33

With his extensive List in hand, Garth advertised for an assistant who could help him manage the massive undertaking. He needed someone to be his lawyer and administrator, and mother, if necessary. After his near-disaster with the obese body-snatcher, Garth didn’t dare attempt this alone. He had a big, creative heart, but not much of a business head.

From the COM terminal in his small studio, Garth exchanged messages with a few halfhearted hopefuls who showed minimal interest in his quest and no real background in art. Since he couldn’t pay much, even with Mordecai Ob’s stipend, his ad attracted little attention.

Finally, he did receive a message from someone who seemed sincerely glad for the opportunity to work with an aspiring artist, Garth in particular. The letter sounded interesting and mysterious, and the applicant said he preferred to make his case in person, if Garth would give him the chance. Intrigued, Garth arranged to meet him in a nearby espresso bar. The applicant readily agreed, claiming to be a connoisseur of fine coffees. Another good sign.

As he sat at a metal-mesh patio table, Garth sipped from a wide cup of foamy, cinnamon-dusted cappuccino. When a gaunt, fidgety man came up to him, exactly on time, Garth blinked in surprise. “Pashnak!”

The gaunt man flushed as Garth sprang to his feet so quickly that the metal chair screeched backward on the patio stones. “I still have your sketch of the Artful Dodger,” Pashnak said, embarrassed. “I even took the time to frame it, though it cost me a week’s pay.”

Surprised and delighted, Garth didn’t know what else to say. Taking a deep breath, Pashnak looked up to meet his blue gaze. “I’d really love to work for you. I’ve been cleaning fountains for the past six months, can’t get a better job. And I decided that if I’m not going to be paid well, I may as well put in my best work for something I believe in. And ever since the Falling Leaves, I’ve believed in you.”

Garth grinned, embarrassed at the man’s intensity of emotion. “My career is still nothing to brag about, even with Mr. Ob’s support.”

“But it will be.” Pashnak ordered his own cappuccino and looked at the artist with an admiration that Garth felt sure he didn’t deserve. “Especially if I help you. I know I can make a difference.”

Garth decided on the spot to hire the man.

While they talked, he hauled out his datapad, leaning across the table so his new assistant could see. He keyed up a file to display a long, scrolling table. “This is my List. These are all the things I need to do with myself.”

Pashnak read down the column, his eyes growing wide. “We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.”

 

Inside Garth’s new, larger studio apartment, they waited for the old crone to arrive. Pashnak had already screened her personal file in the COM database, checked out everything about her. She seemed to be exactly what she claimed: a tired old woman who had lived a harsh life. She had no idea why an artist would call her to his studio.

Before the old woman knocked on the door, Pashnak came out of the kitchen carrying two mugs of gourmet coffee. He had brewed it fresh and strong from a machine Garth had just purchased.

“You don’t need to do that for me,” Garth said.

“I wouldn’t trust anyone else to brew my coffee . . . or yours.” Good coffee was as much his passion as were the works of Charles Dickens. Sometimes Garth and Pashnak spent so many hours talking about their common interests that Garth wondered if he would ever get any painting done.

Without a second thought, Pashnak checked details, kept track of activities, planned ahead for simple daily routines. The high-strung young man was shy and uncertain of himself, but he clearly loved being a part of Garth’s work. Pashnak would never have had the nerve to push himself forward to meet the public, to put his creativity on display the way Garth did. He feared failure—but feared Garth’s failure even more, and wanted to do everything to prevent that from happening.

In short, Pashnak was a superb assistant.

Pashnak sat with his steaming cup and looked at his watch. The assistant couldn’t remain still for long, intimidated by silence and relaxation. “Okay, we’ve got to discuss some details before she arrives.”

“Sure. I know what I need to feel and need to encounter. When I’m in the old woman’s body I want to go down to the market, talk to some people, see how they react to me in an aged and poor-looking body. Plus, I want to mark how my arms feel, how my muscles are—”

“I don’t mean those things.” Pashnak sipped his coffee and stood up to pace the room. “We need to protect you from legal problems. Using the sample contract Daragon gave you, I’ve already drawn up terms and conditions for the old woman, and I can’t see any loopholes. We’ll use the document as our boilerplate from now on.”

Garth read the terms. They all looked fine to him.

“In addition, from this point on, I insist that you register each hopscotch. We’ve got to make it a public record, so that if anything goes wrong, there’s no question about your real identity, when and where the exchange took place, et cetera. ID patches notwithstanding.”

“Good thinking.”

“Just doing my job.” He was owlish and detail-oriented, meticulous to the point of being anal retentive—just the type of counterpart Garth needed.

Finally the old woman arrived, baffled at what Garth could possibly want with her. “This better not be a joke.” Her voice was brittle, but her eyes were bright and strong, daring them to take advantage of her. The light struck her face, highlighting her wrinkled skin, the bent posture, the gray hair. Marvelous.

Pashnak escorted her to the sofa, pouring her a cup of coffee, as well. As the assistant laid out the terms and explanations, Garth studied her externally, noting how she chose to dress, how she held herself. In his mind’s eye, he imagined her as a younger woman, finding echoes of the beauty she exhibited in youth. Though much had changed for this old person, he could see the younger years buried in her face, in her body.

Pashnak established a set time period for Garth to inhabit the old woman’s body, then recorded the contract in COM. “Don’t try to do anything illegal while you’re in my client’s home-body.”

She chuckled. “It’s like Cinderella having to be back by midnight before the spell wears off.” She smiled with wrinkled lips. “But I do think I’ll have time for a good spicy meal and a long and refreshing walk.”

“You do that.” Garth squeezed her shoulder. “Enjoy yourself.”

Before Pashnak could think of other pressing concerns, Garth hopscotched into the old woman’s body. She laughed with delight, a deep and gratifying sound instead of a scratchy and suspicious cackle. Pashnak watched nervously as she departed from the studio in the young and energetic form.

Garth, though, was captivated by his new/old body. He flexed his arthritic hands, walking slowly about. His feet seemed distant and wooden, his worn-out joints and fragile bones ached. “This is just what I needed.”

With Pashnak nervously in attendance, Garth set out to experience being old. Picking up the electronic datapad, the assistant followed him around the studio, then finally—slowly—down the stairs and into the streets. Garth had places to go, plans to make, prejudices to test.

“Stay with me, Pashnak—but don’t get in the way. I have to get the pure impressions. My eyesight isn’t very strong.”

“I should be recording your comments, Garth. Tell me what to jot down. I can keep notes to help you chronicle the sensations you’re feeling.”

Garth looked at him through age-bleared eyes. “Notes are fine, but I need to capture it here first.” He rapped a gnarled fist against the center of his chest. “In my heart. That’s the only place it’ll do me any good anyway.”