They’re for my own good, he says. One minute I might be delivering my speech to the audience, the next I’ll be lost in some daydream of being a nobleman from pre-Revolutionary France. And how could he possibly let John Malkovich embarrass himself, now that the safe containing Malkovich’s film will finally open after one hundred years?

I roll my eyes and pour myself another glass of chardonnay. My head feels a bit foggy, as it does before a flashback hits me. I’m irate, six weeks old, and over this pretension.

“I am not John Malkovich,” I say. I throw my head back and drink the last half-glass.

Argyle looks hurt. “Yes, you are,” he says. “It’s time to watch your own film.”

“He isn’t John Malkovich,” my fellow clone agrees. From where he sits on the opposite side of the room, Malkovich-One watches me with the same disrespect he had shown at my birth. “He’s a movie prop,” One says, his tone mocking. “He’s the clown at a child’s birthday.”

“Or he’s the most authentic of us all,” Malkovich-Four interrupts. Last week, Four took to wearing jeans and T-shirts when he realized he’d finished second to me for the right to introduce the film. Of the other six clones, only Four seems aware of his loss; the others still preen and posture like guests of honor.

I sigh. We’ve argued often, Argyle and the other clones and I, nearly since the moment when I emerged as a fully grown man, disoriented from the protein baths and the birthing matrix, my neurons stuck somewhere between a baby’s brain and a headful of memory implants. The silicon umbilical cord had barely been unscrewed, the amniotic slime still covered my shivering, hairless body when Argyle began this nonsense. You are Malkovich, he had intoned, and he gestured to a copy of the suit I would wear, neatly pressed and folded on the seat beside him. You have Malkovich’s clothes, Argyle had said. You have his genes. You have his memories, his bearing, his attitudes. How can you not be Malkovich? What else makes a man?

I had stared in disbelief. Sitting cross-legged next to Argyle, the other clones watched with disinterest. Malkovich-One slowly inhaled his cigarette and blew it toward me with a smirk. Malkovich-Three took a break from examining his goatee in the mirror, looked my way with mock pity and said, “Another one? How boring.”

At the time, mere minutes after my birth, I had responded by screaming and crying and shitting myself as any newborn would. It took a few days for my brain to develop. Then the diapers came off, and my “training” – as it were – began.

Whatever. I smile at Argyle. I brush some imaginary lint from his jacket, I adjust his tie even though I’d correctly knotted it for him earlier. Affection tugs at my heart. But it’s just a brief flashback. Suddenly I am a mentally disabled farmer in the Great Depression. I like soft things, whatever that means, and Argyle will care for me. I must focus. If the events of these past six weeks are real, then this man is my jailer, not my father – for all his airs, Malkovich-Four has never made that distinction.

Everything’s riding on this,” Argyle says. “We’re all in deep shit if tonight goes off script.”

My heart stops for a minute. In my head, I recall Malkovich-Seven being tasered into unconsciousness and dragged from the room after a brain malfunction.

I snort in derision. “Outside?” I ask. “You must let me know what that’s like. This is my first time leaving the nursery.”

At that, Argyle loses his composure. He looks almost ready to cry. I should say something comforting, but Malkovich – me? – has never been one for emotion. It’s true I have literally waited my entire life for this. But Argyle has waited far longer – from his days surviving the refugee camps outside flood zones, to the lottery scholarship to study genetics. Once he described the time he ran Malkovich brain waves through his own head – “A total trip,” he said, while staring at me with an adoring look that I find seriously unsettling.

"Jesus Christ, man.” I push Argyle away from me. “I’ll do it already. I just need another bottle of wine. Some time alone too.”

“You’re seriously fine?” Argyle asks.

“Alone,” I repeat. “Meaning, by myself. No creepy handler. No clones.”

And so I celebrate those last few minutes on the sixth-floor balcony of my dressing room. I put my wine glass on the railing and light a cigarette. A dirty little habit of Malkovich’s, and now a dirty habit of mine. I watch the cityscape without really looking. All I can see is the clean inner city, illuminated with soft blue light, its grey-blue buildings hastily built out of carbon captured from the atmosphere. A yellow-sick sky through the protective bubble; I have never smelled the air. This theatre building has been my entire life, and yet this theatre is separated from the rest of the world. An oddity to be sure, but things can only grow stranger from here.

A somber Malkovich with his crushed velvet suit and white gloves gently locks his film in a safe with the timer set to one hundred years. His voiceover declares he has made this film purely for sake of Art. Then a jump cut forward to a sparkling future full of neon glow and hover-cars. Malkovich arrives and meets his costar Shuya as the safe opens.

“You’re late,” Shuya says. Her tone is teasing.

“So happy to see me?” Malkovich retorts. “Must have been terrible for you.” They walk down a narrow corridor to the safe; we get the sense that they’re being pursued, but not stalked. Nothing so sinister. The timer hits zero, and the safe opens. Malkovich and Shuya are overcome with awe at the film inside.

“Brilliant,” Malkovich says.

The scene is then interrupted by Malkovich’s second costar Marko, who suddenly appears from an open door and asks “What are you doing here?” Old friends, they have all the time in the world.

My life has been spent viewing that trailer. I will reenact it tonight in front of an audience, alongside clones of the other actors. The actual safe lies in the very basement of the theatre; a tunnel has been designed to mimic the path that Malkovich and Shuya once crossed. Hidden cameras along the passageway will beam our actions to millions, especially the moment where I – the supposed mind behind this masterpiece – finally see what I never expected to see.

“And if I don’t go through with this?” I want to ask. But I never do. I really hope I don’t have that flashback again where I’m a convict being transported via airplane. It’s been especially prevalent lately.

I suppose I always thought this was a dream. Some hallucination, perhaps. Nothing was real and everything was a joke. And so I dismissed them when they tried teaching me to be Malkovich, to speak in his measured tones, to keep his manner impassive and tense, to infuse everything I did with a hint of ennui that was supposedly endearing. Day after day they’d line us up and see which clone would emerge as the Malkovich-est of them all. I gave the fewest shits, I refused to waste my time. Fuck. Malkovich, I had said, curtly as I could to the hairdressers and fashion consultants and etiquette coaches sent to mold me into him. Fuck him and his film.

And yet, I won the honor of opening the safe. None were more baffled than I. Since winning, I’ve tried to locate some advantage in my design, some benefit to being the fifth of seven copies. Nothing presents itself. Malkovich is merely my template. I am my own man. And once this charade is complete and I can leave the theatre, I’ll prove the point.

But for all my bitching, I usually drop the matter. I have nagging doubts – would any resistance be genuinely mine, or mere programs downloaded to my brain for authenticity? What if the individuality I take such pride in is actually just a trait of his? As if clear lines exist between Malkovich and I.

But Malkovich Four concerns me. I know he actually wanted to win; long after we’d all gone to bed, he’d study old interviews and films into the early morning. His voice still maintains the Malkovich cadence, though I know he’s tried to drop it. And since losing his spot to me last week, he’s actually spent time outside the nursery. That experience has made him annoyingly introspective.

“Do you ever think about what we really are to these people?” he whispers to me. One hundred years ago, Malkovich made tickets of laminated brass for his descendants – no producer was above a golden ticket reference. Malkovich-Four holds one such ticket up like a talisman, and in the light of the dressing room, I can see the brass worn down to a dull yellow.

“You of all people should know I’d rather not think of their opinions,” I smile back. I’m ready for the premiere; I’ve been dressed for an hour now. The Four I knew would have been ready earlier than even that. Now I watch as he slowly slips on his socks and shoes, then the thick overcoat that hides the shape of his body, the sunglasses and hat that cover his face. Acting abilities inherited from Malkovich take care of the rest; subtle variations in Four’s posture and face make him suddenly unrecognizable. Argyle insisted Four disguise himself as a condition of being allowed to accompany me halfway, lest the sight of more than one Malkovich ruin tonight’s illusion. He’ll stay behind once we enter the auditorium itself.

“I appreciate you allowing this,” Four says. He smiles. I can see the effort behind it.

“You’ve been a good friend,” I say. “It’s the least I can do.”

Moments earlier I could hear the commotion outside my dressing room. I’ve met most of the staff before – security guards, event organizers, managers, people running logistics and taking notes that only they can see through augmented vision beamed into their retinas. Now I leave my dressing room and they fall silent at the sight of me. They’re nervous to approach; everyone knows Malkovich had a reputation for discourtesy. Maybe I can just snub them and get away with it. I could always use my flashbacks as an excuse.

True, my brain waves were copied from Malkovich himself. But it’s also true that Malkovich lived as a devoted actor who internalized his performances. On a peaceful day, I can recall a wife and two children, a mansion in France, and then another in Cambridge. But then I might also remember the time I directed a vampire film with an actual Nosferatu in the cast, my unsuccessful attempt at assassinating the President, my futile efforts to save my salesman father from suicide.

“That’s just the play acting,” Argyle told me in one of our earliest therapy sessions.

Moments before, I had narrated the time I’d eaten human flesh in the Andes. “Not a real memory,” he smiled. “It should be easy for you to realize that.”

I’m here now. Whatever this reality is. I wave to the people gathered here. I wonder if Malkovich suffered some form of stage fright from the way that my feet feel leaden when I walk over to greet the staff. But I suspect for the most part that Malkovich simply disliked people. I certainly sympathize.

The security chief grasps my hand in both of his, his grip strong enough to crack my knuckles, and his eyes are misty. My etiquette coach draws me into an embrace and sobs into my shoulder. Yet these people clearly know I’m artificial. How much effort on their part to maintain the suspension of disbelief? And what kind of world makes such disbelief even possible?

“You’re much more normal than I thought you’d be,” a young man says as he greets me. And then his hand shoots to his mouth, as though stopping another awkward comment from leaving it. I know him from somewhere, I think. From his beard, and his long unkempt hair; a particularly fuzzy memory tells me he once played a major role in my life.

Hmph. Another film snippet. I rest my hand on his shoulder, look him in the eyes like I’ll say something sympathetic and instead tell him:

“Yeah, well I’m not John-fucking-Malkovich. So get on with it.”

“It’s just that the real Malkovich had a reputation,” the young man stammers. “He was supposed to be–”

“Eccentric, “I interrupt. “He was supposed to be eccentric. To put it politely.” For appearances’ sake, I wish I sounded less bored. But my life has been dominated by this particular conversation. “Watch Malkovich’s interviews,” I say. “He was much more normal in real life. He just acted offbeat for attention. And then he acted like he wanted to be left alone.”

Argyle coughs behind me. “I think there was supposed to be a song tonight as well?” the young man asks.

“There was,” I say. “Recorded on a clay tablet one hundred years ago, designed to withstand any hazard other than sea level rise.”

“Well, shit,” the young man says. I hear Four chuckling softly. Argyle commits a breach by pressing his hand on my shoulder and pushing me through the crowd.

“No spoilers!” Argyle shouts.

Seriously, Argyle? He knows full well I can’t remember the film. He deleted those memories himself, cut the brain waves off around 2015 so I could better mimic the necessary iteration of Malkovich. But a clean cut wasn’t possible. I have an especially vivid recollection of fleeing Cambridge after some catastrophe and settling in the enclosures with the rest of the wealthy. I remember being sick and hungry, a refugee with no home. Whatever events lead to this world, Malkovich suffered them too. These are his real memories, possibly. I doubt I’m recalling a late role.

But other memories intrude as always: me as a hustler in war-torn Shanghai, me as a gambling shark, as a double-crossing mob boss. I can’t trust my own brain. And so I can’t be sure of how real the memory is of Malkovich on his deathbed, thinking of the ceremony he’d held for this film before giving his last breath.

Clearly I recall that non-premiere party one hundred years ago, thrown by the Remy Martin company that funded Malkovich’s film as a tie-in with their Louis XIII cognac. In front of a select audience, Malkovich actually did reenact a portion of the trailer by reverently placing the film in its bulletproof safe along with a real bottle of Louis XIII. Robert the director and Malkovich’s fellow actors joined him on stage and the timer’s red LED lights began counting down from one hundred years and it dawned on Malkovich then that his work was well and truly done; the time spent at this party drinking overpriced alcohol would make no significant difference in the century-long wait, nor even would the remaining years of his life. But then someone poured him a glass of Louis XIII – a luxury even for him – and I remember no more.

“The assassin flashback again?” Four’s voice asks. I open my eyes. I can’t recall how long I’d had them closed. “The President will actually be here,” Four says, “so that might not be the most convenient memory.”

“No,” I say, with some indignation. “I had a real memory this time.”

“Quite the relative term,” Four says. “We either experience memories from a dead man’s personal life, or memories of a part he played. But all of them are implants regardless, none of them ours. Some more real than others, but none of them true.”

“I’d rather you just don’t speak,” I say. “I don’t want a headache.”

We’re coming up on the actual stage now. We pass through the double doors into a backroom behind the stage, lightless save for the projection screen in front of us. It’s been showing the trailer for hours now on repeat to those who arrived early, and I catch a glimpse of the real Malkovich, thirty feet high on the screen and staring down at me.

“My name is...” My distinguished template pauses as though he had suddenly realized he’d be dead before the film premiere. He begins again with an annoying flourish. “My name...was John.”

Robert the director is here tonight. The clones of Shuya and Marko too. There’s just something synthetic about them, as though the brain waves got fuzzy or the DNA was tainted. Cheap knock-offs, Argyle calls them; he’s warned me to keep a distance, even throughout the hours of rehearsals. But there’s no staying away tonight when the Shuya clone walks up to me for reasons she clearly cannot grasp.

“You’re late,” she repeats her line from the trailer. I know it’s a reflex action from the atonal pitch of her voice. I doubt she can say anything beyond the two words she’s been programmed for. And I know if I look into her eyes I’ll be greeted with the empty stare that disturbs me. So I turn my head. I’ve searched too long for a flicker of recognition. I can’t be the only artificial person here with a foggy head. I can’t be made for only this one purpose.

“Creepy, isn’t it?” Four whispers. “Looking at them. How little difference between them and us. What do you suppose we are?”

“Oh, we’re still knockoffs,” I say. “But not cheap ones.” I imagine Four must be smiling, but I don’t look his way either.

“I thought you’d be jealous,” I say. “I know you wanted this.”

Four shrugs. “I’ve moved on. I’ve seen things outside the Nursery. There’s more to life than a film.”

“But is that actually true for clones?” I ask. “I have a sinking suspicion they throw us out after the premiere.”

“People also collect old movie props,” Four says. “Although that’s not exactly a comforting analogy.”

I swallow hard. “Could we escape the theatre?” I ask. “Can our bodies survive?”

“The show’s about to start,” Four says. I thought I’d hear his bitterness, but I’m struck at his absence of emotion. I should be able to anticipate his thoughts, we’re close enough for that. But he’s a blank canvas as he turns on his heels and exits through the doors behind us.

“The 21st century,” Malkovich’s voice says on the big screen again. The projection cuts out and I hear only his voice. “Brilliant.”

“Was he meant to be you?” Argyle suddenly asks. He points up to the screen. “Is the guy in the trailer supposed to be the real Malkovich who lives forever, or was he supposed to be a grandkid or a clone or something?”

“You know that I don’t know that answer,” I sigh. No more questions of identity. I keep my eyes back on the screen, where the trailer starts playing again, then abruptly cuts out. Total darkness now in the theatre, total silence. I have three minutes to wait backstage, one minute to cross the stage itself and meet Shuya in the tunnel below. Both of us have done this dozens of times now. Argyle pats me on the back, I swat his hand away.

“Do me proud,” he says.

“How ironic it’s me that made it this far,” I say. “I never was your most obedient copy.”

“But you were the most authentic one,” he whispers back to me. “The way you ignored your lessons – pure Malkovich.”

I stiffen. Argyle doesn’t notice and continues. “Four made a solid attempt,” he says to me. “Two was doing fine before his meltdown. But they were just pretending to be Malkovich, weren’t they? You were him. It’s why you kept coming back.”

“Of course I kept coming back,” I say through clenched teeth. “It’s not like I had any choice.”

“I said you could leave any time,” Argyle says. “How authentic could you be if you were forced into it?”

“Bullshit.”

Argyle sighs, and I know suddenly, this is a discussion we’ve had before, a talking point I’d always dismissed as trifling. “You say that,” he says. “And I tell you different. You know you want to be here. So please ... just enjoy yourself.”

I suddenly have trouble breathing. I know somehow, that a stage hand is motioning to me with his fingers. I know that a spotlight is set to the curtain where I will emerge. But I know for sure, I cannot do this. Not now, not ever.

“This is what you are,” Argyle whispers.

“I have to get out,” I whisper back. I try turning around, and feel Argyle’s hand pushing me forward. He’s trying to be discreet, and so am I, but I won’t be discreet much longer. And then I’m breaking free of his grasp, I’m elbowing past the guards who are too astonished to stop me, and I’m pushing through the double doors that lead outside to the hallway where Four’s waiting to greet me.

“I have to get out,” I tell him. Four nods and leads me on.

Did he know I would flee? I don’t know where I’m going.

We’re running down the narrow hallway we had crossed before, then he hangs a left and we take an elevator I’ve never seen and I don’t know if I’m going up or down. I hear voices behind us; maybe I’m imagining them. The flashbacks start hitting me hard. I’m a blind man in Texas on a farm about to foreclose, I’m a loose cannon on the phone with the Secret Service and losing control of myself as I tell them how I’ll shoot their President. And then Four tugs at my arm and leads me across a corner, and I’m an old man called from retirement for a last mission before Four gently pushes me through to the end of the corridor and I’m angrily telling someone Get out of my head! but I don’t know who.

And then we stop and my eyes begin adjusting to the light. “Exit?” I ask Four, but he doesn’t answer. And I don’t want to look, because I’m scared that I’ll see the safe and the timer I’m running from instead, with the film and the brandy bottle and I’ll realize how perfectly arranged everything is so that I always end up here no matter what I do, and I know that nothing but the scripted lines will ever come from my mouth.