The Nereid

She was a word on the blank page of that evening. I haven’t given many “readings,” but I have taught many classes. If you engage your students in conversation in the classroom, you notice that those who are actually paying attention make their interest apparent. Something about their demeanor, the mood of their gaze, reveals them.

When teaching, or writing, it's vital that you develop the ability to subtly acknowledge, and display gratitude for, the gift of complete attention. Few people give their undivided attention to anyone or anything. Reality is generally tedious when you can find something you like better online.

I read for her alone. I emphasized certain turns of phrase that I thought were deft, just to see her react to them. I sold some jokes with special energy just to delight her. When the reading was over, she waited politely while a few others chatted with me. I told some charming lies about my plans for the novel that the story I had just read is supposed to become.

She approached me when the others lost interest, introduced herself with casual elegance and asked me if I was interested in participating in a private salon, organized by her employer. I thought about the fact that she had described it as a salon for an awkward length of time. She laughed softly, and explained that it would be held on her employer’s yacht. She pressed a business card into my hand, insisting that I could use a QR code on the card to access all of the relevant information. I’m still not sure I understand what a QR code is, but I pretended to understand what she had said and gave her a vigorous nod. She thanked me for the reading and waded into the throng without a backward look. Her aroma spoke to ancient parts of me, just like the geometry of her hips. I think the scent is called ambrette, though I am not sure.

When I got home from the reading, I texted Simon, who was my student long ago and has become a trusted friend. He has an effortless, childlike ability fruitfully to play with technology that I find confusing and frustrating. I suppose this is a symptom of my age, and of his youth. He made fun of me at first, which he loves to do, and then told me just to let my phone sort things out. I looked at the card. It was the sort of business card that would give a Brett Easton Ellis character an erection. It was implausibly smooth and clear and felt valuable. I pointed my phone at the box of black and white weirdness on the bottom right corner of the card. My phone read it, and a web site opened.

The web site was as slick and cool as black ice on a midnight highway. It did not seem to have been created. It gave me the feeling that it had emerged from the silent, invisible logic of nature, like a wave or the call of a bird. There was a beautiful image of a gigantic, luxurious yacht at the top of the screen, and all of the details of the forthcoming salon were spelled out below. It looked as if her employer (her name was S. Khadim, by the way, which was tantalizing—what did the “S” stand for?!) was recruiting poets, screenwriters, novelists—talented narrators of various kinds—for a vague and intriguing project’s sake. Strong hints of lavish compensation winked at me through the forest of rhetoric on the page. An address for the local marina was proffered, along with a departure time: tomorrow night.

It seemed rather risky and sort of idiotic, but I did not care. I am eager for a break that will not arrive, barring the closure of my workplace or my death. I’m not well, so door #2 is opening slowly. I’m not sure what you think about hell, but it seems to me that hell is unspeakable drudgery with no hope of respite. You do what you must to survive, in order to survive to do what you must. All of Dante’s punishments are repetitive, painful, humiliating and eternal. So, I thought, “Yeah, fuck it.” This is not routine, or predictable, or appropriate. And I like it.

When I approached the dock, S. was there, along with a male counterpart who wasn’t interesting at all. I whispered this to her after she greeted me. She stifled laughter as we crossed a pretentious gang plank onto a floating suburb masquerading as someone’s boat.

“What did you like about my story?” I knew this was a dangerous question. She would probably lie politely and move on. Of course, she might polish me a bit, just because I had actually shown up. The truth is that I’m pretty adept at reading other people’s writing and explaining how it can be understood and enjoyed, but my own writing is mostly shit. It’s pedantic and flowery and terribly predictable. It was a miracle that I had gotten it right once, and I was sure I was unlikely to get it right again.

“It was not the most perfectly executed piece in formal terms--I read it online prior to the reading--but you are adept at improvising dialogue for, you know, strange creatures.” We were moving through what seemed like the bastard of a shopping mall and Coleridge’s Xanadu. If the jasmine in the air was artificial, real jasmine should be ashamed of itself.

She handed me a package wrapped in darkly shimmering paper. “I can help you with the formal peculiarities if you like. But I am confident that Mr. Arais will find your particular assets very useful. The package contains some modest tokens of Mr. Arais’ esteem and gratitude, in addition to the particulars of your remuneration, should you agree that the project interests you.”

“I do split an infinitive now and again, and I may be much too fond of the semicolon; what do you think?”

She laughed, not derisively. You must understand how gratifying that is: when someone you find beautiful laughs, sincerely, joyfully, at some nonsense you have aired out. I had begun to cherish such moments, after I started thinking seriously about death. Not the abstraction, mind you. My own, imminent, painful, embarrassing, death.

“You write like a person who has read just enough to doubt your own capabilities. I can work with that.” We arrived at an elevator. On a gargantuan boat. This was my life, now.

She tapped the box she’d handed to me. I had forgotten it existed. “You ought to look over the details carefully once I show you to your cabin. You have an hour to refresh yourself. Mr. Arais looks forward to a cocktail and a chat, to be followed by dinner with his team, should you be so inclined. I am glad you saw fit to join us.”

We stepped out of the elevator, down a narrow corridor and into my accommodations. You would not believe it if I told you. If you are accustomed to a pretty spartan life, sumptuous luxury seems wildly implausible when you get a taste of it. Incredulous exclamations proliferate: “Do you believe there’s one of these in here? For me? This just can’t be right…are all of the rooms like this?” Imagine it however you like. You will come up short, I suspect.

I liked the fact that she had said, “refresh yourself.” It wasn’t that I was being a pompous twit or anything. It wasn’t a mistake, per se. It was a relic, from a time or place that made that the suitable thing to say. I wondered if she was nostalgic for that frame of reference. She departed. Of course, I refreshed myself. At length. With some gusto.

I discovered that the box contained the sort of pen that makes authors take themselves too seriously and a bottle of ink. There was also a contract, which I looked over. As far as I could tell, if I signed on, I would make more money than I could ever dream of making in my current position. There was also talk of, “comprehensive, complimentary medical insurance coverage” and “a generous stipend for necessities, remitted quarterly until the completion of the project.” I could forget how to worry.

The meeting was on the floor above, in a cabin that seemed like a sort of stylish speakeasy. “Mr. Arais,” said S., gliding to my elbow from nowhere as I stumbled in, “You remember our discussion about my friend’s remarkable work. Perhaps you two could discuss it further, over some light refreshments?”

Mr. Arais was tall and fit and quite aware of it. He dressed and moved and spoke like someone with all sorts of practice and ample resources. He gestured to a small table in the corner and we sat down.

“With a surname like Carmichael, I take it that you must have Irish roots. We will have some whiskey and talk about the project. Miss Khadim was impressed with your story. Do you suppose you could write dialogue for a character like this?”

He slid a tablet across the table. On the screen was an image of a beautiful, female form, composed entirely of turbulent water, rising from a swimming pool on a moonlit night. I studied the image while a smiling waitress brought two generous glasses of whiskey to the table. I sipped the whiskey, which was stunning. I could hear the ghosts of my ancestors grumbling with jealousy as I swallowed it.

“I think so. I seem to recall coming across a being of this kind while doing research for the story Miss Khadim enjoyed; I think what you have here is a nereid.” I touched the screen and the image began to undulate subtly. Her silver eyes turned to contemplate the viewer with a heady admixture of suspicion and desire.

“That’s an interesting observation! If you sign the contract—it includes a platinum coated NDA, by the way—we can discuss the details. The better to entice you, I ought to mention that this gentleman is a significant part of the project.” Mr. Arais touched a button on the tablet. The nereid vanished and a family photo appeared on screen. I did not recognize the woman or the young man on screen, but the paternal figure was familiar.

“Is that Senator Torheit?!?” I was much more intrigued, and a little frightened, to see this powerful, popular politician blink into the scenario.

“I will be happy to spell out the specifics once you have signed the contract. Here is a digital version; you can sign with your finger. Ours is a new and magical time, is it not?”

Mr. Arais smiled warmly and touched the tablet again. I recognized a copy of the contract I had been mulling in my cabin. I studied it, then Mr. Arais. He was smooth and polished and confident. I was none of those things, and envied him. I was also vibrating with morbid curiosity about his project, and trying to imagine any context in which a supernatural water spirit and a distinguished senator would feel at home. Moved by that curiosity and the knowledge that I probably hadn’t long to breathe in any event, I signed the contract.

Mr. Arais laughed happily and conjured the image of the senator and his family once again. “I am thrilled that you have decided to join us! Rest assured, you will be amply compensated for your contributions, and I will see to it personally that your every need is taken care of while you are with us.” He raised his glass. I followed suit and we toasted the Senator and his family. I think the whiskey was messing with me.

“The Senator is rapidly climbing the Republican ranks, and is considering a run for the Presidency, which we are prepared generously to fund. His wife, Clara, has been involved in our project for some time, and is as discrete as she is compliant. She has been nudging the Senator to the ideological right for some time at our behest, but he has been resistant to some of our bolder initiatives. Recent events, though, are likely to make him more amenable to our ideas.”

“Which events?”

“His son, Caleb, has recently revealed to his mother, and therefore to us, that he believes himself to be a woman shackled to a male body. This is an increasingly common phenomenon at the moment, yes? The Senator is bound to find this rather shocking. While he is generally rather socially liberal, he has some rather rigidly orthodox notions about sex and gender. He also has grand plans for Caleb’s political future. Dreams of dynasty are so intoxicating, yes? That is where the nereid comes in. The rest of the team will explain the technological specifics over dinner later this evening, but suffice it to say that we can conjure her in the Senator’s pool whenever we wish. Clara has been spinning tales about this being for his entertainment of late, and also slipping him small doses of a wonderful pharmaceutical that will make our nereid’s words both plausible and persuasive when you write them. You know this area well, of course. What do supernatural beings typically demand of their devotees, Mr. Carmichael?”

I sipped the whiskey and thought for a moment, then said, “Sacrifice.” I was a bit surprised to hear myself say it with such conviction.

“Yes!” Mr. Arais’ pleasure was obvious. “Once that sacrifice is made, we will own the Senator, and therefore, in due course, the country.” He sat back rather smugly, waiting for me to react. My blood froze.

“That is an amazing plan. May I think this over outside for a moment?” I rose.

“By all means. Miss Khadim will escort you to the observation deck outside. She has a thorough understanding of the details. She is also quite charmed by you, I must say!”

He winked mischievously and patted my arm. My blood was not warmed.

S. escorted me onto the observation deck. The salt air and the stars made the ugly power of the plan fade a little. What frightened me most was that I could imagine it working. I was already honing the idiom of the nereid, her archaic diction and chilly tone. ChatGPT could not produce her words, but I could, and wanted to, which I hated. This was the future, and perhaps the whole history, of fiction: mind management. I was horrified because it was perfect.

“What is your name?” I asked her.

“Scheherazade,” she said, and glowed.

“Of course it is,” I said, and jumped overboard.