Fractals

You poor dear. You haven't done your market research, have you? Or you'd know exactly what your wealthy clientele think of nature. It's abstract art to them. There probably isn't a blade of grass left in all of Hong Kong. Most of those people wouldn't know what a tree was if one grew through their penthouse windows and spat oxygen all over the walls.

No matter. In another few years, neither will we.

***

"Emergency Admissions."

"Uh, yes. I was wondering if you've had—if there was an assault victim admitted over the past day or so."

"I'm sorry sir, you'll have to be more specific. Assault victim?"

"Yes, um, has someone been admitted suffering head injuries, an oriental—"

"Why?" The voice acquires a sudden sharp edge. "Do you know something about an unreported assault?"

"Uh—" Hang up, you idiot! This isn't getting you anywhere!

"Actually, it must have been reported, they were loading him into an ambulance. He looked pretty bad, I was just wondering how he was doing."

Yeah. Right. Very credible.

"I see. And where did this happen?"

"North Van. Up around, um, Cumberland I think."

"And I don't suppose you know the name of the victim?"

"Uh no, like I said I just saw them taking him away, I was just wondering—"

"That's very... kind of you, sir," she says. "But we're not allowed to disclose such information except to family—"

Jesus Christ, woman, I just want to find out how he's doing I'm not interested in stealing national secrets for Chrissake! "I understand that, but—"

"And in any event, nobody answering your description has been admitted to this hospital. Cumberland, you said?"

Maybe they're tracing the call. It would make sense, maybe they've got a standing trace on emergency hospital lines, I bet a lot of people do what I'm doing, I bet—

"Sir? You said Cumberland?"

I disconnect.

***

Joanne stirs as I slip into the darkened bedroom. "Anything interesting on the news?"

"Not really." No reports of unknown assailants on the north shore, anyway. That's probably just as well. Wouldn't a dead body at least warrant mention?

I feel my way to the bed and climb in. "Oh, The Musqueam Indians are planning this massive demonstration over land claims. Roadblocks and everything." I mould myself against Joanne's back.

"They must hate our guts," I say into her nape.

She turns around to face me. "Who? The Musqueam?"

"They must. I would."

She makes a wry sound. "No offense, lover, but I'd be very worried if too many other people thought the way you did."

I've learned to take such remarks as compliments, although that's almost never the way she means them. "Well, if getting home and culture stolen out from under you isn't grounds for hatred, I don't know what is." I hold back a moment, decide to risk it. "I wonder if that makes them racists."

"Ooh. Shame on you." She wags a finger that I can barely make out in the darkness. "Victims of racism can't possibly be guilty of racism. Why, you'd have to be a racist to even suggest such a thing. Excuse me while I call the Human Rights Commission." Instead, she kisses me. "Actually, I'm too tired. I'll let you off with a warning. G'night." She settles down with her back to me.

But I don't want to sleep, not yet. There are things I have to say aloud, things I can't even think about without invoking some subtle, chronic dread. I don't like keeping things from Joanne.

Three days now and the silence spreads through me like gangrene.

But I can't tell her. It could ruin everything. How much am I supposed to gamble on the hope she'd grant absolution?

"I saw some graffitti today on Denman," I try aloud. "It said White man out of Vancouver. Canada now for Asian Peoples."

Her back moves in a gentle respiratory rhythm. She mumbles something into her pillow.

I ask: "What did you say?"

"I said, there's assholes on all sides. Go to sleep."

"Maybe it's true."

She groans, defeated: if she wants any sleep tonight she'll have to hear me out. "What's true?" she sighs.

"Maybe there isn't room for all of us. I was on the bus today, it was full of all these Chinese and I couldn't understand what any of them were saying—"

"Don't sweat it. They probably weren't talking to you."

No, I want to say, they don't have to. We don't matter to them.

Our quaint values and esthetics can be bought as easily as the North Shore. Don't I have a right to be afraid of that? Can't we fear for our own way of life without being racist? Aren't we even allowed to—

—beat the fuckers to death with our bare hands—

There's something else here.

It's lying in the dark between us and it's invisible, Joanne could roll over right now and she wouldn't see it any more than I can, but somehow I know it's looking right at me and grinning...