The (Other) You

by Joyce Carol Oates

  The entrance to the Royal Garden was some distance ahead—a quarter mile at least. Signs covered in graffiti led them along a high wrought-iron fence into an area of the park that was untended, littered. (Indeed, there was a surprising amount of litter in Mairead, which the Professor did not recall from forty years before.) Finally the signs led them to a twelve-foot wrought-iron gate that was not only shut but padlocked. More than just padlocked, the gate had sunk inches into the soil as if it had not been opened in years. Thistles grew abundantly around it.

  The Professor’s wife gave a little cry of disappointment. “Oh, we’ve walked so far! The sun is so hot . . . Is there another entrance?”

  The Professor consulted the Blue Guide. According to which, this was the correct entrance, indeed the only entrance to the Royal Garden.

  “I’m afraid not. The signs have led us here.”

  “Hello? Is anyone inside?”—the wife peered through the gate, shading her eyes against the bright sunshine.

  There was no one, evidently. No ticket sellers, no guards. No other visitors.

  They would have to content themselves with walking along the tall fence, peering into the garden as best they could. Clearly, the Royal Garden was one of the wonders of Mairead, or had once been one of the wonders. Constructed upon the model, if not the scale, of the great garden of the imperial Roman Forum, this garden had been allowed to grow wild and was overgrown now with a riot of flowers, vividly colored, unusually large, the size of automobile hubcaps. Enormous red multifoliate roses grew in lavish abandon as in a Fauve painting. Some of the larger plants and shrubs were strangely asymmetrical. Pignoli trees, the most distinctive trees of the region, appeared to be misshapen, stunted. And there, amid weeds, some of the Roman statuary that had once been displayed in the city’s historic district. (At least the Professor supposed that these were the original marble statues in their natural state of decay, and not merely copies, though a number had toppled over and were virtually lost amid the jungle of vegetation.)

  The wife gave a scream of terror, seeing a white, fallen body, headless, its muscled torso turned toward her and the Professor as in a spasm of agony.

  “What is it? What is it? Oh my God—what is it?”

  Could the wife not see that the object was a statue?—white marble, if badly weatherworn? Headless, like so much statuary of ancient Rome.

  “Darling, don’t be frightened! It’s just a statue.”

  “A statue . . . But why? Why there?”

  The Professor squeezed the wife’s hand, which was cold.

  “I suppose they have forgotten it,” the Professor said, humbly.

  In his seminars, in his lectures, in his consultations with graduate students the Professor was calm and measured in his knowledge, and indeed he seemed to know everything there was to know in his field. In Mairead, he was coming to see that he knew very little; and what he believed he’d known was possibly an illusion.

  Adding now, seeing that the wife was staring at him in dismay, “I mean—Time has forgotten it. All of the statues here, that seem priceless to us—Time has forgotten.”

  “What do you mean—‘Time has forgotten’? ‘Time’ isn’t a person—‘Time’ can’t forget. Stop talking like that, it frightens me.”

  “You frighten me, so literal-minded. You stop.”

  The quarrel followed the couple back to the historic district, like a plague of harpies.

  The wife wanted to return to the hotel for a rest. The Professor wanted to persevere, for his main goal of the day was the Museum of Antiquities.

  “I could go alone, dear. You can return to the hotel.”

  “You are not going anywhere alone! No.” The wife panicked, clutching at the Professor’s arm.

  Several times the Professor consulted the Blue Guide, to bring them back in the right direction. The simpler, cruder, more easily accessible map from the hotel seemed to have been lost, for neither the Professor nor the wife could find it in their pockets.

  “You had it last. I saw it in your hand.”

  “You had it last. You lost it on purpose.”

  “Why ‘on purpose’?”

  “Because you resent it, not being the damned Blue Guide.”

  They walked on, in resentful silence. For many minutes the quarrel-harpies followed them.

  Wistfully the Professor said: “I wonder if I’ve made a mistake. I’ve waited too long to make this trip.”

  Quickly the wife said: “Don’t be ridiculous! Of course you haven’t ‘made a mistake.’ When is the last time you’ve ‘made a mistake’?” She laughed. She wiped at her eyes, and laughed, and clutched his arm tight enough to hurt.

  5.

  In an open square near the Museum were vendors’ stalls. The area was much more congested than the Professor recalled. Street musicians, beggars. Scantily dressed young women with crudely made-up, sensual faces. Mimes, with white clown-faces, red wide lips. University students appeared to be a minority here, and many of these were also dark-skinned, not evidently ethnic Italians. As the Professor and his wife approached the Museum the wife cried, “There they are again! The brute children.”

  Just ahead was the family of short squat persons they’d seen descending the steps of the Mairead Grand Palace on their first night in Mairead. The Professor had caught a glimpse of these creatures (they did not seem fully human to him) on the Promenade and even in the Basilica the previous day, but had not spoken of them to the wife and hoped she hadn’t seen them. (In fact, in the Basilica the wife had seen several of the creatures [they did not seem fully human to her] at a distance, females who’d somehow gained entry to the church bare-headed, bare-armed, wearing shorts that fit their fleshy bodies tightly, as female visitors were forbidden to do; the wife, obeying rules clearly posted at the ticket kiosk and noted in the guidebook, wore a black lace shawl over her head, brought in her suitcase for this purpose, as well as a skirt that fell below her knees, and a shirt with long sleeves. She was deeply resentful of those ignorant tourists who’d violated the rules.)

  Adults, adolescents, children? You could hardly tell them apart. Blank, brute faces, vacuous eyes that turned sneering in an instant. “But they aren’t ‘children’—are they?”

  The wife was trying not to stare. She was a polite, civilized person—she did not stare at strangers no matter how crass.

  But it was so, the children were large and ungainly, like dwarves grown to an unusual size. You could only tell the children from the adults by their behavior: the children ran, jostled one another, gibbered like monkeys. The adults moved stiffly, as if their brains and their limbs were ill-coordinated. Their mouths seemed oddly hinged in their lower faces, like the mouths of ventriloquists’ dummies. And what coarse language were they speaking? Harsh consonants, grunts. Not melodic fluid Italian. Not Spanish, and certainly not French. Whatever admonitions the adults shouted at the children, the children ignored them. The children’s cries were loud, joyous. These were the sounds wrestlers might make, the Professor thought, as they struggled to slam their adversaries to the floor and break their backs.

  “Come! Let’s go into the Museum. They won’t follow us . . .”

  As soon as he stepped into the Museum the Professor felt a swoon of nostalgia. Ah, the beautiful faded mosaic ceiling!—he remembered. A glass display case of ancient Greek artifacts. A spiral staircase leading down—a staircase he’d taken many a time. (His carrel had been on the ground floor of the Museum, a shadowy place in which young scholars from foreign countries had found themselves in a congenial little community of outcasts.) When the Professor identified himself (in Italian) to a receptionist as a former Fulbright scholar who’d once worked with Dr. Ricardo Albano, and asked if Dr. Albano was still head of Special Collections, the woman told him with a broad smile yes, Dr. Albano was at the top of the stairs, in his place . . . The Professor wasn’t sure what the receptionist meant by this odd usage but as he and his wife ascended the creaking stairs he was astonished to see, on the fi
rst-floor landing, Dr. Albano waiting as if he’d been expecting them. The distinguished scholar stood smiling and poised with his right hand extended as one might pose in expectation of greeting a friend.

  Almost, you could hear Albano’s warm, welcoming voice—Ciao come stai mio caro amico!

  Ricardo Albano was shorter than the Professor recalled, by several inches; he’d lost weight, considerably, though the dignified gentleman wore, as always, a dark three-button suit with a vest, white cotton shirt and gold cuff links. His once-handsome face had become deeply creased, his once-abundant black hair had thinned and grayed. Thick-lensed glasses reflecting light from a nearby window obscured his kindly eyes.

  “Dr. Albano! This is a—this is so—”

  Breathless from the stairs the Professor held out his hand in greeting. Seeing then that there was something wrong with the man’s face: his demeanor was congenial, patient; his smile was familiar; but his eyes were not focused upon the Professor’s face. Instead, he was gazing affably over the Professor’s shoulder into a corner of the ceiling.

  “But, Dr. Albano—what is wrong?”

  The Professor shrank away in shock and revulsion. What had he touched? What was this hand?—could it be wax? Ricardo Albano was not a living human being but a mannequin of some sort, deceptively lifelike at a distance but up close, obviously only a replica of a man.

  “Oh, God! He—it isn’t—real,” the wife stammered, “—it’s something like a dummy. Look at the eyes . . .”

  “But—this is impossible . . . Why would anyone do such a thing . . .”

  Other tourists did not regard the lifelike figure on the landing labeled DR. RICARDO ALBANO as revolting or alarming, nor indeed as a figure of esteem, but rather as a novelty to be photographed. They crowded past the Professor and his wife exclaiming in delight. No idea who Ricardo Albano was but eager to take his photograph. A group of young Asian students posed with the figure, taking selfies on iPhones.

  Several seconds were required for the stunned Professor to absorb this information. With a part of his mind he could see that his former mentor stood before him transformed as a clever replicant, not as a living being; with another part of his mind he yearned to believe that this was indeed his mentor, waiting for him in the Museum, sure to invite him and his wife to dinner. The face was disconcertingly realistic, as if it had been treated with an embalming chemical. The cheeks were artificially plump, which gave the face a youthful air, though the eyes behind the reflective lenses were glassy—indeed, glass.

  On a brass wall plaque the Professor and his wife read that the figure was not a sculpture but the actual “mummified” body of the longtime head of the Special Collections of the Museum of Antiquity of the University of Mairead, Ricardo Albano. The “mummification” by a renowned Italian artist had been commissioned to commemorate one of the university’s greatest scholars.

  The wife laughed, saying that the figure was very lifelike, but had not fooled her.

  The Professor laughed, shakily. He could not deny it—he’d been deceived by the figure. The hesitant, so-realistic way in which the mummified Albano stood on the landing, one hand slightly extended; the courteous smile, that was both welcoming and unassuming; the kindly eyes, with their glassy glint. But how horrible, the actual body of the deceased man had been transformed into a mannequin, positioned in this public place. Why had the Albano family given permission for such a spectacle? Had Albano himself given permission, before his death?

  Curious tourists continued to ascend the stairs, to exclaim and take pictures on the landing. Only a few climbed to the second floor to view the Museum’s permanent exhibit of ancient Greek and Roman artifacts. Very few troubled to read the plaque, that listed Ricardo Albano’s achievements and awards. And now the Professor was feeling light-headed, and had not the strength to continue.

  Fortunately, his wife made the decision for them: “No more for today. Basta.”

  As they descended the stairs, gripping the railing, more tourists were making their way up. The Professor did not want to think that his old, revered mentor was a money-making property for the University; for, to gain entrance to the Museum, you had to pay five euros.

  A lurid spectacle, the Professor thought. He hoped his university would not do the same for him when he died.

  * * *

  Next morning the Professor realized that he’d left the Museum so eagerly he’d forgotten to visit his old carrel on the ground floor, in a remote wing of the Museum.

  Another time, he thought. Just not now.

  6.

  “Here—the ‘Royal Aquarium.’”

  “Oh! What is that smell . . .”

  In the dank interior of the Aquarium immense water tanks emitted a greenish phosphorescence. The glass sides of the tanks were covered in scum, though not evenly, so that you could see into the interior in patches: bearded faces of great, glum fish, luminous blind-glaring eyes on stalks, or eyeless faces; rows of serrated teeth, in cavernous mouths; sea creatures that appeared to be translucent guts, lengthy tangles of guts, with abbreviated heads and tiny gills; eerily beautiful scales of the hue of Mediterranean sunsets, or reflecting moons. There were sea-creatures that were spheres attached to hose-like tendrils with suction cups, and there were sea-creatures that were bony spikes, star-shaped, whorled shells the size of basketballs. Some creatures glided gracefully, and some darted; some, on the murky floor of the tank, scuttled along raising clouds of muck in their wake. The major activity of the tank-life was eating—that is, brainlessly devouring; those who were not eating, were being eaten. In the interior of the Aquarium most of the tanks were empty, to the wife’s relief—no reason to peer anxiously into them, to discover what horror resided there.

  In a courtyard were open ponds with fountains, that kept the murky water circulating, to a degree; though even some of these were choked with a virulent-looking bright green seaweed, and emitted a fetid odor. Seeing the shadows of visitors pass over them large carp thrust themselves up in the water, thrashing, ravenous to be fed. The wife shrank away, frightened. Was that orange-stippled koan large as a full-grown cat trying to attack them?

  The Professor laughed at her alarm—“Koi, dear. Not koan.”

  “‘Coy’—what?”

  When the Professor continued to laugh affectionately at her the wife pushed away his hand. I hate you. I can’t wait until we are both dead.

  But no, the wife was only sleep-deprived. The wife did not mean a syllable of such a thought. Each night was a torment of rippling water over her supine and paralyzed body, the unwanted solicitude of strangers calling to her. Badly she wished she might beg the Professor to cut short their Mairead adventure, and fly to Venice. Or better yet home where her grandchildren awaited her, their adoring Gran’ma.

  “What do you mean—‘coy’?”

  “The exotic fish are koi, dear. Not koan.”

  “Of course—koi. That’s what I said. And they are hateful—so gross, so hungry. Can we leave here soon? This place smells of—fish.”

  How like death, fish. The very words, as well as the odors.

  The Professor had been telling his wife about visits to the Royal Aquarium years before, when certain of the tanks had contained the most exquisite tropical fish, some of them as large as the aggressive koi, but others smaller than minnows. Every color of the rainbow—such luminous beauty! The trickling sound of the water had been soothing, he recalled. There had been no foul smells of which he’d been aware, in those days.

  No way to exit the Aquarium except to return through the inner, dimly-lighted room like a vast mausoleum. No visitors had entered since their arrival nor were there security guards visible. In the foulest-smelling tank lifeless bodies of fish floated on the surface of the water with open-staring eyes, gills that appeared to be breathing but were not.

  The couple had no choice but to pass close by a skein of bulging bobbing eyes, pressed against the scummy glass of a tank. No eye-sockets, only just staring eyes.

/>   Outside, the wife was overcome by a wave of faintness. The Professor urged her to lower her head, to stimulate blood coursing into her brain, to revive her, and this was helpful, to a degree.

  “Don’t make me go into the Aquarium,” the wife begged, “—where all the creatures are eating one another, without end. Please.”

  “We’ve already visited the Royal Aquarium, dear. We’ve just been there. You will be all right.”

  “It’s that they have nothing else to do. But eat one another. In the Aquarium, and in the ocean. That’s the terrible part of it. But we don’t have to see them doing it. Please.”

  The Professor laughed affectionately, and assured his wife: no. They would not enter the Royal Aquarium ever again.

  In the Blue Guide, checking off the Royal Aquarium. As, one by one, the major landmarks of Mairead were being checked off.

  * * *

  But here was a pleasant surprise: two pages of the Professor’s copy of the Blue Guide were stuck together. He had never perused these pages describing the Royal Bird Sanctuary, for his meticulous notations were not to be found here. Travelers to Mairead will not want to miss one of the great attractions of northern Italy . . .

  The Royal Bird Sanctuary was located, according to the Guide, adjacent to the Royal Garden which the couple had visited, or had tried to visit, the previous day. Though, retracing their steps, the Professor and his wife discovered signs for the Royal Bird Sanctuary, by chance, sooner than they expected, at the edge of a derelict playing field.

  Unlike the Royal Garden, the Royal Bird Sanctuary appeared to be open to the public. A ten-foot wrought-iron fence surrounded it but the fence was broken and discontinuous and its gate had fallen partway off its hinges. No one was around: no ticket sellers, no guards, no other visitors in sight. Overgrown gravel paths led into a marshy area of several acres, lush with tropical-looking flowers and vegetation, buzzing with butterflies, bees, wasps, mosquitoes. Trees whose roots had died but were still standing, with skeletal branches. On the paths were remnants of abandoned bird nests, some of them with broken eggs inside, or what appeared to be the tiny corpses of fledglings. The air was pierced with bird-shrieks—the Professor’s wife felt as if someone were jabbing at her ears with ice picks. No songbirds were in evidence—no smaller birds at all. Everywhere the eye could see, large ungainly birds (crows, ravens, hawks, vultures) were perched on tree limbs or flying agitatedly out. Coarse feed had been tossed to them, bits of bone, gristle, raw meat.