A Fine and Private Place

by Peter S. Beagle

  "I like to help them. I like to be here when they come, to calm them and ease their spirits. Someone to talk to, you might say. People have gone mad looking for someone to talk to. We talk, or we sit and play chess—I hope you play—or I read to them. Very little things, Michael, and only for a little while. Soon they drift away, and where they go I cannot follow. They don't need me then; they don't need anyone, and this pleases me because most of them spent their lives trying not to need.

  "So I keep them company for a while, these friends of mine. I sometimes tell them that I am the mayor of the dark city, because the word at least is familiar to them, but I think of it more in the nature of being a night light, a lantern down a dark street."

  "Charon," Michael said. "Charon and coins on the tongues of the dead."

  Mr. Rebeck smiled. "I used to think so," he said. "But Charon was a god, or a demi-god. I'm a man." He chuckled softly. "I used to be a druggist."

  "I was a teacher," Michael said. "A history teacher. I liked it very much." He thought of something and asked, a little awkwardly, "Can you see me? I mean, am I visible?"

  "I see you," Mr. Rebeck said. "You look like a man, but you cast no shadow and I can see the sun behind you."

  "A kind of tracing of a man," Michael said bitterly.

  "It doesn't matter," Mr. Rebeck said. "In three weeks or a month you won't even need to take the human form any more."

  "I won't remember it, you mean."

  "You won't want to remember it."

  "I will!" Michael cried out fiercely.

  Mr. Rebeck spoke slowly. "I make you the same promise I make everyone, Michael. As long as you cling to being alive, as long as you care to be a man, I'll be here. We'll be two men together in this place. I'll like it, because I get lonesome here and I like company; and you'll like it too, until it becomes a game, a pointless ritual. Then you'll leave."

  "I'll stay," Michael said quietly. "I may not be a man, but I'll look as much like one as possible."

  Mr. Rebeck spread his hand and shrugged slightly. "I said it wasn't so different from life." He hesitated and then asked, "Tell me, Michael, how did you die?"

  The question startled Michael. "I beg your pardon?"

  "You look very young," Mr. Rebeck said. "I was wondering."

  Michael grinned widely at him. "How about premature old age?"

  Mr. Rebeck said nothing.

  "I have a wife," Michael said. "I mean, I had a wife."

  "I saw her," Mr. Rebeck said. "A beautiful woman."

  "Lovely," said Michael. He was silent.

  "Well?"

  "Well what? My lovely wife killed me. Poisoned me, like salting the soup."

  He saw the shock on Mr. Rebeck's face and enjoyed it. He felt very human. He smiled at Mr. Rebeck again.

  "I would like to play chess," he said, "before sundown."

  Chapter 3

  "We could go for another walk," Mr. Rebeck said.

  "I don't want to go for another walk. We've walked all the grass off this place. Where we walk the bare earth follows. Like locusts."

  "But you like it. You said you did."

  Michael thought hard about scowling and was pleased when he remembered the feeling. "I do like it. But I don't like watching you get tired."

  Mr. Rebeck started to say something, but Michael cut him off. "Because I can't. I can't get tired, and watching you breathe as if you were drinking the air bothers me. So let's not walk anywhere."

  "All right," Mr. Rebeck said mildly. "We could play some chess, if you like."

  "I don't want to play chess." Michael remembered petulance. "You have to make the moves for me. How do you think that makes me feel?"

  Mr. Rebeck gazed at him pityingly. "Michael, Michael, you're making this so hard."

  "Damn right," Michael said. "I don't give up easily." He grinned at Mr. Rebeck. "If I can't drink vodka and tomato juice any more I'm not drinking anybody's nepenthe. No chess. I don't like chess, anyway."

  "I could read to you."

  "Read what?" Michael asked suspiciously. "I didn't know you had books."

  "The raven steals a couple for me down on Fourth Avenue every now and then," Mr. Rebeck said. "I've got some Swinburne."

  Michael tried very hard to remember if he had liked Swinburne, and felt something only a doorstep away from terror when the name made no sound in his head. "Swinburne," he said aloud. He knew Mr. Rebeck was looking at him. My God, he thought, is it all going, then? Frantically he grabbed for the first familiar thing at hand, which happened to be his office number at the college; 1316, he thought, trying to curl up into the number, 1316, 1316, 1316. When it suddenly became 1613, he said quickly, "Swinburne. Yes, I know Swinburne. Didn't he once do a very long poem on the Circe theme?"

  It was an old trick, one he remembered from every discussion and bull session he had ever taken part in: If you don't know, make it up. Nobody ever admitted he didn't know a quotation, or a book, or an essay on something. The rule also had a corollary: If you're not sure, it's Marlowe.

  He rationalized it, as he always had. He might very well have, he said to himself. How would I know, now?

  "Circe?" Mr. Rebeck frowned. "I never read it. But that doesn't mean anything," he added, smiling shyly. "There's a great deal I haven't read."

  "I'm not sure it was Swinburne," Michael said. "It might have been somebody else."

  "The one I was thinking of was 'The Garden of Proserpine.' You know." He quoted the lines, a little haltingly, but with an eager savoring of the words.

  From too much love of living,

  From hope and fear set free,

  We thank with brief thanksgiving

  Whatever gods may be

  That no life lives forever;

  That dead men rise up never—

  "I remember," Michael said abruptly. "I don't like it."

  "I'm sorry," Mr. Rebeck said. "I thought you might."

  "Pat," Michael said. "Very pat. Anyway, Swinburne wrote it while he was alive." He looked up and saw the sun walking slowly up the sky like a tired old man. It interested him, and he stared hard at it. While he looked, Swinburne passed quietly out of his mind forever, unloved and unhated.

  "Let's play chess," he said.

  "I thought you didn't like chess."

  God damn you, Michael thought. He spoke with exaggerated clarity of diction. "I like chess. I am very fond of chess. I'm crazy about chess. Let's play some chess."

  Mr. Rebeck laughed and got up. "All right," he said and started for the mausoleum door.

  "We can use a pebble for the black rook," Michael called after him.

  Mr. Rebeck was digging absently in his hip pocket. He stopped and smiled at Michael a little ruefully.

  "For nineteen years," he said, "every time I come back here I reach for the key to let myself in. The lock's broken, you know, but I always expect to find myself locked out."

  He pushed the door open and went into the mausoleum. Michael sat down with his back to one of the white pillars; rather, he imagined himself sitting down and, for all practical purposes, he was. He had felt himself losing touch with the physical over these last three days, and it frightened him. Whenever he wanted to walk or smile or wink he had to remember very sharply what walking or smiling or winking was like. Otherwise he remained still, completely out of contact with his body-memories, a raindrop of consciousness hanging in the air. That had happened two days ago, and Michael remembered it.

  His memory was still good, and his imagination clear. He felt human and bored, and the very boredom relieved him because it was such a human emotion.

  Mr. Rebeck came out of the mausoleum, carrying a chessboard backed with torn green oilcloth. He sat down beside Michael and began to drizzle chess pieces. Three fell out of his shirt pocket, another five from his right pants pocket, and so on until the set was complete, with the exception of the black rook.

  None of the pieces were from the same set. Most were made from various yellowing woods, a few were red p
lastic, and two, a black bishop and a white rook, were carved from a sullenly beautiful mahogany. Their bases were weighted and felted, and where the other pieces wobbled, staggered, and sprawled all over the chessboard, these two stood facing each other from behind opposing lines; and when the wind or Mr. Rebeck's knee scattered the other pieces, the bishop and the rook nodded gravely to each other.

  Michael liked looking at the chess pieces. They made him laugh without the rubber-band sound that had been creeping into his laughter over the last three days.

  "Motley bunch," he said to Mr. Rebeck, "aren't they?"

  "The raven stole them piece by piece," Mr. Rebeck said, "and it took him quite a while because I made him steal them from department stores. He wanted to get them from the old men in the park, but I feel better this way. The black rook was beautiful too, but I lost it and I don't know where it is. Probably still around here somewhere." He held out his two clenched hands to Michael. "Want black or white?"

  "White," said Michael, pointing at Mr. Rebeck's right hand. Mr. Rebeck opened the hand and a black pawn rolled out. He began to set up the pieces, humming softly as he did so.

  "Where did the raven pick up the chessboard?" Michael asked suddenly.

  Mr. Rebeck looked up. "I don't know. He staggered in with it one morning, and when I asked him where he got it he just said he'd been a good boy." He finished setting the pieces in place. "It worries me sometimes. I try not to think about it."

  He began the game by moving his king's pawn two squares forward. "I'm very orthodox," he said. He had said this twice during the eight games they had played previously, but Michael did not remember it.

  "Make mine the same," Michael said. "I'm not proud." Mr. Rebeck leaned forward and duplicated his own move on Michael's side of the board. He considered his own pieces at some length and finally jumped his knight two squares in front of his king's bishop. Michael made the same move with his queen's knight, and they settled down to the game.

  They played quietly. Mr. Rebeck swayed back and forth over the board, moving for both of them, his breathing becoming harsher as the game went on. Michael burrowed into the luxury of wrapping his whole mind around one subject to the exclusion of all others. On the ninth move there was a quick flurry of pawn-exchanging, and again on the fifteenth, when one of Michael's knights and both of his bishops swirled angrily around a pawn of Mr. Rebeck's and left it untouched. Two moves later Michael vengefully picked off one of Mr. Rebeck's knights; after that the game moved slowly and warily.

  Suddenly Mr. Rebeck's whole body jerked erect. At first Michael thought of a puppet with all its strings drawn tight; then he rejected the inanimate image and thought of a small wild animal. Mr. Rebeck even seemed to be sniffing the air.

  "What is it?" Michael asked.

  "There's a woman over there," Mr. Rebeck said tightly.

  Sandra's footsteps pattered on the floor of Michael's skull again. "Where?"

  "Behind that clump of trees—near the very big mausoleum. She hasn't seen us. That gives us time."

  He began to gather up the chess pieces, putting them hurriedly back in his pockets.

  "Hey!" Michael said. "Wait a minute."

  Mr. Rebeck stopped trying to fit a king into an already overloaded shirt pocket. "What?"

  "Just wait, that's all. What are you so afraid of company for? I think it would be nice."

  "Michael," said Mr. Rebeck, "for God's sake."

  "Never mind that. Why the hell do we have to hide when somebody comes along? Do you do that all the time?"

  "Most of the time. Come on, Michael."

  "What sort of a life is that?"

  "Mine," Mr. Rebeck snapped with a kind of driven fierceness, "and I manage. If just one person gets suspicious and reports me to the gatekeeper, they'll throw me out of here. And I can't go outside, Michael. Not ever."

  He faced Michael across the chessboard, breathing quickly and hoarsely. Michael was about to say something, or thought he was, when Mr. Rebeck gasped shortly and whispered, "Now you've done it." The woman had mounted the slope of the low hill and stood looking down at them.

  "Good," Michael said. "I concede the game. You were winning, anyway." Looking straight at the woman, he called, "Hello. Good- morning."

  The woman was silent and straight upon the hill.

  "Good morning," Michael called again.

  "She can't hear you," Mr. Rebeck said.

  "She must be deaf, then. I shouted loud enough."

  "Not loud enough," Mr. Rebeck said without looking at him.

  "You hear me." Michael spoke very softly.

  "I'm different."

  "Can she see me?"

  "No. At least I don't think so."

  "She might be able to see me?"

  "Maybe. I doubt it, Michael."

  "Call her, then."

  Mr. Rebeck remained silent.

  "Call her," Michael said. "Call her. Please call her."

  "All right," Mr. Rebeck said. He turned to look up the hill at the woman and called, "Hello." His voice cracked a little.

  "Hello," the woman called. Her voice was high and clear. She began to descend the hill, placing her feet firmly and carefully.

  Mr. Rebeck turned to Michael. "Do you see? Do you believe now?"

  "No," Michael said. "Not yet."

  Mr. Rebeck's voice was pitched low to keep his words from the approaching woman, but the words hissed out of his mouth like steam. "She can't see you and she can't hear you. Believe me, I know. The living and the dead don't talk together."

  "I want to talk to her," Michael said. "I want to hear her voice. I want to talk to somebody alive."

  One quick look Mr. Rebeck gave him; then he turned to face the woman, who had now come to the edge of the plot of grass that surrounded the mausoleum. "Good morning," he said.

  "Good morning," the woman said. She was dressed in black, but without a veil. In her late forties, Michael thought. Then he made it the early forties. He had always been a bad judge of women's ages, and the black dress might add a few years.

  The most arresting feature of her face was her mouth. It was wide and full-lipped, and there were little soft lines around the corners. When she spoke, the whole mouth became alive, jumping and twitching and gesturing like a dancer's body; occasionally curling back and down to reveal small white teeth.

  "A lovely day," said Mr. Rebeck.

  "Beautiful," the woman answered. "It should stay like this, is all I ask."

  "Oh, it will," Mr. Rebeck said. He fancied he detected curiosity in the dark eyes, and added, "It was such a lovely day I couldn't stay indoors."

  "I know," the woman said. "I was up in my house this morning and I said to myself, Gertrude, such a day you should share with somebody. Go and see Morris. So I came right down, Morris shouldn't think nobody remembered him on such a day. Morris is my husband," she explained, seeing Mr. Rebeck frown slightly. "Morris Klapper." She pointed back up the hill toward a great marble building that shone in the sun. "You know, Morris in the big house."

  Mr. Rebeck nodded. "I know the name. I've passed the building. It's very impressive."

  "All marble," Mrs. Klapper said, "even inside. Morris liked marble." Had she been crying? Mr. Rebeck wondered. He could not tell.

  "It's a very beautiful building," he said. He pointed to the Wilder mausoleum. "This is a family plot. They were friends of mine."

  He watched Mrs. Klapper inspect the building. For the first time in nineteen years he felt a little ashamed of it. They should have at least replaced the glass in the grating; and he himself could have polished the lions' heads. But the angel was still in good condition. She must see the angel.

  "Excuse my saying so," Mrs. Klapper said finally, "but they don't keep it up so good."

  "There aren't any caretakers any more," Mr. Rebeck said. 'The family died out."

  "I'm sorry," Mrs. Klapper said. "Believe me, I'm sorry. I know what that's like." She sniffed, a full-sinused, healthy sniff. "A year and two months no
w Morris is dead, and I still keep leaning over to wake him up in the morning."

  "Some things last a long time," Michael said. He spoke loudly and clearly, but he did not shout. Not until Mrs. Klapper turned away from him. Then he yelled the words, wishing that he could feel them clawing their way out of his throat.

  "Be quiet, Michael," said Mr. Rebeck hoarsely.

  Mrs. Klapper came a few steps closer. "What did you say?"

  "Nothing," Mr. Rebeck said. "I just said that you don't forget some things."

  "Sure," said Mrs. Klapper. "Some things you remember. Like a husband, or an operation. You know, you have your appendix out and they put it in a little glass bottle and show it to you, and after that you can't stand to look at spaghetti." She took a few more small steps in on the grass. "Like you."

  Mr. Rebeck blinked. "What about me?"

  "You remind me of Morris," Mrs. Klapper said. "I mean, you don't look like him or anything. When I came down here and saw you playing that"—she pointed to the chessboard lying on the grass—"I thought to myself, My God! There's Morris!" She was silent for a moment. "You were playing by yourself?"

  "He was playing me," said Michael, "and getting hell beaten out of him." Which was untrue, but it didn't seem to matter.

  "I was trying to solve some chess problems," Mr. Rebeck said. He took the look in her eyes for one of disbelief. "I know this seems like a silly place to play chess, but it's quiet and you can concentrate more."

  "You and Morris," Mrs. Klapper said. She sniffed again. "You and Morris. Morris used to do that all the time, take his chessboard and go off in a corner by himself, and if you say, 'Morris, it's time for dinner right away'—'Sha, sha, I have to figure this problem.' 'Morris, the meat's getting cold'—'Sha, sha, I'll be there in a minute.' 'Morris, you want maybe a sandwich?'—'Sha, sha, I'm not hungry.' " She sighed. "A crazy. But go forget him."

  "I know," Mr. Rebeck said.

  Michael chuckled. "How?"