Kalman knew Lisette wanted more of him, but to him she was a wonderful dance partner-nothing more. He enjoyed her company, and particularly the spectacle of her, but they were not lovers. Over the years he had draped many women over himself like formal attire; Lisette was just another one. She was beautiful, with an elegant, classic dancer's body. She appeared to move in slow motion when she walked, yet her fluid, athletic body traveled a distance with economy. With her posture erect and chest out, she was a silhouette when she moved, less human than art in motion.

Octavius Kalman admired a woman with grace and style, and it wasn't lost on him that Lisette pulled her black hair back into a tight ponytail to please him, its brilliantine strands luminescent, even in the dark of night. Cold and aloof to others, Lisette became affectionate and possessive around him. When they were together, her body clung to his—a hand on him, a hip pressed against his a quick kiss that he wouldn't dismiss. He knew if he just gave her the cabezeo, the "look," she would gladly surrender herself to him. He never extended that invitation.

Lisette didn't warm Kalman's blood the way a woman who excited him did. He could sense her complete admiration of him. She offered herself as too much a fan, and fans were like one's children—they were to be protected, nourished, and cherished, not manipulated or taken as lovers.

This night, as they approached the deep-blue and gold baroque tents of the Cirque du Soleil, Kalman sensed Lisette's pride at being on his arm at the black-tie charity event, and he could feel the stares of the many onlookers they passed. Lisette's radiance complemented his tall, athletic body, dark features, and elegant manner; the couple continued to turn heads as they made their way through the receiving line. Kalman knew that Lisette's lust for him grew with every admiring look they received.

Like most other women, Lisette didn't really know him. He projected a certain persona, and she simply saw what others saw: a man whose image was meticulously maintained. He was well aware of his physical attributes—a long, lean frame; a strong jaw; brown eyes with amber halos crowning the pupils; wavy hair with hints of gray; and a pronounced athletic build, dramatic even through loose-fitting clothes. Women often complimented his hands and wrists. His slender fingers belied strong hands, all muscle and bone, and sculpted veins. His wrists provided perfect pedestals—slender, like his hands, but even stronger looking, like corded steel pathways to his well-muscled arms. Kalman's hands moved with a rare combination of precision and strength, yet when they stroked a woman's skin, their gentle touch was electrifying.

Men and women both were attracted to Kalman, and he accepted their attentions as mere social greetings. None of them knew of the disease that raged in his body—especially not Lisette. Kalman didn't allow others to see this inner life. The ones who had seen it could not share their revelation, and the few who sensed the nature of his disease dared not expose themselves.

The virus inhabiting Kalman's body never died, and didn't allow its host to die; generations of mutation ensured the survival of the virus by protecting its host. Kalman's own research into his condition had revealed that cellular regeneration and mutation are common in the human body; many organs, such as the skin, liver, and kidneys, can regenerate damaged tissue. It was not scientifically remarkable that parts of the human body could regenerate themselves time and time again; in this regard, humans were no different than other species. The body's largest organ, the skin, accomplished this feat on a daily basis; it would take just a tweak in the structure of the DNA to spread this regenerative ability to the entire organism.

The virus in Kalman's body provided just that tweak, changing the molecular structure of every cell, enabling it to regenerate. It was then in the best interest of the virus to protect its host—the human—at all costs. Evolved over centuries, the virus created a protection so complete that it empowered its human host with attributes that distinguished him from other humans. He was, in essence, a human fortress in which the virus thrived. Most people would envy the side effects: great strength, good looks, hypersensitivity, high intelligence, an intuitiveness that bordered on clairvoyance, and irresistible sex appeal among them.

When he first studied his disease, Kalman doubted that all his unusual gifts were a result of the virus's alteration of his body. Then his research took him into the social sciences, and he learned how all social and interpersonal skills had evolved to serve a single purpose: human survival. Why else would humans have adorned themselves with all manner of illogical wardrobe, but to advance their survival? Attractiveness, chivalry, insight, empathy, and intelligence weren't just pleasant human attributes; they served to protect the organism, no different than the most mysterious appendage on some tiny creature on the ocean floor. These uniquely human characteristics, worthless to other species, were part of the blueprint of human evolution, and best understood in that context. The virus accelerated that evolution for no other reason than to survive: Kalman had come to understand that fact not as something amazing, but as organic science. The human host must be invincible in every way possible or the virus would perish. This rare disease followed the laws of basic genetics. Kalman understood his disease—both the endowments and the captivity it bequeathed him.

When women encountered Kalman, the virus's gifts overwhelmed their feminine instincts, not for the purposes of mating—the virus didn't spread by such conventional means—but for the virus's own survival. As long as its male host could evoke unquestioned adoration in women, the virus would be safe. A woman's attraction to Kalman had at its foundation a primitive, mindless genetic instinct, not the old black magic, a love potion, or something as brittle as charm.

Kalman's condition was always foremost in his thoughts, not because he was inclined to brood, but because his every contact with reality involved the virus; every conscious thought and action served as a reminder of its effects.

That night, Kalman may have been more aware of his effect on Lisette because of the ambivalence he felt about the performance. Their attendance—Lisette was always provided front-row seats at Cirque's Chicago premiere—marked a standing date. As they approached the entrance tent, Kalman was overwhelmed by the tiresomeness of this once-venerable enterprise; he'd grown indifferent to the colors and designs that once seemed so unique and bold. Now Cirque du Soleil, the brand, was what it had riled against when it first exploded on the entertainment landscape: a familiar and predictable franchise. He thought of it as "Ameri-marketed"—if one Cirque was good, having found success with the public, then several replications were even better.

It didn't even smell like a circus any more, Kalman noted. When it first came to Chicago, Cirque du Soleil set up on a vacant field near the lakefront, on the damp, trampled prairie grasses. The mud after a rain or the dust during an intense Chicago hot spell caused an earthy aroma to fill the performance tents. Now the Cirque set up...