A Nearly Perfect Copy - By Allison Amend Page 0,78
thanking him politely but saying that she didn’t think they were right for the house at this time, and wishing him luck in his endeavors.
“Please do,” Klinman said. “Some of my clients are very old, and need medical help as well as closure, as you Americans say.”
The hallway was brightly lit in contrast with the darkened room, and Elm had to blink when she stepped out. Klinman shut the door behind her softly, barely allowing it to click.
The inside of the Mercedes was upholstered in white leather, which Elm found ostentatious until it melted around her body as she sat in it. The backseat contained a folder of information to thumb through while the uniformed driver twisted and curved his way out of Paris. He barely spoke to her, only asking if the temperature was all right, and if she wanted music or silence, which increased her nervousness. Then he told her to look at her feet for the cooler if she wanted water while en route. It would take them about forty-five minutes, he said. He did not ask her if it was her first time in Paris, or comment on how lucky she was with the weather.
She fidgeted. If she crossed her legs, she slid at each turn across the white leather, but her feet weren’t comfortable on the pristinely upholstered floor. She opened the folder. The literature was specific. It diagrammed how the clone would be produced (engendered was the word they used). There was a sheet of paper on what to expect for the mother with a list of medications to take, and an additional sheet for the father. Elm noticed that neither had any of the clinic’s contact information. She was abruptly terrified. She put one hand on top of the other to stop their shaking. When that didn’t work, she tucked both under her thighs until they were numb from lack of circulation.
She sat back and looked out the window to calm herself. She opened it a crack to get some air and the driver immediately turned the fan on so that cold air blew on her shins. They were in the suburbs now. The housing projects rose from the ground, broken windows like corn cobs missing kernels. Men sat on the benches in playgrounds, the old ones resting their hands on their canes, the younger ones performing calisthenics. The few women Elm saw were wearing dark robes and long veils that hid their faces. She knew the outskirts of Paris were mostly Muslim, but she didn’t expect to feel like she’d traveled to Yemen. She didn’t think that the buildings would look so much like Detroit. Or, rather, if she was honest, like Escape from New York.
And then, just as suddenly, the projects ended and a field began. The scenery turned rural—a few stone farmhouses, an old barn. Some were obviously second homes whose manicured English lawns and in-ground pools betrayed their owners’ wealth, while others were occupied by farmers. The small gardens were staked out back, tomato plants just beginning to climb. Occasionally, they passed through a small town, the houses built right up to the road, dating from before the invention of cars. Her driver sped through these towns, and Elm bobbed with the turns, attempting to avoid an open shutter or a leaning broom she was sure they were going to hit. As they drove by curtains ruffled, and Elm got a split-second glimpse into someone’s life—a woman washing a baby in a large sink, a teenager talking on a telephone, an old man napping in a reclining chair—before they were out of the small town and back in the fields.
Elm thought the driver was deliberately trying to disorient her so that she wouldn’t be able to find her way back to the clinic. He needn’t have bothered. Elm’s sense of direction was so poor she often relied on Moira to remember where they were going. Or they could have blindfolded her and gone directly, saved everyone some time.
They circled a roundabout and headed down a long dirt road that had recently been graded. When they got to a fence, seemingly in the middle of a field, the driver leaned out the window and swiped a card. The gate swung in. Only once they were inside did she see the guard station.
The clinic was smaller than she’d expected, and newer, though built to look like an old house. Two columns held up the front entryway and five pale stone steps