by Ray Bradbury
Mr. Gowry, gamely returning to the house, limping after his tumble of some weeks before, joked, laughed, and didn't quite blow his ear off with one of the dueling pistols. Everyone roared but the party broke up early. Gowry vowed never to return.
Then there was a Miss Kummer, who, staying overnight, borrowed Joshua's electric razor and was almost but not quite electrocuted. She left the house rubbing her right underarm. Joshua promptly grew a beard.
Soon after, a Mr. Schlagel vanished. So did a Mr. Smith. The last seen of these unfortunates was at a Saturday night soiree at the Enderbys' mansion.
«Hide-and-seek?» Friends slapped Joshua's back jovially.
«How do you do it? Kill 'em with toadstools, plant 'em like mushrooms?»
«Grand joke, yes!» chortled Joshua. «No, no, ha, not toadstools, but one got locked in our stand-up fridge. Overnight Eskimo Pie. The other tripped on a croquet hoop. Defenestrated through a greenhouse window.»
«Eskimo Pie, defenestrated!» hooted the party people. «Dear Joshua, you are a card!»
«I speak only the truth,» Joshua protested.
«What won't you think of next?»
«One wonders what did happen to old Schlagel and that rascal Smith.»
* * *
«What did happen to Schlagel and Smith?» Missy inquired some days later.
«Let me explain. The Eskimo Pie was my dessert. But the croquet hoop? No! Did you spot it in the wrong place, hoping I'd pop by and lunge through the greenhouse panes?»
Missy turned to stone; he had touched a nerve.
«Well, now, it's time for a wee talk,» he said. «Cancel the parties. One more victim and sirens will announce the arrival of the law.»
«Yes,» Missy agreed. «Our target practice seems to wind up in ricochet. About that croquet hoop. You always take midnight greenhouse walks. Why was that damn fool Schlagel stumbling about out there at two a.m.? Dumb ox. Is he still under the compost?»
«Until I stash him with he-who-is-frozen.»
«Dear, dear. No more parties.»
«Just you, me and-ah-the chandelier?»
«Ah, no. I've hid the stepladder so you can't climb!»
«Damn,» said Joshua.
That night by the fireplace, he poured a few glasses of their best port. While he was out of the room, answering the telephone, she dropped a little white powder in her own glass.
«Hate this,» she murmured. «Terribly unoriginal. But there won't be an inquest. He looked long dead before he died, they'll say as they shut the lid.» And she added a touch more lethal stuff to her port just as he wandered in to sit and pluck up his glass. He .eyed it and fixed his wife a grin. «Ah, no, no, you don't!»
«Don't what?» she said, all innocence.
The fire crackled warmly, gently on the hearth. The mantel clock ticked.
«You don't mind, do you, my dear, if we exchange drinks?»
«Surely you don't think I poisoned your drink while you were out?»
«Trite. Banal. But possible.»
«Well, then, fussbudget, trade.»
He looked surprised but traded glasses.
«Here's not looking at you!» both said, and laughed.
They drank with mysterious smiles.
And then they sat with immense satisfaction in their easy chairs, the firelight glimmering on their ghost-pale faces, letting the port warm their almost spidery veins. He stuck his legs out and held one hand to the fire. «Ah.» He sighed.
«Nothing, nothing quite like port!»
She leaned her small gray head back, dozing, gumming her red-sticky mouth, and glancing at him with half-secretive, lazy eyes. «Poor Lila,» she murmured.
«Yes,» he murmured. «Lila. Poor.»
The fire popped and she at last added, «Poor Mr. Schlagel.»
«Yes.» He drowsed. «Poor Schlagel. Don't forget Smith.»
«And you, old man,» she said finally, slowly, slyly. «How do you feel?'
«Sleepy.»
«Very sleepy?»
«Un-huh.» He studied her with bright eyes. «And, my dear, what about you?»
«Sleepy,» she said behind closed eyes. Then they popped wide. «Why all these questions?»
«Indeed,» he said, stirring alert. «Why?»
«Oh, well, because . . .» She examined her little black shoe moving in a low rhythm a long way off below her knee. «I think, or perhaps imagine, I have just destroyed your digestive and nervous systems.»
For the moment he was drowsily content and examined the warm fire and listened to the clock tick. «What you mean is that you have just poisoned me?» He dreamed the words. «You what!?» He jumped as all the air gusted from his body. The port glass shattered on the floor.
She leaned forward like a fortune-teller eagerly predicting futures.
«I cleverly poisoned my own drink and knew that you'd ask to trade off, so you felt safe. And we did!» Her laugh tinkled.
He fell back in his chair, clutching at his face to stop the wild swiveling of his eyes. Then suddenly he remembered something and let out an incredible explosion of laughter.
«Why,» cried Missy, «why are you laughing?»
«Because,» he gasped, tears streaming down his cheeks, his mouth grinning horribly, «I poisoned my drink! and hoped for an excuse to change with you!»
«Oh, dear,» she cried, no longer smiling. «How stupid of us. Why didn't I guess?»
«Because both of us are much too clever by far!» And he lay back, chortling.
«Oh, the mortification, the embarrassment, I feel stark naked and hate myself!»
«No, no,» he husked. «Think instead how much you still hate me.»
«With all my withered heart and soul. You?»
«No deathbed forgiveness here, old lily-white iron-maiden wife 0 mine. Cheerio,» he added faintly, far away.
«If you think I'll say 'Cheerio' back, you're crazed,» she whispered, her head rolling to one side, her eyes clamped,
her mouth gone loose around the words. «But what the hell. Cheer-«
At which her breath ceased and the fire burned to ashes as the clock ticked and ticked in the quiet room.
Friends found them strewn in their library chairs the next day, both looking more than usually pleased with their situation.
«A suicide pact,» said all. «So great their love they could not bear to let the other vanish alone into eternity.»
«I hope,» said Mr. Gowry, on his crutches, «my wife will someday join me in similar drinks.»
Quicker Than The Eye
1996 year
It was at a magic show I saw the man who looked enough like me to be my twin.
My wife and I were seated at a Saturday night performance, it was summer and warm, the audience melting in weather and conviviality. All around I saw married and engaged couples delighted and then alarmed by the comic opera of their lives which was being shown in immense symbol onstage.
A woman was sawed in half. How the husbands in the audience smiled.
A woman in a cabinet vanished. A bearded magician wept for her in despair. Then, at the tip-top of the balcony, she appeared, waving a white-powdered hand, infinitely beautiful, unattainable, far away.
How the wives grinned their cat grins!
«Look at them!» I said to my wife.
A woman floated in midair. .. a goddess born in all men's minds by their own true love. Let not her dainty feet touch earth. Keep her on that invisible pedestal. Watch it! God, don't tell me how it's done, anyone! Ah, look at her float, and dream.
And what was that man who spun plates, globes, stars, torches, his elbows twirling hoops, his nose balancing a blue feather, sweating everything at once! What, I asked myself, but the commuter husband, lover, worker, the quick luncher, juggling hour, Benzedrine, Nembutal, bank balances, and budgets?
Obviously, none of us had come to escape the world outside, but rather to have it tossed back at us in more easily digested forms, brighter, cleaner, quicker, neater; a spectacle both hearteni
ng and melancholy.
Who in life has not seen a woman disappear?
There, on the black, plush stage, women, mysteries of talc and rose petal, vanished. Cream alabaster statues, sculptures of summer lily and fresh rain melted to dreams, and the dreams became empty mirrors even as the magician reached hungrily to seize them.
From cabinets and nests of boxes, from flung sea-nets, shattering like porcelain as the conjurer fired his gun, the women vanished.
Symbolic, I thought. Why do magicians point pistols at lovely assistants, unless through some secret pact with the male subconscious?
«What?» asked my wife.
«Eh?»
«You were muttering,» said my wife.
«Sorry.» I searched the program. «Oh! Next comes Miss Quick! The only female pickpocket in the world!»
«That can't be true,» said my wife quietly.
I looked to see if she was joking. In the dark, her dim mouth seemed to be smiling, but the quality of that smile was lost to me.
The orchestra hummed like a serene flight of bees.
The curtains parted.
There, with no great fanfare, no swirl of cape, no bow, only the most condescending tilt of her head, and the faintest elevation of her left eyebrow, stood Miss Quick.
I thought it was a dog act, when she snapped her fingers.
«Volunteers. All men!»
«Sit down.» My wife pulled at me.
I had risen.
There was a stir. Like so many hounds, a silently baying pack rose and walked (or did they run?) to the snapping of Miss Quick's colorless fingernails.
It was obvious instantly that Miss Quick was the same woman who had been vanishing all evening.
Budget show, I thought; everyone doubles in brass. I don't like her.
«What?» asked my wife.
«Am I talking out loud again?»
But really, Miss Quick provoked me. For she looked as if she had gone backstage, shrugged on a rumpled tweed walking suit, one size too large, gravy-spotted and grass-stained, and then purposely rumpled her hair, painted her lipstick askew, and was on the point of exiting the stage door when someone cried, «You're on!»
So here she was now, in her practical shoes, her nose shiny, her hands in motion but her face immobile, getting it over with .
Feet firmly and resolutely planted, she waited, her hands deep in her lumpy tweed pockets, her mouth cool, as the dumb volunteers dogged it to the stage.
This mixed pack she set right with a few taps, lining them up in a military row.
The audience waited.
«That's all! Act's over! Back to your seats!»
Snap! went her plain fingers.
The men, dismayed, sheepishly peering at each other, ambled off. She let them stumble half down the stairs into darkness, then yawned:
«Haven't you forgotten something?»
Eagerly, they turned.
«Here.»
With a smile like the very driest wine, she lazily unwedged a wallet from one of her pockets. She removed another wallet from within her coat. Followed by a third, a fourth, a fifth! Ten wallets in all!
She held them forth, like biscuits, to good beasts. The men blinked. No, those were not their wallets! They had been onstage for only an instant. She had mingled with them only in passing. It was all a joke. Surely she was offering them brand-new wallets, compliments of the show!
But now the men began feeling themselves, like sculptures finding unseen flaws in old, hastily flung together armatures. Their mouths gaped, their hands grew more frantic, slapping their chest-pockets, digging their pockets.
All the while Miss Quick ignored them to calmly sort their wallets like the morning mail.
It was at this precise moment I noticed the man on the far right end of the line, half on the stage. I lifted my opera glasses. I looked once. I looked twice.
«Well,» I said lightly. «There seems to be a man there who somewhat resembles me.»
«Oh?» said my wife.
I handed her the glasses, casually. «Far right.»
«It's not like you,» said my wife. «It's you!»
«Well, almost,» I said modestly.
The fellow was nice-looking. It was hardly cricket to look thus upon yourself and pronounce favorable verdicts. Simultaneously, I had grown quite cold. I took back the opera glasses and nodded, fascinated. «Crew cut. Horn-rimmed glasses. Pink complexion. Blue eyes-«
«Your absolute twin!» cried my wife.
And this was true. And it was strange, sitting there, watching myself onstage.
«No, no, no,» I kept whispering.
But yet, what my mind refused, my eye accepted. Aren't there two billion people in this world? Yes! All different snowflakes, no two the same! But now here, delivered into my gaze, endangering my ego and my complacency, here was a casting from the same absolutes, the identical mold.
Should I believe, disbelieve, feel proud, or run scared? For here I stood witness to the forgetfulness of God.
«I don't think,» said God, «I've made one like this before.»
But, I thought, entranced, delighted, alarmed: God errs.
Flashes from old psychology books lit my mind.
Heredity. Environment.
«Smith! Jones! Helstrom!»
Onstage, in bland drill-sergeant tones, Miss Quick called roll and handed back the stolen goods.
You borrow your body from all your forebears, I thought. Heredity.
But isn't the body also an environment?
«Winters!»
Environment, they say, surrounds you. Well, doesn't the body surround, with its lakes, its architectures of bone, its overabundances, or wastelands of soul? Does not what is seen in passing window-mirrors, a face either serene snowfalls or a pitted abyss, the hands like swans or sparrows, the feet anvils or hummingbirds, the body a lumpy wheat-sack or a summer fern, do these not, seen, paint the mind, set the image, shape the brain and psyche like clay? They do!
«Bidwell! Rogers!»
Well, then, trapped in the same environmental flesh, how fared this stranger onstage?
In the old fashion, I wanted to leap to my feet and call, «What o'clock is it?»
And he, like the town crier passing late with my face, might half mournfully reply, «Nine o'clock, and all's well
But was all well with him?
Question: did those horn-rims cover a myopia not only of light but of spirit?
Question: was the slight obesity pressed to his skeleton symbolic of a similar gathering of tissue in his head?
In sum, did his soul go north while mine went south, the same flesh cloaking us but our minds reacting, one winter, one summer?
«My God,» I said, half aloud. «Suppose we're absolutely identical!»
«Shh!» said a woman behind me.
I swallowed hard.
Suppose, I thought, he is a chain-smoker, light sleeper, overeater, manic-depressive, glib talker, deep/shallow thinker, flesh fancier…
No one with that body, that face, could be otherwise. Even our names must be similar.
Our names!
»…1…bl . . . er…» .
Miss Quick spoke his!
Someone coughed. I missed it.
Perhaps she'd repeat it. But no, he, my twin, moved forward. Damn! He stumbled! The audience laughed.
I focused my binoculars swiftly.
My twin stood quietly, center stage now, his wallet returned to his fumbling hands.
«Stand straight,» I whispered. «Don't slouch.»
«Shh!» said my wife.
I squared my own shoulders, secretly.
I never knew I looked that fine, I thought, cramming the glasses to my eyes. Surely my nostrils aren't that thinly made, the true aristocrat. Is my skin that fresh and handsome, my chin that firm?
I blushed, in silence.
After all, if my wife said that was me, accept it! The lamplight of pure intelligence shone softly from every pore of his face.
«The glasses.» My wife nudged me.
Reluctantly I gave them up.
She trained the glasses rigidly, not on the man, but now on Miss Quick, who was busy cajoling, flirting, and repicking the pockets of the nearest men. On occasion my wife broke into a series of little satisfied snorts and giggles.
Miss Quick was, indeed, the goddess Shiva.
If I saw two hands, I saw nine. Her hands, an aviary, flew, rustled, tapped, soared, petted, whirled, tickled as Miss Quick, her face blank, swarmed coldly over her victims; touched without touching.
«What's in this pocket? And this? And here?»
She shook their vests, pinched their lapels, jingled their trousers: money rang. She punched them lightly with a vindictive forefinger, ringing totals on cash registers. She unplucked coat buttons with mannish yet fragile motions, gave wallets back, sneaked them away. She thrust them, took them, stole them again, while peeling money to count it behind the men's backs, then snatched their watches while
holding their hands.
She trapped a live doctor now!
«Have you a thermometer!?» she asked.
«Yes.» He searched. His face panicked. He searched again. The audience cued him with a roar. He glanced over to find:
Miss Quick standing with the thermometer in her mouth, like an unlit smoke. She whipped it out, eyed it.
«Temperature!» she cried. «One hundred ten!»
She closed her eyes and gave an insincere shake of her hips.
The audience roared. And now she assaulted her victims, bullied them, tugged at their shirts, rumpled their hair, asked:
«Where's your tie?»
They clapped their hands to their empty collars.
She plucked their ties from nowhere, tossed them back.
She was a magnet that invisibly drew good-luck charms, saints' medals, Roman coins, theater stubs, handkerchiefs, stickpins, while the audience ran riot, convulsed as these rabbit men stood peeled of all prides and protections.
Hold your hip pocket, she vacuumed your vest. Clutch your vest, she jackpotted your trousers. Blithely bored, firm but evanescent, she convinced you you missed nothing, until she extracted it, with faint loathing, from her own tweeds moments later.
