To Stephen she seemed beautiful.
“Hello,” he said. Coloured ribbons and confetti snakes were coiling through the air, and anything seemed possible.
Esme glanced at him. “Hello you,” she said.
“Pardon?”
“I said ‘hello, you.’ That’s an expression that was in vogue when this boat first sailed, if you’d care to know. It means, ‘Hello, I think you’re interesting and would consider sleeping with you if I were so inclined.’”
“You must call it a ship,” Stephen said.
She laughed and for an instant looked at him intently, as if in that second she could see everything about him – that he was taking this voyage because he was bored with his life, that nothing had ever really happened to him. He felt his face become hot. “Okay, ‘ship,’ does that make you feel better?” she asked. “Anyway, I want to pretend that I’m living in the past. I don’t ever want to return to the present. I suppose you do, want to return, that is.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Look how you’re dressed. You shouldn’t be wearing modern clothes on this ship. You’ll have to change later, you know.” She was perfectly dressed in a powder-blue walking suit with matching jacket, a pleated, velvet-trimmed front blouse, and an ostrich-feather hat. She looked as if she had stepped out of another century.
“What’s your name?” Stephen asked.
“Esme.” She turned the box that she was resting on the rail and opened the side facing the deck. “You see,” she said to the box, “we really are here.”
“What did you say?” Stephen asked.
“I was just talking to Poppa,” she said, closing and latching the box.
“Who?”
“I’ll show you later if you like.” Bells began to ring and the ship’s whistles cut the air. There was a cheer from the dock and on board, and the ship moved slowly out to sea. To Stephen it seemed that the land, not the ship, was moving. The whole of England floated peacefully away while the string band on the ship’s bridge played Oskar Straus.
They watched until the land had dwindled to a thin line on the horizon, then Esme reached for Stephen’s hand, squeezed it for a moment and hurried away.
* * *
Stephen found her again in the Café Parisien, sitting in a large wicker chair beside an ornately trellised wall.
“Well, hello you,” Esme said, smiling. She was the model of a smart, stylish young lady.
“Does that mean you’re still interested?” Stephen asked, standing before her. Her smile was infectious, and Stephen felt himself losing his poise, as he couldn’t stop grinning.
“But mais oui,” she said. “That’s French, which no one uses anymore, but it was the language of the world when this ship first sailed.” She relaxed suddenly in her chair, slumped down as if she could revert instantly to being a child, and looked around the room as though Stephen had suddenly disappeared.
“I believe it was English,” he said.
“Well,” she said, looking up at him, “whatever, it means that I might be interested if you’d kindly sit down instead of looking at me from the heights.” Stephen sat beside her. “It took you long enough to find me,” Esme said.
“Well, I had to dress. Remember? You didn’t find my previous attire –”
“I agree and I apologize,” she said quickly, as if suddenly afraid of hurting his feelings. She folded her hands behind the box that she had centered perfectly on the damask-covered table. Her leg brushed his; indeed, he did look fine dressed in gray-striped trousers, spats, black morning coat, blue vest, and a silk cravat tied under a butterfly collar. “Now don’t you feel better?”
Stephen was taken with her; this had never happened to him before. A tall waiter disturbed him by asking if he wished to order cocktails, but Esme asked for a Narcodrine instead.
“I’m sorry, madam, but Narcodrines or inhalers are not publicly sold on the ship.”
“Well, that’s what I want.”
“One would have to ask the steward for more modern refreshments.”
“You did say you wanted to live in the past,” Stephen said. He ordered a Campari for her and a Drambuie for himself.
“Right now I would prefer a robot to take my order,” Esme said.
“I’m sorry, but we have no robots on this ship either,” the waiter said before turning away.
“Are you going to show me what’s inside the box?” Stephen asked.
“It might cause a stir if I opened it here.”
“I would think you’d like that,” Stephen said.
“You see, you know me intimately already.” Esme smiled and winked at someone four tables away. “Isn’t he cute?”
“Who?”
“The little boy with the black hair parted in the middle.” She waved at him, but the boy ignored her and made an obscene gesture at a woman who looked to be his nanny. Then Esme opened the box, which drew the little boy’s attention. She pulled out a full-sized head of a man and placed it gently beside the box.
“Jesus,” Stephen said.
“Stephen, I’d like you to meet Poppa. Poppa, this is Stephen.”
“Who is Stephen?” Poppa said. “Where am I? Why is this going on? I’m frightened.”
Esme leaned toward the head and whispered into its ear. “He sometimes gets disoriented on awakening,” she said to Stephen confidentially. “He still isn’t used to it yet. But he’ll be all right in a moment.”
“I’m scared,” Poppa said in a fuller voice. “I’m alone in the dark.”
“Not anymore,” Esme said positively. “Poppa, this is my friend, Stephen.”
“Hello, Poppa,” Stephen said awkwardly.
“Hello, Stephen,” the head said. Its voice was powerful now, commanding. “I’m pleased to meet you.” It rolled its eyes and then said to Esme, “Turn me a bit now so I can see your friend without eyestrain.” The head had white hair, which was a bit yellowed on the ends. It was neatly trimmed at the sides and combed into a rather seedy pompadour in the front. The face was strong, although dissipated. It was the face of a man in his late sixties, lined and tanned.
“My given name is Elliot,” the head said. “Call me that, please.”
“Hello, Elliot,” Stephen said. He had heard of such things, but had never seen one before.
“These are going to be all the rage in the next few months,” Esme said. “They aren’t on the mass market yet, but you can imagine their potential for both adults and children. They can be programmed to talk and react very realistically.”
“So I see,” Stephen said.
The head smiled, accepting the compliment.
“He also learns and thinks quite well,” Esme continued.
“I should hope so,” said the head.
“Is your father alive?” Stephen asked.
“I am her father,” the head said, its face betraying impatience. “At least give me some respect.”
“Be civil, Poppa, or I’ll close you up,” Esme said, piqued. She looked at Stephen. “Yes, he died recently. That’s the reason I’m taking this trip and that’s the reason –” She nodded at the head. “He’s marvelous, though. He is my father in every way.” Mischievously she added, “Well, I did make a few changes. Poppa was very demanding.”
“You’re ungrateful –”
“Shut up, Poppa.”
Poppa shut his eyes.
“That’s all I have to say,” Esme said, “and he turns himself off.”
The little boy who had been staring unabashedly came over to the table just as Esme was putting Poppa back in the box. “Why’d you put him away?” he asked. “I want to talk to him. Take him out.”
“No,” Esme said firmly, “he’s sleeping now. And what’s your name?”
“Michael, and can I please see the head, just for a minute?”
“If you like, Michael, you can have a private audience with Poppa tomorrow,” Esme said. “How’s that?”
“I want to talk to him no
w.”
“Shouldn’t you be getting back to your nanny?” Stephen asked, standing and indicating that Esme do the same. They would have no privacy here.
“Stuff it,” Michael said. “She’s not my nanny, she’s my sister.” Then he pulled a face at Stephen; he was able to contort his lips, drawing the right side toward the left and left toward the right as if they were made of rubber. Stephen and Esme walked out of the café and up the staircase to the Boat Deck, and Michael followed them.
The Boat Deck was not too crowded at least; it was brisk out and the breeze had a chill to it. Looking forward, Stephen and Esme could see the ship’s four huge smokestacks to their left and a cluster of four lifeboats to their right. The ocean was a smooth, deep green expanse turning to blue toward the horizon. The sky was empty, except for a huge, nuclear-powered airship that floated high over the Titanic … this was the dirigible California, a French luxury liner capable of carrying two thousand passengers.
“Are you two married?” Michael asked.
“No we are not,” Esme said impatiently. “Not yet, at least,” and Stephen felt exhilarated at the thought of her really wanting him. Actually, it made no sense for he could have any young woman he wanted. Why Esme? Simply because just now she was perfect.
“You’re quite pretty,” Michael said to Esme.
“Well, thank you,” Esme replied, warming to him. “I like you, too.”
“Are you going to stay on the ship and die when it sinks?”
“No!” Esme said, as if taken aback.
“What about your friend?”
“You mean Poppa?”
Vexed, the boy said, “No, him,” giving Stephen a nasty look.
“Well, I don’t know,” Esme said. Her face was flushed. “Have you opted for a lifeboat, Stephen?”
“Yes, of course I have.”
“Well, we’re going to die on the ship.”
“Don’t be silly,” Esme said.
“Well, we are.”
“Who’s we?” Stephen asked.
“My sister and I. We’ve made a pact to go down with the ship.”
“I don’t believe it,” Esme said. She stopped beside one of the lifeboats, rested the box containing Poppa on the rail, and gazed downwards at the ocean spume curling away from the side of the ship.
“He’s just baiting us,” Stephen said. “Anyway, he’s too young to make such a decision, and his sister, if she is his sister, couldn’t decide such a thing for him, even if she were his guardian. It would be illegal.”
“We’re at sea,” Michael said in the nagging tone children use. “I’ll discuss the ramifications of my demise with Poppa tomorrow. I’m sure he’s more conversant with these things than you.”
“Shouldn’t you be getting back to your sister now?” Stephen asked.
Michael made the rubber-lips face at him and then walked away, tugging at the back of his shorts as if his undergarments had bunched up beneath. He only turned around to wave goodbye to Esme, who blew him a kiss.
“Intelligent little brat,” Stephen said to be ingratiating.
But Esme looked as if she had just now forgotten all about Stephen and the little boy. She stared at the box as tears rolled from her eyes.
“Esme?”
“I love him and now he’s dead,” she said. She seemed to brighten then. She took Stephen’s hand and they went inside, down the stairs, through several noisy corridors – stateroom parties were in full swing – to her suite. Stephen was a bit nervous, but all things considered, everything was progressing at a proper pace.
Esme’s suite had a parlor and a private promenade deck with Elizabethan half-timbered walls. She led him directly into the plush-carpeted, velour-papered bedroom, which contained a huge four-poster bed, an antique night table, and a desk and stuffed chair beside the door. The ornate, harp-sculpture desk lamp was on, as was the lamp just inside the bedcurtains. A porthole gave a view of sea and sky, but to Stephen it seemed that the bed overpowered the room.
Esme pushed the desk lamp aside, and then took Poppa out of the box and placed him carefully in the center of the desk. “There,” she said. At rest the head seemed even more handsome and quite peaceful although now and then an eyelid twitched. Then she undressed quickly, looking shyly away from Stephen who was taking his time. She slipped between the parted curtains of the bed and complained that she could hear the damn engines thrumming right through these itchy pillows – she didn’t like silk. After a moment, she sat up in bed and asked him if he intended to get undressed or just stand there.
“I’m sorry,” Stephen said, “but it’s just –” He nodded toward the head.
“Poppa is turned off you know,” Esme said.
The head’s left eyelid fluttered.
* * *
Michael knocked on Esme’s door at seven-thirty the next morning.
“Good morning,” Michael said, looking Esme up and down. She had not bothered to put anything on before answering the door. “I came to see Poppa. I won’t disturb you.”
“Jesus, Michael, it’s too early –”
“Early bird gets the worm.”
“Oh,” Esme said, “and what the hell does that mean?”
“I calculated that my best chance of talking with Poppa was if I woke you up. You’ll go back to bed and I can talk with him in peace. My chances would be greatly diminished if –”
“Come in.”
“The steward in the hall just saw you naked.”
“Big deal. Look, why don’t you come back later, I’m not ready for this, and I don’t know why I let you in the room.”
“You see, it worked.” Michael looked around. “He’s in the bedroom, right?”
Esme nodded and followed him in. Michael was wearing the same wrinkled shirt and shorts that he had worn yesterday; his hair was not combed, just tousled.
“Is he with you, too?” Michael asked.
“If you mean Stephen, yes.”
“I thought so,” said Michael. Then he sat down at the desk. “Hello Poppa,” he said.
“I’m frightened,” the head said. “It’s so dark; I’m scared.”
Michael gave Esme a look.
“He’s always like that when he’s been shut off for a while,” Esme said. “Talk to him a bit more.”
“It’s Michael,” the boy said. “I came in here to talk to you. We’re on the Titanic.”
“Oh Michael,” the head said, more confidently. “I think I remember you. Why are you on the Titanic?”
“Because it’s going to sink.”
“That’s a silly reason,” the head said confidently. “There must be others.”
“There are lots of others.”
“Can’t we have any privacy?” Stephen said, sitting up in the bed. Esme sat beside him, shrugged, and took a pull at her inhaler. Drugged, she looked even softer, more vulnerable. “I thought you told me that Poppa was turned off all night,” he continued angrily.
“I’ll tell you all about the Titanic,” Michael said confidentially to the head. He leaned close to it and whispered intensely.
“He was turned off,” Esme said. “I just now turned him back on for Michael.” She cuddled up to Stephen, as intimately as if they had been in love for days. That seemed to mollify him.
“Do you have a spare Narcodrine in there?” Michael shouted.
Stephen looked at Esme, who laughed. “No,” Esme said, “you’re too young for such things.” She pulled the curtain so that the bed was now shut off from Michael and the head. “Let him talk to Poppa,” she said. “He’ll be dead soon, anyway.”
“You mean you believe him?” Stephen said. “I’m going to talk to his sister or whoever she is about this.”
Michael peered through the curtain. “I heard what you said. I have very good hearing, I heard everything. Go ahead and talk to her, talk to the captain if you like. It won’t do you any good. I’m an international hero if you’d like to know. That girl who wears the camera in her hair already did
an interview for me for the poll.” He closed the curtain.
“What does he mean?” Esme asked.
“The woman reporter from Interfax,” Stephen said.
Michael opened the curtains again. “Her job is to guess which passengers will opt to die and why. She interviews the most interesting passengers, then gives her predictions to her viewers, and she has a lot of them. They respond immediately to a poll taken several times every day. Keeps us in their minds, and everybody loves the smell of death.” The curtain closed.
“Well, she hasn’t tried to interview me,” Esme said, pouting.
“Do you really want her to?”
“And why not? I’m for conspicuous consumption, and I want so much for this experience to be a success. Goodness, let the whole world watch us sink if they want. They might just as well take bets.” Then, in a conspiratorial whisper, she said, “None of us knows who’s really opted to die. That’s part of the excitement.”
“I suppose,” Stephen said.
“Oh you’re such a prig,” Esme said. “One would think you’re a doer.”
“A what?”
“A doer. All of us are either doers or voyeurs, isn’t that right? But the doers mean business,” and to illustrate she cocked her head, stuck out her tongue, and made gurgling noises as if she were drowning. “The voyeurs, however, are just along for the ride. Are you sure you’re not a doer?”
Michael, who had been eavesdropping again, said referring to Stephen, “He’s not a doer, you can bet on that! He’s a voyeur of the worst sort. He takes it all seriously.”
“Now that’s enough disrespect from both of you,” Poppa said richly. “Michael, stop goading Stephen. Esme says she loves him. Esme, be nice to Michael. He just made my day. And you don’t have to threaten to turn me off. I’m turning myself off. I’ve got some thinking to do.” Poppa closed his eyes.
“Well,” Esme said to Michael who was now standing before the bed and trying to place his feet as wide apart as possible, “he’s never done that before. He’s usually so afraid of being afraid when he wakes up. What did you say to him?”
“Nothing much.”
“Come on, Michael, I let you into the room, remember?”
Modern Classics of Science Fiction Page 57
