Ecce and Old Earth

by Vance, Jack

  “I am ready, and also nervous.”

  “No reason for that. Your name shall be Marin Wales, since there is a student of that name who is not in residence at the moment.”

  Olivano turned the car around and drove back up Calle Maduro to Casa Lucasta. Wayness looked dubiously at the two-story white house. She had been worried as to how she might gain admittance; now that the means was opened to her, she worried more than ever. Yet, what was there to fear? If she knew, she told herself, perhaps she might not feel so queasy. Well, there was no help for it. Olivano had already alighted and was waiting for her with a faint smile on his face. “Don’t be nervous. You are a student and not expected to know anything. Stand to the side and observe; nothing more is expected of you at the moment.”

  “But later?”

  “You will be playing with two interesting if abnormal children, who will probably like you – which is truly my principal fear, that they may learn to like you too much.”

  Wayness gingerly stepped from the car, noticing as she did so Irena’s face watching from an upper window. The two crossed the yard to the front door, which was opened by Madame Clara. “Good morning,” said Olivano. “Madame Clara, this is my assistant Marin.”

  “Yes, come in then,” said Madame Clara in a flat rasping voice and stood back: a small nervously active woman, somewhat heavy and hunched in the shoulders so that her head hung forward. Her gray hair – which did not seem overly clean – was gathered in an untidy bun; her eyes were black and sharp; her mouth, by reason of a stricture or a damaged nerve, was frozen into an up-curving wince, molding her face into a cast of chronic cynical suspicion, as if she knew and was amused by everyone’s ugly secrets.

  Wayness looked into the dining room, to the side of the entry hail and discovered the children sitting bolt upright and wide-eyed at the table, unnaturally quiet and decorous, each with an orange clutched in their fingers. They looked incuriously toward Olivano and Wayness, then returned to their private concerns.

  Down the stairs came Irena Portils on long bony legs. She wore a green and yellow blouse with a russet-taupe skirt. It was an unbecoming outfit. The colors were not at all kind to her complexion; the blouse was too short, the skirt rose too high at the waist, emphasizing her rather wide abdomen. Nevertheless, when she first appeared at the head of the stairs, Wayness again thought to glimpse a tragic beauty, so fragile as to disappear at the instant of perception like a bursting bubble, leaving behind the reality of her despoiled and desperate features.

  Irena looked at Wayness with surprise and no great pleasure. Doctor Olivano paid no heed, and spoke in a businesslike voice: “This is Marin Wales. She is an advanced student in the field and is functioning as my assistant. I have asked her to work with Myron and Lydia on an intensive basis, in order to accelerate the therapy, which does not seem to be going anywhere under present conditions.”

  “I don’t quite understand.”

  “It is simple enough. Marin will be here every day, for at least a certain period.”

  Irena said slowly: “That is very nice, but I am not sure that this is the best of ideas. It may cause a derangement of the household.”

  “In this case we must proceed as I have outlined. We cannot let the years go by and do nothing.”

  Both Irena and Madame Clara turned to examine Wayness more closely. Wayness attempted a smile but it was evident that she had made an unfavorable impression.

  Irena turned back to Olivano. She asked coldly: “Exactly what is involved in this inconvenient scheme?”

  “It will not be all that bad,” said Olivano. “Marin will spend as much time as possible with the children. She will in effect be their companion and try to engage their interest, using whatever tactics she thinks appropriate. She will bring her own meals and will cause you no extra work. I want her to observe the children’s daily routines, from the time they leave bed to the time they retire.”

  “That seems a gross intrusion into our privacy, Doctor Olivano.”

  “As you wish. Your privacy will be respected. I will remove Lydia and Myron to the hospital for the regimen we had in mind. If you will pack some things for the children, I will take them with me now and you need not be exposed to any inconvenience whatever.”

  Irena stood stock-still staring miserably at Olivano. Madame Clara, smiling her meaningless half-grin, turned and padded from the room and into the kitchen, as if divorcing herself from the proceedings. Lydia and Myron watched from the dining room. Wayness thought they seemed as vulnerable and defenseless as baby birds in a nest.

  Irena looked slowly at Wayness, taking her measure. She muttered, “I don’t know what to do. The children must stay with me.”

  “In that case, if you will leave us alone, I will introduce them to Marin.”

  “No. I will stay. I want to hear what you tell them.”

  “Then please take a seat in the corner and do not enter the conversation.”

  * * *

  Chapter VII, Part 8

  Three days had passed; the time was early evening. Following instructions, Wayness telephoned Dr. Olivano at his home near Montalvo, thirty miles east of Pombareales. The face of a pretty blonde woman appeared on the screen. “Sufy Jirou here.”

  “I am Wayness Tamm, calling for Dr. Olivano.”

  “One moment, please.”

  Olivano’s face came to the screen. He greeted Wayness without surprise. “You have just met my wife,” he told her. “She is a musician, and lacks all interest in abnormal psychology. Speaking of which, what is the news from Casa Lucasta?”

  Wayness gathered her thoughts. “It depends upon whom you ask. Irena would say ‘Bad.’ Clara would say: ‘I have no news; I just do my work and hate every minute of it.’ As for me, I have discovered nothing – not even the best place to look. I expect no confidences from Irena; she has barely spoken to me and clearly resents my presence.”

  “I am not surprised. What of the children?”

  “There the news is good so far. They seem to like me, though Myron is very dignified. Lydia is probably not quite so clever, but she is mercurial and demonstrative, and her sense of humor is always unexpected. She laughs at things which seem quite staid to me: a crumpled piece of paper, or a bird, or one of Myron’s odd sand houses. She is delighted when I tickle Myron’s ear with a blade of grass; this is the best joke of all, and even Myron allows himself to be amused.”

  Olivano showed his faint smile. “You don’t seem to be bored with them.”

  “Not at all. But I can’t say that I like Casa Lucasta. At some deep level the house frightens me. I am afraid of Irena and Madame Clara; they seem like witchwomen in a dark cave.”

  “You express yourself in colorful language,” said Olivano dryly.

  Sufy’s voice sounded from off-screen. She seemed to muse: “Life is perceived as a flux of color.” He turned his head away from the screen. “Sufy? I see that you have a remark to make.”

  “It is of no great consequence. I thought that I might mention that life is perceived as a flux of colors, but this is well known, and solves no mysteries.”

  “That is a pity,” said Wayness. “There are a number of mysteries at Casa Lucasta. I could not estimate how many, since some may be parts of the same mystery.”

  “Mysteries – such as?”

  “There is Irena herself. She goes off in the morning composed, neat and cold as an iceberg. She returns in the afternoon in a terrible mood, her face haggard and mottled.”

  “I have noticed something similar. Under the circumstances, I did not care to speculate. It may be just a minor problem.”

  “As for the children, I am surprised how they have changed in just the few days I have been with them. I can’t be sure, but they seem more aware of their surroundings, more responsive, more alert. Lydia speaks when the impulse moves her and I understand her – I think. She knows what she means, at least. Today, and I consider it a real triumph, she answered a few of my questions, quite sensibly. Myron pre
tends not to notice, but he observes and thinks. In the main, he prefers his blissful detachment and his freedom to roam his private worlds. Occasionally though, I see his attention focus on our activity, and if it is interesting enough, he might be tempted to join us.”

  “What does Irena think of all this?”

  “I spoke to her today and told her more or less what I have told you. She merely shrugged and told me that they often went through phases and that they must not be over-stimulated. Sometimes I feel that she wants to keep them as they are: submissive and unable to complain.”

  “It is not an uncommon attitude.”

  “Yesterday I brought out paper and pictures, and pencils, and started to teach them to read. Myron grasped the idea instantly, but became bored and couldn’t be bothered. Lydia wrote ‘CAT’ when I showed her a picture of a cat. Myron did the same, after I insisted, and with an air of contemptuous indifference. Irena says it’s a waste of time, since they have no interest in reading.

  “We made a kite and flew it, which both found exciting. Then the kite crashed and they were mournful. I said that we would make another kite soon, but that they must learn to read first. Myron gave a morose grunt: the only sound I have heard from him. When Irena came home, I wanted Lydia to read for her, but Lydia became engrossed in other affairs. This is when Irena said I was wasting my time. Then she told me that since tomorrow was Sunday, Clara would be away on her own errands. This being the case, Irena would be busy with the children all day: giving them their baths, serving their Sunday dinner, and so forth. She said that I would be in the way, and need not come to Casa Lucasta.”

  Olivano spoke in surprise. Baths? Sunday dinner? That is not a lengthy program. Two or three hours, and the rest of the day alone with them, and no Marin on hand to see what goes on.” Olivano rubbed his chin. “She can’t be receiving a special visitor; the whole town would know about it. Most likely, she simply doesn’t want you on hand any more than necessary.”

  “I don’t trust Irena, and I doubt if she is their natural mother; they don’t resemble her in the least.”

  “An interesting thought. We can quite readily get at the truth.” Olivano rubbed his chin. “We have taken blood samples from the children in order to check for genetic deviations. We found nothing, of course; their affliction is still a mystery – among all the others. You are calling from the hotel?”

  “Yes.”

  “I will call you back in a few moments.”

  The screen darkened. Wayness went to the window and looked out across the square. On Saturday night all the folk of Pombareales, from high quality to low, had dressed themselves in their best and come out to promenade. For the young men, fashion dictated tight black trousers, shirts striped with dark rich colors: maroon, deep sea green, gamboge, dark blue, with waistcoats carefully echoing one of the colors present in their shirts: such were the stringencies of the style. The most gallant bravos wore low-crowned black hats with broad brims, rakishly slanted to reflect the wearer’s mood. The young women wore short-sleeved ankle-length gowns, with flowers in their hair. From somewhere beyond the range of her vision came the sound of cheerful music. Wayness thought that it all seemed like great fun.

  A chime called Wayness to the telephone. Olivano’s face, now somewhat somber, appeared. “I have spoken with Irena. She gave me no convincing reason for keeping you away. I explained that the time you could spend at Casa Lucasta was limited, and that I wanted you with the children as much as possible. She said that since I held this opinion she must withdraw her opposition. Therefore you may keep to your usual routine.”

  In the morning Wayness presented herself at Casa Lucasta at her usual time. Irena opened the door.

  “Good morning, Madame Portils,” said Wayness.

  “Good morning,” said Irena, in a cool clear voice. “The children are still in bed; they are not feeling well.”

  “That is too bad! What do you think is wrong?”

  “They seem to have eaten something which disagreed with them. Did you treat them to sweets or pastries yesterday?”

  “I brought them some coconut puffs; yes. I ate some too, and I feel fine today.”

  Irena only nodded her head, as if in vindication. “They will not be too active today; I am sure of that. It is a great nuisance.”

  “I wonder if I should look in on them?”

  “I see no benefit they could derive from your visit. They had a fitful night, and now they are sleeping.”

  “I see.”

  Irena moved back into the doorway. “Doctor Olivano mentioned that your time here was limited. When, exactly, will you be leaving?”

  “Nothing is settled yet,” said Wayness politely. “Much depends upon the progress of my work.”

  “It must be a dreary routine for you,” said Irena. “It certainly is for me. Well there, I will let you go. They may be feeling well enough tomorrow for you to resume your work.”

  Irena drew back into the shadows; the door closed.

  Wayness slowly turned away, and went back to the hotel.

  For half an hour Wayness sat in the lobby, fidgeting, frowning, wanting to call Dr. Olivano, yet reluctant to do so, for a number of reasons. First of all, it was Sunday morning, when Dr. Olivano might not wish to be disturbed. Secondly, well, there were other reasons.

  Despite all, Wayness finally felt impelled to call Olivano, only to be notified by a dispassionate voice that no one was at home. Wayness turned away in both frustration and relief, together with a new and illogical flush of anger toward Irena.

  On Monday evening Wayness once again called Olivano. She told him of her visit to Casa Lucasta on Sunday morning and Irena’s statements. “When I went there this morning I did not know what to expect but certainly not what I found. The children were out of bed, dressed and sitting at their breakfast. They seemed listless, almost comatose, and only barely looked at me when I greeted them. Irena was watching me from the kitchen; I pretended to notice nothing unusual, and sat with them while they finished their breakfast. Ordinarily they are anxious to go outside, but this morning they did not seem to care one way or the other.

  “We went outside at last. I spoke to Lydia but she barely glanced at me; Myron sat on the edge of the sandbox, making marks in the sand with a stick. In short, they had lost what they had gained and more, and I can’t understand it.

  ‘‘When Irena came home, she was expecting me to comment but I only said that they still seemed to be a bit under the weather. She agreed to this, saying: ‘They are prone to peculiar moods, which I have learned to ignore.’ That is the news from Casa Lucasta.”

  “Curse all!” muttered Olivano. “You should have telephoned me yesterday morning.”

  “I did, but you were not home.”

  “Of course not; I was at the Institute! Sufy was with her students.”

  “I’m sorry. I thought that I might be disturbing you, since it was Sunday morning.”

  “You have disturbed me, right enough. But still, we have learned something. What it is, I don’t know.” Olivano reflected. “I will make my usual Wednesday visit. You keep to your routine, and telephone me tomorrow night, if there is anything worth reporting. In fact, call anyway.”

  “Just as you say.”

  Tuesday went quietly at Casa Lucasta. Wayness thought that the children seemed less leaden and dismal, but a quality which she had started to perceive in them – vitality? immediacy? – had been suppressed.

  The afternoon was cool, with a lazy overcast obscuring the sun and a chilly wind blowing down from the mountains. The children sat on the couch in the sitting room, Lydia holding a rag doll, Myron twisting a length of string. Madame Clara went out to the utility room with a basket of soiled clothes; she would be occupied for at least five minutes, maybe longer. Wayness jumped to her feet and ran silently upstairs. The door to Irena’s room was closed; with thudding heart Wayness opened it and peered within. She saw furnishings of no distinction: a bed, chest of drawers, a desk. Wayness went at
once to the desk. She slid open a drawer, surveyed the contents, but dared make no detailed investigation; time was passing too quickly. With each second the tension grew, until it could no longer be supported. With a hiss of frustration, Wayness closed the drawer and ran back the way she had come. Myron and Lydia watched her incuriously; there was no clue as to what might be going on in their minds: perhaps no more than a colored daze. She dropped upon the couch and picked up one of their picture books, her heart still pounding and her whole being heavy with resentment. She had dared to venture into forbidden territory and it had all gone for naught.

  Fifteen seconds later Madame Clara came to look into the sitting room. Wayness paid her no heed. Madame Clara, showing her wincing suspicious grin, looked sharply around the room, then turned away. Wayness drew a deep breath. Had Madame Clara heard sounds? Had she merely sensed that something was amiss? One thing was certain: no efficient search of Casa Lucasta could be accomplished with Madame Clara on the premises.

  During the middle evening Wayness telephoned Dr. Olivano at his home near Montalvo. She reported that Myron and Lydia, while still apathetic, were somewhat improved. “Whatever happened to them Sunday seems to be dissipating, but very slowly.”

  “I will be interested to see them tomorrow.”

  * * *

  Chapter VII, Part 9

  On Wednesday morning Dr. Olivano made his routine call at Casa Lucasta, arriving an hour before noon. He found Wayness, with Myron and Lydia, in the side yard. The children were occupied with modeling clay, each molding what at first glance appeared to be an animal of some sort, using as their models pictures in books Wayness had propped in front of them.

  Olivano approached. The children glanced at him and went on with their work. Lydia was modeling a horse and Myron a black panther. Olivano thought that both had performed creditably, though neither showed much zest.