25 Short Stories and Novellas Part 15
In Paris they visit the Louvre and take the boat ride along the Seine and eat at little Latin Quarter bistros and buy ancient objets d'art in the galleries of St.-Germain-des-Pres. She has never been to Paris before, though of course he has, so often that he has lost count. It is very beautiful but strikes her as somehow fossilized, a museum exhibit rather than a living city, despite all the life she sees going on around her, the animated discussions in the cafes, the bustling restaurants, the crowds in the Metro. Nothing must have changed here in five hundred years. It is all static -- frozen -- lifeless. As though the entire place has been through Process.
Leo seems to sense her gathering restlessness, and she sees a darkening in his own mood in response. On the third day, in front of one of the rows of ancient bookstalls along the river, he says, "It's me, isn't it?"
"What is?"
"The reason why you're so glum. It can't be the city, so it has to be me. Us. Do you want to leave, Marilisa?"
"Leave Paris? So soon?"
"Leave me, I mean. Perhaps the whole thing has been just a big mistake. I don't want to hold you against your will. If you've started to feel that I'm too old for you, that what you really need is a much younger man, I wouldn't for a moment stand in your way."
Is this how it happens? Is this how his marriages end, with him sadly, lovingly, putting words in your mouth?
"No," she says. "I love you, Leo. Younger men don't interest me. The thought of leaving you has never crossed my mind."
"I'll survive, you know, if you tell me that you want out."
"I don't want out."
"I wish I felt completely sure of that."
She is getting annoyed with him, now. "I wish you did too. You're being silly, Leo. Leaving you is the last thing in the world I want to do. And Paris is the last place in the world where I would want my marriage to break up. I love you. I want to be your wife forever and ever."
"Well, then." He smiles and draws her to him; they embrace; they kiss. She hears a patter of light applause. People are watching them. People have been listening to them and are pleased at the outcome of their negotiations. Paris! Ah, Paris!
When they return home, though, he is called away almost immediately to Barcelona to repair one of his paintings, which has developed some technical problem and is undergoing rapid disagreeable metamorphosis. The work will take three or four days; and Marilisa, unwilling to put herself through the fatigue of a second European trip so soon, tells him to go without her. That seems to be some sort of cue for Fyodor to show up, scarcely hours after Leo's departure. How does he know so unerringly when to find her alone?
His pretense is that he has brought an artifact for Leo's collection, an ugly little idol, squat and frog-faced, covered with lumps of brown oxidation. She takes it from him brusquely and sets it on a randomly chosen shelf, and says, mechanically, "Thank you very much. Leo will be pleased. I'll tell him you were here."
"Such charm. Such hospitality."
"I'm being as polite as I can. I didn't invite you."
"Come on, Marilisa. Let's get going."
"Going? Where? What for?"
"We can have plenty of fun together and you d.a.m.ned well know it. Aren't you tired of being such a loyal little wife? Politely sliding through the motions of your preposterous little marriage with your incredibly ancient husband?"
His eyes are shining strangely. His face is flushed.
She says softly, "You're crazy, aren't you?"
"Oh, no, not crazy at all. Not as nice as my father, maybe, but perfectly sane. I see you rusting away here like one of the artifacts in his collection and I want to give you a little excitement in your life before it's too late. A touch of the wild side, do you know what I mean, Marilisa? Places and things he can't show you, that he can't even imagine. He's old. He doesn't know anything about the world we live in today. Jesus, why do I have to spell it out for you? Just drop everything and come away with me. You won't regret it." He leans forward, smiling into her face, utterly sure of himself, plainly confident now that his blunt unceasing campaign of bald invitation will at last be crowned with success.
His audacity astounds her. But she is mystified, too.
"Before it's too late, you said. Too late for what?"
"You know."
"Do I?"
Fyodor seems exasperated by what he takes to be her wilful obtuseness. His mouth opens and closes like a shutting trap; a muscle quivers in his cheek; something seems to be cracking within him, some carefully guarded bastion of self-control. He stares at her in a new way -- angrily? Contemptuously? -- and says, "Before it's too late for anybody to want you. Before you get old and saggy and shriveled. Before you get so withered and ancient-looking that n.o.body would touch you."
Surely he is out of his mind. Surely. "n.o.body has to get that way any more, Fyodor."
"Not if they undergo Process, no. But you -- you, Marilisa -- " He smiles sadly, shakes his head, turns his hands palms upward in a gesture of hopeless regret.
She peers at him, bewildered. "What can you possibly be talking about?"
For the first time in her memory Fyodor's cool c.o.c.ky aplomb vanishes. He blinks and gapes. "So you still haven't found out. He actually did keep you in the dark all this time. You're a null, Marilisa! A short-timer! Process won't work for you! The one-in-ten-thousand shot, that's you, the inherent somatic unreceptivity. Christ, what a b.a.s.t.a.r.d he is, to hide it from you like this! You've got eighty, maybe ninety years and that's it. Getting older and older, wrinkled and bent and ugly, and then you'll die, the way everybody in the world used to. So you don't have forever and a day to get your fun, like the rest of us. You have to grab it right now, fast, while you're still young. He made us all swear never to say a word to you, that he was going to be the one to tell you the truth in his own good time, but why should I give a d.a.m.n about that? We aren't children. You have a right to know what you really are. f.u.c.k him, is what I say. f.u.c.k him!" Fyodor's face is crimson now. His eyes are rigid and eerily bright with a weird fervor. "You think I'm making this up? Why would I make up something like this?"
It is like being in an earthquake. The floor seems to heave. She has never been so close to the presence of pure evil before. With the tightest control she can manage she says, "You'd make it up because you're a lying miserable b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Fyodor, full of hatred and anger and pus. And if you think -- But I don't need to listen to you any more. Just get out of here!"
"It's true. Everybody knows it, the whole family! Ask Katrin! She's the one I heard it from first. Christ, ask Leo! Ask Leo!"
"Out," she says, flicking her hand at him as though he is vermin. "Now. Get the h.e.l.l out. Out."
She promises herself that she will say nothing to Leo about the monstrous fantastic tale that has come pouring out of his horrid son, or even about his clumsy idiotic attempt at seduction -- it's all too shameful, too disgusting, too repulsive, and she wants to spare him the knowledge of Fyodor's various perfidies -- but of course it all comes blurting from her within an hour after Leo is back from Barcelona. Fyodor is intolerable, she says. Fyodor's behavior has been too bizarre and outrageous to conceal. Fyodor has come here unasked and spewed a torrent of cruel fantastic nonsense in a grotesque attempt at bludgeoning her into bed.
Leo says gravely, "What kind of nonsense?" and she tells him in a quick unpunctuated burst and watches his smooth taut face collapse into weary jowls, watches him seem to age a thousand years in the course of half a minute. He stands there looking at her, aghast; and then she understands that it has to be true, every terrible word of what Fyodor has said. She is one of those, the miserable statistical few of whom everybody has heard, but only at second or third hand. The treatments will not work on her. She will grow old and then she will die. They have tested her and they know the truth, but the whole bunch of them have conspired to keep it from her, the doctors at the clinic, Leo's sons and daughters and wives, her own family, everyone. All of it Leo's doing. Using his influence all over the place, his enormous accrued power, to shelter her in her ignorance.
"You knew from the start?" she asks, finally. "All along?"
"Almost. I knew very early. The clinic called me and told me, not long after we got engaged."
"My G.o.d. Why did you marry me, then?"
"Because I loved you."
"Because you loved me."
"Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes."
"I wish I knew what that meant," she says. "If you loved me, how could you hide a thing like this from me? How could you let me build my life around a lie?"
Leo says, after a moment, "I wanted you to have the good years, untainted by what would come later. There was time for you to discover the truth later. But for now -- while you were still young -- the clothes, the jewelry, the traveling, all the joy of being beautiful and young -- why ruin it for you? Why darken it with the knowledge of what would be coming?"
"So you made everybody go along with the lie? The people at the clinic. Even my own family, for G.o.d's sake!"
"Yes."
"And all the Prep treatments I've been taking -- just a stupid pointless charade, right? Accomplishing nothing. Leading nowhere."
"Yes. Yes."
She begins to tremble. She understands the true depths of his compa.s.sion now, and she is appalled. He has married her out of charity. No man her own age would have wanted her, because the developing signs of bodily deterioration in the years just ahead would surely horrify him; but Leo is beyond all that, he is willing to overlook her unfortunate little somatic defect and give her a few decades of happiness before she has to die. And then he will proceed with the rest of his life, the hundreds or thousands of years yet to come, serene in the knowledge of having allowed the tragically doomed Marilisa the happy illusion of having been a member of the ageless elite for a little while. It is stunning. It is horrifying. There is no way that she can bear it.
"Marilisa -- "
He reaches for her, but she turns away. Runs. Flees.
It was three years before he found her. She was living in London, then, a little flat in the Bayswater Road, and in just those three years her face had changed so much, the little erosions of the transition between youth and middle age, that it was impossible for him entirely to conceal his instant reaction. He, of course, had not changed in the slightest way. He stood in the doorway, practically filling it, trying to plaster some sort of facade over his all too visible dismay, trying to show her the familiar Leo smile, trying to make the old Leo-like warmth glow in his eyes. Then after a moment he extended his arms toward her. She stayed where she was.
"You shouldn't have tracked me down," she says.
"I love you," he tells her. "Come home with me."
"It wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be fair to you. My getting old, and you always so young."
"To h.e.l.l with that. I want you back, Marilisa. I love you and I always will."
"You love me?" she says. "Even though -- ?"
"Even though. For better, for worse."
She knows the rest of the pa.s.sage -- for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health -- and where it goes from there. But there is nothing more she can say. She wants to smile gently and thank him for all his kindness and close the door, but instead she stands there and stands there and stands there, neither inviting him in nor shutting him out, with a roaring sound in her ears as all the million years of mortal history rise up around her like mountains.
Double Dare.
by Robert Silverberg.
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BY THE TIME the s.p.a.ceship had finished jiggling and actually stood firmly on Domerangi soil, Justin Marner was beginning to doubt his sanity.
"We must be crazy," he said. "We _must_ be."
The other Earthman, who had been gazing out the viewplate at the green-and-gold alien vista, glanced around suddenly at Marner's remark. "Huh?"
"There are limits to which one goes in proving a point," Marner said. He indicated the scene outside. "This little journey exceeds the limits. Now that we're here, Kemridge, I'm sure of it. _n.o.body_ does things like this."
Kemridge shrugged sourly. "Don't be silly Justin. You know why we're here, and you know how come we're here. This isn't any time to -- "
"All right," Marner said. "I take it all back." He stared for a moment at his delicate, tapering fingers -- the fingers that could have belonged to a surgeon, were they not the property of a top-rank technical engineer. "Don't pay any attention to whatever I just said. It's the strain that's getting me."
The door of the cabin chimed melodiously.
"Come in," said Kemridge.
The door slid open and a Domerangi, clad in a bright yellow sash, gray-green buskins, and a glittering diadem of precious gems, stepped heavily into the cabin. He extended two of his five leathery tentacles in welcome.
"h.e.l.lo, gentlemen. I see you've come through the trip in fine shape."
"What's going on now, Plorvash?" Marner asked.
"The ship has landed at a s.p.a.ceport just outside the city," the alien said. "I've come to take you to your quarters. We're giving you two the finest accommodations our planet can offer. We want your working conditions to be of the best."
"Glad to hear it." Marner flicked a glance at his companion. "They're most considerate, aren't they, Dave?"
The taller of the two Earthmen nodded gravely. "Definitely."
Plorvash grinned. "Suppose you come with me now. You would like to be well rested before you undertake your task. After all, you should be at your best, since planetary pride is at stake."
"Of course," Marner said.
"The test will begin as soon as you wish. May I offer you good luck?"
"We won't need it," Kemridge stated grimly. "It's not a matter of luck at all. It's brains -- brains and sweat."
"Very well," Plorvash said. "This is what you're here to prove. It ought to be amusing, in any case -- whatever the outcome may be."
Both Earthmen tried to look calm and confident, absolutely sure of themselves and their skill.
They merely managed to look rigidly worried.
Statisticians have no records on the subject, but it is an observed phenomenon that the most serious differences of opinion generally originate in bars. It had been in a bar at 46th Street and Sixth Avenue that Justin Marner had ill-advisedly had words with a visiting Domerangi, a month before, and it had been in the same bar that the train of events that had brought the two Earthmen to Domerang V had started -- and never stopped gaining momentum.
It had been a simple altercation at first. Marner had been reflectively sipping a whisky sour, and Kemridge, seated to his left with his long legs uncomfortably scrunched up, had been toying with a double Scotch. The Domerangi had entered the bar with a characteristically ponderous stride.
Though contact with Domerang V had been made more than a century before, Domerangi were still rare sights in New York. Marner and Kemridge knew this one, though -- he was attached to the Domerangi Consulate on 66th Street and Third, and they had had dealings with him a year ago in the matter of some circuit alignments for the building's lighting system. Domerangi, with their extraordinary peripheral vision, prefer subdued, indirect lighting, and Marner and Kemridge had designed the lighting plot for the Consulate.
The Domerangi spotted them immediately and eased his bulk onto the stool next to them. "Ah, the two clever engineers," the alien rumbled. "You remember me, of course?"
"Yes," Marner said quickly. "How's the lighting job working out?"
"As well as could be expected." The Domerangi waved toward the bartender. "Barkeep! Two beers, please."