by Kage Baker
“What do you want to bet that’s what she was doing when she sneaked out of the theater? She must have used the time to case people’s rooms. That’s how the damn dog got in our suite. It must have followed her somehow and gotten left behind.”
“How sordid,” Lewis said. “How are we going to get it back, then?”
“We’ll think of a way,” I said. “I have a feeling she’ll approach you herself, anyhow. She’s dying to corner you and give you a big wet kiss from the ghost of Rudolph Valentino, who she thinks is your passionate dead boyfriend. You just play along.”
Lewis winced. “That’s revolting.”
I shrugged. “So long as you get the script back, who cares what she thinks?”
“I care,” Lewis protested. “I have a reputation to think about!”
“Like the opinions of a bunch of mortals are going to matter in a hundred years!” I said. “Anyway, I’ll bet you’ve had to do more embarrassing things in the Company’s service. I know I have.”
“Such as?” Lewis demanded sullenly.
“Such as I don’t care to discuss just at the present time,” I told him, flouncing away with a grin. He grabbed a pomegranate and hurled it at me, but I winked out and reappeared a few yards off, laughing. The lunch bell rang.
I don’t know what Lewis did with the rest of his afternoon, but I suspect he spent it hiding. Myself, I took things easy; napped in the sunlight, went swimming in the Roman pool, and relaxed in the guest library with a good book. By the time we gathered in the assembly hall for cocktail hour again, I was refreshed and ready for a long night’s work.
The gathering was a lot more fun now that I wasn’t so nervous about Mr. Hearst. Connie got out a Parcheesi game and we sat down to play with Charlie and Laurence. The Hearst kid and his girlfriend took over one of the pianos and played amateurish duets. Mrs. Bryce made a sweeping entrance and backed Gable into a corner, trying out her finder-of-past-lives routine on him. Marion circulated for a while, before getting into a serious discussion of real estate investments with Jack from Paramount. Mr. Hearst came down in the elevator and was promptly surrounded by his executives, who wanted to discuss business. Garbo appeared late, smiling to herself as she wandered over to the other piano and picked out tunes with one finger.
Lewis skulked in at the last moment, just as we were all getting up to go to dinner, and tried to look as though he’d been there all along. The ladies went in first. As she passed him, Garbo reached out and tousled his hair, though she didn’t say a word.
The rest of us—Mr. Hearst included—gaped at Lewis. He just straightened up, threw his shoulders back, and swaggered into the dining hall after the ladies.
My place card was immediately at Mr. Hearst’s right, and Lewis was seated on the other side of me. It didn’t get better than this. I looked nearly as smug as Lewis as I sat down with my loaded plate. Cartimandua Bryce had been given the other place of honor, though, at Marion’s right, I guess as a further consolation prize for the loss of Tcho-Tcho. Conqueror Worm was allowed to stay in her lap through the meal this time. He took one look at me and cringed down meek as a lamb, only lifting his muzzle for the tidbits Mrs. Bryce fed him.
She held forth on the subject of reincarnation as we dined, with Marion drawing her out and throwing the rest of us an occasional broad wink, though not when Hearst was looking. He had very strict ideas about courtesy toward guests, even if he clearly thought she was a crackpot.
“So what you’re saying is, we just go on and on through history, the same people coming back time after time?” Marion inquired.
“Not all of us,” Mrs. Bryce admitted. “Some, I think, are weaker souls and fade after the first thundering torrent of life has finished with them. They are like those who retire from the ball after but one dance, too weary to respond any longer to the fierce call of life’s music.”
“They just soita go ova to da punchbowl and stay there, huh?” said Connie.
“In a sense,” Mrs. Bryce told her, graciously ignoring her teasing tone. “The punchbowl of Lethe, if you will; and there they imbibe forgetfulness and remain. Ah, but the stronger souls plunge back headlong into the maelstrom of mortal passions!”
“Well, but what about going to Heaven and all that stuff?” Marion wanted to know. “Don’t we ever get to do that?”
“Oh, undoubtedly,” Mrs. Bryce replied, “for there are higher astral planes beyond this mere terrestrial one we inhabit. The truly great souls ascend there in time, as that is their true home; but even they yield to the impulse to assume flesh and descend to the mundane realms again, especially if they have important work to do here.” She inclined across the table to Hearst. “As I feel you have often done, dear Mr. Hearst.”
“Well, I plan on coming back after this life, anyhow,” he replied with a smile, and nudged me under the table. I nearly dropped my fork.
“I don’t know that I’d want to,” said Marion a little crossly. “My g-goodness, I think I’d rather have a nice rest afterwards, and not come back and have to go fighting through the whole darned business all over again.”
Hearst lifted his head and regarded her for a long moment.
“Wouldn’t you, dear?” he said.
“N-no,” Marion insisted, and laughed. “It’d be great to have some peace and quiet for a change.”
Mrs. Bryce just nodded, as though to show that proved her point. Hearst looked down at his plate and didn’t say anything else for the moment.
“But anyway, Mrs. Bryce,” Marion went on in a brighter voice, “who else do you think’s an old soul? What about the world leaders right now?”
“Chancellor Hitler, certainly,” Mrs. Bryce informed us. “One has only to look at the immense dynamism of the man! This, surely, was a Teutonic Knight, or perhaps one of the barbarian chieftains who defied Caesar.”
“Unsuccessfully,” said Hearst in a dry little voice.
“Yes, but to comprehend reincarnation is to see history in its true light,” Mrs. Bryce explained. “Over the centuries his star has risen inexorably, and will continue to rise. He is a man with true purpose.”
“You don’t feel that way about Franklin Delano Roosevelt, do you?” Hearst inquired.
“Roosevelt strives,” said Mrs. Bryce noncommittally. “But I think his is yet a young soul, blundering perhaps as it finds its way.”
“I think he’s an insincere bozo, personally,” Hearst said.
“Unlike Mussolini! Now there is another man who understands historical destiny, to such an extent one knows he has retained the experience of his past lives.”
“I’m afraid I don’t think much of dictators,” said Hearst, in that castle where his word was law. Mrs. Bryce’s eyes widened with the consciousness of her misstep.
“No, for your centuries—perhaps even eons—have given you the wisdom to see that dictatorship is a crude substitute for enlightened rule,” she said.
“By which you mean good old American democracy?” he inquired. Wow, Mrs. Bryce was sweating. I have to admit it felt good to sit back and watch it happen to somebody else for a change.
“Well, of course she does,” Marion said. “Now, I’ve had enough of all this history talk, Pops.”
“I wanna know more about who we all were in our past lives, anyway,” said Connie. Mrs. Bryce joined in the general laughter then, shrill with relief.
“Well, as I was saying earlier to Mr. Gable—I feel certain he was Mark Antony.”
All eyes were on Clark at this pronouncement. He turned beet red but smiled wryly.
“I never argue with a lady,” he said. “Maybe I was, at that.”
“Oh, beyond question you were, Mr. Gable,” said Mrs. Bryce. “For I myself was one of Cleopatra’s maidens-in-waiting, and I recognized you the moment I saw you.”
Must be a script for Black Covenant in development, too.
There were chuckles up and down the table. “Whaddaya do to find out about odda people?” Connie persisted. “Do ya use one of dose
Ouija boards or something?”
“A crude parlor game,” Mrs. Bryce said. “In my opinion. No, the best way to delve into the secrets of the past is to speak directly to those who are themselves beyond the flow of time.”
“Ya mean, have a seance?” Connie looked intrigued. Marion’s eyes lit up.
“That’d be fun, wouldn’t it? Jeepers, we’ve got the perfect setting, too, with all this old stuff around!”
“Now—I don’t know—” said Hearst, but Marion had the bit in her teeth.
“Oh, come on, it can’t hurt anybody. Are you all done eating? What do you say, kids?”
“Aren’t you supposed to have a round table?” asked Jack doubtfully.
“Not necessarily,” Mrs. Bryce told him. “This very table will do, if we clear away dinner and turn out the lights.”
There was a scramble to do as she suggested. Hearst turned to look at me sheepishly, and then I guess the humor of it got to him: an immortal being sitting in on a seance. He pressed his lips together to keep from grinning. I shrugged, looking wise and ironic.
Marion came running back from the kitchen and took her place at table. “O.K.,” she yelled to the butler, and he flicked an unseen switch. The dining hall was plunged into darkness.
“Whadda we do now?” Connie asked breathlessly.
“Consider the utter darkness and the awful chill for a moment,” replied Mrs. Bryce in somber tones. “Think of the grave, if you are tempted to mock our proceedings. And now, if you are all willing to show a proper respect for the spirits—link hands, please.”
There was a creaking and rustling as we obeyed her. I felt Hearst’s big right hand enclose my left one. Lewis took my other hand. Good Lord, it’s dark in here, he transmitted.
So watch by infrared, I told him. I switched it on myself; the place looked really lurid then, but I had a suspicion about what was going to happen and I wanted to be prepared.
“Spirits of the unseen world,” intoned Mrs. Bryce. “Ascended ones! Pause in your eternal meditations and heed our petition. We seek enlightenment! Ah, yes, I begin to feel the vibrations—there is one who approaches us. Can it be? But yes, it is our dear friend Tcho-Tcho! Freed from her disguise of earthly flesh, she once again parts the veil between the worlds. Tcho-Tcho, I sense your urgency. What have you to tell us, dear friend? Speak!”
I think most of the people in the room anticipated some prankster barking at that point, but oddly enough nobody did, and in the strained moment of silence that followed Mrs. Bryce let her head sag forward. Then, slowly, she raised it again, and tilted it way back. She gasped a couple of times and then began to moan in a tiny falsetto voice, incoherent sounds as though she were trying to form words.
“Woooooo,” she wailed softly. “Woooo woo woo woo! Woo woooo!”
There were vibrations then, all right, from fourteen people trying to hold in their giggles. Mrs. Bryce tossed her head from side to side.
“Wooooo,” she went on, and Conqueror Worm sat up in her lap and pointed his snout at the ceiling and began to talk along with her in that way that dogs will, sort of wou-wou, wou-wou wou, and beside me Hearst was shaking with silent laughter. Mrs. Bryce must have sensed she was losing her audience, because the woo-woos abruptly began to form into distinct words:
“I have come back,” she said. “I have returned from the vale of felicity because I have unfinished business here. Creatures of the lower plane, there are spirits waiting with me who would communicate with you. Cast aside all ignorant fear. Listen for them!”
After another moment of silence Marion said, in a strangling kind of voice: “Um—we were just wondering—can you tell us who any of us were in our past lives?”
“Yes…” Mrs. Bryce appeared to be listening hard. “There is one…she was born on the nineteenth day of April.”
Connie sat up straight and peered through the darkness in Mrs. Bryce’s direction. “Why, dat’s my boithday!” she said in a stage whisper.
“Yes…I see her in Babylon, Babylon that is fallen…yea, truly she lived in Babylon, queen of cities all, and carried roses to lay before Ishtar’s altar.”
“Jeez, can ya beat it?” Connie exclaimed. “I musta been a priestess or something.”
“Pass on now…I see a man, hard and brutal…he labors with his hands. He stands before towers that point at heaven…black gold pours forth. He has been too harsh. He repents…he begs forgiveness…”
I could see Gable gritting his teeth so hard the muscles in his jaws stood out. His eyes were furious. I wondered if she’d seen a photograph of his father in his luggage. Or had Mrs. Bryce scooped this particular bit of biographical detail out of a movie magazine?
Anyway he stubbornly refused to take the bait, and after a prolonged silence the quavery voice continued:
“Pass on, pass on…There is one here who has sailed the mighty oceans. I see him in a white cap…”
There was an indrawn breath from one of Hearst’s executives. Somebody who enjoyed yachting?
“Yet he has sailed the seven seas in another life…I see him kneeling before a great queen, presenting her with all the splendor of the Spanish fleet…this entity bore the name of Francis Drake.”
Rapacious little pirate turned cutthroat executive? Hey, it could happen.
“Pass on now…” I could see Mrs. Bryce turn her head slightly and peer in Lewis’s direction through half-closed eyes. “Oh, there is an urgent message…there is one here who pleads to speak…this spirit with his dark and smoldering gaze…he begs to be acknowledged without shame, for no true passion is shameful…he seeks his other self.”
Yikes! transmitted Lewis, horrified. O.K. She wanted to convince us Rudolph Valentino was trying to say something? He was going to say something, all right. I didn’t care whether Lewis or Rudy were straight or gay or swung both ways, but this was just too mean-spirited.
I pulled my right hand free from Lewis’s and wriggled the left one loose from Hearst’s. He turned his head in my direction and I felt a certain speculative amusement from him, but he said nothing to stop me.
So here’s what Hearst’s surveillance cameras and Dictaphones recorded next: a blur moving through the darkness and a loud crash, as of cymbals. Tcho-Tcho’s voice broke off with a little scream.
Next there was a man’s voice speaking out of the darkness, but from way high up in the air where no mortal could possibly be—like on the tiny ledge above the wall of choir stalls. If you’d ever heard Valentino speak (like I had, for instance) you’d swear it was him yelling in a rage: “I am weary of lies! There is a thief here, and if what has been stolen is not returned tonight, the djinni of the desert will avenge. The punishing spirits of the afterlife will pursue! Do you DARE to cross me?”
Then there was a hiss and a faint smell of sulfur, and gasps and little shrieks from the assembled company as an apparition appeared briefly in the air: Valentino’s features, and who could mistake them? His mouth was grim, his eyes hooded with stern determination, just the same expression as Sheik Ahmed had worn advancing on Vilma Banky. Worse still, they were eerily pallid against a scarlet shadow. Somebody screamed, really screamed in terror.
The image vanished, there was another crash, and then a confused moment in which the servants ran in shouting and the lights were turned on.
Everybody was sitting where they had been when the lights had gone out, including me. Down at the end of the table, though, where nobody was sitting, one of Mr. Hearst’s collection of eighteenth-century silver platters was spinning around like a phonograph record.
Everyone stared at it, terrified, and the only noise in that cavernous place was the slight rattling as the thing spun slowly to a stop.
“Wow,” said the Hearst kid in awe. His father turned slowly to look at me. I met his eyes and pulled out a handkerchief. I was sweating again, but you would be, too, you know? And I used the gesture to drop the burnt-out match I had palmed.
“What the hell’s going on?” said Gable, getting to
his feet. He stalked down the table to the platter and halted, staring at it.
“What is it?” said Jack.
Gable reached out cautiously and lifted the platter in his hands. He tilted it up so everybody could see. There was a likeness of Valentino smeared on the silver, in some red substance.
“Jeez!” screamed Connie.
“What is that stuff?” said Laurence. “Is it blood?”
“Is it ectoplasm?” demanded one of the executives.
Gable peered at it closely.
“It’s ketchup,” he announced. “Aw, for Christ’s sake.”
Everyone’s gaze was promptly riveted on the ketchup bottle just to Mr. Hearst’s right. Hard as they stared at it, I don’t think anybody noticed that it was five inches farther to his right than it had been when the lights went out.
Or maybe Mr. Hearst noticed. He pressed his napkin to his mouth and began to shiver like a volcano about to explode, squeezing his eyes shut as tears ran down.
“P-P-Pops!” Marion practically climbed over the table to him, thinking he was having a heart attack.
“I’m O.K.—” He put out a hand to her, gulping for breath, and she realized he was laughing. That broke the tension. There were nervous guffaws and titters from everyone in the room except Cartimandua Bryce, who was pale and silent at her place. Conqueror Worm was still crouched down in her lap, trembling, trying to be The Little Dog Who Wasn’t There.
“Gee, that was some neat trick somebody pulled off!” said young Hearst.
Mrs. Bryce drew a deep breath and rose to her feet, clutching Conqueror Worm.
“Or—was it?” she said composedly. She swept the room with a glance. “If anyone here has angered the spirit of Rudolph Valentino, I leave it to his or her discretion to make amends as swiftly as possible. Mr. Hearst? This experience has taken much of the life force from me. I must rest. I trust you’ll excuse me?”
