The PowerBook Read Free

life. The tulip began to stand.
    I looked down. There it was, making a bridge from my body to hers.
    I was still wearing my tunic and the Princess could not see the leather belt that carriedeverything with it. All she could see, all she could feel, was the eagerness of my bulbs and stem.
    I kneeled down, the tulip waving at me as it had done on the hillside that afternoon I cut it down.
    Very gently the Princess lowered herself across my knees and I felt the firm red head and pale shaft plant itself in her body. A delicate green-tinted sap dribbled down her brown thighs.
    All afternoon I fucked her.

terrible thing to do to a flower
    Night. I’m sitting at my screen. There’s an e-mail for me. I unwrap it. It says—
    That was a terrible thing to do to a flower.
    I tap back, ‘When you came on-line you said you wanted to be transformed.’
    ‘Into a flower-fucking Princess?’
    ‘Well, your alias is Tulip.’
    ‘That wasn’t my idea of romance.’
    ‘Was it romance you wanted?’
    ‘Doesn’t everyone?’
    ‘Download
Romeo and Juliet
.’
    ‘Teenage sex.’
    ‘
Wuthering Heights.
’
    ‘The weather’s awful and I hate the clothes.’
    ‘
Heat and Dust.
’
    ‘I’m allergic to dust.’
    ‘
The Passion.
’
    ‘Never heard of it.’
    ‘Oh well …’
    ‘Come on, this is your job. You say you write stories. Write me a story.’
    ‘Freedom just for one night, you said.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘All right, but if I start this story.…’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘It may change under my hands.’
    The screen was dimming. The air was heavy. You and I, separated by distance, intimate of thought, waited. What were we waiting for—fingers resting lightly on the board like a couple of table-turners?
    You said, ‘Who are you?’
    ‘Call me Ali.’
    ‘Is that your real name?’
    ‘Real enough.’
    ‘Male or female?’
    ‘Does it matter?’
    ‘It’s a co-ordinate.’
    ‘This is a virtual world.’
    ‘OK, OK—but just for the record—male or female?’
    ‘Ask the Princess.’
    ‘That was just a story.’
    ‘This is just a story.’
    ‘I call this a true story.’
    ‘How do you know?’
    ‘I know because I’m in it.’
    ‘We’re in it together now.’
    There was a pause—then I tapped out, ‘Let’s start. What colour hair do you want?’
    ‘Red. I’ve always wanted red hair.’
    ‘The same colour as your tulip?’
    ‘Look what happened to that.’
    ‘Don’t panic. This is a different disguise.’
    ‘So what shall I wear?’
    ‘It’s up to you. Combat or Prada?’
    ‘How much can I spend on clothes?’
    ‘How about $1000?’
    ‘My whole wardrobe or just one outfit?’
    ‘Are you doing this story on a budget?’
    ‘You’re the writer.’
    ‘It’s your story.’
    ‘What happened to the omniscient author?’
    ‘Gone interactive.’
    ‘Look … I know this was my idea, but maybe we should quit.’
    ‘What’s the problem? This is art not telephone sex.’
    ‘I know, and I said I wanted the freedom to be somebody else—just for one night.’
    ‘So let’s do it.’
    ‘I have an early start tomorrow. I should wash my hair. I really think …’
    ‘It’s too late.’
    ‘What do you mean, it’s too late?’
    ‘We’ve started. We’re here.’
    ‘But where are we?’
    ‘You tell me. Where are we?’
    ‘Paris. We’re in Paris. There’s the Eiffel Tower.’
    ‘Yes, I can see it too. It’s evening, the sun’s going down …’
    ‘And we’re in Paris …’

NEW DOCUMENT
    We were walking together on the broad cobbled path that banks along the Seine. Behind us, the Friday-night cars were queuing in a wrapper of brake lights and exhaust haze; the toxic red of hometime.
    On the path as we walked, your sweater tied round your shoulders, compact joggers, moving faster, swerved to avoid us, while lovers, moving slower, stopped in our way, paused to light each other’s cigarettes or to kiss.
    We were not lovers.
    Then.
    The evening was stretching itself. The day’s muscle had begun to