Afterlife Crisis

by Randal Graham

  Whether or not my speech had impressed him I couldn’t say, for he temporarily shelved the topic, suggesting that we moot the issue in greater detail at some future moment. I would have pressed the matter — Zeus’s current status and locale being the most important items currently on the Feynman agenda, even above wriggling out of a pair of engagements — but for the reason Norm gave for dropping the matter at this time, viz, we’d arrived at Vera’s temporary quarters: the quarters she shared, if you’ll recall, with our friend Nappy. Thus it was that, with a feeling that it’s best to confront the problem in front of you, I let the Zeus issue rest on the back burner while I attended to forces marshalling on the Vera front. Besides, Zeus appeared to be safe and happy for the nonce, and now that I knew where he was, the chances of hitting upon a formula for ensuring a happy ending seemed high.

  We knocked. Vera issued a friendly yodel. Norm bunged me in and toddled off, muttering somethingorother about perfecting his bartending technique and finding someone else with whom he might share an ounce or two of the right stuff.

  The room in which I now found myself was well populated with Rhinnicks and Veras, but appeared to be short one Nappy. She, according to Vera, had been whisked away for an interview with some of the Regent’s staff. Once these preliminary matters had been dealt with, Vera and self settled into our tête-à-tête.

  “You’ve looked better,” said Vera, in that diplomatic way of hers, and I foresaw — even without the assistance of television — this sort of helpful observation might feature prominently in our matrimonial life. But to be fair, for one always likes to look on both sides of an issue, it was true that I had, in fact, looked better. Mine is a face that tends to puff and redden when loaded up with a brace of cocktails.

  “Not looking my best, what?” I said.

  “No. But then you’ve just woken up from a coma. I suppose we can forgive you for looking like someone who’s been dragged backward through a hedge.” Here she sniffed for a moment, Zeus-like, and muttered something about gin.

  She instituted something of a stage wait and rifled through a drawer in her bedside table.

  “Take one of these,” she said, handing over a smallish bottle of pills.

  “What are they?” I asked, it being my standard policy to institute inquiries prior to swallowing anything of a pharmaceutical nature.

  “Detipsers,” she said. “Instant sobriety pills. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of them. They’re another of Professor Newton’s inventions.”

  I ran an unsteady eyeball over the label. As this soothsaying pipsqueak had predicted, it did claim to contain sobriety pills. I deftly dealt with the childproof cap and downed a handful, just to be safe.

  “Clever blighter, Isaac Newton,” I said in heartfelt tones, wishing as always to give credit where it was due. I could feel the effects instanter. I would have praised the inventor further had I not been itching to unleash my latest helping of hot news.

  “Brace yourself, my half-baked prophetess,” I said, leading up to the thing, “for here is the latest news and this is Rhinnick Feynman reading it: Zeus is here!”

  I had expected this to land like a bomb alighting on a munitions dump, but it didn’t. Vera’s eyes didn’t widen by even the merest micron. Instead she looked at me levelly and said she knew.

  “What do you mean you know?”

  “I mean I know! He’s been here for months. Nappy told me. She hasn’t been able to talk to him, but has seen him through the bars.”

  “What bars?” I asked. We were closeted in a room with a well-carved wooden door, but there were no bars to be seen, unless one counted the bar of soap poised on a nearby washstand, but context rather ruled that out.

  “When she first arrived,” said Vera. “They put her into some kind of jail with the other Napoleons.”

  “Abe’s drawers!” I said.

  “After I woke up I asked about you right away. They keep calling you the Hand of the Intercessor, and they said they wanted to do whatever they could to help you. So I told them we were looking for Nappy, and that you’d been hot on her trail when the police cruiser hit us. I described her, and it didn’t take them more than a few hours to find her and bring her to stay with me. Anyway, that’s when she told me she’d seen Zeus when she was kept behind bars with a bunch of other Napoleons. She saw him loads of times, and kept calling out to him, but he didn’t answer.”

  “The poor blighter has lost his memory,” I said. “But look on the bright side: we’ve found him. And it’s not as though this Socratic memory loss is always permanent. Look at what’s happened to you!”

  Here she raised a skeptical brow. She didn’t seem to string along with my optimistic appraisal of the sitch.

  “Rhinnick,” she said, leaning in and clasping my hands in hers, “you know why I’ve gotten some of my memories back, right? You know it’s because of my television. I get visions. Sometimes they’re from my past. I don’t actually remember those memories, if you see what I mean, but I see them again, as though it’s the first time. Unless Zeus has television, I don’t know if there’s any hope of him getting his memory back.”

  “There’s always hope,” I said. “Take this Regent, for example. She’s an ancient. She has powers — not at the same end of the omnipotence curve as Penelope, Abe, or the City Solicitor, I’m told, but impressive nonetheless. Maybe she can snap her fingers and magically sort things out for Zeus.”

  “I thought you told me that even Abe couldn’t fix Zeus’s memories,” she said.

  “It’s true,” I said. “But there again, Abe thought Isaac was the most dangerous man in the world, all owing to some misunderstanding about a bit of scientific fiddling with quarks, gluons, bosons, and other teensy thingummies which don’t matter a single damn.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Abe isn’t infallible!” I said. “Powerful, yes. Clever, sure. Awash in civic pride and responsibility. But not infallible. Just because he can’t find a way to restore Zeus’s marbles doesn’t mean it can’t be done. Haven’t you seen anything from your television hinting at Zeus’s future condition?”

  “I’ve seen him with you,” she said, a cautious sort of rumminess in her voice, “but that doesn’t mean he gets his memories back. I can’t tell if that’s going to happen.”

  “Then we’ll just have to hope for the best,” I said.

  “I’ll let you know if I have any helpful visions,” she said, patting the Feynman hands in a “bear up, little fella” kind of way. It was at this point in our affairs that the door opened, revealing Nappy being bunged in by guard — this one a female guard, rather than a Zeus or a Terrence. Nappy looked to be exhausted.

  “Nappy!” I said, once the guard had closed the door and left us alone.

  “Monsieur Feynman!” she said, slumping into a chair. She had the aspect of a person who, though glad to enter the Feynman orbit, had just run a marathon or two and lacked the strength for a hug, handshake, or high-five.

  “I am so ’appy to see you,” she said.

  “Your accent’s gotten stronger,” I replied.

  “Eet ’as. Zis always ’appens when I’m around ozzer Napoleons.”

  “What’s wrong?” said Vera, moving over to where Nappy rested, and then kneeling at her side. “You look exhausted.”

  “Zey ’elped zemselves to blood and spinal fluid,” she said.

  This seemed to awaken the mother-bear element in Vera’s personality, for she responded by shouting, “They’ve no bloody right to be—” when Nappy waved her off.

  “Non, non, eet’s okay,” she said, taking in a couple of extra lungfuls of strengthening air. “Zey say it will ’elp with zere research, and zis research will ’elp everyone.”

  “How so?” I asked, leaning in.

  “Zey believe zat we Napoleons ’ave a connection to ze beforelife. Zat zey can, ’ow you say
, replicate zis connection. Use eet to pass between worlds. Maybe even ’elp us remember our mortal lives,” she added, drifting off and seeming to slip into something of a reverie.

  “You think this will help Zeus,” said Vera, “don’t you? That’s why you’re letting them take your blood.”

  “Zere is no ‘letting zem’ about it,” said Nappy. “Zey take what zey take. But oui, I do ’ope zat zere research might ’elp Zeus.”

  “But surely they can push the research along without your aid,” I said. “I mean to say, they have dozens of Napoleons, from what I’ve heard.”

  “Hundreds,” said Nappy.

  “Egad,” I said. “Well, then they have hundreds of Napoleons. Let them take their blood and spinal juices.”

  “I ’ave to ’elp,” said Nappy, suddenly looking a good deal stronger, but tearing up at the same time. “I ’ave to ’elp in any way zat I can. You deed not see Zeus after ’e was shot. You deed not see ’im as ’e lost ’is memory. ’E cried out for me. And for you. And zen eet all just slipped away. I tried to ’elp ’im. I tried to—”

  Here she broke off, as Vera pulled her into a hug, muttering something about how we understood what she was doing and would do our best to push along her efforts. I, for one, couldn’t see any percentage in what she was doing to ’elp Zeus, as she would put it, for the innate loopiness of the Regent’s plan to exploit — do I mean exploit? — the Napoleonic connection to the beforelife seemed to dwarf even Oan’s goofy practice of invoking the Laws of Attraction and merely hoping the universe will fork over whatever you need. I didn’t say any of this to Nappy or Vera, of course, for I didn’t wish to depress the young prunes. So I held my tongue apart from a spot of “there-thereing” alongside Vera, and promising to do whatever I could to help her out. It was perhaps a quarter of an hour before we returned to anything that resembled a productive discussion. And when we did, our discussion turned to the matter of questions that the Regent’s staff had been asking their Napoleonic guests.

  “Zey want to know what we remember of ze beforelife, of course,” said Nappy. “But eet’s more zan zat. Zey want to know ’ow we remember — what do zey call eet — ’ow we remember our return passage, ze moments when we leave Detroit before being reborn.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” I said, because I hadn’t. “It hadn’t occurred to me before that, if Napoleons do ‘reincarnate,’ as I’ve heard it called, if they do take multiple trips back and forth between the beforelife and Detroit, there must come a time when they disappear from here and reassemble in the beforelife.”

  “I suppose so,” said Nappy.

  “What do you mean you suppose so,” said Vera. “You mean you don’t remember?”

  “I don’t,” said Nappy. “I remember my current life en Detroit. I remember bits and piecez of ozzer lives in ze beforelife. Or possibly just one ozzer life. Eet’s so difficult to tell.”

  “Not for Jack,” I said. “He remembers loads of lives.”

  “Oo eez Jack?” said Nappy.

  “You knew him as Napoleon Number Three,” I said.

  This drew a startled yip from the young bird, and she might have leapt a foot or two had she not been sitting down.

  “Zut alors!” she said. “Napoleon Number Zree eez getting ze worst of ze Regent’s treatment. Eet’s practically torture. Zey question ’im every day. Zey take his blood. I ’eard ’im screaming ze ozzer night — somesing or ozzer about ’ating women, and somesing about someone named Alice. But why do you call ’im Jack?”

  “It’s some name he picked up in a prior incarnation, if that’s the word I want. He’s had others, too. Judas was one, if memory serves. But in any event, this Jack, or this Judas, or this Napoleon Number Three, seems to recall more than the usual number of past lives — I’ve lost count of just how many — and most of these past incarnations appear to have been dashed unpleasant. Not a very nice man, it seems.”

  “Number Zree always was a bit of une tête de merde,” said Nappy.

  “No doubt,” I said.

  “That must be why they’re questioning him so forcefully,” said Vera. “If he remembers lots of lives — if he can remember them clearly and is certain that he’s passed back and forth between the beforelife and Detroit several times — maybe they see him as being even more connected to the beforelife than the others.”

  “Perhaps being a fiend in human shape strengthens one’s ability to pass from one world to the other,” I mused. “Though why they’d want to replicate any journey between worlds that results in coming back as a rotten egg is beyond me.”

  “Perhaps your nature eez . . . distilled each time you cross,” suggested Nappy. “You become more . . . I don’t know . . . more ‘yourself’ each time you return. So every time Jack passez from one life to ze next—”

  “His essential Jackness is intensified!” I said. “That could be the case. Zeus gets Zeusier, Jack gets Jackier — every reincarnating bimbo is repeatedly reduced down to his or her essential self, and the flavour becomes bolder.”

  “We’re not talking about sauces,” said Vera. “We’re talking about people. I don’t think it works that way.”

  “But it might!” said Nappy, and I remember thinking that she might have a point.

  I don’t know if you’ve had the same experience, but I’ve often found that, when I’m caught up in a discussion of a topic fraught with interest, the minutes whip along like a greyhound chasing a rabbit, and every time you look at the clock you’re surprised to see that another hour or two has passed. That’s how it was with this discussion. We carried on mooting the ins and outs of reincarnation, and then interrogating Nappy about her prior interrogation, until the hour drew late and we were surprised by the advent of William — who floated in and announced the time had come for me to dress for a late-night dinner with Mine Host. Nappy and Vera weren’t, it seemed, slated to join the Regent’s party, they being earmarked for something simple served in their own private quarters. I, by sharp contradistinction, was on the Regent’s list of honoured VIPs, and therefore required to dine with the folks up top.

  “But dash it,” I said, at last remembering why I’d been brought to Vera’s quarters, “I’d almost forgotten. I’m here about your poem.”

  “My poem?” said Vera.

  “Your poem,” I said. “The one about the chairs and two chaps who sat in them.”

  “You mean my prophecy!” said Vera.

  “That’s right. What does it mean?”

  “I’m afraid there isn’t time, sir,” said William.

  “Of course there’s time,” I riposted, warmly. “All kinds of it. That explains all of the clocks and watches.”

  “I mean there isn’t time for you to discuss this prophecy at present, sir. The time has come for dinner. The Regent insists that you attend.”

  It was with a feeling that a guest shouldn’t disappoint his hosts that I shrugged the shoulders and decided to shelve further discussion of Vera’s poem, placing it on the back burner and pencilling it in to be mooted at some future, as-yet-undetermined date. I therefore said my cordial farewells, featuring hugs and shaken hands, and followed William back to my room, having not the slightest notion of what awaited.

  Chapter 22

  One thing that life has shown me, as it may have shown you as well, is that tastes often differ. Take me, for instance. Despite my well-known tendency to sparkle and shed light upon those around me, recent evidence has suggested I’m not everyone’s cup of tea. Matron Bikerack, for example — when she remembers me at all — is more inclined to unleash an acid crack, issue a thumbs down, or swipe left, if swiping left means what I think it does, than to offer a rave review when the topic of Feynman R is raised. Peericks, too — before the Author washed all evidence of me from that medical fathead’s bean — couldn’t be listed on the roster of Rhinnick Boosters or Feynman Fans. To be weighed against th
ese naysayers are the countless other, better-informed, and wiser beazels who count the day lost when it’s not spent revelling in my society, a viewpoint best demonstrated by the increasingly popular fad of signing up to be my spouse.

  But the point I’m trying to make, I think, is this: when it comes to Rhinnick Feynman, opinions vary. But somehow all of this seems to change when Rhinnick finds himself at a formal evening meal. You might regard Feynman with indifference or contempt at other times, but throw on the soft lights, push him into Correct Evening Costume, and shove a dinner in front of him, and you’d be surprised.

  The set-up for this particular dining binge seemed precisely calibrated to allow Feynman to shine. When William took me to my room, preparatory to setting sail for dinner, I found the finest suit of clothes into which it has ever been my pleasure to climb — all tailor-made to fit the Feynman frame. The Regent appeared to be a traditionalist in the matter of evening wear, having instructed her quartermaster to come across with a full-blown formal get-up including tails and a white tie. Catching a glimpse of myself in a full-length mirror, I was able to offer the wholly objective and unbiased view that I had never looked better than I looked in this upholstery. And however deeply one’s brow is furrowed out of concern for amnesiac Zeuses, captive Napoleons, and a higher-than-usual number of accidental engagements, one can’t help but feel a certain lightness of spirit after donning gay apparel of this calibre.

  Thus it was that I was in merry mood when I, ushered by William, blew into the Regent’s formal dining room, completing a party of four comprising self, Oan, Norm Stradamus, and the Regent herself — or a party of five, if you count Memphis, the Regent’s dog, who sat at attention beside his mistress, staring down his nose at me as if to suggest that he was keeping an eye skinned in my direction and that any funny business would result in bites, abrasions, and contusions. My own four-pawed sidekick, the hamster Fenny, had opted out of this particular binge, he having intimated that he’d prefer to stay in my room and fiddle with scraps of shredded paper.