The dinner party table

  “I hope the traffic wasn’t too dense” George winked at Mustafa as he stepped into the entrance hall with the high ceiling. He was already being cheeky, because he had just had a shot of Tequila. He almost never drank alcohol but he had been jittery all day and his nerves were bottling, swarming, releasing, doing all kinds of things in his body. Darlene had shut him up with a finger of from the bottle she was using to make some Margaritas.

  What a dazzling gentleman Mustafa was. Contrary to a lot of men George had fancied or dated before, he wore clothes that were one size above his and made of heavy materials such as satin or cashmere, with the results that his outfits dropped on him, conveying an impression of tranquil, clean, unbothered strength, which was matching a lot of Mustafa’s core “That’s the first time I go to a dinner party getting picked up by a helicopter”

  “Come on in, everyone’s waiting for you”

  George entered first, doing his best to adopt a fresh eye gauging his surroundings and to imagine he was Mustafa, a non-mutant human, an extraordinary person but, compared to the local crowd, quite ordinary on paper. What Hobbes usually referred to as the reception hall was just a big oversiz bling-blingued dining room, with a table so stretched from one side to the other of the room that it was hard not to feel like, with only eight guests present, the place was very unpopulated.

  How did a man like Hobbes, the most anti social person George had ever met, keep designing buildings that could welcome large groups, his Lab station including a dozen studios snugged inside the earth, his table meant to sit thirty people? He possessed some a serious plethora of social contacts in his book, for sure, his public job forcing him to work along networks of politicians, press, researchers, military personnel, finance goons, bullshit ted-talkers, scientists, and he could dial all of them up and pack his chambers and leave no vacant seats around his turkey roast but that had never been something he did. He worked with those individuals but had never wished to turn business into friendships.

  This impulse to create spaces who could accommodate hordes of people must have dated from the time his deceased spouse, Daphne, had still been alive. Another question that plagued George and secretly bothered other members of the Team was how in the world a woman as sweet and distinguished, lovely as Daphne could have been interested in Hobbes. But everyone had secrets, and Hobbes’ most monstrous one could be that he was a kind and funny man. George almost choked at the thought, swallowed the wrong way from the glass of water he was using to sponge up the Tequila a little bit –pace yourself, my boy, he told himself.

  He rapidly felt reassured about the overall vibe of the dinner into which he was inviting his current significant other: underpopulated, yes, sounds echoing like in a cathedral, but the atmosphere was nice and the little gathering –little compared to the volume of the hall— was already buzzing with animation enough, people bringing the food and drinks, inserting such and such trays between plates and cups and around some various center pieces, dispersing bread baskets while joking, chattering, trading some weather talks with each other. Marlene was wearing a simple dress, just beige and unsophisticated, but stole all the looks, “here she is, Uberwoman” George elbowed Mustafa in the ribs, and they were quickly introduced.

  “Oh my god it’s a huge fan! I am an honor” Mustafa stuttered, “I mean it’s an honor! I am a huge fan of yours, I’m so sorry” He made a sound that George had never heard from him before. He squealed.

  Marlene grabbed his arm, “oh my god are you okay? Did I step on your foot with my stilettos?”

  “No madame” Mustafa looked intensely at her hand resting on his sleeve, his eyes dreamy, “I’m just, I’m just squealing”

  “Mustafa is happy to meet you” George removed Marlene’s hand and used a paper plate to fan his date.

  “Are you kidding?” Marlene chuckled, “we are so glad to meet the famous Mustafa!”

  “Famous how” Mustafa asked

  “Marlene, for fuck’s sakes” George urged her, “and this is the rest of them”

  One second later, Barry emerged from his den and joined them, rolling himself in on his last generation wheels assembled at the last minute by Alphonse. He had taken a shower, George saw, his hair drying wildly on his head, and even he seemed to feel the joyous wind blow through, smiling as he mingled into the group. Marlene went to him excitingly and shuffled his hair around like he was her puppy, shouted, “the man of the hour!” before a wave of greetings and compliments popped in the direction of Barry.

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  “Man you look great!”

  “Fancy wheels”

  “A true survivor!”

  “Nice of you to make an appearance, Masquevert”

  “He said to the Grim Reaper, not today bitch”

  “Shut up Ivan” Barry tee-heed, his cheeks as red as some fresh tomatoes

  It didn’t take long for Barry’s eyes to land on Eugenie White, who was nodding and lifting her glass too on the other side of the table. She was wearing a classic skirt and a sweater where one could read the sequined words Garage Sale, for an obscure reason. She participated into the smiling and congratulating but something inside the smile looked fragile, unnerved, skittish. George wondered. Did she really hate being here? Prior to Mustafa’s arrival and Barry’s triumphant homecoming on wheels, she had asked news about him, followed by updates on everyone, assisted them in setting the table, flattening some wraps together and spreading some guacamole on toasts, but she didn’t seem to be bursting with ecstasy.

  They eyeballed each other, which was a normal thing. Her face had on it what could be interpreted as fondness but George was guessing it was pride, just plain pride, as she had been the one who had saved the Bolt’s life once more, when she didn’t even possess a real medical degree. She looked at him like one looked at a prize, which seemed to be appropriate for the circumstances and the ambient energy. Only her fixed smile didn’t appear to climb higher than her nose and certainly didn’t reach her eyes, but then she registered that Barry was equally scrutinizing her and expecting a specific and well-crafted comment from her, so she acknowledged it, a good sport, “I can see some definite progress here” she said. That comment was a little lame, George thought.

  “I told you I would rise, like uh… a phoenix from the ashes” Barry pressed her

  “Yeah” Eugenie approved, “an upgrade on the bird, definitely”

  George felt the hand of Mustafa on his wrist, his chin tilted upward so he could whisper in his ear “ah, this is the lady who saved the Bolt’s, I mean, Barry’s life?”

  “Yes, that was awkward” George conceded, “Barry! Stop being the center of attention and come meet Mustafa!”

  “Mufasa, like Simba’s father?” Barry wheeled himself to George and to George’s crush. How precious, he took the time to be one with his emotions and grateful about the moment, about the chance to mix those two sides of one’s existence without lies, without wearing a mask, without a pretext. Barry’s face was fresh, washed, he had some colors in his cheeks, he was wearing a tye-dye sweater.

  A phoenix. George had been that bird too, some four years or so before, finding himself accidentally located at the center of a mrai moumou offense and the defense of the Team and, a simple cable guy back then, he had unfortunately gotten stuck under a roof on fire and he had believed himself reduced to a pile of ashes that day, until the Team found him, half-fused and far melted into the networks of blue, yellow and red strings still flaring from the main drive wall. ‘He has absorbed the network’ Uberwoman had said, ‘I’ve never seen anything like it’

  That’s when he became a mutant, not by genetic predisposition, but by fortitude, and the next step had been for the Team to take him in, cradle him as a birthing superhero out of misfortune, trying to turn the tide, make sure to harvest his acquired power while not losing his life, replacing the disintegrated parts of his organism by machinery that would function just as limbs and organs except, they’d be even better. George had embraced this new existence from Day One. Maybe he had not emerged into the world as a superhero, but he was a pure one at heart. He loved that life.

  Now, he had the same power as Mustafa when Mustafa was sitting cozily in front of screen and lines of codes, only he, now Robortor, could do it by just mobilizing a spot on his brain, by blinking, by batting an eyelash. He could face a wall and picture the pipes beyond its bricks, its inner maze, invert the nodes of current into the hidden roads of city maps, open systems ranging from underground to orbiting the Earth, close his eyes and visualize matrices, observe numbers running endlessly and decide that this number had to go, and that one too, and think about it, and make it happen and, all of a sudden, the entire grid of a state or region would be paralyzed and hacked, torn into vulnerability, brought in plain sight.

  ”BARRY NOT MUFASA, Mustafa” George scolded Barry and pulled his ear, before Barry swatted his hand away, “we will horse around later, come meet Mustafa, I said. He’s my date”

  The boy recoiled in his seat, “what the fuck? No one told me Robortor was dating!” and he presented his left hand to Mustafa for a shaking session. His other arm was crippled, best not to ask any questions about it, not to mention it, Mustafa had been advised.

  George saw his partner hesitate, smiling with suspended air inside his cheeks, eyes merry and curious but doubtful. He did have massive, powerful hands, “don’t be afraid to roughen up Barry” he encouraged him, “he’s pretty much invincible” He had become closest with Barry almost right away, brought together as an unlikely pair thanks to their mutual enjoyment for basketball and their constant goofiness. That had been the straightforward base of their relationship but, over the years, they had shared many things that they wouldn’t disclose to the others about their upbringings, their challenging adolescences, the solitude they had known for different reasons.

  Maybe they were brothers, maybe. But could you bond so deep with someone so reckless? Did that someone value your kinship or even, for that matter, you as a brother-from-another-mother, if they didn’t see the worth of the life they had? George felt guilty thinking about Barry this way. It wasn’t true that he didn’t value his life. A more accurate description of the situation was that he might just be immature and dumb. George glanced at Eugenie on the side, thinking that might be something similar that prevented her from enjoying her Team experience.