BioShock Rapture

Frank Fontaine took his seat near the stage in the small auditorium of the Footlight Theater. He was here to see Sander Cohen’s new cabaret production, Janus—Cohen promoted it as “a tragic farce about identity.” It was actually an oddball collaboration between Sander Cohen and the surgeon Steinman. But Fontaine’s mind was elsewhere—he was remembering something Ryan had said. Even ideas can be contraband.

Settling into the plush seat, Fontaine smiled to himself. Ironically, Ryan had sparked an idea with that little phrase. Spread the right subversive belief, it could turn this place on its head—could dump Ryan at the bottom, lift Frank Fontaine to the top.

Feeling overfull from his dinner, a little drunk from the wine, Fontaine glanced over his shoulder at the audience crowding into the small theater. There was Steinman, the surgeon, overdressed in a tuxedo, playing “author.” There was Diane McClintock, standing at the head of the aisle, in the doorway; she wore a low-cut red-beaded black frock, carried a matching beaded purse. She was frowning, looking at her diamond-crusted watch. Waiting for Ryan, no doubt—she was Ryan’s fiancée as well as his receptionist.

Two seats were empty right next to Fontaine—this might be a great opportunity. He stood up and waved to Diane, though he scarcely knew the woman. He pointed to the two seats, smiling. She glanced through the door to the lobby, then nodded briskly, her lips pursed, and hurried down to him. “Mr. Fontaine…”

“Miss McClintock.” He stepped aside so she could take a seat. “I’ve saved a spot for Andrew too,” he said.

“If he even shows up,” Diane muttered, sitting down. “He’s … always so busy.”

He sat beside her. “I understand someone might be announcing a wedding soon…?”

She snorted. Then remembered herself. “Oh—yes. When he … decides the time is right, we’ll make the announcement.” She opened her purse. “You wouldn’t have a cigarette … oh bother … I seem to be all out.”

Fontaine noticed that most of the purse was taken up by a book. “I do have a cigarette for you,” he said. “Complete with Fontaine Futuristics matchbook. Very stylish.” He held the case out; she took a cigarette, and he lit it for her.

“You’re a lifesaver…”

“Looks like you’re carrying books around in that thing—does it make a better weapon that way?”

She blew smoke at the ceiling. “No need to be dismissive of a woman’s desire to learn. I’m reading a Fitzgerald novel from the ’20s. The Beautiful and the Damned.”

He thought, What could be more fitting? But, winking at her, he said, “One thing I’m not dismissive of is a woman’s desires.”

She looked at him with narrowed eyes, as if thinking of bringing him up short. Then she gave way to a titter of laughter. “Oh gosh. That kinda remark, ‘a woman’s desires’—makes me feel like I was back working the club where Andrew and I met…” She glanced over her shoulder. “You haven’t seen him here, have you?”

“Afraid not.” Maybe he ought to let her know, obliquely, that he might be available to squire her if Ryan gave her the brush-off. She could be useful. “If he doesn’t show up, I’ll heroically offer you my arm, ma’am, and escort you from here—all the way to the moon and back.”

“It’s even farther to the moon than it used to be, down here,” she said. But she seemed pleased.

“Me, I kinda hope he doesn’t show up…”

She glanced back at the door again and then stepped on her cigarette as the curtains parted. “Show’s starting,” she sighed.

It took him a moment to recognize Sander Cohen, as made up as he was—and with another face entirely slung on the back of his head. Cohen was dressed in skintight Lincoln green, had an absurd mustache and beard, and a feeble little bow and arrows slung over his shoulder. He pranced to mandolin music in front of a painted forest backdrop and broke into a song about how he “loved to be in the Greenwood with my merry men, oh, my gay and merry men, my oh so happy men, and then came along that dreadful bitch known as Maid Marian, and OH how paradise has fallen…!”

His “merry men,” looking more like nearly naked Greek wrestlers, came dancing out of the wood, waving arrows and singing the chorus with him.

Oh Jesus wept, Fontaine thought.

Then the King of England came along, wearing a lion-blazoned cloak, a gold-painted crown, and a red beard that was coming loose from his chin. He brought Cohen to his castle and set him to be the new Sheriff of Nottingham; “Robin Hood” lost little time in assassinating the king—merrily stabbing him to the beat of a song—and then switching the face on the back of his head around to the front. The mask resembled the king; he dragged the body off and took the king’s place.