Dead Lines

by Greg Bear

  Can’t miss it, Joseph had written on the map. Numbers hidden. Guidebook says it’s fronted by a huge river rock wall. Bamboo garden inside.

  JOSEPH AND PETER’S last picture together, in 1983, had been Q.T., the Sextraterrestrial, Peter’s biggest budget production—half a million dollars. Too old-fashioned, the film had gone straight to late-night cable.

  The hard-core porn revolution had punched heavy-gauge nails into Peter’s film career. Whatever his morals, Peter had been more of a gentleman than his competitors. He had cared for his ladies. It had been tough watching them waltz off to shoot hard-core. Some had ended up sadly; others had become underground legends.

  Movies had never left his thoughts, however, and in the early nineties, while visiting Benoliel to drum up support for a low-budget horror feature, Peter had discovered a new element in Flaubert House: Joseph’s young wife. They had been married two months. Michelle had taken an immediate liking to Peter and had talked up his screenplay, but Joseph had refused to lay out good money for bad horror. Persistent almost to a fault, Michelle had asked Peter if he could do other work. Down to his last few hundred dollars, he had agreed.

  Gruff, never easy to get along with, Joseph Adrian Benoliel could turn on the charm when he wanted to, but only if he needed something. Worth half a billion dollars, he rarely admitted to needing anything. Under Michelle’s tutelage, Peter had become his more charming face.

  “You’re a gem, you know that?” she had told Peter at the beginning of his new role, as she had walked ahead of him, a slight, wiry figure in shorts and halter top, her lambent contralto and slapping zoreys echoing across the marble-lined entry of Flaubert House. “You won’t believe the weirdoes trying to take advantage of Joseph. You’re just what he needs.”

  For thirteen years now, Peter had toted, met with, dismissed, couriered, and kept mum. He had made more money from helping Joseph and Michelle than he had ever earned from his movies. In the end, Peter had become a decent factotum, fed his family, and acquired a loose sort of freedom from want.

  Now he was locked in, wary of trying anything new, of making another wrong move and losing the last important things left in his life.

  A fair number of people in LA now knew Peter only as Joseph’s dogsbody.

  So had ended his big dreams.

  PETER SPOTTED A river rock wall nine feet high and thirty feet long, then found an open space across the street just big enough to fit the Porsche. Beside the wall, twin red cedar garage doors were illuminated by hyperbolas cast by jutting tin-saucer lights fitted with clear glass bulbs. Authenticity meant a lot in Pasadena.

  He walked along the rock wall, knuckles brushing the jutting boulders, until he came to the cedar gate. Somewhere deep within the night behind the wall, chimes tinkled. A breeze stirred dry leaves and they made a sound like little hands rubbing together.

  Peter found a small ivory button mounted in green bronze above the standard NO SOLICITORS sign and rechecked the description. Nothing else like it on the block. He pushed the button. Security lights switched on within the yard. Two minutes later, a thin woman of sixty or so peered through the gate with intense black eyes.

  “Yes?” she said, leaning to look behind him.

  “My name is Peter Russell. I’m here for a private meeting with Sandaji.”

  “Representing yourself?”

  “No,” Peter said.

  “Who, then?”

  “I was told to come here and you’d know everything you needed to know.”

  “Well, identification would certainly help,” the woman said. Peter produced his driver’s license. She held out a small flashlight and examined it with wrinkled brow. “You make a good picture,” she said, and then stepped back. The gate pulled open on a metal track. To either side of a slate walkway, bamboo formed an undulating curtain, up to and around a stone lantern. Through the stalks, he could see a porch and dimly lit windows.

  “Come in, Mr. Russell,” the woman said. “My name is Jean Baslan. I’m Sandaji’s personal assistant. She’s very busy this time of year. We always love coming back to this house. A peaceful place.” Her voice had a pleasant ululation to it, accompanied by a trace of Nordic accent.

  Peter followed her up the winding walkway.

  “We’ve cleared this hour for you,” Jean Baslan said. “If you plan on taking less time, please let us know. Have you met Sandaji?”

  Peter said he had not.

  Baslan smiled. “You have a treat in store, Mr. Russell. We’re all totally devoted to her.” With a gentle wave, she guided him through the front door into the living room. Dark wood and exquisite built-in cabinetry set off antique furniture and handwoven oriental carpets. Tiffany lamps sat contented and elegant on long tables of solid bird’s-eye maple. Peter recognized Morris chairs that looked genuine, and the books within the glass cases were rich and interesting: leather-bound sets of Voltaire, Trollope, Dickens. He wondered what kind of women had lived in this house when it was first built: no doubt lovely, their dresses ankle-length, stepping like young deer with charming hesitations and subtle glances. He could almost smell their perfume.

  “We’re here to help needy people,” Jean Baslan said, “people living in pain and confusion, who desperately need Sandaji’s message of hope. What sort of question did your friend, your employer, have?”

  “Well,” Peter said, “it’s private.”

  “Is he elderly?”

  “In his seventies,” he said.

  “A friend as well as an employer?”

  Peter tilted his head to the left. “We respect each other,” he said.

  “Is he married?”

  Peter smiled. “Mostly I run errands and take meetings. That sort of thing.”

  “How intriguing . . .” She lifted her hand. “Sandaji will know what to tell him, I’m sure.”

  They had passed through a dining room and into the rear portion of the house. He saw a sleeping porch with two women sitting in warm darkness on wicker chairs. Their eyes glinted at him as he passed. For a moment, he half imagined them in long silken dresses. The effect was at once charming and disconcerting.

  “You know what our greatest difficulty is?” Baslan asked. “Discouraging proposals. For marriage, you know. The men who come to Sandaji find her so comforting. But then, she is beautiful, very much so, and that confuses many.”

  Peter said he was looking forward to meeting her. Personally, however, he had never found age much of an aphrodisiac.

  The house was a work in progress and in these back rooms, it looked more like a middle-class grandma lived here than a very rich aunt. Past the dining room, tables, couches, and chairs were not antiques. The jambs and rafters still supported decades of paint, rather than being stripped to native wood as in the restored sections.

  The first thing Peter noticed as Jean Baslan opened the last door was the scent of freshly crushed herbs: thyme, rosemary, and then spearmint. Aromatherapy, he thought. Oh, goodie.

  Sandaji was pressing her dark velvet gown down over her hips, having apparently just stood up from a plain wooden chair. Peter saw her first, and then the room she was in. Later, trying to remember the room, he would be hard-pressed to describe what was in it. The rest of the house remained clear, but from this moment, all he truly remembered was the woman. She stood six feet tall, hair a gray curly fountain tamed by clips and a ribbon to flow down her back. The black gown she wore ended at mid-ankle and she was barefoot, her feet bony but well formed, like the rest of her; hips protruding, though she was not excessively thin, roll of tummy pronounced but not obtrusive, faint nubs on not particularly small breasts. As Peter’s eye moved from bare feet to shoulders, he received the impression of a willowy college girl, and then Sandaji turned her head to face him, and he saw the mature woman, well past her fifties but surely not in her seventies, observant eyes relaxed in a face lightly but precisely seamed by a subset of whole-life experiences. Her lips, still imbued with natural color and utterly lacking in lipstick, bowed into
a knowing Shirley Temple smile. She seemed wise but mischievous, awaiting a cherished playmate, inviting speculation that she might be won over to a deeper friendship; his eyes moved down in reappraisal. The black gown covered a trim, healthy body, promising rewards beyond the spiritual. She enjoyed his appreciation.

  Peter had met many beautiful women. He knew what they expected, the charming dictates they imposed on all their unequal relationships. Somehow, however, he did not think his experience would be much help with Sandaji.

  “This is Peter Russell,” Jean Baslan announced. “Representing Mr. Joseph Adrian Benoliel.”

  Sandaji narrowed her eyes like a cat settling in for a coze. “How is Mr. Benoliel?” she asked, and looked back at the table. “It’s a pity we will not meet this evening. I understand he has a question.”

  “He does,” Peter said.

  Sandaji looked around the room, pink tongue tipping between her lips. “That’s a good seat,” she said, and pointed to the forest-green couch against the wall, beyond the glass-topped table, all of which Peter now noticed. “Please feel at ease.”

  “I’ll leave you two alone for a few minutes,” Jean Baslan announced with a wink, as if she were a liberal-minded duenna leaving her charge in the trust of a gentleman. She closed the door behind her.

  Peter sat on the green couch, knees spread comfortably, and rested his big, dry hands on them; an easy workman’s way of sitting, not a gentleman’s, and for once, he was acutely aware of the difference. Sandaji pressed her gown again with a downward stroke of her hand and returned to the plain wooden chair. She sat straight and with knees together, not as if manner dictated, but equally in comfort. Her long fingers continued to shape precise smoothing motions, drawing the clinging velvet down an inch as she made a small contraction in the corner of her mouth. Human, that contraction said; no matter what else you see or feel, I am merely human.

  Peter was not so sure. He could not take his eyes off her. She seemed utterly at peace. Her eyes remained fixed on his.

  “I do odd jobs for Mr. Benoliel,” Peter said. “He told me to come here.”

  Sandaji obviously appreciated the effect she had on men and probably on other women, but it did not in the final balance seem to mean a lot to her. She raised her brows with an expression that said, how nice. “There’s so much pain to be soothed, so much confusion to be guided into useful energy.” Her voice was tuned like a cello. Peter could imagine himself swimming in that voice.

  “I’m sure,” he said. Then, without willing it, he added, “My best friend died today.”

  Sandaji leaned forward and she held her breath for an instant before exhaling delicately through her nose. “I am so sorry to hear that,” she said.

  “He was a writer, like me,” Peter added.

  “You both have qualities,” Sandaji said. “You are valued, that I can see. So many people—women in particular, I think—have placed an astonishing faith in you. That is something special, Peter.”

  “Thank you. I like women,” he said. “They seem to like me. And around me, well . . . I can’t . . .” He could not stop talking. Embarrassing. His hands clutched his knees.

  “I understand,” Sandaji said. “I commit only to my work now. That confuses some who need the kind of love we can’t afford to give, for different reasons.”

  Peter chuckled uncomfortably. “Well, it isn’t because I’m successful and devoted to my work.”

  “No?”

  “More like I’ve never grown up.”

  “There’s a charm in youth, and a sting,” Sandaji said. “We let go of youth for a great price. Life does not offer the price to all.”

  Ah, Peter thought, and felt a measure of control return. I’m getting her range. She’s very good, but she is not impenetrable. Still, she is very good. “Sorry. That just slipped out. I’m not here to talk about me.”

  “I see.”

  “My employer has a question.”

  “We have time.”

  “Michelle told me that earlier. Mrs. Benoliel.”

  A wrinkle formed between Sandaji’s pale brows. “She worries for her husband.”

  “All rich wives worry,” Peter said, feeling defensive now and not because of the implied analysis of Michelle. He could feel the spotlight of Sandaji’s attention moving around his personal landscape, touching points he might not want illuminated.

  She looked to his left, then leaned back in the chair. “Your daughter,” she said, and the wrinkle between her brows deepened.

  Peter stiffened until his neck hurt. “I didn’t ask about my daughter,” he said.

  Sandaji opened and closed her hands, then folded them on her lap, dimpling the black velvet. She seemed agitated. “I assure you, I’m not a psychic, Mr. Russell.”

  “I’m here on Mr. Benoliel’s behalf. Why bring up my daughter?”

  “Please ask . . . your question.” She looked up at the ceiling, frowning self-critically. “I’m so sorry. I did not mean to intrude. Please forgive me.”

  Peter looked up as well. Light flickered there, as if reflecting from a pool of water somewhere in the room.

  Sandaji moved—jerked, actually, as if startled—and the light vanished.

  That, and mention of his daughter, and Sandaji’s unexpected discomfiture, made Peter nervous. The house was no longer welcoming and Sandaji’s enchantment had evaporated. She suddenly looked fragile, like chipped china.

  It was time to get this charade over with.

  “Please,” Sandaji insisted. “The question.”

  “Mr. Benoliel asks if a man can live without a soul.”

  She dropped her gaze to look over his shoulder, then slowly returned her focus to Peter. “He asks if a man . . .” The wrinkle between her brows became a dark valley. She was starting to look all of her years, and more. “Live without a soul?”

  “No,” Peter corrected himself, getting flustered. “He said ‘someone,’ actually. Not ‘a man,’ but ‘someone.’ ”

  “Of course,” Sandaji said, as if it were the most obvious question in the world. Peter blinked. For an instant, a shadow seemed to fill the room, sweeping across walls and ceiling and then hiding behind the furniture.

  Sandaji appeared shocked and frightened. She stopped smoothing her gown. “I beg your pardon,” she said. “I did not expect . . . I am not feeling well. Could you call my assistant?”

  Peter started to get up from the couch. Before he could reach for her, she slumped forward like a dying ballerina. Her hands fell limp against the worn oriental carpet. A copper bracelet dropped and lodged around her wrist. Her gray hair slipped and pooled. Peter kneeled, decided it would not be wise to touch her—she appeared stunned, half conscious.

  He shouted, “Help!”

  Jean Baslan entered with a prim, pale look and together they lifted Sandaji back into the chair. “No, this isn’t very comfortable,” Baslan observed, her face a tight mask of concern. They picked the woman up by her arms and helped her to the couch, where she lay back gracefully enough, skin waxy and hair in disarray.

  “Of course,” Sandaji said as she opened her eyes.

  “What happened?” Baslan asked Peter.

  “She just spoke a few words and fell over,” Peter said. “She must have fainted.”

  “I saw her,” Sandaji said. She angled her head to stare straight-on at Peter. Her green eyes were intense. “I am not a psychic,” she repeated. “I do not have visions.”

  “Did you slip her something?” Baslan accused Peter. “In her water?”

  “Water? No, of course not,” he insisted to her steady glare.

  “Did you see her?” Sandaji asked. Both women stared at Peter.

  “There was a reflection,” he said. “That’s all I saw.”

  “It’s time for you to leave, Mr. Russell,” Baslan said.

  Sandaji made an effort and sat up. “I’m so sorry. This has never happened before. I’m usually a strong, healthy woman.” She tried to resume control, but it was a poor effort.
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  “Let’s go,” Baslan insisted to Peter. She took his arm and started to drag him away.

  “No, his question,” Sandaji said.

  “It can wait,” Baslan said. Peter nodded, eager to get out of the house, away from this nonsense. He wondered how much was being staged. It would not have taken much digging to find out about his children. A good conjurer or medium was always prepared.

  “No, it’s a good question. I should answer.” Sandaji sat upright on the couch and took a deep breath. She lifted her shoulders and arched her neck, then slowly let out her breath. She looked at them with renewed deliberation and her voice resumed its rich cello intonation. “Many live on without souls,” she said. “They are intense in a way most cannot understand. They are driven and hungry, but they are empty. There is nothing you or I can do for them. Even should they try for enlightenment, they are like anchorless ships in a storm.” Her lips moved without sound for a moment, as if practicing a line, then she concluded, “A curious question, but strangely important. My beloved guru once spoke long on the subject, but you’re the first who has ever asked me. And now I wonder why.”

  “It was the wrong question.” Baslan glared at Peter.

  “I am feeling much better,” Sandaji said, attempting to stand. She fell back again with an expression of mild disgust. “I am so sorry, Mr. Russell.”

  “You have your answer,” Baslan insisted.

  “We are polite, Jean,” Sandaji remonstrated softly. “But I am tired. And the evening started so well. I think I should go to bed.”

  Baslan brusquely escorted Peter to the front door. “The gate will open automatically,” she said, her face still tight and eyes narrowed, like a mother cat protecting kittens.

  Peter walked onto the porch and down the steps, then turned and looked back as the door closed. He stood there for a moment, the anxiety returning, and the shortness of breath. For an instant, he thought he saw something dark in the bamboo, like an undulating serpent. Then it was gone; a trick of light.