The Man Who Melted

by Jack Dann

  “And you can pretend that I'm Raymond, isn't that right?” Pfeiffer asked.

  “I'm sorry, it was supposed to be a joke.”

  “I'm not jealous of your love for Raymond.”

  “I need to break through to somebody, connect somehow,” Joan said. “I'm sorry I used you. I wasn't trying to hurt you, I just wanted to be close. I wish I didn't love him, Carl.”

  Pfeiffer put his hand on her lap, caressed her legs, and said, “I have a present for Raymond.”

  “What is it?”

  “You'll both have to wait until we board the Titanic,” Pfeiffer said, already pretending that she was, indeed, the furry boy.

  Faon had expected Mantle, and she met him in front of the great house, which looked even more monolithic in the strong afternoon sunshine. They walked through the shaded, perfumed gardens beyond which were stunted trees, scrub, rocky inclines, and, finally, white ocean sand so smooth that it looked tended, imported.

  They sat on a stone bench, one of three which were positioned around another garden: a rondelle of smooth, raked pebbles and large rocks. Upon first glimpse, the rocks seemed to be randomly placed. It was a classic rock garden, and perfect.

  The nearby ocean was only a salty scent, one among many.

  The silence was awkward.

  “I saw the overload mosaic commercial you did for a Senator Florio, I think that's his name,” Faon said. “Charles, my husband, has been explaining your work to me. He says you combined traditional mosaics with a mirroring technique so the viewer would unconsciously associate himself with the politician. The viewer would actually see himself as this politician—and who wouldn't vote for himself?” Faon smiled. “Now, do I have all that right?”

  “I can see you've memorized all the right things,” Mantle said, surprised. “Did you really call me here to work for you?”

  “Did you really come here to work for me?”

  Mantle stared at the rock garden as if it were some sort of mandala, as if he could find answers in the sharp edges of the rocks and the stop-motion ocean of pebbles. “I came because I'm afraid.”

  “I can see that,” Faon said. “You look like you've been seeing into the dark spaces.”

  “I need answers.”

  “And Joan, I would expect—”

  “I've tried to talk to her,” Mantle said, “but she won't listen.”

  “She's afraid for you.”

  “I tried to talk her into coming, but she refused.”

  “I know.”

  “She won't even talk about the Screamers.”

  “Criers,” Faon corrected. “It will take time for Joan.”

  “And what about me?” demanded Mantle. “I can't stand what's happening to me.”

  “Just what is happening to you?”

  “I feel that I'm being watched, constantly, by Criers. If I let down my guard, I'll be pulled into the dark spaces, I'm sure of that. Every night they call me, pull at me, suck me in, and—”

  “What about Josiane?” asked Faon.

  “That's what I came here to ask you.”

  “Have you seen her, heard her?”

  After a pause, Mantle said, “Yes, she calls to me, but it's a trick, for I've heard my father call, my mother and brother—all tricks of the other side.”

  “You could have found out the truth,” Faon said.

  “How? By letting them take me?”

  “You look for Josiane, and when you find her, you turn away or forget or make excuses.”

  “That's not true.”

  “It is,” Faon said. “Why haven't you left for New York? Why are you waiting?”

  “Why are the Criers after me?”

  “I don't know,” Faon said, relaxing, easing the tension. “Not exactly, that is. Have you ever heard of Seed Crystal?”

  “Yes, I do remember something about that, it was in that prayer book you left me when I was staying at the house. There was something about the many changing into one, I can't quite remember.”

  “The line was ‘I believe in the crystal and the seed that turn the many into the One.’”

  “That was it,” Mantle said. “Now what are you getting at?”

  “There are those of us who are seeds around which things and people crystallize. They focus things and people, act as principles or archetyes.”

  “I think that's bullshit,” Mantle said.

  “Think what you like. You didn't believe in the dark spaces, either, until they swallowed you and you saw Josiane.”

  “I'm not even sure if I saw Josiane.”

  “Ah, so it's all hallucination. Did Joan hallucinate you down by the Blue Pool, then? Is your circuit fantome hallucination, too? If it's all hallucination, you're just going crazy. See a psych.”

  “I came to see you,” Mantle said.

  “I don't have the answers you want, none of us do,” Faon said. They were both looking at the circular garden as if talking to it rather than to each other. “Perhaps some of what you saw, or thought you saw in the dark spaces, was from your own mind. That happens. It's difficult to separate the real from the other.”

  “Have you seen her in the dark spaces?” Mantle asked.

  “Yes,” Faon admitted, “but I don't know if she's alive or dead. No more than you know.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Can you live without your past, without knowing?”

  “No,” Mantle said. “It's as if I'm being constantly pulled; I have to know, one way or another.”

  “Then that's what you'll have to do,” Faon said.

  “That doesn't help me with the Criers.”

  “It's all one and the same; dead or alive, Josiane is certainly not living in the bright spaces. And the Criers will take you.”

  “You've seen that?” Mantle asked.

  “I know they want you; so do you. Whatever you do is good for the church.”

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “If you are a focus, a crystal,” Faon said, “you will have to burn brightly. It may be ironic, but the more you fight the Criers, the more you become a crystal.”

  “And if I do nothing, I'll simply be pulled into the dark spaces,” Mantle said quietly.

  “You said you came here for answers. I'm giving you the truth. Perhaps that's not what you wanted. However, I don't know how things will actually work out, I only see what I'm supposed to see, I think.”

  “I don't believe it,” Mantle said.

  “Good.”

  “This was no help at all,” Mantle said, standing up, still watching the garden as if it were a live, round being. He felt helpless, and suddenly terribly tired.

  “If it's any consolation, we're all going to melt,” Faon said. “In the eye of the crowd, the many do become one. We'll all become the One.”

  “Not me!”

  “Good,” Faon said. “Fight it.”

  They walked along the path they had taken back toward the house. One of its Spanish-tiled roofs could be seen, a glinting above the trees. Joan was right, Mantle thought. He shouldn't have come.

  “You know,” Mantle said, “the thing I can't stand is the condescension.”

  “You mistake condescension for submission. You asked, and I told you, what I believe. You only lose if you hang onto this shared reality of the bright spaces. It's killed us, truly. You've seen another reality, one without death. But realities are waging war inside you.”

  “I'd like to see Roberta before I leave,” Mantle said as they approached the house, “If that's all right….”

  “She's dead,” Faon said matter-of-factly.

  “What?” Mantle stopped walking.

  “Why, she joined her husband. Surely she told you of her intentions.”

  “She said somehing after the ceremony,” Mantle said, stunned.

  “Do you remember Stephen, the little boy in the casket?” Faon asked softly. She stood close to Mantle, as if offering him security now rather than the cold edges of truth.

  “Jesus
, I can't believe that she'd—”

  “Are you seeing into the dark spaces?” Faon asked.

  “No!” Mantle said. “I think you're trying to fuck up my head, throw me into the dark spaces, is that it?”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “I don't know,” Mantle said.

  “You are my responsibility as well as those on the other side,” Faon said. “I don't want you to die—please believe that.”

  “But you don't care if I physically die, is that it?”

  “Yes, that's it. But you could die, in the old sense, if you do not accept the other side. You affect reality, whatever you might think about that right now.”

  “Why did you mention Stephen?” Mantle asked. “Roberta had her wits about her; she wasn't a shell waiting for physical death.”

  “She was promised, and she was waiting,” Faon said.

  “Are you trying to say that I'm promised?”

  “Have you ever been a Crier?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then you're not promised,” Faon said. “Just wanted, perhaps.”

  “But you're intimating that I am the other. Promised.”

  “I sense that about you, yes,” Faon said. “But there's something broken about it, something wrong, almost perverse. Perhaps when you find your memory….”

  Mantle started walking again. As they approached the house, he said, “I don't believe you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don't believe Roberta's dead.”

  Faon chuckled. “Would you like to see her? She's in the candle room. Well…?” She stopped before the house, in front of the stone portico.

  “No,” Mantle said, “I'm not coming in.”

  “Charles would love to see you, and I'm really not trying to inveigle you into working for the church.” She smiled softly.

  “Thank you, no.” Mantle turned and walked down the driveway, away from the house.

  “Raymond, I'll be seeing you.”

  Mantle paused for an instant, but did not turn around.

  SEVENTEEN

  The next two weeks were an agony for Mantle. Perhaps it was just another manifestation of the fear and tension that had begun to pervade Europe since the recent Screamer attacks and containment bombings in the United States, but he simply couldn't paint. He had lost it as surely as his memory. He felt that he was being watched, felt the cold edges of the dark spaces even during the day. And he couldn't stand the nights, which had become empty and dreamless—couldn't stand waking up in a cold sweat, and not remembering.

  He had begun to hate the idea of Josiane. She was pulling him into the dark spaces. He had to find her, and it was killing him. If only he could forget Josiane, forget the past, and lose himself in Joan. Joan was good, Joan was pure. She could help him….

  But something was beating in his head, louder and louder, a code he could not decipher.

  It was almost with relief that he found himself on the RMS Titanic.

  EIGHTEEN

  She was beautiful; huge even by the measure of the twenty-second century; and graceful as a racing liner. She was a floating Crystal Palace, as magnificent as anything J. P. Morgan could conceive. Designed by Alexander Carlisle and built by Harland and Wolff, she wore the golden band of the Ismay line along all nine hundred feet of her. She rose one hundred and seventy-five feet like the side of a cliff, with nine steel decks, four sixty-two-foot funnels, and over two thousand windows and sidelights to illuminate the luxurious cabins and suites and public rooms. She weighed forty-six thousand tons, and her reciprocating engines and Parsons-type turbines could generate over fifty thousand horsepower and speed the ship over twenty-three knots. Because of her sophisticated system of watertight compartments, the journal the Shipbuilder had once pronounced her “practically unsinkable.” She had rooms and suites to accommodate 735 first-class passengers, 674 in second, and over 1,000 in steerage. She had a gymnasium, a Turkish bath, squash and racket courts, a swimming pool, libraries; and lounges and sitting rooms. The grand salon had cathedral windows, which were artificially lit; and plush carpeting and rich paneling could be found everywhere. One first-class restaurant had its own boulevard, as if it were a French streetside cafe. And, remaining true to historical demands, there were twenty lifeboats and rafts. Each boat could carry fifty-eight people, including a crew of eight.

  A steward named Vincent escorted Pfeiffer, Joan, and Mantle to their suite, which was more like a hotel room than a stateroom. It had a parlor and a private promenade deck with Elizabethan half-timbered walls. The plush carpeted, velours-papered bedroom 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 bed curtains. A porthole gave a view of sea and sky.

  “Are we, then, all supposed to sleep in one bed?” Pfeiffer asked.

  “No sir,” the steward said. “If you will please come with me, I will show you the other bedroom.” And Pfeiffer followed the steward from room to room. There was a knock at the door, and Vincent directed two boys dressed in uniform to put the valises in the bedrooms. As they left, he said, “I shall, of course, put everything away for you.” He actually polished a veneer piece on the bed with his handkerchief.

  “Perhaps later,” Pfeiffer said, “but I don't want any bags opened just yet.”

  “As you wish, sir. I will be at your service at any hour, Mademoiselle and Messieurs. If you wish, you can explore the ship.”

  “How much time do we have?” Joan asked.

  “Over an hour. We're scheduled to leave at noon. Would you care for a cocktail? Should you wish to remain—”

  “Yes,” Mantle said, “I'm going to stay here.”

  “Well, I'm going to tour the ship,” Pfeiffer said.

  “I'll be back in a few moments,” the steward said, and in true valet style, backed out of the room, neatly clicking the door behind him.

  “There'll be plenty of time to sightsee,” Mantle said, looking disturbed; indeed, he wanted to be alone. The ménage was a farce, he told himself. He had hoped he could gain some purchase on his past with Pfeiffer's help—by reliving the old relationship, the old ménage. But this was phony, and he couldn't trick himself into remembering. And Pfeiffer was altogether too composed, too quick to look away, to believe that the past had returned.

  “Do you remember when we rented that yacht at Bahia Mar?” Pfeiffer asked, smiling.

  “Yes,” Mantle said, “I do.” He remembered Lighthouse Point, Pompano, Lauderdale, and their intercoastal waterways that reminded him of the canals of Venice—they were just as beautiful and polluted. “We couldn't afford it, but you were intent on having a vacation in Florida. You even convinced Caroline it was a good idea, if I recall.”

  “She didn't need much persuading,” Pfeiffer said. “How many years ago was it?”

  “At least ten years,” Mantle said. “Sometime around oh—nine, I'd say.”

  “And do you remember when we left you and Josiane off on that island because you both claimed you had to pee…? And we found both of you trying to set a record for the world's fastest quickie.”

  “No, I don't,” Mantle said.

  “We all went on that trip together,” Pfeiffer said.

  “I remember the sights.”

  “Josiane was with us.”

  “Yes, I'm sure she was,” Mantle said.

  “It was supposed to be a belated double honeymoon,” Pfeiffer insisted.

  After an uncomfortable silence, Joan said, “I think I'll unpack.”

  “Aren't you going to tour the ship with me?” Pfeiffer asked.

  “Ray's right; there'll be plenty of time to see the ship later.”

  “Well, I don't have plenty of time. I have work to do,” Pfeiffer said. He enunciated his words carefully, as he always did when he didn't get his way. Joan could not help but smile as Pfeiffer left the room, almost slamming into the steward who was carrying a
bouquet of flowers and a tray of drinks.

  “I brought refreshments in case you wished to remain,” the steward said. “A Campari on ice for the lady—isn't that correct?—and a finger of Drambuie for you, sir. I will leave Mister Pfeiffer's bourbon, in case he returns.”

  “You certainly do your homework.”

  “Thank you, ma'am.” And he opened the door to leave. Before he could slip away, Joan asked, “What do you do for a living? I mean, certainly there's no great need for ship's stewards nowadays. And this ship is only sailing this once.”

  The steward's expression changed. His face became hard.

  “Oh come on,” Joan continued. “Be a sport. We won't tell. It would make me feel much better about this trip.”

  The steward closed the door and took a step into the room. “In real life, if you will, I am a valet. There are still quite a few of us, believe it or not—a thousandfold more than there were when this girl we're riding was built. And the reason I'm on this ship, ma'am, is because I'm an enthusiast. The Titanic is more than a dead legend to some of us; most every member of the Titanic Historical Society is on the ship. We've been granted passage for this voyage in return for acting as consultants. We know this girl better than anyone. And we'll wish her a proper good-bye. If you wish, I can give you the society's address after—” He looked embarrassed, but continued. “Then we might talk more informally. Now, please don't ask me to return to this century until our voyage is finished.” With that he left, as if he had just scolded naughty children from an important family.

  As soon as the door closed, it was quiet. Mantle was uncomfortable; Joan fidgeted with the bedspread, folding a corner and then smoothing it out. “You've been closed since you went to visit Faon,” she said. “I'm sorry I couldn't help you then. And even before then. And I'm sorry about Carl, about the whole damn ménage. It was wrong to have him, to take this trip with him, to try—”

  “None of this is your fault,” Mantle said. “It's me.” He sat down beside her on the bed. “I thought that by trying to relive the past, or a facsimile of it, I would remember….”