“Jeremiah,” he said, “pinch me! I’m living in a dream. Mrs. Abdurov has invited me to her granddaughter’s wedding!”
“Oh,” said Jeremiah. It was the best he could manage in the circumstances, but it did not seem to dampen Mr. Drinkwater’s enthusiasm at all. “How did that come about?”
“She was right behind me when the stage went up. I turned around and covered her with my own body, to protect her in case of explosion, but at first she fought me.”
He paused, and a thoughtful look came over his face.
“She’s very fit for a woman of her age and with her health issues. Anyway, I explained what I was doing, but I realized that with all the commotion—and her slight hearing problem, which I doubt you’ve even noticed—she probably couldn’t understand me. So I mimed to her that she was in danger, and that she should follow me and allow me to shield her in the meantime, because I loved her and would gladly give my life for hers.”
“You mimed all that?” asked Jeremiah.
Mr. Drinkwater nodded.
“And she understood you?”
“She understood me to the soul, Jeremiah. When I got her into the hall, and saw that the sprinklers had kicked on and everything was fine, I asked her if she was all right—with words this time—and she called me a mastermind. She said I was more cunning than a cobra and colder than a barracuda, and then she slapped me—and then—” Mr. Drinkwater’s whole body melted at the memory. “—I shit you not—she kissed me.”
Mrs. Abdurov, who was still being interrogated by Specimen #2, looked over at them. She smiled at Mr. Drinkwater, and then gave Jeremiah a deep, angry frown that became a smile attended by a wagging finger.
“Congratulations,” said Jeremiah.
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Mr. Drinkwater said, standing up and smacking Jeremiah on the shoulder. “I admit, there were moments I doubted you—when you told me to be cold, for example, or broke into my room and made me mime before I was truly ready. But you were right all along. I’m returning to Earth a satisfied man, Jeremiah. Oh, to hell with that, a highly satisfied man.”
Mr. Drinkwater extended his hand, which Jeremiah shook, and then he was on his way, whistling, to wait for Mrs. Abdurov.
Even in his shell-shocked state, the mention of high satisfaction caught Jeremiah’s attention. An hour ago his fate had seemed sealed, but now, when he enumerated the impossible duties he had been charged with, Ms. Domenico herself would have had to admit that Jeremiah had scored pretty well.
Mrs. Abdurov had been reunited with Marya Jana and, as a bonus, had found love of the blindest variety. Mr. Drinkwater had found Mrs. Abdurov, and had reason to believe that he had won her heart on the strength of his own mime. Carolus the Bold had found his way back to Mr. Wendstrom—who was not, it turned out, a ghost, but merely malnourished, dehydrated, sleep deprived, and auditorily overstimulated to the point of a psychotic break. Jack had gotten his hands on the elusive green item, and would arrive back to Earth with his anti-System nature intact and his precious mellow unharshed. The talent show had been organized, the stage procured, and—most unlikely and important of all—Mrs. Mayflower would never know what prior mishaps had befallen her bandora at Jeremiah’s hands, since subsequent mishaps had reduced it to a piece of charcoal from which neither its own deformed cherubs or any evidence of Jeremiah’s negligence could ever escape. If he had not committed the faux pas of playing her banjo, Jeremiah would have quite liked his chances.
In fact, he felt so emboldened by his recent string of successes that, when Mr. Roof walked by, Jeremiah accosted him.
“Can I ask you a very direct question?”
“How doubly American of you,” said Mr. Roof. “To ask, and to ask if you might ask.”
“How very British of you,” Jeremiah said, “to pretend you’ve answered.”
Mr. Roof laughed—a rare sight. His laugh consisted of a quick backward toss of the head and a widely open mouth from which no sound escaped, as if he were trying to bite an apple suspended above him as part of some seasonal game.
“May I sit to be interrogated?”
They sat down, Mr. Roof pulling his pants up a few inches first, just as always, and passing his hands along his pant legs to catch any lingering wrinkles afterwards, despite the fact that there were no wrinkles this time, because his thin wool suit was soaked through to his skin and smelled faintly of wet dog.
“Very well, Jeremiah, you may proceed to question me very directly.”
“Why are you on the Einstein IV?” asked Jeremiah.
Mr. Roof looked nonplussed, as if this—rather than something about his political views, the balance in his bank account, or his sexual habits—were the one question he could never have predicted that Jeremiah would ask, and might not allow.
“Why shouldn’t I be?”
“Are you sick, like most of the other passengers? Or do you want to make sure you live to see some book released, like Mr. Wendstrom? Or are there financial reasons?”
Mr. Roof drew himself up, running his fingers down his damp lapels.
“I am a gentleman, Jeremiah,” he began.
“I didn’t mean to imply—”
“I’m answering your impertinent question, not your impertinent implication. A gentleman leads a life of leisure. I have never, for example, worked a day in my life, nor do I plan to. But a life of gentlemanly leisure is not a life of total freedom—that is the life of a libertine. A gentleman is obliged to spend his time and credit in particular ways. A gentleman may become as wine-besotted as the next man, but he is obliged to besot himself with the finest vintages, or he has fallen short of his calling. Travel is another obligation. The gentleman must associate himself with the climates and peoples of the world. And when a gentleman has traveled the entire globe, not once but several times, having already sought out the unmapped roads and untouristed corners, what does he do then? Where does he travel when no deserts or jungles remain—when he has a favorite café in every city, and has even seen the view from the world’s roof? When the very dimensions of space offer him no more opportunities?”
He stopped and looked at Jeremiah, waiting.
“So that’s it?” said Jeremiah. “You’re on this cruise to become a tourist of the future?”
“When you put it like that, Jeremiah,” said Mr. Roof, “it quite sucks the romance right out of it.”
“One more question, for my own curiosity. Did you have anything to do with Mr. Wendstrom’s iguana going missing?”
Mr. Roof frowned.
“Iguanas are born free, and are everywhere in terrariums,” he said.
“You mean terraria?” asked Jeremiah.
“I mean terrariums,” said Mr. Roof, standing up. “And that is all I have to say on the matter, except that Bernard Wendstrom is a loud vulgarian who made his own credit and cheats abominably at backgammon.”
With a snappy little bow, he took his leave.
* * *
A few minutes later, when Specimen #2 called Mrs. Chapin to be debriefed, Jeremiah wasted no time in reporting the contents of his conversation with Mr. Roof to Mr. Chapin.
He had hoped it would be a discreet operation, but Mr. Chapin was so enthused by Jeremiah’s news, and so openly appreciative, that they drew looks from several in the room—including Mrs. Chapin, who was just finishing up her debrief, and whose attention Jeremiah had been especially eager to avoid.
And he did avoid it, by spinning on his heel while eye contact was still plausibly deniable, thereby nimbly escaping Scylla and finding himself face to face with Dr. Charybdis herself.
“Hello, Kimberly.”
“Jeremiah,” said Kimberly, her damp cheeks glowing and her hair still streaming rivulets, “can you ever possibly forgive me?”
“You know my motto, forgive and—I can never remember the second part.”
“Oh Jeremiah, you were always so funny. I will miss that about you.”
Which had a very promising ring to it.
“But still,” Kimberly continued, “can you forgive me for leaving you to burn alive?”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, but the good news is that I didn’t burn—not alive or any other way.”
“But I couldn’t have known that. You’re my fiancé. When the fire started, I should have rescued you. That would have been the Categorical Imperative. But instead—”
Kimberly paused to lower her head, wipe away a tear, and draw a shaky breath.
“—instead I tried to rescue Bradley.”
“Tried? Is Bradley all right?”
“He’s fine,” said Kimberly. “He’s just over there lying down—he hurt his back while I was carrying him to safety. I already gave him first aid. Oh, it’s just like you to worry about Bradley after I left you to die. I’m so ashamed of my actions.”
“Well, you can’t—”
“But this experience also taught me something. I am a rational creature, Jeremiah—but life is not rational. It makes no sense. In a blink it can be stolen from you by a raging inferno at a talent show on a spaceship. Only the heart truly understands life. So if my head, citing the Categorical Imperative, tells me to be with you, but my heart is telling me to be with Bradley, can I really fight against life my whole life? Isn’t it better to live with a disapproving head than an unsatisfied heart?”
Jeremiah could find no flaw in this logic.
“Pretend our engagement never even happened,” he said. “I wish you and Bradley nothing but happiness.”
“Oh, Jeremiah, I knew you’d understand. And I want you to know: Bradley might have my heart—but you will always have my head.”
She kissed him on the cheek and started to leave.
“How about the necklace?” said Jeremiah.
“What?”
“If Bradley gets your heart, can I have the necklace back?”
By reflex Kimberly reached up to touch the rich gold and deep rubies, as if she could see them through her fingertips. She frowned—she seemed to think that Jeremiah was asking a lot.
“Of course,” she said finally, though she spoke through a frozen smile. “I mean, if our engagement is over.”
“Or never even happened,” said Jeremiah.
Slowly and deliberately Kimberly reached behind her neck and unclasped the necklace, giving Jeremiah ample opportunity to consider how it looked on her and plenty of time to change his mind if he felt so moved. She could not even look him in the eyes as she handed it to him.
But then, once it was off her person, a weight incommensurate even with the generous amount of gold of which she had divested herself seemed to lift. She laughed—a pleasant sound.
“Take care of yourself, Jeremiah,” she said. “Follow your heart.”
She practically pranced away en route to administer second aid to the miserable Bradley.
For an instant Jeremiah felt a weight of his own lift as he tested the heft of the necklace in his hand, but he’d hardly had the chance to draw a relieved breath before he felt the crush of a still heavier dilemma. There were two distinct parties expecting delivery of this one necklace, and—as Jeremiah himself had once pointed out to Luis—necklaces were not as easy to split in half as, say, chocolate bars, family fortunes, or even (as recent history had demonstrated) bandoras.
With the benefit of his new clarity, however, Jeremiah realized he had seen tougher conundrums in the buffet line. There was no question where the necklace would be put to better use—the only real question was whether he could find Luis before Mrs. Chapin found him.
“Jeremiah,” said someone behind him, imbuing his name with distinctive husk and musk.
In other words: no.
“Mrs. Chapin?” said Jeremiah, as if he had not even been aware that the two of them were on the same cruise. He turned to face her.
“Jeremiah,” she said again, and reached out to take his hand—not, he was happy to see, the one with the necklace. “Oh, Jeremiah. You poor, poor boy. I know everything.”
“You do?”
“I even know what you told Henry.”
“Even that?”
“And I’m not upset.”
“You’re not?”
Mrs. Chapin winced—he seemed to be breaking the mood for her, and at this point Jeremiah himself could hardly stand the tonal pattern he had fallen into.
“Well,” he said normally and with great effort, “I’m very glad to hear it.”
“You gave the necklace to that doctor girl, didn’t you?”
“I did,” said Jeremiah. Truth—above all, truth. Truth was the only thing that separated us from the animals (though Jeremiah could not identify an occasion on which he had discovered an animal lying to him, he assumed that was an indication of just how good they were at it).
“Because you love her.”
“That’s—that’s right,” Jeremiah said. After all, there was not one sole truth in this shades-of-gray universe, but many.
“So Henry wasn’t inventing anything when he told me that he’d seen her wearing a necklace similar to mine. He put that together with the hints I had been dropping about youthful passions reawakening, added one and one, and got twelve. Henry thought I was having an affair, didn’t he?”
“He—yes,” said Jeremiah. “He did.” There were higher purposes than mere truth and slavish accuracy.
“With a woman, isn’t that right? That doctor girl?”
“It is.” Higher purposes than remote accuracy, even.
“Just like when I was back in college. And you told him about my revolutionary activities—breaking your vow of secrecy—because you couldn’t stand to see him suffer so under that delusion.”
At this Jeremiah could not bring himself to speak, but only to nod—it turned out he did have some standards.
“You’re taking this very well,” he said.
“How could I be angry with you, Jeremiah? Everything you did, you did for love. And—though I know it doesn’t show—I am an incurable, dyed-in-the-wool romantic.”
Mrs. Chapin leaned in as if to kiss Jeremiah on the cheek, but she blew right by his cheek and kept leaning closer, so close he could smell the perfume sizzling on her wet neck.
“Viva la revolución,” she whispered. Her voice was like smoke in his ear. The impression was strengthened by the sudden guest appearance of fire. Jeremiah yelped and jumped back: Mrs. Chapin had bitten his earlobe.
As he reached up to check whether the entire earlobe—to which he had always been attached—was still present and accounted for, Jeremiah realized that his right hand was mysteriously freer than it should have been. The mystery did not last long, for he looked and saw that Mrs. Chapin had left his earlobe but come away with the necklace.
Before Jeremiah could make any noise about it, Luis walked up to join the party.
“Jeremiah,” he said, “I feel so much all about—this.”
He waved his arm in the general direction of the smoking, ruinous area that had once been the dining room of the Einstein IV. There was a wide tolerance for error.
“That was you?” said Mrs. Chapin before Jeremiah could reply.
“Sí,” Luis admitted sadly.
“You’re one of the Mexicans Jeremiah told me about. You were responsible for all this?”
“Yes, yes,” said the miserable Luis. “Me, just me. No one help me. No one else involve.”
“You are a great man,” Mrs. Chapin said, pressing the necklace into Luis’s hand, “and I know you will do great things with this.”
While Luis was still too stunned to speak, Mrs. Chapin leaned in as if to kiss him on the cheek, just as she had with Jeremiah. Judging from Luis’s yelp of pain, Jeremiah suspected that she had not settled on a kiss for Luis either.
And then, with a sly smile that could have been meant for either or neither of them, she was gone.
“Jeremiah?” said Luis when he had regained the power of speech.
“Yes, Luis?”
“Jeremiah, I liquo
red the hell out of that son a bitch.”
* * *
Jeremiah wandered the ravaged dining room for a few minutes, looking in vain for some way to be useful.
“Everyone seems highly satisfied,” said someone behind him. It was the one voice that could make him feel somewhat better about the developing trend of people sneaking up behind him and starting to talk, of which in general he was not a fan.
“Hello, Katherine.”
“Cup of coffee?”
She walked around in front of him. Unlike Jeremiah and most of the others, Katherine was not soaked. She had been standing in the doorway to the kitchen when the sprinkler system had triggered, so only her shoes and the cuffs of her pants had taken on water. She was carrying two cups of coffee, which she put down at the table next to them. They sat, drying off the seats first with some napkins she produced from her pocket.
Jeremiah took a sip from one of the mugs and made a face.
“Strong?” Katherine said.
“Yes.”
“Too strong?”
“Just about right for tonight.”
“It has been a big night for you, hasn’t it?” she said.
“It has.”
“Good big or bad big?”
“Mostly good, I guess,” said Jeremiah. “Or a bit of both. Or I don’t know.”
“Do you think now that the incriminating evidence has been destroyed, you’ve got a chance?”
“Maybe. Earlier today I took a priceless banjo down from Mrs. Mayflower’s wall and played it without permission, which she didn’t seem pleased about. But I guess I’ll find out after the evaluations tomorrow morning.”
“Do you think—if things go well tomorrow—that maybe you’d be willing to come visit us back on Earth sometimes? It would be nice to see a friendly face now and again.”
“Us?”
“Me.”
“Is ‘us’ you and Reynolds or you and Battle?”
“Does it matter?” asked Katherine. “Would you come?”
“I don’t know.”
Jeremiah genuinely didn’t know. When he had been sure he was about to be stuck on the E4 for another tour, Jeremiah had been more than willing to suffer the vision of Katherine with Battle, as long as their timelines didn’t drift apart. Now that there was some hopeful doubt about his own future, the idea seemed impossible to stomach. Emotions in Real Life, Jeremiah was learning, made as little sense as ever, but felt 100 times sharper.
World Enough (And Time) Page 32