by Mike Resnick
Alastair Baffle never offered to sell me a trick, and I never offered to buy one. Maury kept urging me to, but I figured I’d spent more than 90 years picking up all these aches and pains, and I’d earned them. But it was difficult, seeing Maury grow stronger and healthier each day. I was always the bigger and stronger one, and now for the first time in my life I wasn’t able to keep up with him. I mean, hell, even his hair got thicker. The first time someone asked if he was my son it was everything I could do not to club both of them with my cane.
And then one day he was gone. I knew he’d left to visit Baffle—it was the only place he ever went—but that night he didn’t come home. He didn’t call, and the next morning the home reported him missing to the police. Didn’t do a bit of good. No one could turn up any trace of him.
But I knew where he was. After two more days, I went out the back way, made it to the corner like all the other times, and hailed a cab. Ten minutes later it dropped me off on State Street in front of the Emporium of Wonders. The door was locked, the windows were empty, and there was a sign on the door: Moved to a New Location. But it didn’t say where the location was.
I tried the yellow pages. No luck. I tried the white pages too. Hell, if there’d have been mauve or puce pages, I’d have tried them too. I spent the next two weeks wandering the area, asking every person I saw if they knew what had become of Alastair Baffle’s Emporium of Wonders. They were polite at first, but pretty soon they started looking at me like I was the local nut case, and they turned and began walking away whenever they saw me approaching.
I stayed in the Hector McPherson Retirement Home for seven more months. Since I had a two-bedroom apartment they kept trying to give me a new roommate, but Gold and Silver had been a team since before any of them were born and I wasn’t about to adjust to a new partner.
Then came the day I’d known was coming. The doctor hemmed and hawed, and then laid it on me: the cancer had reappeared in my one remaining lung. I asked how long I had. He tiptoed around it for a few minutes, then said anywhere from three weeks to three months. I wasn’t even sorry; nine decades is a long time, longer than most have, and life hadn’t been much fun since Maury had left.
It was getting harder to breathe, harder to get around. Then I read in the paper that they were bringing back Casablanca to a small theatre in what used to be Old Town, the beatnik/then-hippie/then-yuppie area a couple of miles north of the Loop. It had played on TV a couple of trillion times, but this would be its first commercial showing on a big screen in almost 40 years, and I thought to myself: where better to die than watching Bogey and Claude Rains go off into the unknown to cement their friendship and fight the Bad Guys, just the way Maury and I daydreamed when we were kids?
I became obsessed with the notion that that was how and where I wanted to die. I waited a few more days, until I barely had the strength to climb down the stairs. Then, when the nurses and attendants were all performing their various duties, I walked out the front door, and waited for the cab I’d phoned. (I wasn’t sure I’d have the strength to stand out there in the cold and flag one down.)
I gave the cabbie the address of the theatre, and he dropped me off there fifteen minutes later. I gave him a twenty, stuffed a ten for the movie and another twenty (just in case I didn’t die and needed a ride home) in my shirt pocket, and walked to the ticket window. When I got there I stopped and turned around, to take one last look at the world—
—And that’s when I saw it, nestled between an old-fashioned greengrocer and a little hardware shop: Alastair Baffle’s Emporium of Wonders. I walked across the street and peered in the window. It looked exactly like the last shop. I studied the door for a long moment, then finally opened it and walked in.
“Master Silver,” said Baffle, looking totally unsurprised as I entered the place. “What kept you?”
“Life,” I wheezed.
“It does slow people down,” he agreed, and he sounded sympathetic rather than intimidating. “Well, come in out of the cold. Someone’s been waiting for you.”
“Maury?”
He nodded. “I had my doubts, but he assured me that sooner or later you’d show up.”
A young boy who looked oddly familiar entered from the back of the shop. He smiled at me, and I knew I’d seen that smile a million times before. “Maury?” I said, half amazed, half frightened.
“Hi, Nate,” he said. “I knew you’d come.”
“What happened to you?”
“I’m working here now,” he said. “Full time.”
“But you’re an old man!”
“You know what they say,” he replied. “You’re only as old as you feel. And me, I feel like I’m twelve years, three months, and 22 days old.” He smiled again. “That’s how old I was the day we met. And now we’re meeting again.”
“Just briefly,” I said, getting ready to tell him about the cancer. “I got the bad news last week.”
“Then it’s last week’s news, and nothing is older than that,” said Maury with no show of concern.
“I must feed the Denebian Spider-Cats,” announced Baffle. “I’ll leave you two friends to visit in private for a few moments.”
I stared at Maury. “Didn’t you understand what I said? The cancer’s in the other lung. They’ve given me three months, tops.”
“Why don’t you ask Alastair what he can give you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Look at me, Nate,” he said. “I’m not an illusion. I’m twelve years old. He did it for me. He can do it for you, too. I’ve asked him to hold a job open for you.”
“A job?” I repeated, frowning.
“A lifetime job,” he said meaningfully. “And around here, there’s no telling how long that can be. Look at him. You know he once saw George Washington ride by?”
“You better hope he was lying, Maury,” I said.
“What are you talking about?” he asked, confused.
“Don’t you understand just how long you have to serve him?”
“You make it sound like I’m a slave,” he complained. “I love working here. He teaches me things.”
“What kind of things?”
“You’d call them tricks, but they’re not.”
“You’d better come back with me, Maury.”
“So I can rot in my wheelchair while I’m going blind?” he shot back. “So I can’t even pick up a pencil without my hand feeling like it’s on fire? If I stay here I can be healthy forever!”
“Do you know just how long forever is?” I shot back. “Did you just sign the contract without reading the fine print? How long will it take you to pay off your debt to him? When will you be free to leave?”
“I don’t want to leave!” he half-shouted. “What’s out there besides pain and suffering?”
“Everything’s out there,” I answered. “Pain and suffering are just a small part of it. They’re dues we pay to enjoy the good stuff.”
“The good stuff’s over for sick old men like us,” said Maury. “You shouldn’t be trying to talk me out of staying here. I should be trying to get you to join me.”
“It feels like cheating, Maury. If there’s a God, I’m going to be seeing Him pretty soon, and I plan to do it with a clear conscience. We never cheated at business, I never cheated on my wives, and I’m not about to start cheating now.”
“You’re looking at it all wrong,” he insisted. “If you don’t stay with me, you’ll be cheating yourself.” He paused. “I don’t know how long he’ll hold the job open, Nate. I don’t think he likes you very much.”
“I can live with that.”
“Damn it, Nate! You’re walking around with one lung, and it’s got cancer! You can’t live with it! You can’t live with anything. Come on while you have the chance. We can be Gold and Silver again for another lifetime.”
“I’m not through with this lifetime,” I said. “Maybe I’ve only got three months. Maybe they’ll come up with a new form of chemo, or some other
new treatment. Life’s always been a crapshoot, Maury. I’ve played by the rules so far; I’m not changing now.”
“So what if they cure you?” he said. “They’ll give you another eight months. He can give you eight decades.”
Baffle re-entered the front of the shop just then. “I assume Master Gold has spoken to you about a position here?” he said.
“You don’t want a sick, tired old man,” I said.
“That’s true,” he replied. “I have no use for a sick, tired old man.” He paused. “But I can always use a young, healthy one.”
“I wish you luck in finding the right one,” I said. “But it’s not me. And now I think I’d better be going back home.”
“Without your trick?” asked Baffle.
“I’ll have to take a pass on it,” I said. “I’ve got just enough cash with me for the movie across the street and cabfare home.”
“Then you can owe it to me.” He reached into the air and produced a single red rose, then handed it to me. “Careful of the thorns,” he cautioned.
“I saw you do this the very first time I visited your shop,” I said.
“No, Master Silver,” he said. “Each time is different. Smell the fragrance.”
“I can’t,” I said, indicating my oxygen supply.
He reached over before I could stop him, grabbed the oxygen away, and tossed it in a wastebasket. “We don’t allow oxygen around here, Master Silver. It’s too combustible.”
I was all set to grab my throat and start gasping for air, but nothing happened except that I took a deep breath. It felt good. Hell, it felt great.
“Now how does it smell?”
I lifted the rose to my nose. “Beautiful,” I said in wonderment.
“You owe me a dollar the next time you visit the shop.”
“Nate,” said Maury, “are you sure you won’t stay?”
“I can’t,” I said. “Are you sure you won’t go?”
He shook his head.
I didn’t know whether to shake his hand or hug him, so I just stared at him, fixing his face in my memory one last time, and then I walked out the door.
* * *
I went in to start my treatment two days later. The doctors took a bunch of CATscans and X-rays, blood tests and readings, and left me sitting there for hours. Finally the head of the team came out and told me that their initial diagnosis had been mistaken, that I didn’t have cancer after all.
The next morning I took a cab to the shop to pay Baffle his dollar. There was a sign in the window: Moved to a new location.
I keep looking. Not to take him up on his offer, just to pay him what I owe him, and maybe see Maury one more time, and find out how he’s doing. I heard Baffle had opened a store on Morse Avenue in the Rogers Park section of the city, but when I got there he’d moved again.
Someone told me that a new magic shop opened down in Hyde Park, in the University area, and as soon as I’m up to it I’ll go down and see for myself. It’ll probably be gone by then. I don’t think he wants me to find him. Maybe he’s afraid I’ve changed my mind. As for me, I don’t know what I’d say to them—the man who happily sold his soul, and the man who bought it.
But I’d give one of my remaining months just to take one last look around Alastair Baffle’s Emporium of Wonders.
INTRODUCTION TO “THE BRIDE OF FRANKENSTEIN”
Kij Johnson
There are all these core story types that we writers of speculative fiction can’t resist taking on: the magic shop or the three wishes story; the Adam and Eve story or the last man on Earth story (or both at the same time); the it-was-all-a-dream story—which we all know better than to try, even if we sometimes can’t help ourselves. Time-travel paradox. Ghosts. The vampire story, hoo boy, the vampire story.
When we write these story types, we’re trying to cover a classic tune in a way that no one else has, to make it something that is simultaneously itself and uniquely ours. Sometimes it’s barely recognizable once we’re done with it, presented so obliquely that the original story gets hidden or even lost in the remix.
I think what we’re really trying to do is find another answer to the problem built into the story’s very nature. How can you get rid of a bottle imp once you’re down to the tiniest possible coin? What happens if your zombies are smart, or sexy, or fast? Are they still zombies? “The Cold Equations” became one of those core story types, and countless science fiction writers have written responses, looking for a different solution than the one Godwin offered.
Frankenstein—or more generally, monsters and the making of them—is one of these core stories we all take a stab at eventually. What creates a monster? What makes a man? It’s a bold move to address the source story directly, but Mike’s not a shy man.
“The Bride of Frankenstein” is funny; that’s one thing not in the original that Mike gives us. Mike mentions refrigerators and Life magazine, which are also not in the original, amazingly enough. But the biggest thing that he adds to make the story his own is heart. Because it’s a Frankenstein story, it’s about the making of monsters; but because it’s a Mike Resnick story, it’s also about the unmaking of them.
One day I just got tired of the same old retellings of the Frankenstein story. I got tired of the creature rather than the scientist being called Frankenstein. I got tired of the Bride of Frankenstein being a lady creature. I was complaining about it to my friend, science fiction writer Jack McDevitt one day, and he agreed, reminding me that the creature actually read Milton in Mary Shelley’s novel.
That was all the impetus I needed. I decided it was time for a different take on all the Frankenstein legends, and so I wrote my version of “The Bride of Frankenstein.” It was a 2010 Hugo nominee for Best Short Story.
THE BRIDE OF FRANKENSTEIN
April 4:
WHAT AM I DOING HERE?
We have no servants, we never go out, we never have company. The furniture is all decrepit and ugly, the place always smells musty, and although the rest of the village has electrical power, Victor refuses to run it up the hill to the castle. We read by candlelight and we heat with fireplaces.
This is not the future I had envisioned for myself.
Oh, I know, we made the usual bargain—he got my money and my body, and I got his title. I don’t know what I thought being the Baroness von Frankenstein would be like, but this isn’t it. I knew he owned a centuries-old castle with no improvements, but I didn’t think we’d live in it full-time.
Victor can be so annoying. He constantly whistles this tuneless song, and when I complain he apologizes and then starts humming it instead. He never stands up to that ill-mannered little hunchback that he’s always sending out on errands. And he’s a coward. He can never just come to me and say “I need money again.” Oh, no, not Victor. Instead he sends that ugly little toady who’s rude to me and always smells like he hasn’t washed.
And when I ask what the money’s for this time, he tells me to ask Victor, and Victor just mumbles and stammers and never gets around to answering.
Yesterday he sent Igor off to buy a generator. I thought he finally realized the need to upgrade the castle. I should have known better. It’s in the basement, where he’s using it for one of his simple-minded experiments that never brings us fame or fortune. He can use the generator’s power to make a dead frog’s leg twitch (as if anyone cares), but he can’t use it to heat this drafty, ugly, boring castle.
I hate my life.
May 13:
“My creature lives!”
That’s a hell of a scream to wake up to in the middle of the night. Of course his damned creature lives. The little bastard nagged me for money again today.
May 14:
Well, finally I saw the results of all those months of work today. Victor was so damned proud of this hideous creature he created. Let me tell you: it is ugly as sin, it can barely speak, you’d need a microscope to find its IQ, and it smells worse than Igor. This is what he’s been spending my fortune
on?
“What is it?” I ask, and Victor explains that it isn’t an it, it’s a he. He is sitting on the edge of a table, just staring stupidly at a wall. Victor takes me by the arm (he always has chemicals on his hands; I hate it when he touches me) and pulls me over toward the creature. “What do you think?” he asks. “Do you really want to know?” I answer, and he says yes he really does, so I spend the next five minutes telling him exactly what I think. He doesn’t say a word; he just stands there with his lower lip trembling and the same expression on his face that my brother had when his puppy drowned all those years ago.
The creature makes a soothing noise and reaches out to Victor, as if to comfort him. I slap his hand and tell him never to touch a human. He whimpers and puts his hands in front of his face, as if he expects me to beat him. I wouldn’t even if I could; this blouse is hard enough to clean without having to wash any disgusting monster yuck off it.
“Don’t frighten him!” snaps Victor.
Which is a perfect example of how out of touch with reality he is. The creature is about six football players and a weightlifter all rolled into one, and I’m just a helpless woman who spends an inordinate amount of time wondering why she didn’t marry Bruno Schmidt. All right, he’s bald and fat and his teeth are rotting and he’s got a glass eye, but he’s a banker, and his house doesn’t have a monster in the basement.
May 25:
I went fishing in the stream today, since Victor is too busy making notes to notice that we’re almost out of food. (Of course, we wouldn’t run out so often if we had a refrigerator, but then we have no place to plug it in anyway.)