“I got into an argument with the water gnome who makes it rain and takes care of the fish,” Greenberg blurted. “I tore up his hat. Now he won’t let water touch me. I can’t drink, or anything—”
The doctor nodded. “There you are. Absolutely insane.”
“Shut up.” For a long moment Mike stared curiously at Greenberg. Then: “Did any of you scientists think of testing him? Here, Mr. Greenberg.” He poured water into a paper cup and held it out.
Greenberg moved to take it. The water backed up against the cup’s far lip; when he took it in his hand, the water shot out into the air.
“Crazy, is he?” Mike asked with heavy irony. “I guess you don’t know there’s things like gnomes and elves. Come with me, Mr. Greenberg.”
They went out together and walked toward the boardwalk. Greenberg told Mike the entire story and explained how, besides being so uncomfortable to him personally, it would ruin him financially.
“Well, doctors can’t help you,” Mike said at length. “What do they know about the Little Folk? And I can’t say I blame you for sassing the gnome. You ain’t Irish or you’d have spoke with more respect to him. Anyhow, you’re thirsty. Can’t you drink anything?”
“Not a thing,” Greenberg said mournfully.
They entered the concession. A single glance told Greenberg that business was very quiet, but even that could not lower his feelings more than they already were. Esther clutched him as soon as she saw them.
“Well?” she asked anxiously.
Greenberg shrugged in despair. “Nothing. He thought I was crazy.”
Mike stared at the bar. Memory seemed to struggle behind his reflective eyes. “Sure,” he said after a long pause. “Did you try beer, Mr. Greenberg? When I was a boy my old mother told me all about elves and gnomes and the rest of the Little Folk. She knew them, all right. They don’t touch alcohol, you know. Try drawing a glass of beer.”
Greenberg trudged obediently behind the bar and held a glass under the spigot. Suddenly his despondent face brightened. Beer creamed into the glass—and stayed there! Mike and Esther grinned at each other as Greenberg threw back his head and furiously drank.
“Mike!” he crowed. “I’m saved. You got to drink with me!”
“Well—” Mike protested feebly.
By late afternoon, Esther had to close the concession and take her husband and Mike to the hotel.
The following day, being Saturday, brought a flood of rain. Greenberg nursed an imposing hangover that was constantly aggravated by his having to drink beer in order to satisfy his recurring thirst. He thought of forbidden icebags and alkaline drinks in an agony of longing.
“I can’t stand it!” he groaned. “Beer for breakfast—phooey!”
“It’s better than nothing,” Esther said fatalistically.
“So help me, I don’t know if it is. But, darling, you ain’t mad at me on account of Sammie, are you?”
She smiled gently. “Poo! Talk dowry and he’ll come back quick.”
“That’s what I thought. But what am I going to do about my curse?”
Cheerfully Mike furled an umbrella and strode in with a little old woman, whom he introduced as his mother. Greenberg enviously saw evidence of the effectiveness of icebags and alkaline drinks, for Mike had been just as high as he the day before.
“Mike told me about you and the gnome,” the old lady said. “Now I know the Little Folk well, and I don’t hold you to blame for insulting him, seeing you never met a gnome before. But I suppose you want to get rid of your curse. Are you repentant?”
Greenberg shuddered. “Beer for breakfast! Can you ask?”
“Well, just you go to this lake and give the gnome proof.”
“What kind of proof?” Greenberg asked eagerly.
“Bring him sugar. The Little Folk love the stuff—”
Greenberg beamed. “Did you hear that, Esther? I’ll get a barrel—”
“They love sugar, but they can’t eat it,” the old lady broke in. “It melts in water. You got to figure out a way so it won’t. Then the little gentleman’ll know you’re repentant for real.”
“A-ha!” Greenberg cried. “I knew there was a catch!”
There was a sympathetic silence while his agitated mind attacked the problem from all angles. Then the old lady said in awe: “The minute I saw your place I knew Mike had told the truth. I never seen a sight like it in my life—rain coming down, like the flood, everywhere else; but all around this place, in a big circle, it’s dry as a bone!”
While Greenberg scarcely heard her, Mike nodded and Esther seemed peculiarly interested in the phenomenon. When he admitted defeat and came out of his reflective stupor, he was alone in the concession, with only a vague memory of Esther’s saying she would not be back for several hours.
“What am I going to do?” he muttered. “Sugar that won’t melt—” He drew a glass of beer and drank it thoughtfully. “Particular they got to be yet. Ain’t it good enough if I bring simple syrup?—that’s sweet.”
He pottered about the place, looking for something to do. He could not polish the fountain or the bar, and the few frankfurters broiling on the griddle probably would go to waste. The floor had already been swept. So he sat uneasily and worried his problem.
“Monday, no matter what,” he resolved, “I’ll go to the lake. It don’t pay to go tomorrow. I’ll only catch a cold because it’ll rain.”
At last Esther returned, smiling in a strange way. She was extremely gentle, tender, and thoughtful; and for that he was appreciative. But that night and all day Sunday he understood the reason for her happiness.
She had spread word that, while it rained in every other place all over town, their concession was miraculously dry. So, besides a headache that made his body throb in rhythm to its vast pulse, Greenberg had to work like six men satisfying the crowd who mobbed the place to see the miracle and enjoy the dry warmth.
How much they took in will never be known. Greenberg made it a practice not to discuss such personal matters. But it is quite definite that not even in 1929 had he done so well over a single weekend.”
Very early Monday morning he was dressing quietly, not to disturb his wife. Esther, however, raised herself on her elbow and looked at him doubtfully.
“Herman,” she called softly, “do you really have to go?”
He turned, puzzled. “What do you mean—do I have to go?”
“Well—” She hesitated. ,Then: “Couldn’t you wait until the end of the season, Herman, darling?”
He staggered back a step, his face working in horror. “What kind of an idea is that for my own wife to have?” he croaked.
“Beer I have to drink instead of water. How can I stand it? Do you think I like beer? I can’t wash myself. Already people don’t like to stand near me; and how will they act at the end of the season? I go around looking like a bum because my beard is too tough for an electric razor, and I’m all the time drunk—the first Greenberg to be a drunkard. I want to be respected—”
“I know, Herman, darling,” she sighed. “But I thought for the sake of our Rosie—Such a business we’ve never done like we did this weekend. If it rains every Saturday and Sunday, but not on our concession, we’ll make a fortune!”
“Esther!” Herman cried, shocked. “Doesn’t my health mean anything?”
“Of course, darling. Only I thought maybe you could stand it for—”
He snatched his hat, tie, and jacket, and slammed the door. Outside, though, he stood indeterminedly. He could hear his wife crying, and he realised that, if he succeeded in getting the gnome to remove the curse, he would forfeit an opportunity to make a great deal of money.
He finished dressing more slowly. Esther was right, to a certain extent. If he could tolerate his waterless condition—
“No!” he gritted decisively. “Already my friends avoid me. It isn’t right that a respectable man like me should always be drunk and not take a bath. So we’ll make less money. Money isn’t ev
erything—” .
And with great determination he went to the lake.
But that evening, before going home, Mike walked out of his way to stop in at the concession. He found Greenberg sitting on a chair, his head in his hands, and his body rocking slowly in anguish.
“What is it, Mr. Greenberg?” he asked gently.
Greenberg looked up. His eyes were dazed. “Oh, you, Mike,” he said blankly. Then his gaze cleared, grew more intelligent, and he stood up and led Mike to the bar. Silently, they drank beer. “I went to the lake today,” he said hollowly. “I walked all around it, hollering like mad. The gnome didn’t stick his head out of the water once.”
“I know.” Mike nodded sadly. “They’re busy all the time.”
Greenberg spread his hands imploringly. “So what can I do? I can’t write him a letter or send him a telegram; he ain’t got a door to knock on or a bell for me to ring. How do I get him to come up and talk?”
His shoulders sagged. “Here, Mike. Have a cigar. You been a real good friend, but I guess we’re licked.”
They stood in an awkward silence. Finally Mike blurted: “Real hot, today. A regular scorcher.”
“Yeah. Esther says business was pretty good, if it keeps up.”
Mike fumbled at the cellophane wrapper. Greenberg said: “Anyhow, suppose I did talk to the gnome. What about the sugar?”
The silence dragged itself out, became tense and uncomfortable. Mike was distinctly embarrassed. His brusque nature was not adapted for comforting discouraged friends. With immense concentration he rolled the cigar between his fingers and listened for a rustle.
“Day like this’s hell on cigars,” he mumbled, for the sake of conversation. “Dries them like nobody’s business. This one ain’t, though.”
“Yeah,” Greenberg said abstractedly. “Cellophane keeps them—”
They looked suddenly at each other, their faces clean of expression.
“Holy smoke!” Mike yelled.
“Cellophane on sugar!” Greenberg choked out.
“Yeah,” Mike whispered in awe. “I’ll switch my day off with Joe, and I’ll go to the lake with you tomorrow. I’ll call for you early.”
Greenberg pressed his hand, too strangled by emotion for speech. When Esther came to relieve him, he left her at the concession with only the inexperienced griddle boy to assist her, while he searched the village for cubes of sugar wrapped in cellophane.
The sun had scarcely risen when Mike reached the hotel, but Greenberg had long been dressed and stood on the porch waiting impatiently. Mike was genuinely anxious for his friend. Greenberg staggered along toward the station, his eyes almost crossed with the pain of a terrific hangover.
They stopped at a cafeteria for breakfast. Mike ordered orange juice, bacon and eggs, and coffee half-and-half. When he heard the order, Greenberg had to gag down a lump in his throat.
“What’ll you have?” the counterman asked.
Greenberg flushed. “Beer,” he said hoarsely. .
“You kidding me?” Greenberg shook his head, Unable to speak. “Want anything with it? Cereal, pie, toast—”
“Just beer.” And he forced himself to swallow it. “So help me,” he hissed at Mike, “another beer for breakfast will kill me!”
“I know how it is,” Mike said around a mouthful of food.
On the train they attempted to make plans. But they were faced by a phenomenon that neither had encountered before, and so they got nowhere. They walked glumly to the lake, fully aware that they would have to employ the empirical method of discarding tactics that did not work.
“How about a boat?” Mike suggested.
“It won’t stay in the water with me in it. And you can’t row it.”
“Well, what’ll we do then?”
Greenberg bit his lip and stared at the beautiful blue lake. There the gnome lived, so near to them. “Go through the woods along the shore, and holler like hell. I’ll go the opposite way. We’ll pass each other and meet at the boathouse. If the gnome comes up, yell for me.”
“O.K.,” Mike said, not very confidently.
The lake was quite large and they walked slowly around it, pausing often to get the proper stance for particularly emphatic shouts. But two hours later, when they stood opposite each other with the full diameter of the lake between them, Greenberg heard Mike’s hoarse voice: “Hey, gnome!”
“Hey, gnome!” Greenberg yelled. “Come on up!”
An hour later they crossed paths. They were tired, discouraged; and their throats burned; and only fishermen disturbed the lake’s surface.
“The hell with this,” Mike said. “It ain’t doing any good. Let’s go back to the boathouse.”
“What’ll we do?” Greenberg rasped. “I can’t give up!”
They trudged back around the lake, shouting half-heartedly. At the boathouse, Greenberg had to admit that he was beaten. The boathouse owner marched threateningly toward them.
“Why don’t you maniacs get away from here?” he barked. “What’s the idea of hollering and scaring away the fish? The guys are sore—”
“We’re not going to holler any more,” Greenberg said. “It’s no use.”
When they bought beer and Mike, on an impulse, hired a boat, the owner cooled off with amazing rapidity, and went off to unpack bait.
“What did you get a boat for?” Greenberg asked. “I can’t ride in it.”
“You’re not going to. You’re gonna walk.”
“Around the lake again?” Greenberg cried.
“Nope. Look, Mr. Greenberg. Maybe the gnome can’t hear us through all that water. Gnomes ain’t hardhearted. If he heard us and thought you were sorry, he’d take the curse off you in a jiffy.”
“Maybe.” Greenberg was not convinced. “So where do I come in?”
“The way I figure it, some way or other you push water away, but the water pushes you away just as hard. Anyhow, I hope so. If it does, you can walk on the lake.” As he spoke, Mike had been lifting large stones and dumping them on the bottom of the boat. “Give me a hand with these.”
Any activity, however useless, was better than none, Greenberg felt. He helped Mike fill the boat until just the gunwhales were above water. Then Mike got in and shoved off.
“Come on,” Mike said. “Try to walk on the water.”
Greenberg hesitated. “Suppose I can’t?”
“Nothing’ll happen to you. You can’t get wet, so you won’t drown.”
The logic of Mike’s statement reassured Greenberg. He stepped out boldly. He experienced a peculiar sense of accomplishment when the water hastily retreated under his feet into pressure bowls, and an unseen, powerful force buoyed him upright across the lake’s surface. Though his footing was not too secure, with care he was able to walk quite swiftly.
“Now what?” he asked, almost happily.
Mike had kept pace with him in the boat. He shipped his oars and passed Greenberg a rock. “We’ll drop them all over the lake—make it damned noisy down there and upset the place. That’ll get him up.”
They were more hopeful now, and their comments, “Here’s one that’ll wake him,” and “I’ll hit him right on the noodle with this one,” served to cheer them still further. And less than half the rocks had been dropped when Greenberg halted, a boulder in his hands. Something inside him wrapped itself tightly around his heart and his jaw dropped.
Mike followed his awed, joyful gaze. To himself Mike had to admit that the gnome, propelling himself through the water with his ears, arms folded in tremendous dignity, was a funny sight.
“Must you drop rocks and disturb us at our work?” the gnome asked.
Greenberg gulped. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gnome,” he said nervously, “I couldn’t get you to come up by yelling.”
The gnome looked at him. “Oh. You are the mortal who was disciplined. Why did you return?”
“To tell you that I’m sorry, and I won’t insult you again.”
“Have you proof of your sincerity?�
� the gnome asked quietly.
Greenberg fished furiously in his pocket and brought out a handful of sugar wrapped in cellophane, which he tremblingly handed to the gnome.
“Ah, very clever, indeed,” the little man said, unwrapping a cube and popping it eagerly into his mouth. “Long time since I’ve had some.”
A moment later Greenberg spluttered and floundered under the surface. Even if Mike had not caught his jacket and helped him up, he could almost have enjoyed the sensation of being able to drown.
In Heinlein’s “They” we met a theme which has fueled some of the most powerful writing ever done in imaginative fiction. Here it is again, in a different and more evocative, perhaps more disturbing, form. Who are you, really—and how do you know you are?
Peter Phillips
C/O MR. MAKEPEACE
Regard London suburbanites. Then abandon the attempt at crystalline classification. The suburbanite tag is the only thing they have in common.
Some commute. Others tend their gardens. The brick boxes of city clerks sidle up close to the fifteen-room mansions of stockbrokers. The party wall of a semi-detached villa is a barrier between universes; in this half lives a sweetly respectable retired grocer; in the other, a still-active second-storey man with a fat and ailing wife and a nymphomaniac daughter.
Sometimes there’s a community sense. But more often, neighbors stay strangers throughout their lives.
For instance, no one knew 50-year-old Tristram Makepeace. Not even himself.
British reserve can be a damnably frightening thing.
One morning, in the long, winding, tree-lined avenue in the so-suburban suburb where he lived—
“Hey!”
The postman turned at the gate. Tristram Makepeace hurried down the path of his neat, bush-enclosed front garden, leaving the door of his villa open.
“Not here,” he said, and held out an envelope.
The postman took it, read the typewritten address.
E. Grabcheek, Esq.
c/o Tristram Makepeace,
36, Acacia Avenue.
The postman, blank-faced, looked at the thin, tall, hollow-cheeked bachelor. “That’s you, sir, isn’t it? And it’s your address.”
The Dark Side Page 8