Also, the reunion of parents with children could be unhappy. The parents were used to ruling their children, were, at least, in Alice’s time. But here there were no evident marks of age; the parents looked as young as their children. Moreover, after a separation of so many years and such different experiences, both parents and children had changed considerably. There was, literally, a world between them, a gap that few could cross.
Yet Alice had loved her mother, father, sons, and siblings.
Frigate noticed that she had said nothing of her husband, Reginald Gervis Hargreaves. He was too discreet to mention it.
“You’ve had no success so far?” Frigate said.
Alice sipped from her cut-quartz goblet of wine and said, “No. I’ve given their names and birth and death dates to the Computer, all except the death date of my son Caryl. I don’t know that, but I’m sure I can find a book or a newspaper in the records that will, and I’m looking for photographs that the Computer can match up with its files. That all takes time, you know. If any or all are dead and in the records, then they’ll be found. But if they’re living, the chances that they’ll be located are less. The Computer can make a grailstone-scan. However, unless my people happen to be in range during the necessarily quick scan, they won’t be found. Perhaps not then.”
If you can’t find any, Frigate thought, you’ll be relieved of the decision whether or not to resurrect them.
“How about Lewis Carroll, Mr. Dodgson?” he said.
“No.”
She did not offer to elaborate, and she would have been offended if he had asked her to do so.
Frigate left the “shindig” and went to his apartment. Instead of going to bed, he ran some more scenes from Standish’s past. These so troubled him that he could not get to sleep after he had shut them off. Standish was a low-life, a creep, a brutal, dirty, nasty, and unintelligent man on Earth and the Riverworld. It was not until two days later, though, that Frigate became so horrified that he quit watching Standish for a while.
Standish was out of a job, his usual circumstance, and living with his sister and her daughter in their apartment in a small Midwestern city. The sister was a twenty-year-old who would have been attractive if she had been clean and shown any signs of intelligence. Her daughter was a blonde, blue-eyed, three-year-old who might have been beautiful if she had not been so fat from eating junk food and drinking enormous quantities of Coke. On this particular display, Frigate was watching through Standish’s eyes the living room of the shabby apartment. Standish’s sister, Maizie, was drinking beer on a broken-down sofa. The infant was playing with a ragged doll but was half-hidden by a chair in the corner. Now and then, Frigate could see the can of beer Standish held. Judging from the conversation, the two adults had been drinking beer since breakfast.
“Where’s Linda?” Standish said, looking blearily around.
“There.” Maizie waved a hand at the chair.
“Yeah. Come here Linda!” Standish said loudly.
Reluctantly, the little girl, holding her doll, walked out from behind the chair. Standish zipped open his pants and pulled out his erect penis.
“Ever sheen one of those, Linda?” Standish said.
Linda backed away. Standish yelled at her to stay where she was. Maizie got up swaying from her chair. “What in fuck are you doing?”
“I’m going to fuck Linda.”
Frigate felt sick, but he watched, his gorge rising, as Maizie argued with her brother but finally said, “Well, what the hell, she’s gotta get fucked some day. Might as well be now.”
“Yeah, you know it. You was pronged when you was seven years old, wasn’t you?”
Maizie didn’t reply. Standish said, “Come here, Linda.”
When she shook her head, he yelled, “Come here, damn it! You want a spanking like Uncle Bill gave you last night? Come here!”
Frigate could not endure it any longer. He turned the scene off. Shaking, he told the Computer to run forward three days. And he saw, through Standish’s eyes, the jail cell. Standish was with two others and bragging about how he had screwed his sister’s kid.
“The little cunt wanted it, so I gave her what she asked for. Anything wrong with that?”
“The poor little girl,” Frigate muttered. “God!”
The Computer was locked into Standish’s recording. All Frigate had to do was to order the Computer to destroy it. Standish would be forever dead except for his wathan, and that would float aimlessly and blindly through the universe.
Biting his lip, quivering, heat seething through him, Frigate got up from the console and walked savagely back and forth, muttering “Damn, damn, damn! Damn him to Hell and back! No, not back!”
Finally, he charged up to the console and shouted, “When I give you this codeword, destroy Standish!”
There was more to do than that, though. He had to identify the man’s recording by the Computer’s code, affirm three times that he wished it destroyed, and establish the codeword.
“But for the present, Standish is to be on hold,” Frigate said.
For no rational reason that he could find, he felt ashamed of himself a few hours later. Who was he to be the judge? Yet … anyone who would rape a child … deserved oblivion.
The next day, hesitatingly, he told Nur what he had done. The Moor raised his eyebrows and said, “I can understand your anger. I did not see what you saw, but I, too, am sick and angry. The man seems totally unredeemable and has proved himself to be no better here than he was on Earth. But he still has time to become something better. I know that you don’t think that he ever will, and you are probably right. The Ethicals, however, gave everybody a certain amount of time to save himself or herself, and Loga managed to extend that time. You must not interfere, no matter what you feel.”
“He shouldn’t be loosed on people again,” Frigate said.
“He shouldn’t, perhaps, be loosed on himself, either,” Nur said. “But he will. What drives you just now is revenge. That’s understandable. But it’s not permitted, and there is a reason for that.”
“What’s the reason?”
“You know what it is,” Nur said. “Some of the most unredeemable people, unredeemable by all appearances, anyway, have saved themselves, become genuine human beings. Look at Göring. And I’m sure you’ll find others in your searches.”
“Standish died when he was thirty-three,” Frigate said. “Drunk, drove his car through a stoplight and smashed into another car broadside. I don’t know if he killed or hurt the others, but I could find out. I suppose that doesn’t matter. What does is that Standish never learned a thing, never repented, never blamed himself, never thought of changing himself. Never will.”
“I know you,” Nur said. “If you do this, you will suffer from guilt.”
“The Ethicals didn’t suffer from guilt. They knew that the time would come when people like Standish would have sentenced themselves to oblivion.”
“Your righteous indignation and wrath are clouding your mind. You have just uttered the reason why you shouldn’t interfere.”
“Yes, but … the Ethicals only gave us a certain amount of time. Who’s to say that, given a little more time than they’ve allowed, some might not have attained the goal? Maybe one more year, a month, a day, might have made the difference?”
“That was Loga’s reasoning, and he interfered with his fellow Ethicals’ plan, and events have gone astray. Perhaps we were wrong to have sided with Loga.”
“Now you’re arguing against yourself.”
Nur smiled and said, “I do a lot of that.”
“I don’t know,” Frigate said. “For the time being, Standish is locked up, as it were. He’s not hurting anybody. But when … if … the day comes that the eighteen billion are to be raised in The Valley again, I might dissolve him.”
“If anyone should do that, it’s the little girl. Ask her if she wants to do it.”
“I can’t. She died of a liver disease when she was about five.”
“
Then she was raised on the Gardenworld. She may be one of the Agents locked in the recordings and so unattainable.”
Why am I doing this? Frigate asked himself. Other than the obvious. Do I get a feeling of power by holding that Yahoo’s fate in my hands? Do I like that sense of power? No, I never have liked power. I’m too aware of the responsibility that goes with power. Or should go with it. I’ve always tried to shun responsibility. Within reasonable limits, of course.
19
Others might be uncertain about whom they wanted to resurrect to populate their private worlds, but Thomas Million Turpin was not one of them. He wanted Scott Joplin, Louis Chauvin, James Scott, Sam Patterson, Otis Saunders, Artie Mathews, Eubie Blake, Joe Jordan. Lots of others, those whom he knew and loved in the ragtime days, great musicians all, though the greatest were Joplin and Chauvin. Tom could play the piano like an angel, but those two were three circles of Heaven above him, and he loved them.
The women? Most of those he’d known on Earth were whores, but some of them were easy to get along with and better to look at. When he’d been in The Valley, he’d fallen in love with a woman he’d never fallen out of love with, an ancient-Egyptian broad named Menti. Maybe she was filed away; if so, he could bring her back. It’d been thirteen years since he’d seen her, but she wasn’t going to forget him. She was a Caucasian, but she was darker than he was, and she wasn’t prejudiced against blacks. She was the daughter of a merchant in Memphis. Memphis, Egypt, not Tennessee. She … she’d be the first one he’d have the Computer look for.
He had even composed a ragtime tune for her, “My Egyptian Belle,” which he’d play for her after she got adjusted to this life.
Smack dab in the center of his world, Turpinville, would be his New Rosebud Café. It wouldn’t be the original, the square red-brick building at 2220 Market Street in the black red-light district of St. Louis. It’d be ten stories high, round, its walls of gold alloy, thick with diamonds and emeralds. The roof would be topped with a big gold alloy T. T. for Turpin.
The streets around it would be paved with gold bricks, and parked around it would be Rolls-Royces, Cadillacs, Studebakers, Mercedeses, Stutz Bearcats, Cords.
The little town would have other buildings around it, three stories high, also made of gold alloy and encrusted with jewels. He’d really be dogging it. There’d be a big fountain in front of the Rosebud, which would spout bourbon day and night onto a golden statue of a piano. There’d be other fountains spraying up champagne and gin and liqueurs onto the statues of Joplin and Chauvin and Turpin. The decorations and the furniture in the buildings would make J. P. Morgan turn green with envy. Not that that old pirate would ever see them.
There’d be a thousand pianos in Turpinville, and violins, trumpets, drums, every instrument that might be needed. The servants would be androids, all white-skinned, and they’d address Tom’s guests as Massah and Marse regardless of their gender. But Tom would be the only one they’d call Boss.
Outside the forty-building town would be a forest with a river and creeks and several huge marshes and steep hills here and there. A concrete road would wind through the forest so that Tom and his buddies and fancy women could ride in their expensive cars whenever they felt like it. The woods and marshes and streams would be alive with rabbits and wild pigs and foxes and ducks and geese and pheasants and grouse and turkeys and fish and turtles and alligators. Tom loved to hunt; he figured on bagging lots of rabbits and ducks.
“You’re planning on having a good time forever?” Nur said.
“Maybe not forever,” Tom said. “Just as long as it lasts.”
Nur’s expression made him uneasy, though he did not know why.
“It’ll be a jumping world,” he told Nur, and from then on, when he referred to his private universe, he called it “the Jumpin’ Planet.”
“You’ve come a long way, baby,” he told himself.
“What?” Nur said.
“I’ve come a long way. I was born in an old run-down shack in Savannah, Georgia, but my father was a big man, big in many ways. He made good money, and we moved into a big fancy house—I don’t mean a whorehouse—I mean a beautiful house like the rich white folks lived in. But then the Ku Klux Klan started making trouble, and my pa decided we’d go to Mississippi. There was a street in Savannah named Turpin Hill after my father and his brothers. That shows you what a big man my pa was.”
There was even more trouble with the white folks in Mississippi, so they moved on to St. Louis. There they settled down in the black tenderloin district, and “Honest John” Turpin made a fortune with his Silver Dollar Saloon and his livery stable.
“My pa said he’d never done a day’s work for another man after the slaves was freed, and he’d never fought with his fists. He was a fighting man, though. He’d grab his man by the wrist, bend them wrist bones together, and butt his head against the man’s. Pa had the thickest skull west of the Mississippi, east, too. He always knocked his man out. The man staggered around blind and seeing shooting stars for a week. Nobody fucked around with my pa.”
Like so many Negro musicians, Tom taught himself, but, unlike many, he could read music.
“When I was eighteen, me and my brother Charlie went West just to see the country. We was looking for gold, too, lots of it around then, though it wasn’t easy getting it out of the ground. We spent a year in Nevada, but that gold just up and hid when we was around.
“I died August 13, 1922. Old Man Death, he had a harder head than Pa’s, and I couldn’t pay him off. Old Man Death, the only honest man in St. Louis. No bribes, no money under the counter. This is it, I got a job to do, and I always do it. I didn’t have no children, but they called me the father of St. Louis ragtime.”
“Your wife was more than well-off, and your brother Charlie did all right, too,” Frigate said. “He was a constable, the first black elected to public office in Missouri. When he died, I think it was Christmas Day, 1935, he left a hundred and five thousand dollars in a trust fund for his family. Big money in those days.”
“Even bigger money for a nigger,” Tom said. “Nineteen thirty-five, you say?”
“I’ll ask the Computer if it’s got a book titled They All Played Ragtime,” Frigate said. “You’ll like to read it. Lots about you. It’ll make you proud.”
“I don’t need no book for that, but I’ll get it.”
The day after the Computer told him that his Jumpin’ Planet was finished, Tom Turpin entered it. It was ten in the morning; the sky was blue except for a few high-seeming, thin, cotton-white clouds. Tom went down the steps leading into it and found, as he had ordered, his chauffeur and his pink 1920 convertible Mercedes-Benz waiting for him. The android chauffeur was six feet three inches tall, pale-skinned, blue-eyed, and yellow-haired. He also was the ugliest white man Tom had ever seen, because his face had been designed by Tom himself. He wore a typical chauffeur’s uniform except it was pink. “To go with the car,” Tom had told the others.
He got in the back seat and said, “Home, James.” The beauty started up fine, its motor purring, and they began the long winding drive through the tunnel formed by trees with interlocking branches.
“Shouldn’t of made the road so narrow,” Tom muttered. “But, what the hell, there won’t be any oncoming traffic.”
After a while the woods thinned out, and they passed along the edge of a lake. Its surface was brilliantly colored with ducks and geese and herons and cranes in the shallows dipping to catch fish. It was also noisy with honks and screeches and weird loon cries.
The road took them away from Turpinville near the edge of the vast chamber. “Wouldn’t know it if I didn’t know it,” Tom said. “Looks like more forest and hills there. I ain’t gonna touch the wall. I want to keep the illusion.”
From the entrance, a straight path to Turpinville was only two and seven-tenths miles. The road designed by Turpin took up almost ten miles, however, to the town, and he could have taken a branch road and made his trip twenty-two miles. N
ow and then he glimpsed the roof of his town, and his heart surged with pride. “Mine, all mine.”
When they drove from the dark forest into Turpinville, he wished that he had arranged for a big band and a crowd to greet him. The place was so empty, so silent. “A ghost town before its time,” he said. “Well, it’ll be leaping with sound and people before long.”
The car pulled up in front of the Rosebud, and Tom got out. He walked across the town square to the central fountain, took a silver cup from a hook on the fountain, dipped it into the strong-smelling liquid, and drank.
“Man, that’s the best! But I need the old crowd, the music, the smoke, the laughs, the … friends. No fun drinking by yourself, talking to yourself.”
He went into the Rosebud, took the ornate elevator to the third floor, entered his suite, went into the room where a huge console stood, and began the search.
Three weeks later, he had not just the forty or so people he had intended, but two thousand.
“It’s nigger heaven,” he told his former companions during one of the rare times he attended their soirees. “It’s like a flea circus. Everybody’s jumping.”
Tom was amused when Frigate winced at “nigger heaven.” Frigate was a liberal who found such terms repulsive. Tom would not tolerate these from others, unless they were black, but he had no hesitation using them himself. When Frigate asked him why he did so, Tom replied that it was just his way. He hadn’t been able to break his old Earth habit.
“You’ve lived long enough on the Riverworld to get over that,” Nur said.
“It takes away the hurt.”
“Whipping yourself is a curious method of salving wounds,” Frigate said.
There seemed to be no answer to that. Aphra said, “When are we going to see your world?”
“How about next Friday?” Tom said. “You’ll be all right. You’ll have a good time. I told my friends about you, and they don’t mind you coming.” He laughed. “Long as you know your place.”
After Turpin had left, Frigate said, “After sixty-seven years here, the old evils of Earth still fester.”
The Gods of Riverworld Page 16