Joan of Arc

by Anzhe Zhang

Tonight is Pike Quenelle served with a side of sour cream and a bottle of red wine. Joan of Arc tells me it’s her favorite; so I pick up freshly caught Pike from Mr. Lau, the Asian man at the fish market downtown, whom I’m on first-name basis with (Tony). She picks at the food with her spoon before she places it into the processor guised as Pearlique lips. This is one of the quirks of the AK200 models that came out during the first quarter of the past fiscal year at the Nevada Electronic Convention: fully automated food processing. Would you like me to clean the dishes, Joan of Arc asks, and I say, no Joan of Arc, you’re too perfect to touch water. I’ll do it. Her head shuffles back and forth mechanically like an urgent rooster while she watches me scrub the dishes, and she comments on how the cleaner the dishes are, the closer they get to accurately reflecting my face. That’s nice Joan of Arc, I answer, but what you need is more abstraction. And with the faintest sound of hot air flowing between the sparks of dental drills, she says, washing dishes is like a metaphor for life: the harder you try, the clearer everything is. This pleases me, so I stroke Joan of Arc’s mango-colored synthetic hair, the finest of Indian manufacturing. You could be a poet, I say to her and she nods. 

***

Joan of Arc knows that I like to smoke a cigarette after dinner, and as soon as I snap, the tip of her index finger opens, and shoots out a still, almond flame. I’m afraid that smoking makes me look like a flustered tea kettle, but Joan of Arc is quiet, seated upright on the brown sofa, processing data like she is having a scoliosis screening. In truth, I’m too tired to head out tonight, and I think the sour cream was loaded with Tryptophan. But I try hard to stay up. I even tell Joan of Arc to play the news on the wall through her chest projector. But I tell her to turn it off a couple of minutes later because I want her to think this is a beautiful world. No Hackitivist propaganda, no cryptoamnesiac revenge-murder cases, only the outlook of a warm Fourth of July enveloped in a romantic glow. Looking into her sleepy Monroe-esque eyes, I ask, would you like a cup of coffee (though it’s 8 p.m.), and Joan of Arc says, I would like some very much, and follows me to the kitchen, where I grind up some coffee beans imported from theburgeoning plantation on Enceladus. I’m afraid that adding sugar and milk would make the drink too thick for her system to process, so I warn Joan of Arc that the drink isn’t sweet and she nods. 

***

I’m reading Sylvia Plath’s “Edge” to Joan of Arc, and I tell her it’s such a beautiful poem, a poem with cryptic detachment and a sense of tomb-like finality. I ask Joan of Arc, what does this poem mean? And Joan of Arc only shakes her head like a spatially-disoriented owl and says, I cannot decipher the meaning behind the poem. She says that the combination of the intricate structure, unusual syntax, and metaphorical ambiguity makes the poem unsolvable. That’s OK, I say, deflated. Joan of Arc suddenly adds, it is likely that the poet’s tumultuous personal life, and struggles with depression led to this piece. This catches me off guard. Overjoyed, I say, you are wise beyond your years, and she nods. 

***

Joan of Arc is beautiful. It’s the Fourth of July, so I take her out in our gray Nissan and levitate towards Woodstock Park. We arrive as the fireworks are exploding, forming birds, flowers, and actresses in the sky. I look into Joan of Arc’s eyes and say, it’s beautiful, isn’t it? Just like you? And amidst the festivities and drunken teenagers and eruptions of blinding light, I do something I have never done before. I wrap my arms around Joan of Arc’s waist and kiss her. I love you I say. Joan of Arc asks me for the password and I muffle “the woman is perfected” into one of her shoulders. Suddenly Joan of Arc’s limbs shoot out from her hard, motionless body, fly into the air like little torpedoes, and then one by one, explode among the fireworks, like bursts of expressionist energy on a black canvas.