by Jack Dann
“Let's leave the ship, take a flyer to New York next week. I have a bad feeling about the whole thing.”
“No,” Mantle said.
“Why?”
“We should play out the ménage.”
“At first I really thought you wanted to let Pfeiffer in,” Joan said. “That he could help you remember the past. And I thought it would augment our feelings as it once had yours and Carl's. But then you slipped away from me—was that the way you were going to let me down easy?”
“No, the ménage happened, that's all. Naturally, just as naturally as it happened once long ago with Caroline. And I wanted Carl in. Yes, I did, not just to extract information, but perhaps to relive the past, the past I could still remember.”
“And you used me to do that.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Yes,” Joan said, “I do. But I allowed the ménage to form around me; I suppose I instigated it. Ray, open the connection. Let me in. Please.” But the connection was broken, perhaps dead.
“You wanted the ménage too,” Mantle said.
“No…yes, I suppose so, but only because Carl interested me; but not to separate us, you and me. I thought he might help me keep you….”
“We're not separated,” Mantle said gently.
“Then let me in.”
“I can't explain about Carl and me, through all the hate—”
“You don't have to, just let me back in.”
Again, the silence. They sat together, only breathing. At another time, they would have made love, confirmed what they felt for each other; but to do that now would distance them even further. Then there was a sharp knock at the door. “We leave in ten minutes,” called the steward. “There's been a change in the departure time, we're sorry for any inconvenience.” Then the clickclick of his footsteps and, far away, another sharp rap and “We leave in ten minutes,” as if it were an echo.
“The ship's probably drawing too much of a crowd,” Joan said. “The authorities are very nervous since the American upheavals.”
“Yes, I suppose,” Mantle said. “Well, come on. We shouldn't miss this.”
“Raymond…” Joan asked as Mantle stood up. “Let's end the ménage. Now.”
He extended his hand to her and pulled her from the bed. “It's whatever you want.”
“I want you.”
“That you have, as much as—”
“But you still want the ménage.”
“Yes,” he said. “At least until New York. As phony as it may be, it's comfortable.”
“Because Carl doesn't have the upper hand anymore.”
“Perhaps he does. But you must believe that I love you, and trust me.”
Bullshit, she thought. You sonofabitch. But it's your own fault, you stupid bitch, you should have known; you knew, cunt….
“It's not bullshit,” Mantle said, reading her. She jerked backward slightly as the circuit fantome was restored.
They walked down the corridor, which was empty, and then took the stairs to the Upper Promenade Deck, which was crowded, but only with passengers. As they didn't expect to be standing on deck for very long, neither Joan nor Mantle bothered to clip on a mask. With or without masks, the Southampton air would be fetid. It was humid, windy, and hazy; the sky was beautiful, though, a blaze of crimson and yellow. A heavily policed crowd cheered ashore as the passengers threw colored ribbons that snaked and coiled in the air down toward them; and at least fifty cameras hovered and sailed around the ship like rectangular kites, transmitting this event to millions of television viewers. This was major media, and the world was watching.
“There you are,” Pfeiffer said, making space for Joan and Mantle by the rail. It seemed a long way down to the gray, foamy water. “I thought you two were intent on missing everything.”
“Not everything,” Mantle said, and then bells began to ring and the ship's triple whistles cut the air.
“What's that antique ship doing over there?” Joan asked when the noise let up. An old hulk of a steamer was berthed beside the Titanic.
“For history,” Mantle said.
“Ah, I remember!” Joan shouted, excited; and again they all felt what they called “the umbrella.” Even Pfeiffer, who was an outsider in every other respect, was a part of them again. Josiane and hot, dream-ridden sleep was far away now. Only the present in its favored immediacy remained. The ménage was an avenue back to the immediacy of childhood, to long moments that never need end, a way around the rotting body of old friendships and into the firm flesh of what was. For an instant, Joan shuddered, feeling Mantle's thought and afraid that this wasn't a reliving of a past, but a death. All these relationships were dead, they were all dead.
Another shout from the crowd below, and the ancient tugs began pushing as the Titanic's triple-expansion steam engines could be felt thrilling throughout the great ship.
Then with a terrible crack, the hawsers mooring the antique steamer New York broke and whipped into the air. The crowd, like a mass of colored beetles, moved out of the way.
The steamer was being sucked directly into the path of the Titanic. But just when collision seemed imminent, one of the port engines was revved and the backwash gently pushed the New York away. There was another cheer, and the ship slowly moved out to sea. It seemed that the land, not the ship, was moving. The whole of England was just floating peacefully away while the string band on the ship's bridge played Oskar Straus's “The Chocolate Soldier.”
“Well, you two have nothing to do for the next four days but relax and have a good time,” Pfeiffer said with just a hint of condescension, as he was one of the few official reporters on assignment. He fished inside his jacket and produced a guest list. “Neither of you is on the list, I'm afraid. Now, if Raymond would have made up your minds earlier, then you too would have a memento.” Pfeiffer was smiling; it was all in fun, but Mantle felt uneasy about it. “Do you wish to accompany me as I interview some of our fellow guests?” Pfeiffer asked Joan.
“Are there any familiar names such as Isidor Straus or Mister Guggenheim?” Joan asked.
“No,” Pfeiffer said, “this is to be an experience of our own, not just a recreation. Everyone here is real, all the names are real.”
“Do we know who's going to die?” Mantle asked.
“Now, that wouldn't be cricket, would it?” asked Pfeiffer.
“To be sure,” Joan mumbled. She looked at Mantle and then said to Pfeiffer, “But I'm having second thoughts about this whole thing.”
“This will only happen once,” Pfeiffer said. “Would you really miss it?” When Joan didn't respond, he said, “If you'd like, we could do the Titanic story together, a double by-line.”
Joan looked surprised.
“Now, that's what she's been after all along,” Mantle said lightly, knowing that it was nevertheless true.
“Jesus, I don't know what to say. I'm not prepared, and—”
“I can assure you, it's the chance of a lifetime.”
Joan turned to Mantle, who said, “He's right. I'd go along with him if I were you.”
“I can't see you, Ray.”
“Just go,” Mantle said, trying to soften his voice.
“We should figure out an original angle for the story,” Pfeiffer said to Joan. “Ray, would you like to join us? We're going to the Café Parisien. I was there earlier, it's quite nice.”
“I think I'll stay on deck awhile,” Mantle said. Joan looked distraught. “I'll be fine,” he said to her.
“But—”
“I do need to be alone,” Mantle said; and after a beat, Joan reluctantly left with Pfeiffer.
Mantle stood by the rail as the ship slipped through the curtains of Southampton's smog. Sky and sea seemed dark and smooth, as if made of some tinted, striated glass. Toward the west, the ocean was a green expanse turning to blue toward the horizon. But Mantle looked back toward Southampton, as if he could discern the shapes of his past in the unclean water and air.
“What did you mean wh
en you said you couldn't see Raymond?” Pfeiffer asked.
“Nothing,” Joan said. “Nothing at all.”
NINETEEN
When Joan and Pfeiffer returned to the suite to dress for dinner, they found Mantle asleep in the curtained four-poster. Although Joan was not in the mood for sex, Pfeiffer was; and he insisted that they make love in the same bed with Mantle for the sake of the ménage. Joan obliged him while Mantle slept fitfully, once again dreaming of Josiane.
When they were finished, Pfeiffer questioned Joan about Mantle, about his dreams. He most often questioned her, rather than asking Mantle directly.
“What do you want from him?” Joan whispered. She had not yet caught her breath; after their initial few times together, Pfeiffer became more and more sexually passive, and Joan exerted herself far more than he.
“I don't want anything from him, I want to help him.”
“That old saw.”
“Believe what you will, but it's true.”
“What do you know about Josiane?” Joan asked.
For an instant, Pfeiffer seemed taken aback, and Joan caught her breath and waited for his response. Carefully, he got up from the bed.
“Where are you going?”
He waved his hand, walked across the room, and opened his suitcase, which he had left in the corner and refused to unpack. He took out a white box and returned to the bed. “You know, I realize that Raymond took me in because he thought I could help him remember.”
“And you, in turn, wanted to question him.”
“That's not true! Stop it. I know also that it wasn't entirely that he thought I could help him find the past—it was to relive the past, bring it back, have it again, have each other again. We've watched too much of our blood pass under the bridge to let each other go.”
“What's in the box, Carl?”
“Yes, what's in the box?” Mantle asked without opening his eyes.
“I thought you'd be awake,” Pfeiffer said. “Anyway, I appreciate what both of you have done for me.”
“It wasn't charity, for God's sake. We wanted to be with you,” Mantle said.
“Because you find me extraordinarily sexy, I know.” Pfeiffer grinned; Joan did not.
“Because we care about you,” Joan said.
“I had this made for you,” Pfeiffer said to Mantle, “if you would care to open your eyes and look at it.”
Mantle sat up, then propped himself against a wall that was contiguous with the bed. Leaning forward he said, “Jesus, you can hear the damned engines through the pillows and bed and walls. It's enough to give anyone a migraine.”
“That was one of the problems that the Ismay line didn't have a chance to iron out,” Pfeiffer said smiling, and he handed Mantle the package. “This should explain all my impertinent questions. I'm sure that Joan has also complained of them to you….”
“You're a bastard, Carl,” Joan said.
“But it's programmed as best as I know how; it has as much of the past as I could find; it's as correct as I could make it—”
“Then I'd better open it, hadn't I?” Mantle said, picking up the box from the bed.
Suddenly, Joan didn't want him to open it. But it was too late. He opened the package and pulled out something wrapped in gauze. Pfeiffer leaned over and unveiled it.
It was Josiane's head.
“Jesus Christ,” Mantle said, almost dropping it to the bed. Then, sickeningly, the face came alive. It moved and changed expression, eyes narrowing, mouth pursing slightly, just as Josiane's used to do.
“Are you so afraid of me, Ray?” it asked.
Then Mantle did drop it on the bed, and drew away from it, shuddering. Joan found herself standing beside the bed. She laughed, half out of embarrassment.
“Make it stop,” Mantle said tightly.
“Just place it—or we should really say ‘her’—back in the box, which is real cedar, incidentally. It will be quiet, or rather she will be quiet.”
“Please don't put that gauze around me,” said the head. “Don't put me away,” it pleaded. “I'm afraid of the dark—”
Quickly, Mantle shut the head inside the box, closing the lid. The gauze wrap lay across his pillow.
“What is it?” Joan asked.
“A talking head,” Pfeiffer said matter-of-factly. “These are going to be all the rage in the next few months. They aren't on the market yet, but you can imagine their potential for both adults and children. They can be programmed to talk and react very realistically. The next logical step from talking books, don't you agree?”
“I think you're a sadist,” Joan said.
Pfeiffer looked genuinely shocked and turned to Mantle, who was holding the box and staring at it. “She is as authentic as I could make her. I thought it would help. It wasn't meant as a joke or as a toy, I can promise you that. It was expensive as hell and took a lot of time to—”
“I understand, Carl,” Mantle said. “Thank you.” Then, looking at Joan: “Maybe it will bring something back.”
“I'm sorry,” Pfeiffer said.
“No need to be, really.”
“Even if it might be painful at first, I thought—”
“You thought correctly,” Mantle said.
“There is a party being given by the captain in the smoking lounge before dinner,” Pfeiffer said. “We're all invited. There should be some interesting and influential people there.” Pfeiffer showered and dressed quickly. He wore a black tuxedo with tails, studs, fluff shirt, and diamond-initial cuff links. Joan and Mantle sat on the bed, Mantle opening and closing the box, peering at the head; and Joan watched him.
“Well, I can see you're not going to make the party,” Pfeiffer said, after going into the bathroom to take one last look at himself in the mirror. He reeked of expensive perfume. “I thought you'd find her interesting. If you have any flashbacks, remember that I get the credit. She's my creation. You see, you're not the only artist.”
“Carl, why are you giving me this now?” Mantle asked. “Wouldn't it have been more, ah, theatrical to have waited until we parted?”
“First of all, that's not a nice way to put it. You're always looking for motives. I once told you that I had no unconscious, and there's more truth to that than not.” He smiled. “It's simply because we're going to different destinations after our…accident.”
“Then you're not going to New York?” Joan asked.
“Not right away, I'm afraid. Now, if you two can manage to dress each other, I'll meet you for dinner.”
“You know,” Joan said to Pfeiffer as he opened the door, “you're not dressed properly.”
“What do you mean?”
“We're supposed to be wearing the period clothing provided by the ship.”
“That's an option, not a requirement,” Pfeiffer said stuffily. “And, at any rate, it would not apply to me.” With that, he left.
“Well, I suppose he's back to his old self,” Joan said to Mantle.
“You never knew his old self.”
“I think I can take credit for knowing him a little. After all, I was hooked-into him, remember?”
“Who knows,” Mantle said, “maybe this thing will help.”
“I'd be careful,” Joan said.
“I'll check it out on the computer—I brought my plug. It's just a question of asking it—her—the right questions.”
“I'd check for subliminals, too.”
“Thank you, Miz Otur, I'll make a note of it.”
“I don't trust him, Raymond.”
“Stop calling me Raymond.” Mantle looked up at her and smiled. “I don't either…trust him, that is. Now, why don't you shower and dress? Maybe you can make the party.”
“And you?” Joan asked.
“I've got some questions to ask Josiane.”
After considerable coaxing, Joan left, and Mantle took the head out of the box and placed it on the desk. Even under the harsh illumination of the desk lamp, it looked like a living head.
An
d it was Josiane—that lovely, mobile face, arched eyebrows, narrow nose, and faint joylines drawn from the corners of her painted lips to flared nostrils. Her hair was a halo around her face, more silver than gold under the light. “Ray,” she said, “I'm afraid. Even now in the light, I'm afraid of that…coffin, it's so dark.”
“Do you know how you got here?” Mantle asked.
“Where am I?”
“You're on the table in my stateroom on the ship Titanic.”
Josiane looked from side to side. “I can't move my head, I can't feel my body, I'm—” And then her face relaxed, as if she were about to go unconscious, and she continued. “I know what I am, but I'm me and not me. I am Josiane, and I'm alive.”
“Until I put you back.”
Josiane shut her eyes for a second, then looked at Mantle as if she were the old Josiane—that intense stare that could rivet Mantle as no one else's could. That couldn't be faked, Mantle said to himself suddenly remembering. It was working. He was beginning to believe that this construct was Josiane. “You've been a lot of things, Ray,” Josiane said, “but never cruel. It was always me who was cruel, who made mistakes….”
Mantle found himself almost saying, “No, you were never cruel.” She could push the old buttons, elicit the old responses. “You're not Josiane,” Mantle said flatly.
“I am, please don't say that. I am. I feel the same, even though I know what I am. But it's me, and this is a terrible nightmare. It's as if I've been thrown into hell, and you, of all people, are my tormentor. Ray, I love you. I know you, I'm the only one, remember?”
“Then tell me what happened the day I lost you,” Mantle demanded.
“I went shopping; that's all I remember. It was on a Friday—I always shopped on Fridays, remember? The next thing I knew I was feeling your hands on my face and then falling.”
“When was that?” Mantle said, excited.
“I don't know, my time sense seems to be gone,” Josiane said.
“Perhaps during the Great Scream, perhaps I had found you…?” Mantle asked, pleading, forgetting he was talking to a construct.
“The gauze was removed, I remember that,” Josiane said, “and then I remember the softness of a blanket, I guess it was. You looked at me with such horror, Ray.”