls into the mic. “Feral Wolfdog here. Talk to me, my mysterious and lonely friend!”
The buttons shine next to the rainbow tangle of the wires. I glance past them to the open doors of the cabinet, to the carefully folded sweaters, shirts, and vests. I can’t complain of a particular paucity with regards to my wardrobe, but to find something in there that would be uncommon enough to be inaccessible to someone with a desire to imitate it suddenly seems a challenge. Almost enough to consider becoming a human display case, in the manner of Lary or Jackal. Then at least I can be sure of being unique in my ugliness.
Mermaid reads my thought again.
“I can make you a vest out of colored rope. I have this huge skein, grass-green. Unless Catwoman’s kids got to it.”
Tabaqui seems to be listening in, even through the earbuds. He turns sharply around and stares.
“Keep it down,” I say to Mermaid. “Or you’ll end up doing ten of them, and then sewing a hundred buttons on each. And that would be child labor.”
Tabaqui leans precariously in our direction and cocks one ear. Mermaid grabs the closest shirt and drapes it over my shoulders.
“I think I better go to our side and see if there’s anyone lying there prostrate with a heart attack,” she says with concern. “Some people have really peculiar notions of charity.”
“Sure, go ahead. I’ll go down to the first, find out what’s the buzz. I’ve been separated from society ever since this morning. Also from food and cigarettes.”
Blind, already in a fresh tee, stuffs a pack of Camels into my breast pocket.
“What was all that long talk with Ralph about?” he asks. “Inquiring minds want to know.”
“Potential runaways. People being slowly squeezed out of the House. He’s got them all on a list, those who’d like to bolt as soon as they can.”
“Those counselors sure like their pieces of paper,” Sightless One says, astonished. “Could it be that they all suffer from memory problems?”
He picks up his backpack, also emaciated.
“Let’s go listen to Shark. He’s been at it for half an hour already, must be just about getting to the point by now. And he’s got a whole mound of paper.”
“Could you take that thing off my head, please,” I say. “It’s starting to get on my nerves.”
Blind sweeps the bandana off me. Mermaid is waiting for us outside the door, peeking in when she thinks we’re not looking. Rat is still on the floor, face buried in her hands. She doesn’t seem in any hurry to leave.
“Oh, hello,” Jackal breathes beguilingly, hugging the mic. “Could this be number fourteen oh-one? It has been a while. How are you doing, oh-one? I’ve missed you. Hope the feeling is mutual?”
Blind and I appear in the lecture hall and immediately find ourselves in the thick of action. Shark, sweating from heat and indignation, shouts into the mic that periodically cuts out, the audience is partly listening, partly dozing off, and the aisles between the rows closest to the lectern are strewn with paper, as if someone clumsy was trying to film a snowstorm.
