Grey

visible than usual, and I swore it looked like a nearly microscopic, flat-fell seam with two lines of stitches.

His steel-grey eyes met mine and held, and while I sensed the same serene I always did, I felt something else, something much darker. My tailor was originally from the slubs, and although we had never spoken about it, he must have struggled, and I began to think that he had suffered much more than I had ever imagined, and probably experienced far worse than I.

Turning, he pointed to the box and said, “The shirt and tie.”

From a separate compartment, Pheff took out a beautifully ironed shirt and an exact copy of Love Alone. Mr. Cedar presented them to me. I wanted to thank him, not just for what he had done today, but for all he had done for me, but it was so much, I couldn’t fathom how.

Pheff helped me slip on the pants, the jacket, and knotted the tie. The jacket felt wider and heavier, but much like any of my others. When I ran my hand over the slightly rough material, the orange turned russet as though my body heat, my presence, or maybe my intentions tarnished it.

“A firm impact,” whispered my tailor, as he mimed a punch at my shoulder.

Then, bowing his head, he quoted, “Texture of her overcoat.”

His quote felt jarring—Pure H, grey satellite wools, coffee shops, and silence music seemed, like a distant and forgotten land. And the image that accompanied that copy was strange. A man and woman, both in elaborate clothes—a frock and vest suit for him, a high-necked ball gown for her—sit on a small, odd, two-horse carrousel. He faces right, she, left. From their somber, even perturbed expressions, they have been arguing. I assumed, and Joelene agreed, that they were no longer in love, but I couldn’t imagine that was how Mr. Cedar saw it. Maybe he thought the couple on the carrousel was as doomed as Nora and I.

“We’re ready!” said the director, into one of his screens. “He looks great! Yes… we’re coming down. Get ready to start the show!”

The director and I rode down in a different elevator and he talked on his screens the whole time. “Tell Hiro we’re ready. Check on the speaker power… they were running the line to the grid.… Are all the channel guests ready? Talk to Thomas and make sure he doesn’t go over—”

“Can I ask you a favor?” I tried to interrupt.

“No! Don’t look there. I put more vacuum bulbs behind the station… Clear out the backstage and…” He turned to me. “What?”

“My advisor.” With the show about to begin, I worried that I wouldn’t be able to see Joelene again. “She was the one on the floor in the dungeon where you found me. It’s a mistake that she’s there. Could you please get her released?”

His eyes searched my face, as if baffled. “I’ll try.”

“I’m counting on you,” I said. “Please remember.”

“Yes.” He smiled for a moment but still looked confused.

When the elevator doors opened, we were beneath the balconies, opposite the stage. From here, I could see over the crowd. The curtains were straight ahead. The air was dense with a hundred perfumes, the sticky sweet of fermented vegetables, vomit, and that ever-present sweaty, PartyHaus desperation. Different parts of the crowd were chanting, as though they wanted things to begin.

“You’ll walk out,” said the director, pointing. “Straight down this aisle. Just go down and take a bow. Wave and smile. That’s your father and the vips’ table down front. You sit and watch the show. Just clap and cheer. We’ve got cameras on you, so no nose picking. Before it’s time for the wedding, I’ll come and get you, so don’t worry.” Into a screen, he said, “Cue the girls… music… lights… announcer… and go!”

“And now,” said a tremendous, deep-throated house voice, as a distorted drum began pounding, “it is my super-amazing and spectacular honor to welcome you to the thirty-third annual RiverGroup product show and Ultra extravaganza. As you all know, recent events have tried to cloud our future, but tonight’s show will obliterate those clouds, all doubts, and all eardrums within a seventy-five-mile radius!”

The audience howled. Nearby, I heard someone shout, “Execute my ears!”

Meanwhile, along either side of the aisle, hospitality girls all covered with sticky and shiny liquids and semisolids lined up on either side and saluted. A thousand colored spotlights fluttered over them, like glowing confetti. From high above, tendrils of violet smoke poured down like a million octopus legs. Four feet above the crowd, the phalanxes of smoke were chopped up by the frenzy of the crowd.

“Go!” said the director. “Go on!” He nudged me.

“Don’t touch!” I said, afraid he would set off the suit. I stepped forward and a blinding light hit me in the face.

“There he is, Ultra children of pain, the famous, sexy, funny, exciting, clever, pliable, willing Michael Rivers. The greatest dancer in the history of the universe has on a fabulous suit that is just like the famous suits in HammorHeds’Adjoining Tissue. Let’s scream our throats raw!”

The crowd rose and cheered, and with the light in my eyes, it was just like when I had danced. The energy spurred me on as I continued down the aisle.

“There’s a rumor,” continued the voice, “that he’s going to get married tonight, but will he really end the drenched and debauched dreams of a billion insanely horny girls? You’ll definitely want to sit through the exciting product upgrades and important business announcements to see if it all happens right here before your eyes!”

At the end of the aisle, stood Father, cheering. He wore a dark blue short-sleeve jacket, made of something that looked as stiff and luxurious as recycled cardboard. The orange shirt beneath it had huge, bloated sleeves that hung like semi-deflated pumpkins. At his wrists were enormous cuffs and a dozen black snaps. Around his neck was a wad of rhubarb-colored paisley fabric that wanted to be a collar, turtleneck, and tie. It spilled down his front in a floppy, unappetizing mess. As for pants, he wore iridescent blue bell-bottoms with too-tight dark orange shorts over top. The front zipper was open and what amounted to a large, white, codpiece hung out. So swollen and fat was it, he appeared to be giving birth to two honeydews and a plumber’s wrench. His wig, a stringy, purple thing, was long and dangled around his ears and down his back. Scattered in his hair were white blobs—mushrooms or marshmallows, maybe. Whipping his arms at the crowd to spur them on, he looked like a flightless, technicolor pirate.

For a moment, I considered rushing him now and blowing us up. The problem was, too many innocent people were near, including Walter Kez—or whatever his name was. I wished I’d asked the director about the wedding! I hoped it was still supposed to be like the choreography I had seen before, where Father and I were alone on the stage. That would be the moment.

I stopped behind an empty chair. The crowd hadn’t let up at all.

“Bombastic fantastic!” enthused Father, over the roar. “I got you a Pound outfit like mine, but that’s the greatest suit I’ve ever seen in the history of my life!” Turning to the others he said, “Look at him! It’s like Adjoining Tissue! Remember that epic?”

“An all-time classic,” screamed Jun.

“We’re going all out!” said Father. “You have to hang with us now! You can’t leave when he’s getting Ultra again!”

Around the circular, shiny ultramarine table, where rest bowls of puffy snacks, bottles of wine, programs, and what looked like motorcycle helmets, sat twelve others. Starting on my left and going counterclockwise was an empty chair, presumably for Elle after the wedding, then Walter and his uncle in his beetle-green suit and necklaces.

The rest I recognized like I might have great aunts and uncles. Back when the rages were happening, I saw them every night, but now, it was just once a year at the product shows. Jun, the CEO from BrainBrain, who had become a soft, rounded little man, wore a black suit covered with little mirrors, green makeup, and vampire hair. He smiled at me and the flesh around his eyes turned wrinkled and dry. To his right were the LETTT brothers. Both had muskrat faces—all pointy noses, toothy mouths, and bushy blond eyebrows. Their matching articulated aluminum shirts made them look like robot cliches. Looped around their necks was a half a mile of orange string. Beside the aluminum twins was the president of iip-2. Instead of Ultra, she seemed to think she had become a teenager again and was dressed like an Om Om girl in a brown suit with her lips cut open. The next two wore striped jackets, plaid shirts, and awful nonwoven ties. They had on so much crusty purple makeup they looked more like two freshly dug-up beets. I didn’t know who they were or what company they represented. Finally, the man in the paisley robe, neon shirt, and a frilly tie that looked like soap suds, was CEO of SLT. Ten years ago he had had an aneurysm at the PartyHaus and since then never missed an opportunity to tell me we were alike.