The Artist Is Present (Marina Abramovic)
April 495 U.C., Heinessen
Although Lapp’s next leave was long in the future, Jessica had her mid-semester break a few months into Julian’s living with Yang. Julian did not have time off from school, so it would be impossible for the two of them to travel down to Thernussen, but Yang still felt like it was important for Julian and Jessica to meet each other.
He couldn’t quite say why he felt this way. The feeling was a complicated one, the kind of knot that only tightened when he pulled at one end of it. It was simple to say that Julian was now an important part of his life, and he wanted Jessica to meet him for that reason alone, but that didn’t scratch the surface of Yang’s thoughts. He and Julian formed a strange little household, still not quite comfortable after months together, and Yang wondered if Jessica’s presence might make it all click together that hadn’t before.
When he put it simply, it was a childish desire, one that made him sigh and shake his head at himself in the mirror. It was silly for him to want to make a family, if that was what he indeed wanted. In his own childhood, his parents had divorced shortly after his birth, so early that he had never remembered a time when they were together, and he had lived with each in turn until they were both dead. Although Yang had loved both his parents, and his childhood had been relatively happy, it was the definition of a broken home. And what he had with Julian—or with Jessica and Lapp for that matter—was no more normal. But there was a part of him that still wanted the concept, no matter how impossible it may be.
He wanted peace. Even if he and Lapp were soldiers, and Julian was a war orphan, the idea of having something in his life that was not war was appealing. He supposed that was why most people got married and had families—to make a little corner of the universe their own. Yang would never voice these thoughts aloud to Cazerne, the only man he knew who did seem to have a proper family, because he was sure Cazerne would not see it the same way, or would laugh at Yang for putting it in such childish terms. But that was the way Yang saw it.
He called Jessica after dinner one day, sitting in the living room while Julian washed the dishes. Yang kicked his feet up onto the coffee table and stretched back onto the couch’s arm as he listened to the phone ring on the other end of the line.
Jessica picked up quickly. “Hello?”
“Hi, Jessica,” Yang said.
“Oh, Yang—” she said. There was a smile in her voice, but something else, too— low and quiet over the phone. “I didn’t expect a call.”
“Are you busy?”
“No, getting ready for dinner.”
“I had a quick question. I won’t keep you from your meal.”
“You already ate?”
“Julian cooked,” Yang said. “He’s very good.”
“I’m jealous.”
“Well that’s what I called about.”
“Hm?”
“You’re on break in a few weeks, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“I was wondering if you’d like to come up to Heinessenpolis. Just for a little while, if you’re not doing anything else. I’d love for you to get to meet Julian— and I’d like to see you.”
There was a moment of silence from the other end of the line, one that Yang hadn’t expected at all, and he immediately understood that something, somewhere, had gone very wrong. Jessica didn’t need to say anything. But then she did. “Sure,” she said. “I can get a hotel up there.”
“A hotel?” Yang asked.
“Well, your guest bedroom has Julian in it now, doesn’t it?”
“I— yes,” Yang said. “A hotel.”
“We should talk in person,” Jessica said. “I’ve been wanting to, but I wasn’t sure if I should wait until Jean—”
“Will you come?”
“Yes,” she said. “I do want to see you.”
Yang nodded, but she couldn’t see him over the phone, so there was silence over the line for a minute.
“I should go finish cooking my dinner,” Jessica said.
“Alright.”
“I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
“Okay.”
“And I’ll book a train ticket.”
“Jessica—”
“Goodnight, Yang.”
“Goodnight.”
And then she hung up. Yang dropped the phone onto the side table and slumped back on the couch, pressing his head into the cushions and pointing his face to the sky. His eyes were closed, but he heard Julian’s footsteps.
“Is everything alright, sir?” he asked.
“Yes,” Yang said shortly. “Did you finish your homework, Julian?”
“Yes, sir.”
But Julian got the hint and left Yang alone.
Jessica arrived on a late train, and took a taxi to Yang’s house. She rang the doorbell while Julian was setting the table for dinner, and he hastily dropped the plates he was holding onto the table so that he could go answer the door. Yang picked up the plates in his stead and arrayed them— one, two, and three— next to the napkins and glasses. He listened to Julian’s slippered feet skid across the floors of the house, and the door swing open, and Julian’s sweet voice say, “Good evening, Ms. Edwards!”
“Good evening,” Jessica said. “You must be Mr. Minci.”
“Yes, ma’am. But everyone calls me Julian.”
She laughed. “Of course. Where’s your guardian?”
“Over here,” Yang called. He couldn’t quite bring himself to go out to the hall to see her, but he had to say something. She followed Julian through the house, perhaps pretending for Julian’s sake to be less familiar with the layout of the building than she was.
As she stood in the doorway, Yang didn’t look up at her until he had finished nudging the plates around the table with one finger, and then he didn’t have any excuses anymore.
She had her overnight bag dangling from her arm, despite Julian’s itching to take it, and she wore a light blue dress, one that swished around her knees when she moved. Her hair curled around her cheeks, and when their eyes met, she smiled. She might have said his name, but there was a fuzzy roar in Yang’s ears, one which disconnected the sound of her voice from any meaning— the noise only registering half a second after he saw her lips part.
He must have only looked at her for a moment or so before Julian’s voice broke the spell and freed him. “Can I take your bag, Ms. Edwards?” Julian asked.
“Yes, of course, thank you, Julian,” she said, and turned to hand it over, which let Yang look away, back to the oven. He could pull the dinner out.
“How have you been, Jessica?” he managed to ask as he put on mitts and took the lasagna out of the oven.
“I’ve been alright,” she said. Her voice had a touch of melancholy in it. “It’s been a busy semester so far. How are you?”
“Fine,” Yang said. He deposited the dish carefully on the table. “Do you want wine? I have a bottle.”
“No, thank you,” Jessica said. “It wouldn’t be fair to Julian, I think.” She tried to laugh, but it came out wrong.
“It’s alright,” Julian said. “I don’t mind.”
“Soda is fine,” Yang said, though he suspected that the wine might have helped.
Since Julian was putting her bag away in the hall, Jessica got out the soda from the fridge. She stopped when she saw what was pinned to it with a magnet, like an insect to a corkboard. There was the old photograph, the one that had once adorned her own fridge, of her and Lapp and Yang at their graduation. The photograph was creased from where it had once been folded inside Yang’s pocket, and faded from years of the sunlight coming in through the kitchen window and striking it.
“Have you always had this here?” Jessica asked.
“Yes. You just never noticed it before,” Yang said.
“You’re a more observant person than I am.”
Julian came back into the kitchen and looked between the two of them. Yang suspected that in terms of observance, he had them both beat, and it added an extra, uncomfortable layer of being watched to everything Yang did. Julian waited in the doorway until Jessica had poured the sodas, then sat down.
“Did you cook this, Julian?” Jessica asked as Yang served up slices of the lasagna.
“Yes, ma’am,” Julian said.
“It looks incredible.”
“Thank you. I hope you like it.”
“I’m certain I will.”
Julian beamed at the attention and compliments, and Yang was grateful to him for being the subject of the conversation, so that Yang didn’t have to think about himself.
“Yes, Julian’s been the greatest help to me, these past couple months,” Yang said. “I don’t know how I lived without him, all these years.”
“I hope you’re not overworking him,” Jessica said with a laugh as she dug into her food.
“Am I, Julian?”
“No, sir!”
“Good.” Jessica gave him a conspiratorial grin and mock whispered behind her hand. “But if he is being too lazy, you let me know, and I’ll yell at him for you.”
Julian smiled, but then looked at Yang with a slightly guilty expression.
“He can tell me himself,” Yang said. “I’m not completely incapable of daily living. No matter what certain people might tell you.”
“Well, Julian, promise me that you won’t let your guardian take advantage of you.”
“He’s not,” Julian protested. “I like to help.”
“This is delicious, by the way,” Yang said, and Julian smiled at him. “At the very least, I’m very grateful for you.”
“Where did you learn to cook?” Jessica asked.
“My grandmother taught me,” Julian said. “But I don’t know very much. I just follow recipes.”
“That’s still more than most people ever manage. You have to have a good intuition for what the recipes mean— and then you can learn to improvise, and add your own flair. It’s like music, in a way.”
“Is it?” Julian asked.
“Well, they’re both art,” Jessica said with a laugh. “I’m less of a cook than my partner is.”
Julian seemed to have a revelation about what was happening here, and looked between the two of them uncomfortably.
Yang took a few more bites of his food. “How is Jean?”
“He’s fine,” Jessica said. “Has he written to you recently?”
“Sure,” Yang said. “Was there something in particular he was supposed to say?”
“No.” But she looked down at her plate, and then over at Julian, fishing for another topic of conversation. “It must be nice, having another person in the house,” she said.
“Well, I invited you here so that you wouldn’t have to be lonely down in Thernussen on your break,” Yang said.
“Yang—”
They both looked away from each other. In the empty space, Julian said, “It’s been very nice living with Commodore Yang. I like it a lot better than the group home I was at before.”
Thank you, Julian , Yang thought.
“Yes, I can imagine,” Jessica said. “Having a family— that’s important.”
This made Julian’s cheeks turn red, and he smiled uncomfortably, and said nothing. So, it was Yang’s turn to rescue him.
“I think Rear Admiral Cazerne was right when he said that it would be good for both of us,” Yang said. “I didn’t believe him at first, but he was right.”
“It sounds like he’s often right,” Jessica said. “But do people often take his advice?”
“I don’t, unless he twists my arm,” Yang said. “But he’s very used to doing that.”
She laughed. “I would like to meet him properly.”
“I’m sure you will,” Yang said. “Jean knows him, so sooner or later you’ll all be in the same place.”
“I think Jean is still disappointed that he wasn’t able to go to his wedding.”
“It wasn’t that exciting,” Yang said. “And I think most of the bride’s family hates me, since I accidentally stole the spotlight, with the reporters crashing the party.”
“You have the devil’s luck,” Jessica said, sounding more vehement than the idea of paparazzi chasing Yang to Cazerne’s wedding really deserved.
“Says the person who hung up my clippings from Pretty Woman .” That was a low blow, even if it had been intended as a joke, and it made Jessica flinch. There was no need for her to say that she didn’t do that anymore. She hadn’t for years.
“How long have you been living with the Commodore, Julian?”
“Since December,” Julian said.
“And before that, you were in a group home?”
“Yes, ma’am. For two years.”
“That’s a long time.”
“If I live to eighty, only one fortieth of my life,” Julian said. It was an incredible way of conceptualizing it, unexpected for a twelve year old. It had the unfortunate effect of reminding the two adults that those two years had been one sixth of his life so far.
“You must be very good at math,” Jessica said. “Is it your favorite subject?”
“No, ma’am,” Julian said.
“Oh, really? What is, then?”
“History,” Julian said confidently.
“Oh, like Yang,” Jessica said. “Did you know, he studied history in school?”
“Until they took it away,” Yang said. “He knows the whole story.”
But Jessica regaled Julian with a tale of protesting the closure of the history department, and her current campaign to petition the Thernussen city board of education to increase the music program budget in all the secondary schools, which had recently been cut. It was an easy topic of conversation, especially since Julian didn’t play an instrument, and Jessica took the opportunity to cajole him into joining his school’s choir or band. The subject could carry them on infinitely, if they had to, but it only had to last until the end of dinner.
Afterwards, Yang and Jessica stood in the living room while Julian cleaned up.
“You’re making him do all the work,” Jessica said.
“I’d be a bad host if I didn’t entertain you.”
“I don’t need to be entertained,” Jessica said. “I’m happy to see you. And it was good to meet Julian.”
“Will you stay the night?” Yang asked.
She shook her head silently.
“Okay,” Yang said.
“Let’s go outside,” Jessica said. “I’ll call a taxi.”
“I can drive you—”
“I’ll take a taxi.”
She collected her light jacket and her overnight bag from the hallway closet, and the two of them headed outdoors. Yang was barefoot on the grass, damp with dew. Jessica hailed a taxi on her phone, though it would be several minutes before it arrived, giving them space to talk.
Yang looked up at the stars.
“Jean told me about the photo,” Jessica said. “I didn’t know if he had mentioned it to you.”
“No,” Yang said. “He didn’t. Who showed it—”
“His CO,” Jessica replied.
Yang winced. “Is he—”
“He has to be careful. And you.”
“I’m sorry,” Yang said.
“It’s alright,” she said. “It’s you that’s in danger of having your life ruined.”
“I don’t care about me,” Yang said.
“I do, though. And so does Jean.”
“So— what?” Yang asked. “This is for my own good?” He wanted to say that this hurt far more than whatever fall from grace the fleet could engineer for him if he stepped out of line. She knew that, though. She must. It was written on her face, under the yellow glow cast by the streetlights.
“You have a family now,” Jessica said. “I don’t know, Yang.”
What was there to know, he wondered. He wished he could say that he didn’t understand, but he did, far too well. He wanted to ask if it was her idea or Lapp’s, but either answer would be too difficult to bear. He stood in silence and looked up at the stars.
“In a few years, maybe—” she began.
“When we’re out of the fleet,” Yang said.
“Then it won’t matter anymore,” she agreed.
The headlights of the driverless taxi turned the corner of Yang’s street, and the vehicle came to a stop at the bottom of his driveway.
“Yang—” she said.
“Jessica…”
They both reached for each other at the same time, and they found each other. Yang’s hands were on her arms, hers on his waist. They looked into each others’ eyes for a moment, then Yang kissed her. She melted against him, and he stroked her hair back from her ears until she pulled away. It took real effort for her to remove her hand from his chest, and her voice broke when she said, “Goodbye, Yang.”
She turned away and got into the taxi before Yang could say anything else. It pulled away from the curb, and then she was gone.
Julian hadn’t been watching the conversation to see her go, because it took him another ten minutes before he came out to find Yang standing on the lawn, still staring up at the stars.
“Is everything alright, sir?” he asked.
It wasn’t, but Yang shrugged.
“Is she gone?”
“I don’t think she’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Well,” Julian said, and he seemed to bolster his own resolve as he did, taking a deep breath. “You’ve still got me, sir.”
Yang looked away from the stars, back down at him. “Yeah,” he said. “You’re right.”
He reached out and wrapped his arm around Julian’s childish shoulders, pulling him close. Julian stiffened for a moment, but then smiled. “Let’s go in, sir. It’s cold.”
August 795 U.C., Near the Iserlohn Corridor
There were not many benefits to being sent back to the front, but there were a few. The one real worry that Yang had— care of Julian— was assuaged by the Cazernes, who happily took him in for the time when Yang headed out to the front with the Second Fleet. It was nice to get away from the pressures of Heinessen once again, and the lingering feeling of useless horror that came from being in an office while listening to the news of men dying. And, best of all, his post in the second fleet, against all odds, was shared with Dusty Attenborough. Both of them were staff officers aboard the flagship, and had plenty of time to spend together, in the days of travel before their fleet made it anywhere near the enemy.
Attenborough and Yang quickly found that the best place to have a private conversation was in one of the less used wardrooms on the ship, the one that none of the other officers liked to debrief in because it was barely larger than a coat closet. And if they were there well into third shift, when most of the first shift crew had gone to bed and only a skeleton selection of staff remained, they were less likely to be bothered. Even if they didn’t start out the conversation planning to need privacy, it was such a rare and precious thing aboard ships that it seemed like a little deserved luxury to allow themselves to seek it out.
Yang sat on the table in the wardroom, legs crossed, while Attenborough tipped his chair back. They were drinking Attenborough’s booze: nothing good but better than nothing. Yang wasn’t drunk yet, and he didn’t particularly want to be, so he was drinking the cheap vodka and orange juice pilfered from the dining hall slowly.
“I saw all your fanmail when you were opening your messages, earlier,” Attenborough said. “I can’t believe you’re still getting all that.”
“It used to all go through the fleet publicity office instead of coming right to me,” Yang said. “I’m not sure what changed, but now I get too much of it.”
Attenborough laughed. “Someone probably found and posted your personal routing code on a messageboard, rather than having it all go to ‘The Hero of El Facil, care of Fleet Command.’”
“Or whoever is in charge of publicity is trying to remind me to keep my image clean, so I don’t disappoint my legions of fans.”
“Hm,” Attenborough said. “Possible. Do you read any of it?”
“Absolutely not.”
Attenborough laughed. “You’re disappointing your fans.”
“Good. The faster they all get over seeing me as a picture of a hero, the better. Me not answering their mail is the gentlest way that can happen.”
“I think a less gentle way is more likely to do it,” Attenborough said. “I don’t think I’d really expect a response if I was a hero worshipping fangirl.”
“Everyone’s trying to keep me from falling from public grace,” Yang said, and the bitterness came out in his voice, which made Attenborough raise his eyebrows.
“Who’s everyone?”
“Cazerne. And that reporter from Pretty Woman who crashed Cazerne’s wedding—”
“She’s helping you? I find that hard to believe.”
“She wants to continue selling magazines with my face in them.”
Attenborough laughed. “Right. And who else is helping you stay in the proper spotlight? I don’t think I make the list.”
“Lapp and Jessica.”
There was a moment of silence between them. Although Yang hadn’t actually discussed any of his relationship with the two of them with Attenborough— it seemed callous to do so— he was smart enough to understand everything in Yang’s tone.
“So, you figured things out with them?”
Yang finished his paper cup full of booze. “Sure.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright.”
Attenborough reached over and tugged the paper cup out of Yang’s hand, refilling it with more vodka and juice. Yang took it back, and stared down into it.
“I’m tired of this,” Yang said.
“Tired of what?”
“Everybody cares about the Hero of El Facil more than they care about me. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but— I don’t know. I’m not the person in the photos. I can’t be.”
“It couldn’t possibly be everyone.”
“It’s Jessica and Lapp.”
“And your kid?”
“Well— no, him, too.” That was unfair to Julian, but it was still the simplest way of expressing the imbalance of their relationship.
Attenborough was silent for a second. “I don’t, you know.”
Yang looked down at his feet, then glanced over at Attenborough’s wry smile. “Yeah,” he said, “I know. Thanks, Dusty.”
Attenborough gave a jaunty little salute. “Of course, Senior Yang.”
Yang laughed at that.
September 795 U.C., Heinessen
After his deployment was finished, Yang walked down the steps of the military shuttle onto the tarmac shoulder to shoulder with Attenborough. After so long in space, the real, hot glare of the sun’s eye was almost unbearable, despite the weather that he knew to only be the fresh and mild air of spring.
As Yang walked past the rows of saluting soldiers, he glanced to his other side and saw the press corps lined up in a mirror image of the soldiers, recording and photographing and occasionally shouting questions at the officers at the head of the line. The light was so bright, and the reporters all had their hats or hands shielding their faces from the sun, so he couldn’t distinguish if he knew any of them. Patricia McCall might have been there; she might not have been. It didn’t matter. Yang had to keep his hand pressed to his forehead in a salute; the soldiers had to pay appropriate respect to command; the reporters had to photograph.
One thing broke through the script. Off in the distance, up on the viewing balconies for families watching their loved ones arrive and depart, a woman’s voice carried through the air.
“Yang!” Jessica Edwards yelled. “Yang!”
He tipped his face into the sun, looking for her in the glare. She was so small, off in the distance, only visible because of her frantic waving. Jean Robert stood next to her. Their pair of blond heads caught the light, held it, like a reflection of the sun. Perhaps they were both smiling, but Yang couldn’t see.