WikiWorld

by Paul Di Filippo

  Now he sat, naked and waist-deep in a capacious ceramic footed trough steaming with soapy, jasmine-scented water, puffing on a cigar and looking already well advanced on the road to relaxation and forgetful of his vocational cares, even before my ministrations.

  Olmstead had been my client since the Palace opened, and we were on familiar terms. He evidently found me a congenial bath partner, and I had to confess that I had become more than professionally enamoured of him. He had always treated me with kindness and respect and a liberal generosity.

  “Ah, Charlie, you’re a sight for weary eyes! Join me, dear. I need to disburden myself of the day’s headaches.”

  I slipped gracefully into the tub, sliding up all slippery into his embrace, and Olmstead began to soliloquize me. I kept mum yet receptive.

  “This newest project of mine is a bugger, Charlie. Turning a swamp into a park! Sheer insanity. The Fens were never meant to be other than a flood plain or tidal estuary. And yet somehow the city wants me to convert them to made lands, a pleasure pavilion for the masses, part of what they’re already calling my ‘Emerald Necklace.’ Can you fathom what’s involved in such a project? Not only do I have to contend with the waters of the Charles, but also those of Muddy River and Stony Brook, which likewise feed into that acreage. I’m going to have to erect dams and pumps, then drain and grade, before layering in an entire maze of culverts and sewers. Truck in gravel and soil, landscape the whole shebang— So much of this city is made land already, hundreds of acres reclaimed from a primeval bog. The civic fathers imagine they can wrest any parcel they desire from the aboriginal waters. Mayor Prince and his whole Vault cabal are dead set on this project. But this time their reach exceeds their grasp. It’s a mad folly, I tell you!”

  Olmstead paused, puffing on his cigar, then said with altered tone, “Yet if it could be done—what a triumph!”

  I felt proud of Olmstead’s ambition and fervour. Intuiting that he had expended his verbal anxiety, I said, “If anyone is capable of accomplishing such a feat, Frederick, it’s you. But you must return to the project tomorrow with a relaxed mind and body. Enough speech. Allow me to do my job now.”

  Willingly, Olmstead stubbed out his cigar in a wrought-iron tub-side appliance. I secured a cake of lanolin-rich lilac soap and began thickly to lather up my own form with graceful motions, all the while allowing the ends of my wet hair to drape sensuously about Olmstead like enticing tendrils.

  When I had attained a sufficient soapy slickness, I commenced to apply my rich body as an active wash-cloth across his whole frame.

  I understand that in far-off Nippon there is a class of women known as geishas, whose professional practices resemble what we Naiads at the Palace deliver. But how Professor Fluvius ever came to know of them, in order to use as models for his business, I cannot say.

  Because the business of the Palace continued round the clock, and some of us must perforce tend the evening shift, the third-floor communal sleeping suite for us Naiads held only four of us at midnight: myself, Lara, Minnie and Lila. It were best to picture us, lounging drowsily on our respective feather mattresses, as four Graces, hued in the sequence above-named: honey, olive, alabaster and tea.

  We chattered for a while of gossipy inconsequentials, as any women will, before Lila said, “I see that our newest employee has already been assigned a laboratory.”

  How quickly news travelled in this aqueous environment, like scent to a shark!

  “Do you mean Dr. Baruch?” asked Lara, batting her thick eyelashes. “I wouldn’t mind being his assistant. It would make a nice change from the soap-and-slither routine with the high muck-a-mucks.”

  Minnie asked, “What’s the nature of his work?”

  “Rumour has it he’s crafting some kind of purgative for the rubes,” responded Lila.

  Lara pulled a face. “I shouldn’t care to help in that case, lest he need a subject for his trials.”

  I did not add any details from my own stock of overheard information. The thoughts of the payment I owed Usk in return for that data were too discouraging.

  Pretty soon after this, my sisters fell asleep, allowing me to slip out without needing to respond to any inquiries about my late-night errands.

  The same elevator that had delivered me from street-level to the second-floor now took me from third to lowest cellar. Here I entered a phantasmagorical, almost inhuman world.

  The sub-basement held all the apparati that allowed the Palace to function. I felt much like an animalcule venturing into a human’s guts.

  Congeries of brass pipes of all dimensions, from pencil-thin to barrel-thick, threaded the space, producing a veritable labyrinth. Some pipes leaked steam; some were frosted with condensation. Valves and dials and taps proliferated. The pipes led into and out of huge rivet-studded reservoirs, from which escaped various floral and mineral scents.

  Beyond this initial impression of tubular matrices loomed the many boilers, giant radiant Molochs, each one fed and stoked by its own patented “automatic fireman” apparatus, which fed coal in from vast bins at a steady clip, obviating the need for human tenders.

  Indeed, Professor Fluvius’s early boast—to render the Baths of Caracalla insignificant—appeared fulfilled.

  I began to perspire. Vertigo assailed me. I felt incredibly distant from all the sources of my strength, amidst this controlled industrial chaos. Usk had said the southwest corner was his lair. But which direction was which?

  I wandered for what seemed like ages, meeting no one in this sterile factory, before glimpsing, beneath a large, wall-mounted mechanical message-board affair, a tumbled heap of bedclothes. As I approached, I noted that the message-board was of the type found in Newport mansions, by means of which masters could communicate with distant servants through the medium of dropped or rotated printed discs. This must be how Profesor Fluvius summoned Usk at need.

  The musty midden of bedclothes stirred and out of the stained regalia rose Usk. To my horror and disgust, he was utterly naked, his powerful, hirsute twisted limbs such a contrast to the well-formed appearance of Olmstead or my other clients.

  Usk conferred a look of randy appreciation on me, a favour which I could easily have foregone.

  “Ah, beauty steps down into the gutter. I am glad you made it unnecessary for me to communicate with the Professor. He’s got too many pressing matters on his mind. Big doings, big doings. If you only knew…”

  Usk seemed to want to disclose some secret to me, but I did not pursue his bait, for fear of a hook within. So he continued.

  “It’s a kindness to spare ol’ Fluvius any knowledge of your trifling indiscretions. Howsomever, you are not here for us to discuss our mutual master. Sit down, sit down, join me on my humble pallet!”

  I sat, and of course, to no one’s surprise, Usk immediately began to paw me without any charade of seduction, his hands roaming at will under my gown.

  I would like to say that his touch left me cold. But the truth was otherwise. To my chagrin, I sensed in Usk’s blunt and callous gropings a portion of the same galvanic power that had thrilled me when the professor first touched me in the Tremont Hotel, so many months ago. It was almost as if Usk, the professor, and I were all related, sharing the same sympathies and humours I felt with my fellow Naiads.

  No merit resides in delving into the sordid details of the next two hours. Usk had his lusty way with me, not once or twice but thrice, and deposited his thick spunk in several unconventional places.

  At last, though, he seemed sated. Sated, yet still demanding.

  “You’ll be back tomorrow night, my dear. Or the professor and I will have that unwelcome conversation about your goosey-goosey-gander-where-do-you-wander ways.”

  I sighed dramatically in a put-upon fashion, yet not without some falsity of emotion. Truly, after tonight’s tumble, future encounters with Usk would not be such an unknown burden. “I suppose I have no choice…”

  Suddenly, as if my words had pleased him or opened up some fu
rther bond between us, he reached beneath his pallet and pulled out—a book!

  “Would you—would you read this to me? Please? I—I can’t….”

  I took the volume. The title page proclaimed it to be The Water-Babies, by Charles Kingsley.

  “‘Once upon a time,’” I began, “‘there was a little chimney-sweep, and his name was Tom….’”

  The next several weeks sped by in a busy round of work, sleep, intercourse and two-person Chautauqua between Usk and myself, with the text of our studies moving on, after Water-Babies, to Mr. MacDonald’s At the Back of the North Wind. I could not honestly say I found this regimen imposed by Usk without its thrills and rewards, and on the whole, what with work and all, each of my days passed in a pleasant whirl of activity.

  Several times the professor took all seven of us girls out with him on various expeditions across Massachusetts and nearby New England. Ostensibly, these were gay recreational outings to reward us for our diligent services. But in reality, I suspected that they were calculated to serve at least as much as advertisements for the Palace.

  Late in December, on a mild day, we went to Rocky Point Amusement Park in Rhode Island. The place had been much in the news, since President Hayes had recently visited and become the first sitting president of this forward-looking nation to utilize a newfangled telephonic device located on the premises. (He had placed a call to Providence, purpose unreported.)

  Even this late in the season, the Shore Dinner Hall was still serving its traditional quahog chowder and clamcakes fare, and we all ate to repletion, amidst much laughter and chatter.

  At one point, without warning, the skies darkened and the waters of Narragansett Bay became troubled. It seemed as if our little excursion would be dampened. I looked up from my half-eaten tenth greasy clamcake and noted that, across the hall, Professor Fluvius was arguing with the manager of the establishment, about what I could not say. Several park employees intervened, and both men calmed down. At the same time, the sun returned and the sea grew still, and so all was well.

  During this period, I spent whatever minutes were not otherwise occupied with Dr. Baruch in his laboratory, which was located in the same wing that housed the Professor’s quarters and office. I had taken a shine to the humble physician, and was in awe of his learning. His cosmopolitan air spoke to me of the larger world, a venue I hoped one day to experience firsthand. I was resolved not to spend all my days in the Palace of Many Waters, despite whatever debt I owed to Professor Fluvius for first awaking me. I wanted to travel, to broaden my horizons.

  Dr. Baruch was careful not to divulge the nature of his researches to me—a secret he was unaware I already knew—but accepted me as a mascot of sorts to his scientific endeavours, a pleasant female ornament to his glassware-filled, aqua-regia-redolent workspace.

  It was in this manner that I became privy to his ultimate success, and arranged to be at my secret listening post when he rushed into the professor’s office to deliver his good news.

  “Professor Fluvius, I am happy to report that your generous faith in my talents has been rewarded. Administration of the biotic infusion of your devising is perfected at last. Delivered as a lavage to the lower intestines, the colony becomes well-established and active. Although I forecast that frequent infusions will be necessary to maintain its presence against the body’s innate capacity for driving out foreign invaders.”

  “Excellent, Dr., excellent! I can now begin improving the material condition of the community. And the best way to do that is to start with the health of the men at the very top. With a public servant such as the Mayor, perhaps. If you would be so good as to prepare a dosage for Mr. Prince, and stand ready to offer your testimonial as to its efficacy….”

  Perched not uncomfortably on the frigid catwalk, listening to the formation of ice crystals in the burbling water around the pilings below, I received this news as a sop to my curiosity, but did not regard it as any item of significance.

  How little I witted or foresaw.

  A few days later, Olmstead and I were reclining in our tub prior to my sudsing us up. He looked ill at ease for some reason I could not immediately fathom. His wetted bedraggled beard resembled a nanny goat’s. My heart went out to him, and I resolved to exert all my charms to get him to relax. But most uncommonly, I could not. Finally he disclosed what was troubling him.

  “You know my project to reclaim the Fens? It’s cancelled. Funding’s been suddenly withdrawn. The Mayor and his tribe have had a change of heart. They’re full of talk about making an end to ‘trespassing on the natural order.’ Claim the city is big enough as it is. It’s as if they’ve all gone Transcendentalist on me! Progress be damned!”

  I ached for his disappointment. “Why, Frederick, that’s simply awful! You had your heart set on accomplishing this!”

  “I know, I know. But what can I do? My mind’s so disordered at this development. Perhaps I should take one of those new treatments the professor is offering. It seems to have perked up the Mayor and his crowd. Fostered a strange implacable resolve in them.”

  I could not offer a solution to Olmstead’s worries, and so concentrated instead on delivering the most agreeable whole-body massage I could to this client whom, to my surprise, I had become so very fond of.

  The hour after midnight that same evening found me once more down in the depths of the Palace with Usk. After our robust hinky-jinky and a chapter or two of Mr. Ruskin’s The King of the Golden River, I made to leave. But Usk detained me with a teasing query.

  “You picked out your dress yet for the Prof’s coronation ball down in Washington?”

  I halted in my tracks. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “He’s got the Mayor and his cronies in his pocket now. Only a matter of time till the whole country’s his to command.”

  “How so?” I demanded.

  “That bum-wash what he and the doc cooked up. Makes any man the Prof’s slave. Saps their native will and substitutes the Prof’s.”

  “I don’t believe you! The Professor is a noble intellect! He’d never stoop to such a thing!”

  Usk shrugged. “Believe as you will, makes no nevermind to me.”

  I stormed out, all in a dithery confusion. Should I confide this news to my sisters, and ask their advice? Confront the professor directly? Or do nothing at all?

  I resolved to seek Olmstead’s guidance first.

  The hours till our next appointment dragged their feet, but at last we were fragrantly en-tubbed together.

  Before I could venture my request for guidance, Olmstead burst forth with plentiful yet somewhat inane zest.

  “Lord above, I’ve never felt better nor been more peaceful of mind! All those troubles I was blathering about to you— Vanished like the snows of yesteryear! Who cares if the Fens ever get transformed? Not me! And to think I owe it all to high-colonic hydrotherapy!”

  Rain in great sheets and buckets; rain in Niagara torrents; rain in Biblical proportions.

  The skies had poured down their burden unceasingly for the past twenty-four hours, ever since I had left Olmstead, as if in synchrony with my foul, black mood. Nor did they seem disposed to stop.

  Just beyond the walls of the Palace, the throbbing, gushing waters of the Charles were rising, rising, rising. I could feel them, even out of sight. It even seemed possible they would soon threaten to lap at the catwalk where I had eavesdropped, high as it was.

  All the talk among the patrons of the Palace centred about roads swamped, bridges washed away, dams upriver that were bulging at their seams.

  Something had to be done. About my anger, about the professor, about the subversion of poor Olmstead. But what?

  The professor had been like a father to me and my sisters. We owed him our work, our maintenance, our purpose in life.

  But didn’t he in turn owe us something? Honesty, if nothing else?

  Finally, when I had worked myself into a right tizzy, I stamped my way to Professor Fluvius’s office, and barged in w
ithout knocking.

  He was there, seated behind his big seashell desk, idle, back to me, looking out the window at the incessant precipitation with what I immediately sensed was a melancholy ruminativeness. I stood, quivering and silent, till at last he wheeled to face me. His long tresses, white as sea spume, framed a sad and sober visage.

  “Ah, Charlene, my most local and potent child. I should have known it would be you who might tumble to my schemes. I hope you’ll allow me to explain.”

  “What is there to explain! You’re bent on accumulating a greedy power over your fellow men!”

  The professor chuckled wryly. “These men are not my fellows. But yes, I need to pull their strings for a while.”

  “To glorify yourself!”

  Professor Fluvius arose and hastened toward me. I took a step or two backwards.

  “No, Charlene! Not at all. Or rather, yes. I seek to glorify what I represent. The natural state of all creation. This city— It’s an emblem of all that’s wrong with mankind. That’s why I established my Palace here, on the front lines of the battle. Can’t you see what they’re doing? Tearing down their hills and dumping them into the waters! It’s an assault. Yes, an assault on creation. If they succeed here, they’ll go on without compunction, dumping whatever they wish into the seven seas, into rivers and canyons. Before too long, the whole of nature will be naught but a soiled toilet! I had to stop them, here and now and hence forever. You must see that!”

  The words of my master tugged at my loyalty and heart. But counterposed against them was my affection for Olmstead, and my own sense of thwarted individual destiny.

  “No!” I yelled. “I won’t let you! I’ll stop you! Stop you now!”

  And so saying, I slammed my small fists into his blue-vested chest.

  The professor’s face assumed a wrathful mien I had never before witnessed. That blow seemed to unleash greater cataracts from the sky. The noise of the rain threatened to flood my ears. But I could still hear his words.