The Artificial Mirage Read Online Free
Author: T. Warwick
disorienting. He couldn’t afford X Voyage. Tonya could pay. It was the least she could do.
3
I t wasn’t the first weekend Harold had spent in Paris, but it was the first time he had come expressly for the anonymous clinic. After walking out of the white lobby, he stood just outside the entrance in the rain for more than an hour. Nothing had changed. It had merely been a confirmation of what he had already known in his heart. Going anywhere seemed pointless. The experience of rain on a weekend trip outside of Saudi Arabia would have normally been cause for excitement, but he was hardly even aware of it until he was soaked and it had tapered off to a drizzle. It was as if he had been rendered incapable of feeling or expressing emotion. The second HIV test had confirmed the results.
After the rain stopped, he began walking. He felt like he couldn’t stop. It was twilight when he noticed his body was shivering and his clothes were wet. He blew up the lab test results to the size of a car shaped like a balloon and watched them drift along as he walked past the opera house before slashing through them in a violent deletion gesture that made passersby turn and look up at a nonexistent danger. It was done. It didn’t exist. He had less than six months on his work visa in Saudi Arabia, but nothing would change in that time. He would be blacklisted from any police jobs back in China, so going back was out of the question—unless he had the money to do something else.
He passed cafés with tables full of people laughing. He got in a taxi to Pigalle and got off at the first burlesque place he saw. The doorman demanded a tip, and he reached in his pocket and handed him some paper currency without looking at it or saying a word. Inside, all five available tables were full, and the warm air circulated around a pasty-white, pregnant blonde on stage. He watched her dance lethargically. The silver tassels dangling from her nipples lay limply on her protruding belly. A group of French boys who looked to be about thirteen sat at a table in the back, blowing AR smoke from AR shisha pipes.
He walked out and kept walking until a horse bearing the logo of his favorite brand of bai jiu appeared before him with flames coming out of its nostrils and jumped into the entrance to the bar up the stairs on his left. He opened the door and walked in, surrounded by dark-wood paneling and the dreary voice of a female lounge singer from another era. Seeing all of the booths were full, he sat at the bar, which looked to be made of real wood. He noticed his clothes had finally dried. He searched behind the bar for his favorite brand of bai jiu but couldn’t find it. A pale woman with red hair who had been sitting in one of the booths emerged and stood next to him at the bar.
“A vodka Collins and a pint of Guinness for the gentleman.” The bartender, a man of more than fifty with a bushy gray mustache that twirled upward, raised an eyebrow at her and didn’t move. With her otherworldly red hair and white skin, she appeared to Harold as a nymph prepared to summon magical powers.
“Here,” she said as she looked at her phone and flicked the bartender some AR seashells symbolizing her payment and walked back to her booth.
“Here you are, sir,” the bartender said to him in an almost-exaggerated French accent as he placed the beer in front of him.
Harold grabbed the beer and walked over to the woman’s booth and sat down across from her.
“Are you lonely?” she said without looking at him.
“No,” he said.
“Good,” she said as she looked at her phone and smiled. “Which hotel are you staying at?”
“Hyatt.”
Her eyes widened with delight without looking up from her phone. She used her pinky to write her price in pink AR lipstick.
He nodded and led her outside to one of the waiting taxis. She looked at the Moroccan driver and then at Harold as she wrapped her legs around his left thigh and let her red velvet dress ride up to
3
I t wasn’t the first weekend Harold had spent in Paris, but it was the first time he had come expressly for the anonymous clinic. After walking out of the white lobby, he stood just outside the entrance in the rain for more than an hour. Nothing had changed. It had merely been a confirmation of what he had already known in his heart. Going anywhere seemed pointless. The experience of rain on a weekend trip outside of Saudi Arabia would have normally been cause for excitement, but he was hardly even aware of it until he was soaked and it had tapered off to a drizzle. It was as if he had been rendered incapable of feeling or expressing emotion. The second HIV test had confirmed the results.
After the rain stopped, he began walking. He felt like he couldn’t stop. It was twilight when he noticed his body was shivering and his clothes were wet. He blew up the lab test results to the size of a car shaped like a balloon and watched them drift along as he walked past the opera house before slashing through them in a violent deletion gesture that made passersby turn and look up at a nonexistent danger. It was done. It didn’t exist. He had less than six months on his work visa in Saudi Arabia, but nothing would change in that time. He would be blacklisted from any police jobs back in China, so going back was out of the question—unless he had the money to do something else.
He passed cafés with tables full of people laughing. He got in a taxi to Pigalle and got off at the first burlesque place he saw. The doorman demanded a tip, and he reached in his pocket and handed him some paper currency without looking at it or saying a word. Inside, all five available tables were full, and the warm air circulated around a pasty-white, pregnant blonde on stage. He watched her dance lethargically. The silver tassels dangling from her nipples lay limply on her protruding belly. A group of French boys who looked to be about thirteen sat at a table in the back, blowing AR smoke from AR shisha pipes.
He walked out and kept walking until a horse bearing the logo of his favorite brand of bai jiu appeared before him with flames coming out of its nostrils and jumped into the entrance to the bar up the stairs on his left. He opened the door and walked in, surrounded by dark-wood paneling and the dreary voice of a female lounge singer from another era. Seeing all of the booths were full, he sat at the bar, which looked to be made of real wood. He noticed his clothes had finally dried. He searched behind the bar for his favorite brand of bai jiu but couldn’t find it. A pale woman with red hair who had been sitting in one of the booths emerged and stood next to him at the bar.
“A vodka Collins and a pint of Guinness for the gentleman.” The bartender, a man of more than fifty with a bushy gray mustache that twirled upward, raised an eyebrow at her and didn’t move. With her otherworldly red hair and white skin, she appeared to Harold as a nymph prepared to summon magical powers.
“Here,” she said as she looked at her phone and flicked the bartender some AR seashells symbolizing her payment and walked back to her booth.
“Here you are, sir,” the bartender said to him in an almost-exaggerated French accent as he placed the beer in front of him.
Harold grabbed the beer and walked over to the woman’s booth and sat down across from her.
“Are you lonely?” she said without looking at him.
“No,” he said.
“Good,” she said as she looked at her phone and smiled. “Which hotel are you staying at?”
“Hyatt.”
Her eyes widened with delight without looking up from her phone. She used her pinky to write her price in pink AR lipstick.
He nodded and led her outside to one of the waiting taxis. She looked at the Moroccan driver and then at Harold as she wrapped her legs around his left thigh and let her red velvet dress ride up to
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