by Jack Dann
"The Office of Public Documents takes two weeks to do a search for birth and death certificates," Gernshon said, a little sulkily.
"So you lost nothing, because you really know nothing," Manny said. "Only history. History is cheap. Everybody gets some. You can have all the history you want. It's what you make of it that counts."
Gernshon didn't nod agreement. He looked a long time at Manny, and something moved behind the unhappy hazel eyes, something that made Harry finally let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. It suddenly seemed that Gernshon was the one that was old. And he was—with the fifty-two years he'd gained since last week, he was older than Harry had been in the 1937 of Captains Courageous and wide-brimmed fedoras and clean city parks. But that was a good time, the one that Gernshon was going back to, the one Harry himself would choose, if it weren't for Jackie and Manny . . . still, he couldn't watch as Gernshon walked out of the book stacks, parting the musty air as heavily as if it were water.
Gernshon paused. Over his shoulder he said, "I'll go back. Tonight. I will."
After he left, Harry said, "This is my fault."
"Yes," Manny agreed.
"Will you come to my room when he goes? To ... to help?"
"Yes, Harry."
Somehow, that only made it worse.
Gernshon agreed to a blindfold. Harry led him through the closet, the warehouse, the street. Neither of them seemed very good at this; they stumbled into each other, hesitated, tripped over nothing. In the warehouse Gernshon nearly walked into a pile of lumber, and in the sharp jerk Harry gave Gernshon's arm to deflect him, something twisted and gave way in Harry's back. He waited, bent over, behind a corner of a building while Gernshon removed his blindfold, blinked in the morning light, and walked slowly away.
Despite his back, Harry found that he couldn't return right away. Why not? He just couldn't. He waited until Gernshon had a large head start and then hobbled towards the park. A carousel turned, playing bright organ music: September 24. Two children he had never noticed before stood just beyond the carousel, watching it with hungry, hopeless eyes. Flowers grew in immaculate flower beds. A black man walked by, his eyes fixed on the sidewalk, his head bent. Two small girls jumping rope were watched by a smiling woman in a blue-and-white uniform. On the sidewalk, just beyond the carousel, someone had chalked a swastika. The black man shuffled over it. A Lincoln Zephyr V-12 drove by, $1090. There was no way it would fit through a closet.
When Harry returned, Manny was curled up on the white chenille bedspread that Harry had bought for $3.29, fast asleep.
"What did I accomplish, Manny? What?" Harry said bitterly. The day had dawned glorious and warm, unexpected Indian summer. Trees in the park showed bare branches against a bright blue sky. Manny wore an old red sweater, Harry a flannel workshirt. Harry shifted gingerly, grimacing, on his bench. Sunday strollers dropped ice cream wrappers, cigarettes, newspapers. Diet Pepsi cans, used tissues, popcorn. Pigeons quarreled and children shrieked.
"Jackie's going to be just as hard as ever—and why not?" Harry continued. "She finally meets a nice fellow, he never calls her again. Me, I leave a young man miserable on a sidewalk. Before I leave him, I ruin his life. While I leave him, I ruin my back. After I leave him, I sit here guilty. There's no answer, Manny."
Manny didn't answer. He squinted down the curving path. "I don't know, Manny. I just don't know."
Manny said suddenly, "Here comes Jackie."
Harry looked up. He squinted, blinked, tried to jump up. His back made sharp protest. He stayed where he was, and his eyes grew wide.
"Popsy!" Jackie cried. "I've been looking for you!"
She looked radiant. All the lines were gone from around her eyes, all the sharpness from her face. Her very collar bones, Harry thought dazedly, looked softer. Happiness haloed her like light. She held the hand of a slim, red-haired woman with strong features and direct hazel eyes.
"This is Ann," Jackie said. "I've been looking for you, Popsy, because . . . well, because I need to tell you something." She slid onto the bench next to Harry, on the other side from Manny, and put one arm around Harry's shoulders. The other hand kept a close grip on Ann, who smiled encouragement. Manny stared at Ann as at a ghost.
"You see, Popsy, for a while now I've been struggling with something, something really important. I know I've been snappy and difficult, but it hasn't been—everybody needs somebody to love, you've often told me that, and I know how happy you and Grammy were all those years. And I thought there would never be anything like that for me, and certain people were making everything all so hard. But now . . . well, now there's Ann. And I wanted you to know that."
Jackie's arm tightened. Her eyes pleaded. Ann watched Harry closely. He felt as if he were drowning.
"I know this must come as a shock to you," Jackie went on, "but I also know you've always wanted me to be happy. So I hope you'll come to love her the way I do."
Harry stared at the red-haired woman. He knew what was being asked of him, but he didn't believe in it, it wasn't real, in the same way weather going on in other countries wasn't really real. Hurricanes. Drought. Sunshine. When what you were looking at was a cold drizzle.
"I think that of all the people I've ever known, Ann is the most together. The most compassionate. And the most moral."
"Ummm," Harry said.
"Popsy?"
Jackie was looking right at him. The longer he was silent, the more her smile faded. It occurred to him that the smile had showed her teeth. They were very white, very even. Also very sharp.
"I . . . I . . . hello, Ann."
"Hello," Ann said.
"See, I told you he'd be great!" Jackie said to Ann. She let go of Harry and jumped up from the bench, all energy and lightness. "You're wonderful, Popsy! You, too, Manny! Oh, Ann, this is Popsy's best friend, Manny Feldman. Manny, Ann Davies."
"Happy to meet you," Ann said. She had a low, rough voice and a sweet smile. Harry felt hurricanes, drought, sunshine.
Jackie said, "I know this is probably a little unexpected—"
Unexpected. "Well—" Harry said, and could say no more.
"It's just that it was time for me to come out of the closet."
Harry made a small noise. Manny managed to say, "So you live here, Ann?"
"Oh, yes. All my life. And my family, too, since forever."
"Has Jackie . . . has Jackie met any of them yet?"
"Not yet," Jackie said. "It might be a little . . . tricky, in the case of her parents." She smiled at Ann. "But we'll manage."
"I wish," Ann said to her, "that you could have met my grandfather. He would have been just as great as your Popsy here. He always was."
"Was?" Harry said faintly.
"He died a year ago. But he was just a wonderful man. Compassionate and intelligent."
"What . . . what did he do?"
"He taught history at the university. He was also active in lots of organizations—Amnesty International, the ACLU, things like that. During World War II he worked for the Jewish rescue league, getting people out of Germany."
Manny nodded. Harry watched Jackie's teeth.
"We'd like you both to come to dinner soon," Ann said. She smiled. "I'm a good cook."
Manny's eyes gleamed.
Jackie said, "I know this must be hard for you but Harry saw that she didn't really mean it. She didn't think it was hard. For her it was so real that it was natural weather, unexpected maybe, but not strange, not out of place, not out of time. In front of the bench, sunlight striped the pavement like bars.
Suddenly Jackie said, "Oh, Popsy, did I tell you that it was your friend Robert who introduced us? Did I tell you that already?"
"Yes, sweetheart," Harry said. "You did."
"He's kind of a nerd, but actually all right."
After Jackie and Ann left, the two old men sat silent for a long time. Finally Manny said diplomatically, "You want to get a snack, Harry?"
"She's happy, Manny."
"
Yes. You want to get a snack, Harry?"
"She didn't even recognize him?"
"No. You want to get a snack?"
"Here, have this. I got it for you this morning." Harry held out an orange, a deep-colored navel with flawless rind: seedless, huge, guaranteed juicy, nurtured for flavor, perfect.
"Enjoy," Harry said. "It cost me ninety-two cents."
FULL CHICKEN RICHNESS
Avram Davidson
For many years, the late Avram Davidson was one of the most eloquent and individual voices in science fiction and fantasy, and there were few writers in any literary field who could match his wit, his erudition, or the stylish elegance of his prose. During his long career, Davidson won the Hugo, the Edgar, and the World Fantasy Awards, and his short work was assembled in landmark collections such as The Best of Avram Davidson, Or All the Seas With Oysters, The Red-ward Edward Papers, and Collected Fantasies. His novels include the renowned The Phoenix and the Mirror, Masters of the Maze, Rogue Dragon, Peregrine: Primus, Rork!, Clash of Star Kings, and Vergil In Averno. His most recent books are a novel in collaboration with Grania Davis, Marco Polo and the Sleeping Beauty, the marvelous collection The Adventures of Doctor Esterhazy (one of the best collections of the decade), and a posthumously released collection of his erudite and witty essays, Adventures in Unhistory. Upcoming is a new and updated version of The Best of Avram Davidson.
All of Davidson's talents are displayed to good effect in the sly and witty story that follows, which features—among many other delights—what is probably the single silliest reason for time travel in the entire history of time-travel stories . . .
La Bunne Burger was said to have the best hamburger on The Street; the only trouble with that was that Fred Hopkins didn't care much for hamburger. However there were other factors to consider, such as these: other items on La Bunne's menu were probably just a bit better than comparable items composed elsewhere on The Street, they sold for just a bit less than, etc. etc., and also Fred Hopkins found the company just a bit more interesting than elsewhere, etc. What else? It was nearer to his studio loft than any eating-place else. Any place else save for a small place called The Old Moulmein Pagoda, the proprietor of which appeared to speak very fluent Cantonese for a Burman, and the Old Moulmein Pagoda was not open until late afternoon. Late afternoon.
Late morning was more Fred's style.
He was likely to find there, at any given time of late morning, a number of regulars, such as: well, there was Tilly, formerly Ottilie, with red cheeks, her white hair looking windblown even on windless days; Tilly had her own little routine, which consisted of ordering coffee and toast; with the toast came a small plastic container of jelly, and this she spread on one of the slices of toast. That eaten, she would hesitantly ask Rudolfo if she might have more jelly . . . adding, that she would pay for it. Rudolfo would hand her one or two or three more, she would tentatively offer him a palm of pennies and nickels and he would politely decline them. Fred was much moved by this little drama, but after the twelfth and succedant repetitions it left him motionless. (Once he was to encounter Tillie in a disused doorway downtown standing next to a hat with money while she played—and played beautifully—endless Strauss waltzes on that rather un-Strauss-like-instrument, the harmonica.)
Also unusually present in La Bunne Burger in the 40 minutes before the noon rush were Volodya and Carl. They were a sort of twosome there; that is, they were certainly not a twosome elsewhere. Carl was tall and had long blond hair and a long blond beard and was already at his place along the counter when Volodya walked in. Carl never said anything to Volodya, Volodya always said anything to Carl. Volodya was wide and gnarly and had small pale eyes like those of a malevolent pig. Among the things he called Carl were Pópa! Moslaiey! Smaravdtchnik!—meaning (Fred Hopkins found out by and by) Priest! Inhabitant of Moscow! and One Who, For Immoral Purposes, Pretends to be a Chimney Sweep! Fred by and by tried to dissuade Volodya of this curious delusion; "He's a Minnesota Swede," Fred explained. But Volodya would have none of it. "He's A Rahshian Artoducks priest!" was his explosive comeback—and he went on to denounce the last Czar of Russia as having been in the pay of the freemasons. Carl always said nothing, munched away on droplets of egg congealed on his beard.
And there was, in La Bunne Burger, often, breaking fast on a single sausage and a cup of tea, a little old oriental man, dressed as though for the winters of Manchuria; once Fred had, speaking slowly and clearly, asked him please to pass the ketchup: "Say, I ain't deef," said the 1.o.o.m., in tones the purest American Gothic.
Fred himself was not in the least eccentric, he was an artist, not even starving, though ... being unfashionably representational ... not really prospering, either. His agent said that this last was his, Fred's, own fault. "Paint doctors' wives!" his agent insisted. "If you would only paint portraits for doctors' wives, I could get you lots of commissions. Old buildings," the agent said, disdainfully. "Old buildings, old buildings." But the muse kisseth where she listeth and if anything is not on the list, too bad: Fred had nothing against doctor's wives; merely, he preferred to paint pictures of old buildings. Now and then he drove around looking for old buildings he hadn't painted pictures of and he photographed them and put the photos up by his canvas to help when he painted at home: this of course caused him to be regarded with scorn by purists who painted only from the model or the imagination; why either should be less or more scornable, they disdained to say.
Whom else was E Hopkins likely to see in La Bunne Burger over his late breakfast or his brunch? Proprietors of nearby businesses, for example, he was likely to see there; mamma no longer brought pappa's dinner wrapped in a towel to keep hot. Abelardo was sometimes there. Also Fred might see tourists or new emigrés or visiting entrepreneurs of alien status, come to taste the exotic tuna fish sandwich on toast, the picturesque macaroni and cheese, the curious cold turkey, and, of course, often, often, often the native La Bunne De Luxe Special ... said to be the best hamburger on The Street. Abelardo had long looked familiar; Abelardo had in fact looked familiar from the first. Abelardo always came in from the kitchen and Abelardo always went back out through the kitchen, and yet Abelardo did not work in the kitchen. Evidently Abelardo delivered. Something.
Once, carrying a plate of . . . something . . . odd and fragrant, Rudolfo rested it a moment on the counter near Fred while he gathered cutlery; in response to Fred's look of curiosity and approbation, at once said, "Not on the menu. Only I give some to Abelardo, because our family come from the same country;" off he went.
Later: "You're not from Mexico, Rudolfo."
"No. South America." Rudolfo departs with glasses. Later: "Which country in South America you from, Rudolfo?"
"Depend who you ask." Exit, Rudolfo, for napkins.
Fred Hopkins, idly observing paint on two of his own fingers, idly wondered that—a disputed boundary being clearly involved—Rudolfo was not out leading marches and demonstrations, or (at least!) with drippy brushes slapping up graffiti exhorting the reader to Remember the 12th of January . . . the 3rd of April . . . the 24th of October . . . and so on through the existing political calendar of Ibero-America . . . Clearly, Rudolfo was a anachronism. Perhaps he secretly served some fallen sovereign; a pseudo-crypto-Emperor of Brazil. Perhaps.
Though probably not likely.
One day, the hour being later than usual and the counter crowded, Fred's eyes wandered around in search of a seat; met those of Abelardo who, worldlessly, invited him to sit in the empty place at the two-person table. Which Fred did. And, so doing, realized why the man had always seemed familiar. Now, suppose you are a foreigner living in a small city or medium town in Latin America, as Fred Hopkins had once been, and it doesn't really matter which city or town or even which country . . . doesn't really matter for this purpose ... and you are going slightly out of your mind trying to get your electricity (la luz) turned on and eventually you notice that there are a few large stones never moved from the side of a certain street and gr
adually notice that there is often the same man sitting on one of the boulders and that this man wears very dusty clothes which do not match and a hat rather odd for the locale (say, a beret) and that he also wears glasses and that the lens of one is opaque or dark and that this man often gives a small wave of his hand to return the greetings of passersby but otherwise he merely sits and looks. You at length have occasion to ask him something, say, At what hour does the Municipal Palace open? And not only does the man politely inform you, he politely engages you in conversation and before long he is giving you a fascinating discourse on an aspect of history, religion, economics, or folklore, an aspect of which you had been completely ignorant. Subsequent enquiry discloses that the man is, say, a Don Eliseo, who had attended the National University for nine years but took no degree, that he is an idiosyncratico, and comes from a family muy honorado—so much honorado, in fact, that merely having been observed in polite discourse with him results in your electricity being connectido muy pronto. You have many discourses with Don Eliseo and eventually he shows you his project, temporarily in abeyance, to perfect the best tortilla making-and-baking machine in the world: there is some minor problem, such as the difficulty of scraping every third tortilla off the ceiling, but any day now Don Eliseo will get this licked; and, in the meanwhile and forever after, his house is your house.
This was why Abelardo had seemed familiar from the start, and if Abelardo was not Eliseo's brother than he was certainly his nephew or his cousin . . . in the spirit, anyway.
Out of a polite desire that Fred Hopkins not be bored while waiting to be served, Abelardo discussed various things with him—that is, for the most part, Abelardo discussed. Fred listened. La Bunne Burger was very busy.
"Now, the real weakness of the Jesuits in Paraguay," Abelardo explained.
