by Jack Dann
“Well, it won't make you a better one.”
Mantle laughed, and Pfeiffer said, “Don't beg the question. Why are you painting that stuff and keeping it in your house?”
“What does it matter?” Mantle asked. “You don't think they have any effect, anyway.”
“I never said that, and you know it. I just don't think they have much effect. For the most part, we still choose products on the basis of quality, and like it or not, the same basic values remain. But I think you're crazy to expose yourself to subliminals like this.”
“You once told me that you don't believe in the unconscious, either,” Mantle said. “So these subs should have no effect on you.”
Pfeiffer blushed, and Mantle found himself facing him. Too close, he could smell Pfeiffer's sour breath, see the faint chicken-lines in his soft face. And suddenly Mantle thought of Josiane. A flicker of memory, a flash: Josiane lost in a crowd, screaming. A complex of risors reflecting distant sunlight. Brooklyn swathed in grayness. But there was no emotional component; he had simply watched a few frames of a film that played in his mind.
Breaking away from Pfeiffer, he began to talk, hoping to jar his memory again. He was talking to himself; Pfeiffer was only a catalyst. “After Josiane was lost, I searched everywhere, did everything possible to find her. But she might as well have been swallowed up. I couldn't stand the thought that she might be dead, or that she might be only a mile away and I would never find her. It was all too close to me; that's one of the reasons I left the States.”
“What were the other reasons?”
“One of my European sources found a woman who fit her description.”
“Surely it was a hoax,” Pfeiffer said.
Mantle nodded. “But I stayed on anyway. I couldn't face going back home. That was two years ago.”
“Then you've given up.” Pfeiffer stood in the doorway between the sitting room and living room and gazed at the painting of the dead bird.
“No, I never gave up.” Mantle sat down in one of the uncomfortable high-backed chairs and watched Pfeiffer. Then he said, “I began painting privately as therapy. But I couldn't live with the paintings. I kept seeing things in them that weren't there.”
“Like what?” Pfeiffer asked.
“I saw demonic faces, strange beasts, my own face, and people I knew,” Mantle continued. “So I began turning my hallucinations into subembeds. Once I painted them into pictures, they no longer threatened me. And I supposed that, by painting my fears and visions, I could trick my memory.”
“Did that work?”
“Not really,” Mantle said. “I found bits and pieces, but not enough to make a difference.” He regretted telling Pfeiffer anything. But Pfeiffer's presence had joggled his memory. For an instant, Mantle had seen Josiane; that was important, not what Pfeiffer thought. “I threw out a whole batch of those early paintings. I didn't even gesso them over; they could have been used again. But I had this crazy fear that somehow I would be able to see right through the gesso to the original painting. I couldn't live with them.
“I continued to paint in my spare time—I'm here on loan to Eurofax as a consultant, as you probably know. They kept me busy. Anyway, I traveled inland and all over the coast, but soon I wasn't painting for myself anymore. I began to pick up a lot of commission work. And, of course, I experimented with new kinds and combinations of subliminals, but I didn't use nearly as many as in the paintings you see around you.” After a pause, Mantle said, “And I see you're still looking.”
Pfeiffer turned away from the paintings. “Then for whom did you paint these?” he asked, making a gesture toward the living room.
“I started making paintings for every woman I slept with,” Mantle said. “It became a kind of game. My work didn't frighten me as much as it had before—”
“What about the work you do for Eurofax?” Pfeiffer asked.
“What about it?”
“Didn't all that subliminal stuff upset you?”
Mantle chuckled. “I experimented with subs as a way of working out my problems, and most of the work I did translated easily into fax and other media. Made quite an impact, actually. On the whole industry. But translating my ideas for fax was a technical, not an emotional, problem. I'm old-fashioned: my inspiration still comes from brush, canvas, and the old masters.”
Don't look so smug, Mantle thought. We both sold out.
“You were saying that your work didn't frighten you,” Pfeiffer said.
“Oh, yes, not as much as it had before. So I began trying to trick my memory again by painting the past.”
“But these are all landscapes….”
“The real paintings are hidden under those you see,” Mantle said. “They're models of my memory, sort of. There—” He stepped past Pfeiffer into the living room and pointed at a large painting in a simple metal frame. “That looks like the Cours Mirabeau—see the fountains and the plane trees and smoky sky? But the real picture is hidden in all that prettiness. Look at it long enough and you'll see a Slung City, then the fountains and trees will disappear. And finally, if I've done it correctly, they will both register. Memory works like that. You're gazing at the ocean and suddenly you're seeing a city where you once lived or a woman you've known.”
“They're portraits of your past,” Pfeiffer said, looking relieved.
“As an exercise,” Mantle continued, “I painted some ‘portraits’ for friends, such as yourself. Some of the people I never expect to see; in fact, some are dead, or probably dead.”
“Then why did you bother?”
“Anything might help me remember,” Mantle said. “Even seeing you. If only I could remember, no matter how bad it might be, then maybe I could rest.”
“But you know what happened to Josiane. She got caught up in the Scream. She's either dead or a Screamer. Same difference.”
“And you are still a sonofabitch.”
Pfeiffer looked taken aback, but Mantle recognized it as an affectation. “Jesus Christ,” Pfeiffer said. “It has to be faced.”
“I know it happened, but I don't know how it happened, or exactly what happened. I don't remember. I can't see it….” For an instant, Mantle thought that Pfeiffer was gloating. Yes, he had seen that. Well, he had confessed, lapsed back into old patterns. It's my own fault, he told himself. But how Pfeiffer must have wanted that confession.
“You can't even remember the Scream?” Pfeiffer asked. “You were there.”
“I don't remember any of it. What I know is what I've been told, but it didn't happen to me. I can't even remember Josiane.” She's a holo on my desk, you sonofabitch, help me.
“It's the spider and the fly,” Pfeiffer said, changing the subject as if he had heard enough.
“What?” Mantle asked.
“Sympathetic magic. It's as if you thought that you could bring us out of your past with a paintbrush.”
“Perhaps I should have washed my brushes,” Mantle said, collecting himself.
“So you really did want me to come….”
Mantle walked around the living room, as if to gain comfort from his paintings, then sat down on the divan. He had to get Pfeiffer out of here. Pfeiffer sat down beside him. “There's a painting for Caroline, too.”
“Which one is it?” Pfeiffer asked, looking genuinely surprised.
“Aha, that you'll have to figure out by yourself.”
“Tell me,” Pfeiffer said, a hint of anxiety in his voice. But Mantle shook his head.
“How is Caroline?” Mantle asked. “Is she still taking those crazy rejuvenation treatments?”
“I haven't seen Caroline for five months,” Pfeiffer said, his face turned away from Mantle. “We decided that a short separation was in order, what with my work and—”
“You mean she left you.”
So Caroline finally got up the nerve to cut herself loose from him, Mantle thought, remembering. Caroline had been trying to leave Carl since she was nineteen, but Carl needed to care for his fragile
flower, his little solipsist, as he called her, lest she turn inward again and lose touch with the world—the real world of Pfeiffer's books and Pfeiffer's career and Pfeiffer's dreams: Pfeiffer, the maddened sleepwalker, the man with no unconscious. Hadn't he started her on her career as a novelist, didn't he correct and criticize all her work, didn't he rewrite her stories, didn't he provide the main income and fame?—Never mind that Caroline had the critical reputation, that her books were all in covers, and that without any self-promotion. But Carl promoted her work, made sure it reached the proper people.
“She didn't exactly leave me,” Pfeiffer said, moving closer to Mantle on the divan. Uncomfortable, Mantle edged away. He felt that Pfeiffer was already suffocating him. Ironically, Pfeiffer had always kept a physical distance from Mantle, who needed less psychological space. Once, before they became involved with each other, they circled an entire room at a press club cocktail party, Mantle stepping forward to talk face-to-face, Pfeiffer stepping back, fumbling for an inhalor, excusing himself to check on Caroline and to freshen his drink.
“I can't imagine you two apart,” Mantle said, excited and elated over Pfeiffer's misfortune. As the old guilt rose again, he tried to press it down like a cork on an opened wine bottle. “You'll just have to be strong.”
“Oh, no, it's not like that,” Pfeiffer said, defensive. “Separation was the natural thing. Our careers were moving in different directions; we began to have different interests.”
“Of course,” Mantle said, becoming fidgety, trying to think up excuses to dissuade Pfeiffer from staying. He sensed that a trap was about to close.
“But that's all in the past,” Pfeiffer said, “and I'm using this time to acclimate myself to my new life.”
“That's very good,” Mantle said hollowly. “I'm sorry to have to cut this so short, Carl, but I have an engagement tonight and…”
“Jesus, I haven't seen you in five years. Is that all you can say?”
“Well, I'm sorry, Carl.” Take a goddamn hint! He forced himself to look directly at Pfeiffer who, then, lowered his eyes.
“Would you mind if I stayed here with you for a few days?” Pfeiffer asked.
Horrified, Mantle heard himself say, “No.”
THREE
When Mantle finally received a call from Pretre, he was lying on his bed and watching Josiane move about his locked bedroom as she dressed. She kept turning toward him, gesticulating and speaking silently. Mantle had turned off the audio. He knew all the words: he had run this holographic sequence a thousand times.
He had this room redone as a duplicate of their old bedroom in New York. It was to Josiane's taste: an odd mixture of antiques and modern rounded architecture. There was almost something Oriental about the room, Mandarin. On the walls were mirrors, fanlights, and a glazed and coved cabinet. The bed was beside a computer console built unobtrusively into the ornamented wall; above the console was a large, arched mirror. The slightly domed ceiling was a mirrored mosaic from which hung a chandelier of white crystal flowers. The rug, which Josiane seemed to glide over, was deep red and blue with a floral design that matched the ceramic tiles on the door and lower part of the walls.
It was a mausoleum, an untidy showcase of Josiane's oddments that Mantle had collected: diaries (both his and Josiane's), holos, old fische and photographs, old fax clippings, annotated calendars; even clothes, jewelry, and toiletries were strewn about the room as if Josiane had just left in a hurry. And hidden in drawers and pockets were letters, notes, and various papers; they were the keys to his memory, which he could not bring himself to trust to the computer Net.
Mantle disappeared Josiane when the telie buzzed.
The holographic image of a neatly dressed man appeared, as if seated naturally, in the center of the bedroom.
“Ah, Monsieur Mantle,” Pretre said, mispronouncing the name. “Again I see you have not turned on your visual. If we are ever to meet, how will I be able to recognize you?” Pretre was dressed in brown with a white shirt buttoned to the neck; he looked, as he always did, uncomfortable.
“I'm not dressed,” Mantle lied, “and everything is such a mess.” He made an arc with his arm, as if Pretre could see. But Mantle wouldn't let anyone see or come inside this room. “I'm sure you'll recognize me when the time comes,” Mantle said sarcastically. “Now tell me what you have.”
“You realize that when I called earlier, I made you no promises.”
“Yes, yes,” Mantle said. “Now, is there going to be a plug-in service or not?”
“A deal has been made with the church to let you participate,” Pretre said.
“A deal?”
“As I explained to them, you are a man of honor and truly interested in conversion. However, if you have second thoughts…” Pretre had the look of a zealot; to Mantle it seemed that all religious fanatics were incongruous-looking, too neatly dressed, hair too sharply trimmed, shoes too polished. They all looked uncomfortable, as if clothes and body were coffins for the soul.
“What do you want in return?” Mantle asked.
“As I said, if you have second thoughts. I really think we must conclude this—”
“Where shall we meet, then, and when?” Mantle asked.
“Of course, when we meet is contingent upon the demise of the one who is offering himself to the church,” Pretre said, bowing his head slightly; oddly, the pious gesture did not seem pompous. “But, as is mostly the case, le Crier will die at the appointed time.”
“Which is…?”
“Why don't you take a walk to the Quai Saint Pierre tonight at about eight o'clock,” Pretre said. “It is still Festival, and very beautiful at night. Now, if you will turn on the visual for an instant so I will be able to recognize you—”
“I'm sure my holo is in your file,” Mantle said, about to switch off the phone.
“Ah, but that is not fair, nor is it the way we do things. Now, I have been patient with you; it is your turn to do me the courtesy of proper introduction.”
“All right,” Mantle said, making an adjustment on the computer console so that only a sliver of the room could be seen. Then he struck the visual key much too hard and leaned forward.
Pretre smiled uncharacteristically and said, “Very pretty.” Then the image disappeared, leaving the smoke flower, the symbol of the church, which dissipated into the room.
It had begun to drizzle. Thunder rumbled in the north; within an hour the wind would rise and the mists would be broken by pelting rain. But that would not dissuade anyone from going to Festival; the locals would splash about and let the rain dissolve their traditional paper clothes. Everyone else would be carrying rain repellors.
Pfeiffer had insisted on coming along with Mantle, at least as far as the quay; he had to pick up the rest of his bags at the old Carleton Hotel, anyway, and he was at loose ends. It was difficult to imagine Pfeiffer without his self-imposed regimen of writing and napping and watching the tube; in the old days Pfeiffer would work all night and never go out. Mantle had never gotten used to the constant clatterclack of Carl's and Caroline's old-fashioned typewriters; in more paranoic moments, he had entertained the idea that they were trying to make him insecure because he wasn't working.
And now the little fisherman has nothing to do, Mantle thought. Then he was seized with the aching loneliness that he associated with Josiane. As always, he could almost remember her; but even in those few childhood memories of Josiane that were left to him, she was out of focus.
They walked south toward the boulevard and the quay. The street was becoming crowded, and the sky was alight with color. The boom-boom of distant fireworks could be heard as the locals kept their holiday in the old fashion. Curfews had been temporarily lifted, and there were children laughing in the streets. Indeed, it was like the old days before the Scream.
“Where are you going tonight?” Mantle asked, regretting the question even as he asked it. He was making small talk because he was nervous about meeting Pretre, who could lead him
to Josiane. He would find her, even if it meant passing through the dead.
“More to the point,” Pfeiffer said, “where are you going?”
“I was invited to a plug-in ceremony.”
“Christ, you are morbid as ever. Going to a funeral service on Saturday night. Anyone I might know?” There was a touch of humor in Pfeiffer's voice. “Who is it, then?” he asked more seriously, but he didn't wait for an answer. “I think the plug-in ceremony is disgusting. It violates the dead.”
Mantle chuckled, albeit nervously; if he weren't on his way to meet some unknown, dead Screamer (and if he weren't haunted by Josiane), he might enjoy the cool dampness of the evening and Pfeiffer's prissiness. It was raining hard now; a full moon could be seen as a bright smear in the mist above. But the rain didn't reach Mantle and Pfeiffer, who had activated their rain repellors and were walking along briskly, creating a wake like a ship at sea. “They're not really dead,” Mantle said. “After all, psyconductors can't work unless there is some brain activity. So the person you're plugging into must be alive, at least clinically.”
“But dead in the real sense,” Pfeiffer said.
“It's no different than using a psyconductor in court or family counseling or, for that matter, for pleasure,” Mantle said. “One can't get any closer than by touching another's mind. Brain activity is life itself.”
“You sound like the man who directed my mother's funeral,” Pfeiffer said. Mantle laughed; Pfeiffer had actually developed a sense of humor in the intervening years. Then Pfeiffer was serious again. “It's the same as necrophilia, this plugging-in with the dead. And plug-in necrophilia is actually becoming common at funerals.”
“But you plugged into your mother when she died, didn't you?” Mantle asked, baiting him.
Pfeiffer blushed. “She insisted. When she first became ill, she begged me, and I promised.”
“And was it so terrible?”
“I found it revolting, it makes my skin crawl to remember it.” Pfeiffer quickened his pace, as if he could leave the memory behind. Mantle began to feel more anxious about meeting Pretre and entering the mind of a dead Screamer. Hooking into a Screamer, or anyone who was mentally unbalanced, could be disastrous, especially if one was prone to schizophrenia. The bicameral Screamers, just like our ancestors who heard the voices of the gods they worshiped, carried the voices and visions of their community in the right lobes of their brains. But to know one Screamer's thoughts was also to know, at least potentially, the thoughts and memories of every other, even those who had passed into the black and silver regions of death.