by Jack Dann
He would not look me in the eye. But as he spoke I could perceive, as if vaguely through the fog, the lineaments of his insanity. For six weeks he had packed the girl in ice, which he had transported in boxcars to a city where every courtyard and alleyway is lined with banana trees and bottlebrush palms.
“Monsieur, I’m begging you,” he said. “And you must forgive me for not telling you what I intended. But I guessed that if I asked you in a letter, you would have refused.”
In addition, he had bought or reconstructed what he imagined were the instruments from my laboratory, as he had seen them represented or described, powered by a coal-fired dynamo of his own invention. “I also am a man of science,” he protested. “Nor am I ignorant of medicine. Before the war my father would attend to all our laborers, as was the custom at that time.”
I shuddered and looked away from him. A negress floundered toward us down the middle of the street, carrying a lantern. Her old-fashioned dress and her wide hat were drenched. She stood behind my host so that he couldn’t see her—I had heard this district of the city, or nearby, was notorious for prostitution, either in large palaces or else small, individual residences. She was a pretty girl, of a type that I admire, and I studied the silent movement of her lips. “Vous cherchez quelque chose?”
“Sir,” I said, “you must abandon this.”
By the light of the lantern flame, I could see my host was weeping. “I cannot. Monsieur, you are my final hope. If you won’t help me . . .”
I made a signal with my hand. The woman turned away, and we came here. Perhaps now you can guess why I lie sleepless in my room. I am on the third floor, but elsewhere, somewhere, I can hear the steam-powered generator, throbbing faintly in the walls. Tomorrow I will ask for the first train to Jackson. In the meantime, the rain hisses like escaping steam . . .
(Addressed to M. Joachim Valdor, May 23rd—unsent)
3. EARLY MORNING: “. . . A GESTURE I RECOGNIZED . . .”
. . . I ask myself if I should finish or amend this second letter now, at a remove of many hours. But when I re-read it, I can see it is as misleading as the first, in mood, in fact, in everything. No doubt it is useful to descend through layers, saying adieu at every step, first to the man I ought or else imagine myself to be. Second, perhaps, I could take leave of all my thoughts, feelings, and intentions. Then finally I am reduced to describing what I have done, or I will do. I only hope I am bold enough to admit them to myself.
After midnight, then, I closed my letter to Joachim and lay down for the second time. I was mistaken to say I would not sleep, for how else to describe what happened? Perhaps I was experiencing the first effects of the fever that this morning has registered on my thermometer, and which is at the stage now that it sharpens my awareness, rather than diminishing it.
But I anticipate—I was asleep in bed. This is what I must conclude, even though according to my own perception I lay awake, braiding my heartbeat with the throbbing in the walls. There was some disturbance in the street, a man shouting. Someone spoke, a different kind of voice, well-remembered, close to my ear. I started up, and then I saw her in a corner of the wall beside the curtain, her hand on the tasseled cord. “Solange,” I said, because Solange Baziat was in my mind. Dressed in black, she turned toward me, smiled, and touched her hair in a gesture I recognized. “Mon Dieu,” I murmured, because my interest in Mme. Baziat has always been measured by how much, at any given moment, she resembles someone else, someone who now approached me dressed in the same black beaded dress that I remembered from the night I had attempted to take her in my arms, in her father’s apartment in the Place Vendôme. Then I had been cruelly, even violently rebuffed, but this time I expected something different, I don’t know why. “Sophie,” I cried, reaching out my hand to hide her face, and she moved under it and laid her cheek against my breast. Then I felt her fingers on my lips, while at the same time her other hand grasped me lower down, to such effect that I felt myself let go, as in a dream. I bent to kiss her, and she seized my lip between her teeth, and at that moment I knew I’d been mistaken, fooled by my regrets—Sophie was dead. This woman in my arms was someone else, younger and smaller, someone I didn’t know at all, an actual woman who had slipped into my room, perhaps the same one I had seen that evening in the street outside. “Vous cherchez quelque chose?”
No, it was impossible, absurd. How could she have gotten in? And by the time I was fully awake, she had disappeared, although the door remained closed. She left me to wipe myself with my nightshirt and attend to my bleeding lip. A smell lingered in the air, a mixture of perfume and decay.
Now convinced I’d been asleep, I tried immediately to remember. But as so often happens, my dream faded, and the woman in it also faded from my mind. As she did so, her complexion changed and lost its color, so that I was no longer sure I was remembering the negress of the Rue Dauphine. In fact I was convinced it was not she. And yet the doctors say it is impossible to invent a new face in a dream, the face of someone we have never met.
Then the generator stopped, and the silence in the house was enormous, baffling. Over the course of the night I’d become accustomed to the sound, until I felt rather than heard it. I stood over the basin washing my face, and now I raised my head to look into the dark mirror. In the sudden quiet, I thought I heard the sound of my host’s surrender, of his submission to his grief, at the moment (I thought—irrationally) of his success. How else could I explain the experience I’d just had? Subsequently I discovered several ways, but at that moment I was convinced. At the same time I imagined a new sympathy with my host, because in my own thoughts I had merged my unhappiness with his. And though the emotions of a father might seem different from those of a lover (if I could aspire to calling myself that—I speak only of my feelings, not of her response), still I could understand his grief in the death of a beautiful woman in her prime.
I wiped my face, threw on my clothes. I needed to confirm that the person from my dream, the small, delicate, cat-like woman who had bit me on the lip, was indeed Mlle. Maubusson. In my febrile state, it was imperative for me to verify this fact, and at the same time I felt some vestige of my excitement when I first attacked the problem of re-animation in the year prior to Mlle. de Noailles’s death, little knowing that before long I would have such a personal interest in my success.
I opened the door of my bedroom and followed the new silence down the stairs. As I descended step by step, my candle in my hand, I reconsidered momentarily the contempt with which I had rejected my host’s theory of ghosts, or spirits, or “emanations,” in the light of my own recent experience. Was it possible that we are haunted in dreams by our beloved dead, not just in metaphor but in actual fact? If so, was it impossible to imagine a plane or space where they might commune, or even share each other’s bodies, as I had conceived in that transitional moment between sleep and wakefulness?
The wallpaper was heavily patterned, pink and cream. Yet there was a dirty stripe opposite the banister, where many hands had slid. It was not hard for me to find, on the second storey, the room I sought. I heard low voices beyond the door.
I knocked, then entered. How can I describe the scene? I stood in a lady’s bedroom, furnished with the dark, mahogany, over-embellished chests and cabinets that are habitual in rich Creole households. There was a four-poster bed—unoccupied. The wallpaper was pink and green, hand-painted with scenes along the river. The gas was lit, and by its spectral flame I saw my host, dressed in shirt-sleeves, the electrodes still in his hand. The dynamo was in the courtyard outside, and the wires snaked in the open window, together with a number of black rubber tubes, which led to a zinc bathtub in the middle of the room.
There was another man also, a young, curly-headed fellow, and when he spoke, I could tell by his accent that French was not his native language: “Who the devil are you?”
I scarcely heard him. In the bathtub, packed in ice, was the woman from my dream.
She was dressed in a pink night-gown, and her rich bl
ack hair was loose around her shoulders. She had high cheekbones, a small, sharp nose, and a soft line of hair along her upper lip. Her skin was pale, but whether because of the constant refrigeration or else from the effect of the electrical stimulation, it still retained a rosy glow. Astonished by this, immediately I perceived that one of the tubes that ran to her must have maintained the circulation of her blood, while another, perhaps, pumped air into her lungs—I could see the harness and the plugs for her nostrils, which her father had just now cleared away.
“How have you fed her?” I enquired.
My host came toward me. “By means of a tube right through to her stomach. And a protein solution, which I saw described in—”
“Who the devil are you, sir?” repeated the curly-headed gentleman. But I was studying the electrodes in Maubusson’s hands, and didn’t answer. Besides, I thought, it was up to my host to explain my presence, which he did. “Henry, this is Professor Delorme, from Paris. I spoke to you—”
“Did you now? Well, perhaps he would be good enough to wait outside, until we are finished here. Under the circumstances—”
I looked at him now, a young man with a mottled complexion and side-whiskers. “Monsieur,” said my host, “may I present my daughter’s fiancé, Mr. Henry Lockett?”
“Enchanté,” I said. “But am I right in thinking it was to the young lady’s temples that you attached the posts? I can see the marks—”
“It was unclear in your description,” confessed Monsieur Maubusson. Then he paused. “Professor, I can tell from your face that I have blundered—please, if you could help us now. It’s not been five minutes since—”
“No, it’s enough,” cried Mr. Lockett, in English. He moved to confront me, a menacing, muscular figure, though he was not my height. “It is finished. Make an end, sir. Make an end.”
He was talking to Maubusson, but he was staring at me. As for my host, he continued without stopping. “I had thought I could duplicate your results by following your descriptions. Forgive me. If that had been possible, I never would have thought to involve you . . .”
I had turned away from Mr. Lockett and was examining instead the face of Mlle. Maubusson in her zinc bathtub. I examined her long eyelashes and dark lips. Already, though, there was a yellowish pallor to her cheeks, which suggested we had not much time. “The electrodes must be divided, and fastened to several places on the cranium,” I said. “Other places also.”
I only said this because she resembled so completely the woman in my dream. Mr. Lockett threw up his hands. “By God, that’s enough,” he said. “Maubusson, I can’t tolerate this—I won’t have this fellow touch her with his black hands. I will not stay here. If you persist, I will inform the authorities the first thing in the morning—no, by God, sir, stand aside.”
It occurred to me that Henry Lockett might have heard some chance rumor of my dear grandmama. In short, he might not have been so ignorant of me and of my reputation as he had claimed. Wishing to confound him, as he was speaking I had reached for the young lady’s wrist.
A wet gust of wind pushed into the room, disturbing the curtains by the open sash, where a braided cable of wires and rubber tubes ran down into the courtyard. Reflected there, I could see indirectly the evil red glow of the generator. Monsieur Maubusson crossed the room as if to shut the window. But he turned back before he reached it, revealing a pistol in his hand. “Stand away, sir,” he cried. “No, you—Henry. Please, my boy, you must understand. There is no time to be lost.”
“Sir, you must be drunk or else insane,” began the outraged fiancé, a diagnosis that coincided with my own, although I saw no reason why the two possibilities had to exclude each other. In fact, I wondered if Lockett himself had been excessively fortified with liquor, as I could smell it on his breath and clothes the moment he’d approached me, where I stood by Mlle. Maubusson’s tub, testing the rigidity of her arm and elbow—her skin was very cold. Her father made a sudden gesture, and Lockett backed away from me all the way to the door, where he stood impotently, his eyes wet, his face red.
Another gesture, and he was gone. My host followed him to the open door. “I’ll see him out,” he said, putting the pistol aside. “Besides, I must restart the engine.”
I was happy they were gone. I wanted Mlle. Maubusson to myself. No sooner had her father left the room than I went to work. Along one wall, incongruous against the painted wallpaper, there was a wheeled metal bed of a type that is used in hospitals. I brought it over, and, neglecting my clothes, I lifted Mlle. Maubusson onto the enamel surface. During my dream I had had such a strong impression of her weight in my arms, I felt I must confirm it at the expense of my waistcoat.
As my host had said, there was no time to be lost. But I had another reason to hurry. The electrodes must be divided, and at least one placed under her clothes, between her labia minora. I had not wanted to perform this operation under her father’s scrutiny, although without it, or the equivalent procedure on my male subjects, I had had no success in the past—so strong in the dead are these bestial urges.
And as I fumbled under the young lady’s drenched night-gown, I could not but remember the horrifying moment when I had discovered, in the underclothes of Sophie de Noailles, the pearl and sapphire ring I had given her in a past moment of happiness. Anticipating everything I did, she had secreted it there before her death, to mock me and torment me. She knew I would do everything in my power to resuscitate her, if only so that I could beg for her forgiveness.
An enamel tray hung from the bed-rail, containing an assortment of medical implements. I had pulled apart the second skein of electrodes and was attaching them to Mlle. Maubusson’s cranium when I heard the roar of the dynamo, outside in the courtyard. I felt the electric thrill in my fingertips, as I was able to manipulate a cage of stimulation over the cerebral hemispheres. This is what Maubusson had already attempted. But at the same time I affixed the posts so as to enclose and affect the hypothalamus and the medulla oblongata, the most primitive portions of the brain. The effect was instantaneous; I felt her body shudder and convulse. Her spine curved like a bow, and her eyes snapped open as I bent over her. Because of the electricity, her lips pulled away from her teeth, and her mottled tongue protruded next to my ear. And she started in at once, in a harsh, breathy whisper—“Oh, I have waited for this moment—do not touch me. You have forfeited the right.”
“Forgive me,” I murmured next to her ear.
“I cannot. Instead, I must remember that night when you revealed yourself to me. Monsieur, perhaps it is not possible to know another person, to trust that you have seen into the bottom of his soul. But then at certain moments we reveal ourselves. That night I saw an animal, a creature whose only impulse was violence and desire. What is it that separates men from beasts, can you answer that? And how is it that a woman is expected to continue, once she has finally understood a man she trusted, or might have trusted with her soul? What shall a woman do, once she has seen the truth? For shame, Monsieur. Must I remind you of that night, when you would have taken me by force in my father’s house? And I felt I could say nothing, because of your friendship with him and the money that he owed. Can you blame me for my response, which was to discover an extract of conium—you know where I found it! Ah, how cold I was!”
Her voice had risen to a shriek. I tried to restrain her, press her down to the enamel surface, but she struggled against me. With one hand, from the enamel tray she grabbed up a pair of scissors, which I had been using to cut pieces of surgical tape. Fearing for my life, I let her go and stumbled away as she clambered off the bed and stood brandishing the scissors, her eyes wide and staring. But she was held from attacking me by the wires in her hair, connected to the electrical cable that was stretched to its entire length across the room, and which by its weight was pulling her head back, so that the sinews stood out from her neck. Furious, she jabbed at me with the scissors, and when she realized that she couldn’t reach me, with her other hand she ripped the ne
t of wires from her head, and immediately fell lifeless to the floor.
“Brute,” said Monsieur Maubusson, standing by the door. I had not heard him come in.
“Animal,” he repeated. “To think I welcomed him into my house. Now I see why he wanted to impede us. Why he ran from us. He was afraid we would discover—”
“No,” I murmured.
“And this apothecary,” he continued as he came into the room and collapsed over his daughter’s corpse. “I will hunt him down. I will have him arrested. He must be in a shop near here.”
“You will not find him,” I murmured. “Besides,” I pleaded, after a moment, “you must not trust the literal accuracy of these words. You say yourself they speak in code . . .”
“Does this sound like a code to you, Monsieur? She told us straight out what has happened. Ah God, ever since her death, this has been my fear. I could have predicted this. And yet I saw no trace of poison, no discarded vial.”
“These women are devious,” I said. “You cannot trust them. Conium maculatum leaves no trace.”
No matter what we undertook, we could not rouse her again. Instead, after another hour, we shut down the dynamo for the last time, and then deposed Mlle. Maubusson upon the table. My host picked up the scissors from the floor. “She must have mistaken you for him,” he said. “I can only apologize on her behalf.”
“She was evidently blind,” I concurred.
I write this at dawn. Perhaps I can claim a few hours’ sleep before my train. As I climbed the stairs, I saw my host descend to the front hall, an umbrella in his hand. I hate to think what he intends.
(From the private diary of Philippe Delorme, May 24th)
4. “. . . A CONGENITAL DEFECT . . .”
Q: You understand what I am saying to you?
A: Yes, Monsieur. Although I cannot speak English to my satisfaction, I can understand perfectly well.
Q: Good. How long have you worked for Mr. Maubusson?
A: Seven years.