by Jack Dann
“And I hate him for what he's done.”
Mantle could only nod. “If you need me…”
“I'll be fine. Don't condescend.”
“I—”
“He did tell me about your paintings, though.”
“He had time for that?” Mantle asked, caught off guard.
“He wouldn't let that get by, you know Carl. He told me all about the wreath of cocks around my head in the painting.” Again she smiled, that innocent, vulnerable smile. “At least you know me, in the quick.”
“Jesus, Caroline, I—”
“You should know that Carl never leaves a stone unturned. Can I have the painting?”
“Not now, after all that's happened.”
“Especially now, Ray. But it can wait until you return to Cannes. How long are you staying in New York?”
“I don't know.”
“Come and visit, if you like.”
“Yes, if—”
“I'm doing fine,” Caroline said. “Really I am.” Mantle could see fine lines around her mouth. Jesus, she's getting old, turning papery, washed out. “I'm so sorry about Josiane,” she continued. “Are you able to talk about it, or should we hang up?”
“I can talk about it now,” Mantle said. “What's the difference? I can't remember her, I still can't remember any of it.”
“I don't believe he's dead, Ray.” That came, it seemed, out of nowhere.
“What?”
“I don't believe he killed himself,” Caroline said.
“But he did,” Mantle insisted. “Christ, I was there.”
“You didn't actually see him die.”
“Caroline, I was there!”
She just looked at him. “I don't believe it, I can't,” she said after a pause. And then she faded away without a good-bye.
Mantle was shaken. Pfeiffer had been right: she would go over the edge. Mantle would have to visit her. He owed her that. Poor fucking Pfeiffer, he thought. She had really hated him. But he'd made sure he had the last laugh. Vengeful bastard. Yet, Mantle understood: she had collapsed Pfeiffer's world, and so Pfeiffer reached out to break hers.
Mantle stood up and examined the painting he had been working on. It was a good, technical job, he thought as he touched the raised surfaces of the paint that had already dried. He repressed an urge to scratch across the painting and remembered how he had gessoed over so many canvases in Cannes because he felt they were watching him, as if the paintings were conscious, alive, even when buried under the white paste. Mantle had that feeling now, and it unnerved him. He spread a drape over the painting and left the room, opaquing the walls, floor, and ceiling as he left. The room became a gray cell.
He walked into the living room and poured himself a drink from the bar. Perhaps a narcodrine would be better, a mild one. No, he told himself, taking a large gulp of Scotch. Not after Dramont with its hallucinogenic dust, not after scamming down on narcodrine reefer so long ago….
He had a day to get through before Joan returned home from an assignment for Interfax. Mantle had finished his work for them and they were happy with it. His mirroring technique had become very hot with politicians, including the new media-sophisticated president. Interfax hadn't tried to press any new assignments on Mantle, but that would change when viewers got wise to the new subliminals, which inevitably they would. He sat down in a chair beside an ancient Chinese celadon jar on a pedestal and asked the computer for Pfeiffer's last work of fiction. He leaned back and the words were before him, hanging, as it were, in a cloud.
Mantle smiled: the novel was called White Thought. Pfeiffer never did have a sense of history, he told himself. What connotations this would have had a few hundred years ago….
As he read, he discovered that he was one of the main characters in the novel. Caroline was right, of course: Pfeiffer would not leave a stone unturned.
When Joan returned, they celebrated by going downtown to the East Village to eat at the Old Merchant's House. It was a new restaurant in an antique building, one of the few antiques left in this area after the bombings and the Screamers. It was built in the nineteenth century and rebuilt toward the end of the twentieth, but the wrought-iron grilles and arcade entrance, which were its trademarks, were intact. Inside were great rooms, decorated in Empire styles. Joan and Mantle were seated in a large, formal dining room that was filled with other dinnertime guests. A grandfather clock ticked slowly behind Mantle, as if to remind him that something was about to happen.
They ordered, and Mantle told Joan about Pfeiffer's novel.
“Well,” she said, “it's only natural that he would use you as a character. He didn't use your name, did he?”
“No, of course not,” Mantle said, toying with the empty snail shells on his plate. “The character didn't seem to be anything like me.”
“Then why do you think he used you?” she asked between mouthfuls of salad.
“The protagonist had amnesia, isn't that enough?”
“What was it that he couldn't remember?”
“He never finds out.”
“That doesn't seem to be much of a resolution.”
“No, it resolves in its way.”
“How?”
“The protagonist just goes his own way, settles down, has a decent life.”
“Well…?”
“It's what he doesn't know, what he can't remember having lived, that is the crux. He's content, and somehow that's the tragedy.”
“Are you sure it's not your interpretation?” Joan asked. The waiter brought the food: pork Holstein topped with fried eggs, anchovies, and capers; grated potatoes; and buttered beans and peas. They had both ordered the same dish; it was the specialty of the house. Joan broke the yolks with her fork and pushed the anchovies aside. “Do you want the anchovies?” she asked. He didn't, and she continued: “Is that the way you feel?”
“Well…the thing is, I am happy.”
“Don't protest too much or I won't believe you.”
“I am happy,” Mantle insisted.
“And you feel guilty about it, right?” Joan asked. “You can't afford to feel guilty about being content: that's crazy.”
“I know,” Mantle said.
“I think you still feel threatened by Carl, even now that he's dead. Why not let him go?”
“Pop-psych.”
“Then I give up,” Joan said, pushing her plate away. The waiter appeared an instant later with coffee and a deep, rich mocha pudding served in a ceramic double boiler.
“I still can't believe Carl's dead,” Mantle said, leaning back in his chair.
“I know….”
“But the irony is that I can at least grieve for him, which is more than I can do for Josiane, whom I can't even remember.”
“So…do you want to start the search again? Is that what you're trying to say?” Joan asked nervously.
“No. That's the crazy thing. No.” Then, as if suddenly realizing that he really meant what he had said, he continued. “Please believe me, I am happy with you.”
Joan nodded.
After a long pause, Mantle said, “I called Caroline.”
“Is she well?”
“I think she's backsliding. Carl was right.”
“Well, I'm sure something can be done.”
“I'll have to go and see her.”
“Do you think that will help?”
“Perhaps, perhaps not, but I feel a responsibility. I should have called her earlier, tried to help—”
“You can't blame yourself for that,” Joan said. “You were in the process of getting well; that's all you could worry about.”
“I don't know if you could call it getting well,” Mantle said, toying with the food on his plate. The waiter kept glancing at their table as if annoyed because he couldn't take the plate away from Mantle and be done with this couple. “I still can't remember.”
“That may come in time.”
“I doubt that—and if it does, I don't want it!”
&n
bsp; “Now that worries me,” Joan said.
The waiter returned and asked Mantle if he wished coffee and dessert. When Mantle shook his head, the waiter quickly cleared the table. “Caroline doesn't believe that Carl's dead,” Mantle said after the waiter left.
“Did you really expect her to?”
“I suppose not.”
“She probably feels that she's the cause of his death. The best way out of that is not to believe he's dead. But why should that surprise you?”
“I don't really know,” Mantle said. “I think what's bothering me is that I called her today.”
“Maybe you felt ready, that—”
“I finished the Titanic painting.”
“Yes, I saw it. I was wondering when you were finally going to get to that material. Actually, it seems quite right that you would call Caroline now.”
“Did anything about the painting strike you as odd?” Mantle insisted.
“I didn't look at it closely, but no. I'll look at it later. Carefully. What's bothering you about it?”
“I don't know—that's just it. Maybe it ties in with why I called Caroline.”
“Because you're working it out now. It's only natural that you'd call her. It does make sense, you know.”
“But it feels wrong,” Mantle said.
They credited the dinner check and walked to the Broadway “BB” rollway, which was crowded. Kliegs were on everywhere, and the passtubes and pods and towers above were all illuminated; the great weather dome that covered New York City seemed to contain the very stuff of light. The city reminded Mantle a bit of Paris, except that this was home. The atmosphere of the ways and streets had changed; the tension had eased—as much as it ever did in the great city. It was the same old New York that Mantle remembered: the same hustle, the rapid stream of shouting and huckstering, the same hot, sour air, pedestrians wearing designer noseplugs, prostitutes waiting at corners, police vans cruising, the robots in blue, beggars asking for small transfers of credit, religious fanatics begging a moment….
But Mantle was uncomfortable tonight.
“A penny for your thoughts?” Joan asked as they stepped off the rollway and onto the street platform.
“What?”
“A credit for your thoughts, how's that?” she asked, smiling. They crossed the street, which was crowded with shoppers searching for bargains. Now that it was safe, shopping in the streets was much cheaper than shopping by computer.
“I was thinking about you,” Mantle said.
“Liar.”
“I was thinking about us.”
“You're still a liar, but that's better.”
“I want everything to stay as it is,” Mantle said.
And they took an elevator to their apartment.
Mantle walked directly to the studio to look at his Titanic painting.
“Ray?” Joan asked. She took the painting's drape from him; he was lost in thought, kneading the drape with both hands as if wiping them. “Tell me what you see?”
“What is it?” Mantle asked.
“Tell me what you see!”
In every lifeboat was a female figure, each a sublim wavering into and out of sight. Each one was Josiane.
Mantle unveiled other paintings, which were propped against the transparent far wall. They were painted in various mediums, ancient and modern.
It was as if the scales had dropped from Mantle's eyes. Now he could see what he had been doing for the last month. He had been painting Josiane over and over again. She was buried inside every painting. She was the ground upon which he was working. As if she were mocking him, her face stood out of every one of the boards and canvases.
He had not forgotten her.
He had not lost her.
Enraged at himself, he kicked and tore the canvases.
“What are you doing?” Joan shouted. She grabbed him, clinging. “Let me in, tell me—”
Startled, Mantle stopped tearing at his paintings and looked at her. She flinched as she felt the connection, the circuit fantome. This was what she had been waiting for.
But she had not wanted it to be like this! The light he turned on her had no warmth, and she remembered what Faon had said to her that morning in Dramont…that Mantle was promised.
And then the circuit fantome was broken as if a faulty switch had opened.
“It's Josiane,” she said quietly, breaking away from Mantle.
“My God, I've been painting her…all along,” Mantle said, as if to himself. “Jesus, I didn't even realize….” Mantle shuddered and said, “Let's get out of this room.” They walked into the living room, where Joan stood stiffly, as if she were as fragile and brittle as the jardiniere on the wall beside her. “Help me, Joan,” Mantle pleaded as he put his arms around her. “I want you. Please believe that. I can't help what happened with those paintings.”
“I expected something like this,” Joan said. “No, I guess I didn't. I thought everything was going to be all right with us. After you were rescued, when the circuit closed, I tried to pretend that it would really reestablish itself, that you would want to be connected.”
“I do.”
“Then open yourself up to me; let me help you.”
Mantle released her. “We've been over this before. You know I've tried, but the circuit has a will of its own.”
“You closed it down a moment ago in the studio.”
“I didn't, I swear it. The connection isn't everything; we don't have to be hooked-in all the time. I love you, isn't that enough?”
“I don't know….” Joan sat down on the couch and called the robot to bring her a narcodrine.
Mantle sat down beside her and said, “I saw something too, when the circuit flicked back on for that instant…. Like Faon, you think I'm promised, don't you?”
“No!” Joan said.
“I saw it.”
“It's not true. I think no such thing.”
“Then what do you have in mind? To pretend that everything is back to normal?” Mantle asked.
“Yes,” Joan said. “And I want to make love. Now.” She grabbed him urgently, and he could feel her fingernails piercing his flesh.
Mantle awoke in the middle of the night, as if he had been dropped from a height. He had been dreaming of Josiane. He dreamed that he had painted her over and over again, that he couldn't stop; and he dreamed of the dark spaces, of the black and silver, and the Screamers who were whispering to him, whispering words he couldn't understand, calling him….
He was sweating, as was Joan, who was sleeping restlessly beside him. She groaned and shifted positions, reaching for the edge of the bed, perhaps dreaming that she was in the lifeboat again—or dreaming of the dark spaces as Mantle had done. Mantle was anxious and afraid; the darkness had that particular edge that it had during his transition crisis at Dramont. His hands were shaking.
He turned on the lights, and a soft white glow suffused the room, revealing arched opaqued windows, upholstered chairs, decorative Hansen wall lamps, chameleon carpeting which just now matched the ivory walls and bed, and a Louis Quinze bureau and console. He looked at Joan, who was lying on her back, and then caressed her face, which disturbed her breathing pattern. She expelled a short puff of breath and then, as if descending into deeper sleep, her breathing returned to its slow rhythm. Mantle remembered her frenetic, almost violent lovemaking: she wasn't used to narcodrines.
Looking at her now, he felt guilty about the circuit fantome. Mantle blamed himself. But he couldn't open himself up—the circuit either happened or it didn't, he told himself. He couldn't make it work. If there were any way to restore the broken connection, it was by ignoring it, not pressing for it. He had discovered that it was like peripheral vision: when he tried to see out of the corner of his eye, he couldn't. He just had to let it happen, as if by itself. The circuit was like a Zen thing, Joan had once said.
But although Joan desperately needed the connection, Mantle was afraid of it, afraid of being so exposed and vulnerab
le. He felt the guilt rise once again like bad food. He had used Joan, over and over. He had destroyed the connection, which had saved him on the lifeboat. Mantle lay back down beside Joan and let his mind wander, tried to drift into hypnogogic sleep where he could control his dreams. Perhaps he could restore the connection. It might just turn itself back on. And he owed her the connection. God, he owed her….
She turned toward him, brushed an invisible spiderweb from her face, and rested her arm on his chest. As Mantle began to fall asleep, he tried to open the circuit fantome, tried to “let” it happen; but each time he tried, he would awaken with a jolt. Finally, he gave up—Joan was asleep, anyway. Even if he could connect with her, she probably wouldn't remember it in the morning, and he wanted her to know that he loved her. The idea almost came to him as a surprise: he did love her. In that instant, Mantle hated the very idea of Josiane…and he hated himself for painting her, for not giving up the dead.
He slept uneasily, dreaming of Josiane calling him, dreaming of Joan and the pool under the house in Dramont. And in the background, the Screamers seemed to be calling him, as if they had just awakened from a brief sleep and were now waiting, waiting for him….
Joan groaned, turned her face back and forth against the pillow, waved her arms and kicked her legs as if trying to fend off an invisible attacker. Suddenly, she screamed and then fell back into deep sleep. Mantle almost awakened; but without realizing it, he had slipped into her mind. Her breathing once again became regular, and she settled down.
The circuit fantome was closed.
Together they traveled.
Mantle dreamed her dreams, her nightmares: snatches of swirling color, unrelated bits of the previous day, her anxieties about Mantle leaving her, her fear and love and hatred of him, and distant memories of other men, childhood terrors of being alone; and once again Mantle glimpsed the dark spaces, the cold corridors, the expanses which were as even and forbidding as the deep ocean floor. She was being fed by so many connections—all subtle, unconscious, but flowing just the same—she was at once in the dark spaces and in the bright spaces, constructing them all into the fabric of a single dream, a nightmare woven out of silver thread and the whispers of Screamers. She, too, heard them….
