Grim Expectations

by KW Jeter

  “Excuse me.” The person mentioned gave another unsmiling glance over his shoulder. “I did no more than give you what you asked for.”

  “And a damn fine job you did,” Blightley hastily replied. “I meant no disrespect. But I have to tell you–” His further comments were directed to me. “It wasn’t just the law that my partner and I fled from; it was our creditors. Even with all the sums that our backers ponied up, we were in the hole so far as you wouldn’t believe. We coulda turned over all the receipts from our inaugural performance, just handed the cashbox to ‘em, and there’d still been enough red ink to be drownded in. Facing ruin, we were.”

  “And you wish to re-enact that situation here in England? I thought you said that you had learned from your errors.”

  “So we have!” Enthusiasm returning, Blightley once more bounced upon the gondola’s plank seat. “And you can see the result, right here about you.”

  I turned my head, following the direction of the American’s extended index finger, out over the side of the narrow gondola. His gesture indicated the shabby cut-out silhouettes of the simulated Venice by which we passed.

  “Grand, isn’t it?” He beamed with pride. “Our enterprise is already underway, and our cash resources aren’t exhausted yet. We should be able to finish up and be open for business, with hardly any trouble.”

  “This is it?” I regarded our surroundings with considerable dubiety. “You have abandoned your notion of presenting battle scenes?”

  “Perhaps for the moment, George – that was something much more suitable to tastes of the folk in my own country. They’re rather more excitable – violent, even – than you lot over here. Even with all the changes that’ve happened, there’s still something… well, calmer in the English blood.”

  “You might be mistaken about that. I have had more experience with my own countrymen, and much of it has been neither calm or pleasant.”

  “Nevertheless, I reckon we’re on to a winner here. Brits’re always dreaming about Italy, aren’t they? Perfectly understandable, given the general state of your weather. Maybe things’ve gotten more steam-heated here in London, but go beyond and it’s still pretty dreadful. So why wouldn’t your kin jump at the chance for a sunny holiday, without the bother of actually having to travel abroad and deal with the rude foreigners elsewhere?”

  “Surely you jest.” I scanned the Stygian environs once more, before returning my gaze to him. “Sunlight is notably absent here.”

  “It’s a work in progress – should be fine on opening day. Haze ‘n’ I had a lucky break when we stumbled upon this spot. Seems like there’s some huge underground boilers close by – and they’re still hissing away! Got all the power and heat to do whatever we want with, and for free. Can’t beat that!”

  I knew more about the origin of the engines he spoke of, having been informed by Rollingwood concerning them and their humidifying effect upon the local climate of the cemetery in Highgate, but I held my tongue; I had no wish to distract Blightley from the revelation of his plans.

  “So you see–” He proceeded to expound upon exactly that subject. “We’ve been busy, and we’ve spent quite a bit of the capital that we… withdrew, so to speak… from our concluded enterprises in America. There are still a few finishing touches we need to work on, but in short order we’ll have a very accommodating subterranean resort here – our guests’ll never have to worry about a rainy day, that’s for sure! All the pleasures of an Italian sojourn, with minimal inconvenience.”

  “For those who wish – and I am sure there would be many – they are welcome to it.” That of which Blightley had spoken seemed a ghastly notion to me, but then, I have never had an understanding of popular taste. “But you told me only a moment ago that you had at last discerned the folly of reliance upon animated machinery – do you therefore intend to leave this faux Venetian capital, with its canals and palazzos, completely uninhabited by anything that moves? How enjoyable would that be? Surely the attraction of journeying to Italy is not just to experience the relief from English weather that its sunshine affords, but to converse with its effusive natives, and listen to their incessant song. I had always been instructed that Italy was a land graced with music, just as we are not – but would you have your guests pay for the scant pleasure of wandering about this silent wasteland?”

  “Is that all that sticks in your craw, George, about our schemes?” Blightley tilted his head back and laughed, slapping his palms upon both knees this time. “Then you’re as good as ours! For there shall be machines – or at least folks will believe it so. Because of course, that’s the linchpin of our business – people are vastly entertained by machines walking around and talking – and singing! – just as if they were real human beings. And the more convincing is the imitation, then the greater the entertainment, and the bigger the audience – and the box office receipts. So it struck me – and a powerful revelation it was – why bother with the machines at all? If verisimilitude is the goal, then why not give it to ‘em? And who’d be better at playing the part of a human being, than another human?” He bestowed a conspiratorial wink on me. “Brilliant, you gotta admit.”

  “Let me see if I understand you correctly. Your intention is to hire actual flesh-and-blood persons, to play the part of the machines which are constructed to act and in every way seem like human beings?”

  “Sure, why not – at least, once you get your head settled on the notion. People want to be fooled, and enjoy the fooling, so why not fool ‘em the best way possible? And who’s to know otherwise? You could tell folks this was what you’re doing, and they wouldn’t believe you – ‘cause it’d spoil the fun! The only ones who’d be convinced at all would be those you hired to perform this little masquerade – and there’s no shortage of them, eager for a day’s wages. All this steam power that’s been unleashed, it’s thrown a lot of men outta work. Why pay for someone to use his muscles on your behalf, when you can crank open a valve and – Whoosh! Just like that! – you got ten times the force at your command. We can get all the performers we need – at least at the beginning – right up above in London. Need any more, we’ll just go out to your home counties and do some recruiting.”

  “So this is what we have come to.” I have never pretended to have any great fondness for Humanity; what little I possessed when young has been eroded by bitter experience. Still, Blightley’s exposition of his plan for business, made ghastlier by that perennial American cheerfulness he exuded, filled me with sadness. Had it been such a little while ago that I had been exhilarated by my encounter with the shabby artificial lion up in Highgate, and had pranced about like a fool, so certain of Mankind’s dominance over our own creations? An idle fancy, that seemed now. “The machines have the better of us, and now we seek to slough off our fragile carnal form, and become as them, just as they ape us. Men pretending to be machines, pretending to be men; surely we have vaulted headfirst into madness.”

  “Oh, it gets better than that.” My gloom did not infect Blightley. “Seems as there’s already a good many of your countrymen, who’ve already gone ‘round the bend regarding things mechanical, what with all these changes and upheavals everybody’s going through. So they believe that they’re machines already – kinda tetched in the head, but harmlessly so. But I figure I’ll make a personal effort to hire as many of those loonies as I can find, since it would seem likely they’d have a natural affinity for the work. And then we’d have men who think they’re machines, paid to act like humans who’re pretending to be machines that can act just like flesh-and-blood persons. By that point, I imagine the whole lot won’t know what they are, or even care.”

  An involuntary shudder trembled my frame. It seemed to me now that the unmoored gondola had drifted free of all reality, the iron rails on which it rode relentlessly steering its captive passengers alongside crumbling pasteboard.

  “Buck up, George–” The American leaned forward and slapped me on the shoulder, with sufficient force to almost topp
le me out of the boat. “You’ll get used to the way things are – it’s a new world! And it’s up to us to find our places in it.”

  “To be honest,” I spoke weakly, “I would just as soon not.”

  “Not as if you have a say about it all. Haze ‘n’ I need you on this endeavour. Like I told you, it’s the name that’s the important thing, and the face ‘n’ all to back it up. Our audience will want to be sure that they’re getting the absolute best in mechanical entertainment, whether it’s brass ‘n’ steel singing those Italian arias, or folk like them – won’t matter which it really is. But you’ll just have to accept that Dower is the brand name par excellence in that line, and that’s what’ll put us over the top.”

  “I think you underestimate the degree of my reluctance–”

  “And you, George – you think you’ve got a choice in the matter. Well, you don’t!” Blightley’s amiable manner dissipated, his voice becoming sternly harsher. “You’re not the only requirement for our success – there’s more, you might say, technical details we’ve got to get down pat – but you are necessary all the same, however much we both might regret that being the case. You’ve got some lily-livered squeamishness about machines – well, fine, I can understand that; not everybody in this world is going to be lucky enough to be endowed with some Yankee grit. But whatever you lack in spirit – which seems to be quite a lot, frankly – Haze ‘n’ I’ll be more’n happy to make up for it. So you have nothing to lose, do you? And a lot to gain – I’m sure you’ll find that being a damn moody sourpuss is a lot more enjoyable when you’re rich, rather than poor.” Beaming once more, he thrust his hand toward me. “So let’s shake on it – we be partners now, launched upon a great enterprise!”

  “Actually, Mr Blightley, we are not.” I drew back from him, both my hands firmly tucked at my sides. “I owe you my gratitude, for having rescued me from my pursuers; your reluctance to tell me what you know about those persons does not diminish that debt. But if you think me churlish now, for refusing your kindly meant offer, that is something I cannot help. I have tried to demur as graciously as possible, but your persistence forces me to speak more rudely than I would otherwise have wished. So then, my answer is No; I will not associate myself with you and Mr Haze. You have my best wishes, for whatever those might be worth – but your success or failure must be determined without any intervention from me.”

  “Hmm.” Blightley stroked his chin. “Is that your final word, George?”

  “How can I make it more certain for you? It is indeed.”

  “No way for me to change your mind?”

  “None.”

  “Well, then…” He reached inside his jacket and drew something out. “Maybe this will.”

  I found myself gazing at the pistol in his hand, one of the intimidatingly large variety that American gunsmiths are so skilled at crafting; within the narrow confines of the gondola, it appeared immense as an artillery cannon.

  “What do you mean by this?” The pistol’s long-barrelled snout was directed straight at my chest. At such close distance, a bullet from it would likely obliterate my heart, drilling a hole straight out through the spine. “You can’t be–”

  “But I am, George; I’m very serious.” Blightley’s voice was level and calm, as though the weight of the gun he held were sufficient ballast to bring his temperament down to earth. “We made you an offer – and a good one – and you chose to refuse it. But as I tried to make clear, you really don’t have that option. You’re going to be part of our business, whether you like it or not.”

  “What rubbish.” After my initial startlement when the gun had been produced, my own reaction was one of exasperated disgust. “Do you intend to point that thing at me twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, from now until whenever – and still somehow manage the affairs of your theatrical enterprise? I rather suspect you are bluffing; if I were to jump over the side of this boat right now, and swim or wade to that flimsy harbour you’ve constructed – what would you do? Shoot me before I reach it? So much for your being able to advertise to the public that this particular Dower is somehow associated with your performances.”

  “I’d be doing you a favour, if I put a bullet in your back.” A sneer showed on Blightley’s face as he shook his head. “Think you could find your way out of here? It’d be snowing in Hell before you managed that trick. And even if you did manage to get back up to the surface – then what? Did you forget that there’re still some folks out there who’re looking to shoot you, even more than I might like to? I know a little about ‘em, and I can promise you that they haven’t gone away – if anything, they’re scouring the bushes for you, even harder than they were before. Only this time, when they find you, there won’t be me ‘n’ Haze conveniently rescuing your ungrateful hide. So sure, jump out and splash for it if you want, but I might as well save the bullet – you’d be a dead man, no matter what. Frankly, that’d suit me just fine, as then there’d be no worries about you joining up with one of our competitors – and there’s a few of those – if you decided somebody else’d made you a prettier offer.”

  Blightley’s exposition of these realities was sufficient to render me silent. His rising choler had extinguished whatever amiability he had possessed before. Clearly, he had anticipated that I would with alacrity embrace his business proposal, and that the three of us would already be celebrating our joint venture. My rejection of it had triggered a childish wrath on his part, and the desire to seek the vengeance of those spurned by others.

  “I’m sick of all this yakking.” He confirmed my surmise as to his fiery thoughts, by elevating the pistol higher; now its muzzle was pointed directly at my brow. “Nice talking to ya, George–”

  Anticipating the worst, I squeezed my eyes shut – I make no pretensions to bravery in the face of death. Thus I did not see, but heard what happened next.

  “Keep head below, Dower–” A shout, but not Blightley’s voice was raised; in a fraction of a second, I recognized it as that of Spivvem, coming from above and behind me, where he stood in his gondolier costuming. “Oy, yank – how’s this?”

  Something whooshed above me; if I had not instinctively crouched, it would likely have cracked the side of my skull. The sound was terminated by another, that of a resounding thwack as one object struck another; a moment later, a plume of water was great enough to drench my trousers as I sat in the boat.

  My eyes flew open, and I witnessed a greatly transformed scene.

  Blightley had vanished – there was no one sitting before me. The noises of water being thrashed about continued, though; turning my head, I saw that they were caused by the figure that had been toppled over the gondola’s side, and whose limbs were now flailing a yard or so away. It was the American in the dark water, gasping as he struggled to keep his face above the agitated surface; a stream of blood trickled across his wet face, from a wound he had suffered at one corner of his brow.

  What had inflicted the injury was soon apparent to me, as my gaze darted above. The gondola’s long-handled oar had been withdrawn from the water, and then swung about as a club, with sufficient impact to have propelled Blightley out of the boat; the flattened paddle-end of the oar was still for a moment, having reached the furthest point of the horizontal arc through which it had been wielded.

  I had been so imbedded in my morose reaction to the American’s attempt to draw me into his business plans, and then my entire attention being compelled by the weapon being thrust into my face, that the surreptitious presence of the person Nick Spivvem aboard the gondola had been driven from my mind. Now it took a central place in my perceptions: however much I had failed to mount a defence against Blightley’s lethal intent, Spivvem filled that void. His quick actions had displaced the ribboned gondolier’s cap and sent it flying; bare-headed, he continued his assault upon my would-be captors, drawing back the pole in both his hands and then thrusting its farther end straight into the chest of the startled Haze, with similar results to that whi
ch his partner had suffered. Both were now flailing about, churning the water to froth as they sought to save themselves from drowning.

  Blightley’s efforts along this line met with rather more success than did Haze’s; the smaller man’s startled, wide-eyed visage had already disappeared beneath the surface, marked only by the last few bubbles of his gasping breath. His partner displayed an admirable loyalty to him; having recovered some from being capsized from the boat, Blightley had the presence of mind to apprehend the other’s desperate situation; splashing over to where he had last been seen, Blightley dove beneath and secured a hold under Haze’s shoulders, by which he was dragged back up into the air.

  Unfortunately for myself and Spivvem, that rescue needed only one of Blightley’s arms; in his other hand was the pistol, of which he had instinctively managed to keep hold, even while struggling in the water. His sodden appearance, mutton-chop whiskers plastered to the sides of his face and neck, did nothing to conceal his anger; as he bobbed with Haze pressed against his side, he raised the weapon and fired off a shot.

  Given the man’s lack of footing, there was no wonder that the bullet went wide of its intended target; that it came close enough to strike and bury itself into the gondola’s prow indicated that Blightley might well be able to better aim his next shot.

  “Get head down!” The rocky ceiling above was still echoing with the gun’s first sharp report when Spivvem shouted at me. He had little need to; I had already flattened myself as best I could into the space between the gondola’s plank-like seats. “And stay down!”

  Even from that lowered angle, I could see that Spivvem’s only weapon, the long-handled oar with which he had knocked both men from the boat, was useless now; the spot at which Blightley kicked himself and his partner afloat was too distant for the pole to reach. My expectation was that Spivvem would cast it away, then dive alongside me in order to shield himself from another bullet from the American’s gun–