Fonding and Permission Finale

There was a peal of laughter from his cousin Jim. Felix's sister Carol, still at school, was recounting how she and Heather had sneaked into the art college building the other night. Apparently the burglar alarms were defunct. According to Heather, the building was haunted by a frightful ghost called 'The Mutter' ... He shook his head at the nonsense as though to deter a fly.

"Felix?"

He looked up. His father was calling to him across the conservatory.

"There's a phone call for you!"

"Oh, damn." Felix got to his feet. "Who is it?" A guess was building, part wish and part fear. No time to prepare.

His father stood waiting, receiver in hand. "He says 'Oh damn'," he relaid with scientific scruple.

"No, I don't," Felix lied irritably as he took it. "Felix Dwight here."

"Felix!" She sounded shocked. "Pardon me, dear. Your voice is so like Matthew's these days. Felix, this is Sibyl."

He breathed a sigh of anticlimax. Sibyl Pewcheer and her husband were old friends of his parents. No drama had ever touched him through them.

"Felix, sorry to bother you. Matthew and I are looking for someone to babysit Katie on Monday."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes. We're meeting the altar boys and can't really drag her along ... Would you have time?"

Felix supposed he did. "I ... can do that. When do you need me around?"

"We're leaving at six. Could you make it by eight so she's not alone for too long?"

"That should work out."

"Thank you, Felix. I'm hiding the key under the usual flower pot, okay?"

"Right."

"She'll probably sleep through it all, but, you know, just in case she bawls the house down ..."

"No problem. I'll ... hold the rafters."

"Thank you, dear. There'll be potato gratin in the fridge if you feel peckish."

"Thanks." She must have forgotten about his veganism. "I'll be all right."

Being useful felt steadying. He had spent childhood afternoons at the Pewcheers' house wolfing down cookies and testing their patience with frenzied piano playing and sneak attacks on their faith disguised as casual conversations. Ten extra years had hardly changed his views about gods but rather more about the merits of scoring points under the pretext of enlightenment. He thought he owed them a favour or two. And an evening by himself to mull things over sounded like a blessing just now.

***

"Do you smoke?" asked Dordaneh Ebrahimi.

Theresa shook her head. Speaking was still painful. Short sentences were in order, or none at all.

"Or inhale other pollutants regularly?" the doctor suggested. "Say, do you work at a filling station?"

She shook her head again, then remembered art class. "I use volatile glue ... Why?"

"Probably no cause for concern, but the Ültensack test for lung carcinoma looks somewhat similar to yours."

Theresa raised her eyebrows and looked Ebrahimi straight in the face, trying to guess the expression under her mask. But the steady gaze might equally well have been accompanied by a smile or a grimace.

"I think it highly unlikely," said the doctor swiftly. "You strike me as exceedingly healthy overall."

"Good," said Theresa, somewhat but not entirely relieved. "Thank you."

"Do you see these concentric circles?"

Theresa looked at the magnified section of her lung ultrasound Ebrahimi's finger was pointing at, trying to substitute her imagination for the doctor's expert eye. The fog obscuring one of her ribs seemed to feature several small, transparent grey circles, each with a dense, white patch in the middle, rather like tiny negatives of the moon's shadow on Earth ... And something clicked. She looked up at the doctor.

"Penumbra-virus?"

Dr. Ebrahimi nodded approvingly. "Or so I suspect. This is the typical pattern it causes. Have you been to Italy or the Iberian peninsula lately?"

"In July."

"That could well be enough. Penumbra-viruses often have incubation periods of several months. The symptoms tend to break out when the immune system has a low moment. So other diseases may act as catalysts, as can emotional strain or prolonged exposure to the cold ... Would any of that apply to you?"

Theresa nodded grimly and raised two fingers, hoping that this didn't amount to an insulting hand gesture in Iranian.

"We should take a saliva sample to be certain," Ebrahimi went on. "But for now we should treat penumbra as our working hypothesis." The doctor paused and watched her for a moment. "The good news is that the disease progresses fairly mildly," she continued. "Its course roughly resembles a hybrid of flu and cold and most people recover within two weeks. And you will normally only become infectious once the disease breaks out."

Theresa pondered this. "So ... if I felt fine until Saturday, I probably didn't infect anyone on Friday?"

"Probably not. The virus is confined to the bloodstream before it breaks out in the respiratory tract, so unless someone has touched your blood since July, they ought to be fine."

"Ah ..." Theresa wasn't sure how to ask her next question, but there was little to be gained by evading the facts ... "What about, well ... lovers?"

"Have you seen any since falling ill?"

Theresa shook her head. "Not since Friday." She felt herself smile a little in spite of the small fireballs in her throat and conscience.

"I see." Dr. Ebrahimi paused. "Have you shed any blood in the last few days?"

"Not in the last two weeks," said Theresa briskly.

"And I take it you made sure to be clean?"

Theresa gave another emphatic nod.

"Then your partner is probably fine."

"Okay." Theresa allowed herself a chuckle of relief, even though it bit her throat like acid. "What should I do?"

"I suggest you stay at home for at least a week, preferably two. You can expect to be contagious for about a week and then to take another week to recover fully. The throat pain often takes longest. I can prepare your sick note. While the infection lasts, you should avoid large groups and close contact, particularly with men. As you may know, research indicates that the virus is more dangerous for them."

She nodded again. She had been bracing for this since realising what those circles meant.

"What about tennis?"

"I should go easy on your circulation for a few days. After that, a little exercise may help you recover. When you do play, make sure to keep your distance. Most of all, listen to your body. If it complains, stop."

***

"Hey Felix."

"Hey Anthony."

"Mind if I sit here?"

"Yep. I mean no, do."

"Thanks." Anthony Summerdale put down his bag and sat himself next to Felix. "Damn. I hope I didn't screw up," he added nervously.

"Screw up what?" But recollection kicked in before Anthony could answer. "Oh, your portrait?"

Anthony nodded tensely. The portraits. Felix had half forgotten his efforts to take impressionism to Albrecht Dürer, but Anthony was right. It was Monday and they were due back today. He remembered a time not so long ago when this would have been a cause for squirms of the gut, but all he felt now was faint interest. He thought he had done well, but if Dr. Velcôte disagreed, it added little to his troubles.

He waited as his lecturer walked among the tables, handing out revamped Rembrandts and Picassos to their anxious creators. A swell of talk began to rise in her wake and a loud growl of Yeah, man! from the furthest told the world that Darren had scored some kind of pass.

Felix saw Dr. Velcôte smile over her glasses as she approached him and knew all would be well or at least not too bad. He looked down. 9 out of 10. That would do nicely. He took a minute to appreciate his work and her critique, hearing Anthony gasp with relief on his left, then put it in his portfolio, taking care not to give it any dog-ears.

There was a clatter to his left. Anthony really was a nervour wreck. He had managed to empty his pencil case all over the floor and was now hurrying to clear up the mess. Felix rose and knelt down beside him to help. A torn strip of paper had drifted a little to one side and landed right under his own table. He glanced at it, while raking up pens and pencils with his hands, then slowed dramatically as he read the words on it.

"Whats up?"

But he hardly registered Anthony's question. His limbs had come to a standstill. He was barely aware of anything but the little white shape resting on the floorboards. How half a sentence could mean so much ...

'at fonding-and-permission.com.'

"You all right?"

He made a grave decision. Anything in Anthony's pencil case was Anthony's until proven otherwise. And if he'd had it for a few weeks, any doable damage was probably done. Denial was pointless.

"Yep," he said with determined nonchalance and continued to tidy up the debris, casually collecting the piece of paper with the rest. He handed everything back to Anthony.

"Thanks." And to his relief, Anthony put everything in the pencil case without further inspection and closed the zip.

As the minutes passed with the discussion of their portraits' success, Felix felt a strange mixture of escape and pursuit. He thought he had dodged Anthony's suspicion and was glad of that, but there was little room for gratitude among his galloping thoughts. Just when you thought you had the measure of things ...

He had a new, fast-growing bunch of questions and it sat in his chest about as snugly as an epileptic porcupine. Anthony had this bit of paper. How had he come by it? Had Theresa given it to him or slipped it into his bag? Had he seen her site? Had she let him in? Did they know each other's online identity? What had they done together? Might it be his hand inside her shorts? And was any of it his business?

He could ask Theresa, when they talked, whether she knew who had found her. They simply had to talk soon. He pulled his phone out of his bag, meaning to message her. The battery was almost flat. He looked about in consternation for a socket, but realised his charger was lying at home in his bedroom. Damn everything and its dog ...

'Hey Tessy. Phone dying. Are you better? Where can we meet? Miss you, Felix'

He typed at breakneck speed, trying to choose the right words in spite of it, then pressed the send button and just had time to see his message delivered before the screen went blank. No answers from that alley before he got home, then.

Should he be upfront and ask Anthony? That might lead to all sorts of trouble, depending on what they had been doing and whether they both realised who the other was. No, he had to talk to Theresa first. That was where his loyalty lay ... But he had little patience left. He wanted this ever-growing ignorance over as quickly as possible. Was there a way to find out more without lying or rousing Anthony's suspicion? He sat there and stared at Albrecht Dürer as the class wore on, thinking, thinking ...

He looked surreptitiously at Anthony's fingers, trying to estimate their width, whether his hand might be that paw ...

"Shit," he said loudly and suddenly, seizing the opportunity to release some tension.

No-one answered him.

"Damn," he insisted, half turning towards Anthony. "Bloody-- ..."

"You need any help?" Anthony asked.

Felix chuckled. "Thanks. I'm not sure. I think I'm missing something important." Not a lie. It seemed all but certain.

"What kind of thing?"

"Hm ... it's a bit complicated. Someone might have taken some stuff of mine." Still not strictly a lie.

"Huh ... Who?"

"Remember," he looked around to make sure Alice was nowhere near them. "Remember ... what's-her-name ... Theresa?"

"Er ... her with the hair-bun?"

"Yeah, her. She was sitting next to me last week. I think she might have taken some stuff I really need." Still true, he thought. Independence was stuff, wasn't it?

"Things of yours?"

"Mmm", said Felix non-committally, hoping Anthony would take it as a Yes. "I really need it," he repeated, hoping to steer Anthony's thoughts the right way. "Do you have a clue how I can contact her?" he added, when no reply was forthcoming.

"Nope." Anthony shook his head.

"Or know anyone who's more in touch with her?" Felix added desperately, hoping that his own connection with her hadn't done the rounds yet.

"No idea," said Anthony. "Sorry."

"Damn it," muttered Felix, just to make sure. "Well, let me know if you think of anything." He gave Anthony as searching a glance as discretion allowed, but he saw no signs of caginess, let alone dishonesty.

"You could ask Velcôte," Anthony suggested.

"I suppose ..."

"You need to borrow anything?"

"No ... no, thanks." Felix trailed off, somewhat calmed. It sounded as though Anthony had no interest whatsoever in Theresa. If he truly had no idea how to contact her, then he didn't even know she and Alice were friends. But more importantly, Theresa probably hadn't betrayed her identity to him online. Of course he could have told her his name and guessed who Harvest Maiden Pushup was ... if she had even let him into her site.

Yes, had Anthony passed that test? He nearly asked the question out loud but caught himself just in time. Had he even got through her first row of defences and been allowed to see the content of her site? The answer to that would tell him all he wanted, if it was No. But how to get it unobtrusively? How could he test whether Anthony had seen fonding-and-permission.com without Anthony realising? What would someone who had seen it do differently? ...

Felix looked about for inspiration, looked down into his still open portfolio at Albrecht Dürer, whose long curls, not for the first time, made him think of Theresa's ... How strict Dürer's looked compared to Harvest Maiden's wild hair flying about her as she walked along that forest path ... And as his portrait and her site touched in his mind, a ludicrous long shot of an idea began to take shape.

People were walking about the classroom, standing at each other's tables, comparing their efforts and complaining about Dr. Velcôte's blatant double standards. No-one took any notice when Felix got to his feet.

The past few months had taught him to steer clear of Darren and Malcolm, so he did his best to pass behind them unseen, trying to glimpse their portraits. But their broad, powerful backs hid much of their table. Perhaps he could risk a peek over a shoulder ...

"Eh!" Malcolm must have sensed him. He turned aggressively in his chair. "Whatchalooginat?"

"Just browsing," Felix said airily.

"Wanna see some tits?" Darren said loudly. "Well, since you never get to ..." And he punched his portrait at Felix, who took a quick step backwards and tried to focus on it. It look as though Darren had reluctantly shrouded 'The Naked Maja' in the mists of Monet. So far, so good ...

Darren laughed. "Hot-ass bitch, right?"

"Probably about thirty-seven celsius."

"Had enough? Wanna jerk?"

"Thanks, I've got a couple."

"Felix likes his bitches, guys."

"Hur-hur-hur."

Felix walked circuitously back to his chair, then sat down and turned to Anthony.

"Did you see Darren's portrait?"

"Yeah," said Anthony. "Typical."

"What do you think?" Felix said. "Did she want it?"

"Who? What?"

"The Naked Maja. Did she want a nude picture of herself for the world to see."

"Huh ... no idea. Maybe ... Some women do."

"I mean," Felix continued determinedly. "What about her dignity?"

Anthony shrugged, seemed to think for a moment, then laughed tensely. "Well, maybe she thought she didn't, you know, need clothes to be dignified."

"Or what about her partner," said Felix, bells beginning to ring. "Don't you think they'd feel she'd, you know, broken a --a vow?"

Anthony thought for a moment. Felix waited, listening to his heartbeat. "Depends," he said, uncharacteristically sure of his words. "Maybe she never made the promises you think she's breaking."

"I guess," Felix said meekly. He knew where he had read those words before. Enough snooping, he thought, amazed at how well it had worked. Case closed.

***

The Pewcheers' sofas were so soft that lying in them almost felt like floating. A clock ticked dozily somewhere, but there was no sound from Katie's room. One quick peek through the half-open door had shown the baby fast asleep, pacifier and stuffed piglet in their proper places. Happy to keep that going, Felix had tiptoed back over the floor tiles in his socks, left all the lights off and resisted the lures of piano and guitar. Is was almost completely dark, but he knew his way by feel and had found his favourite sofa in its accustomed place. The air was warm over here, perhaps a little more than usual. And with his duty doing itself and a few undisturbed, comfortable hours at his disposal, here was a chance to tend to the broth bubbling in the middle of his mind.

He remembered the peace of mind he had briefly found at the Gelateria Valentino. It had felt like true progress. But looking at all those pictures had stirred things up from unsuspected depths and the discovery that Anthony, too, had been let into fonding-and-permission.com had unleashed new shockwaves. True, she seemed not to have told him who she was, but that did little to dampen his revived anxiety. Anthony was nice, of course. The admission was unduly painful and he was ashamed that it was. 'Is he nicer than me?' Felix wondered. He thought back to today's detective work and grimaced. 'I don't want to be a devious, manipulative jerk, do I? I want to be kind and honest and understanding. Yes, let's try to understand you, Theresa.'

Right. Why had she done all this? The obvious answer was the one he had been skirting; that she felt a sweet kick when stripping for strangers, when publishing a picture with someone's hand between her legs; that she was a sl-- He stopped himself. Even thinking that word about her in a dark room all by himself felt like a transgression. It was an insult and he knew it shot wide of her. She had been shameless, yes, but not indiscriminately ... He imagined trying to persuade someone that she had done this with dignity. It was a tricky sell.

'I have never made the promises they think I am breaking.' He had gratefully marvelled at those words, Harvest Maiden's eloquent, unrepentant defence. Now, seeing them from the other side, he was trying to excuse them.

But for all he knew, they were true. She had taken care not to promise him too much. They had set each other free, free to love anyone ... But his awakening still felt rude. He had never guessed how much had already happened. He should have asked, maybe, but he felt misled. He couldn't stop himself imagining time and again what might have happened between Anthony and her, how many others there might be ...

Yes, why hadn't she told him any of it herself?

Did she think her website negligible fun, something in the I-guess-I-did-that-too-category? He found that hard to imagine, given the effort it showed. Were embarrassment and caution on her part the culprits? Was she afraid of his reaction in spite of their agreement? That seemed more believable.

Or did she think it right to keep so big a thing to herself? Did she expect him to do the same, have adventures and keep them from her? She had said --twice-- that she wanted him to have his own freedom in return. You rarely said the same thing twice by accident. Did she think it would help him accept hers? Did she really think he would ever want that? ...

Fleetingly, he imagined it, imagined finding more unsuspected warmth in the cold, wide world. It would doubtless have felt a kinder place for it ... He had felt the cold more keenly again since his discovery.

Or, he thought, returning to Theresa's silence, did she still doubt that he deserved her trust, still not care deeply about his feelings?

He had waited in vain all afternoon for her answer to his last message, and thoughts banished at Valentino's were returning to fill the silence. What if Friday night had meant far less to her? It had quietly shaken the Earth for him, but suppose she thought of it as just another night with another man ... She had still not called him her boyfriend yet, had she? Oh, they had come close, yes ...