accumulates on the horizon like a storm cloud.
― Fernand Dumont
After my meeting with Owen, my publisher, I drove through rainy streets back to my condo.
I was meditating about what he said about being granular in my approach to writing Jessica's biography, especially the part about small details.
He was right, of course, and it never struck me how significant small items could be as insights into a person's psyche. But perfume? It seemed so trivial, but maybe I shouldn't be so hasty to despise small things.
Wasn't it Christian Dior who said, a woman's perfume tells more about her than her handwriting?
Maybe Owen was right. How could I write intimately about Jessica if I didn't even know the scent of a woman of the 1930's and why such things were important to her?
I knew the chat bot he was proposing relied on a vast data set and used AI so I could have the sensation of an intimate conversation with my mysterious Muse. But how this would work out in practice, I had no idea.
Still, I was intrigued, but as for the prospect of being transported, well, the jury was out on that one.
Nevertheless, I sat again in my front room with rain trails darkening the windows, staring at Jessica's portrait above the fireplace almost willing her to divulge the answers.
The phone buzzed and I picked up to the hushed voice of Graves', the downstairs concierge.
"Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Tomlinson," he whispered, "but there's some nutter here with a ton of equipment he says you're expecting."
"Equipment? I didn't order anything."
"I figured as much sir, but he kept insisting it was bought."
"Oh wait, Graves― did he mention the term Chat Bot?"
"Yes sir― those were his exact words. He looks deranged so I was reluctant to allow him in."
"No, it's okay, Graves, I'm expecting him. Send him up."
"If you agree, Sir, but I insist he use the freight elevator."
I don't know what I was expecting and the mention of a ton of equipment made me apprehensive, but I agreed to try the experiment and saw no harm in proceeding.
I opened the door to a young fellow in his early twenties, bespectacled, with unruly dark hair and as Graves said, looking quite deranged.
"Mr. Tomlinson," he smiled, "I've been sent by the computer gods to set up your psychomanteum."
'Please, call me Ryce," I laughed, "but Owen promised me there'd be no spiritualism."
"Jake Nutter," he said, extending his free hand while balancing several large boxes precariously on an industrial two-wheeled hand truck.
"Is that really your name?" I grinned as I stepped aside.
"It is," he called over his shoulder as he wheeled the heavy load in.
"Where would you like me to set up the array?"
"I have no idea," I confessed.
"I'll need access to wall plugs, your cable internet and preferably a desk to mount the monitor."
"I'l clear off my desk, while you unpack," I told him.
What did I get myself into? I muttered under my breath as he went ahead whistling merrily and off-loading the heavy boxes onto my living room carpet.