Engineman - Eric Brown [88]
Bobby laid his head against the rest, his expression as contented as Mirren had ever seen it. His right hand tapped a beat - not in time to the concerto that filled the room now, but to the mantra of yesterday.
A low red light burned in one corner, illuminating a sparsely furnished room: a bed, an armchair and vid-screen; shelves full of music discs and many images of Buddha. The walls were draped with tankas and depictions of scenes from the Bardo Thodol. It was more like a far eastern shrine or temple than a bedroom in Paris.
Mirren knelt before his brother and tapped his moccasin - their pre-arranged signal - then took Bobby's thin hand.
Bobby smiled. "I thought you would come," he said, his words protracted. He would hear them for the first time in a little under twenty-four hours.
He had moved his head, was staring over Mirren's right shoulder. "Were you in the hall earlier?"
With the forefinger of his right hand, Mirren traced a symbol on his brother's palm: Yes-
"Then why didn't you-?"
Mirren felt a constriction in his throat. He adjusted himself so that he was sitting cross-legged on the rug, and so that coincidentally his face was out of Bobby's line of sight. He hesitated, then signed: Sorry.
"You should have let me know it was you, Ralph," Bobby admonished.
You know how it is. He was glad, then, that he had to sign to make himself understood: he felt sure that he would have been unable to speak.
Bobby twisted off a wry grin. "Too busy even to make the effort to communicate, Ralph?"
You know that's not true! The exclamation mark was a vicious stab of his forefinger in the middle of the open palm. Mirren moved his head back into his brother's line of sight, so that tomorrow Bobby would be able to see his anguish.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean that," Bobby said. "Anyway, how's work?"
It's work. I shouldn't complain. He was aware of how clichéd the dialogue was, like that of two strangers - which, he had to admit, they almost were.
He looked down at Bobby's hand in his, his brother's thin fingers, the bitten nails. He was gripping Bobby's hand with unnecessary firmness.
"Ralph...?" Bobby's voice was gentle. "What's wrong?"
Mirren didn't respond, other than to hold his brother's hand all the tighter. He realised that he was crying, tears running down his cheeks.
"There's so much I want to tell you, Bobby." He stopped himself. This was the coward's way of unburdening himself - to confess all now, leave Bobby to hear everything tomorrow.
"Ralph, please... What is it?"
Mirren signed on Bobby's palm, We haven't spoken in a long time.
Bobby shook his head. "No, we haven't."
I mean, really spoken - about what matters.
It was a while before Bobby said, "Ralph?"
Mirren stared at his brother's cupped palm, considering his words. Is your meditation going well?
Bobby gave a quick grimace. He was always reluctant to discuss his belief with Mirren. "You know..."
No, I don't! He cuffed his eyes dry, trying to find the right phrase to ask Bobby how he meditated.
Tell me!
"Well..."
Tell me how you meditated, Bobby - the emphasis made by extra pressure. What do you experience when meditating?
Bobby stared into space, seeing whatever his eyes had looked at yesterday. How difficult it must be for him, Mirren thought - to have only the sense of touch with which to understand this situation.
"That's difficult, Ralph. I mean, how would you tell a blind man how you see? I'm sorry - I didn't mean to..." He hesitated, shrugged. "I relax, empty my mind, let everything just drift away, forget myself. I concentrate on nothing. Then... then I'm in contact with the continuum, Ralph. It's almost as if I'm fluxing again, though with not quite the same rapture-"
But how is that possible?
"I honestly don't know. I think it has something