A childish game. It always brings her to tears, eventually. The unknown husbands that wait for her in the misty future are vague, chilly phantoms, fantasies, frightening, inimical. They are like swords that will inevitably fall between her and Leo, and she hates them for that.
The thought of having the same husband for all the vast expanse of time that is the rest of her life, is a little disturbing—it gives her a sense of walls closing in, and closing and closing and closing—but the thought of leaving Leo is even worse. Or of his leaving her. Maybe she isn’t truly in love with him, at any rate not as she imagines love at its deepest to be, but she is happy with him. She wants to stay with him. She can’t really envision parting from him and moving on to someone else.
But of course she knows that she will. Everybody does, in the fullness of time.
Everybody.
Leo is a sand-painter. Sand-painting is his fifteenth or twentieth career. He has been an architect, an archaeologist, a space-habitats developer, a professional gambler, an astronomer, and a number of other disparate and dazzling things. He reinvents himself every decade or two. That’s as necessary to him as Process itself. Making money is never an issue, since he lives on the compounding interest of investments set aside centuries ago. But the fresh challenge—ah, yes, always the fresh challenge—!
Marilisa hasn’t entered on any career path yet. It’s much too soon. She is, after all, still in her first life, too young for Process, merely in the Prep stage yet. Just a child, really. She has dabbled in ceramics, written some poetry, composed a little music. Lately she has begun to think about studying economics or perhaps Spanish literature. No doubt her actual choice of a path to follow will be very far from any of these. But there’s time to decide. Oh, is there ever time!
Just after the turn of the year she and Leo go to Antibes to attend the unveiling of Leo’s newest work, commissioned by Lucien Nicolas, a French industrialist. Leo and Lucien Nicolas were schoolmates, eons ago. At the airport they embrace warmly, almost endlessly, like brothers long separated. They even look a little alike, two full-faced square-jawed dark-haired men with wide-flanged noses and strong, prominent lips.
“My wife Marilisa,” Leo says finally.
“How marvelous,” says Lucien Nicolas. “How superb.” He kisses the tips of his fingers to her.
Nicolas lives in a lofty villa overlooking the Mediterranean, surrounded by a lush garden in which the red spikes of aloes and the yellow blooms of acacias stand out dazzlingly against a palisade of towering palms. The weather, this January day, is mild and pleasant, with a light drizzle falling. The industrialist has invited a splendid international roster of guests to attend the unveiling of the painting; diplomats and jurists, poets and playwrights, dancers and opera singers, physicists and astronauts and mentalists and sculptors and seers. Leo introduces Marilisa to them all. In the antechamber to the agate dining hall she listens, bemused, to the swirl of conversations in half a dozen languages. The talk ranges across continents, decades, generations. It seems to her that she hears from a distance the names of several of Leo’s former wives invoked—Syantha, Tedesca, Katrin?—but possibly she is mistaken.
Dinner is an overindulgent feast of delicacies. Squat animated servitors bring the food on glistening covered trays of some exotic metal that shimmers diffractively. After every third course a cool ray of blue light descends from a ceiling aperture and a secondary red radiance rises from the floor: they meet in the vicinity of the great slab of black diamond that is the table, and a faint whiff of burning carbon trickles into the air, and then the diners are hungry all over again, ready for the next delight.
The meal is a symphony of flavors and textures. The balance is perfect between sweet and tart, warm and cool, spicy and bland. A pink meat is followed by a white one, and then by fruit, then cheese, and meat again, a different kind, and finer cheeses. A dozen wines or more are served. An occasional course is still alive, moving slowly about its plate; Marilisa takes her cue from Leo, conquers any squeamishness, traps and consumes her little wriggling victims with pleasure. Now and then the underlying dish is meant to be eaten along with its contents, as she discovers by lagging just a moment behind the other guests and imitating their behavior.
After dinner comes the unveiling of the painting, in the atrium below the dining-hall. The guests gather along the balcony of the dining-hall and the atrium roof is retracted.
Leo’s paintings are huge rectangular constructions made of fine sparkling sand of many colors, laid out within a high border of molten copper. The surfaces of each work are two-dimensional, but the cloudy hint of a third dimension is always visible, and even that is only the tip of an underlying multidimensional manifold that vanishes at mysterious angles into the fabric of the piece. Down in those churning sandy depths lie wells of color with their roots embedded in the hidden mechanisms that control the piece. These wells constantly contribute streams of minute glittering particles to the patterns at the surface, in accordance with the changing signals from below. There is unending alteration; none of Leo’s pieces is ever the same two hours running.
A ripple of astonishment breaks forth as the painting is revealed, and then a rising burst of applause. The pattern is one of interlaced spirals in gentle pastels, curvilinear traceries in pink and blue and pale green, with thin black circles surrounding them and frail white lines radiating outward in groups of three to the vivid turquoise borders of the sand. Leo’s friends swarm around him to congratulate him. They even congratulate Marilisa. “He is a master—an absolute master!” She basks in his triumph.
Later in the evening she returns to the balcony to see if she can detect the first changes in the pattern. The changes, usually, are minute and subtle ones, requiring a discriminating eye, but even in her short while with Leo she has learned to discern the tiniest of alterations.
This time, though, no expertise is required. In little more than an hour the lovely surface has been significantly transformed. A thick, jagged black line has abruptly sprung into being, descending like a dark scar from upper right to lower left. Marilisa has never seen such a thing happen before. It is like a wound in the painting: a mutilation. It draws a little involuntary cry of shock from her.
Others gather. “What does it mean?” they ask. “What is he saying?”
From someone in African tribal dress, someone who nevertheless is plainly not African, comes an interpretation: “We see the foretelling of schism, the evocation of a transformation of the era. The dark line moves in brutal strokes through the center of our stability-point. There, do you see, the pink lines and the blue? And then it drops down into the unknown dominion beyond the painting’s eastern border, the realm of the mythic, the grand apocalyptic.”
Leo is summoned. He is calm. But Leo is always calm. He shrugs away the urgent questions: the painting, he says, is its own meaning, not subject to literal analysis. It is what it is, nothing more. A stochastic formula governs the changes in his works. All is random. The jagged black line is simply a jagged black line.
Music comes from another room. New servitors appear, creatures with three metal legs and one telescoping arm, offering brandies and liqueurs. The guests murmur and laugh. “A master,” they tell Marilisa once again. “An absolute master!”
She likes to ask him about the far-away past—the quaint and remote twenty-third century, the brusque and dynamic twenty-fourth. He is like some great heroic statue rising up out of the mists of time, embodying in himself first-hand knowledge of eras that are mere legends to her.
“Tell me how people dressed, back then,” she begs him. “What sorts of things they said, the games they played, where they liked to go on their holidays. And the buildings, the architecture: how did things look? Make me feel what it was like: the sounds, the smells, the whole flavor of the long-ago times.”
He laughs. “It gets pretty jumbled, you know. The longer you live, the more muddled-up your mind becomes.”
“Oh, I don’t believe that
at all! I think you remember every bit of it. Tell me about your father and mother.”
“My father and my mother—” He pronounces the words musingly, as though they are newly minted concepts for him. “My father—he was tall, even taller than I am—a mathematician, he was, or maybe a composer, something abstruse like that—”
“And his eyes? What kind of eyes did he have?”
“His eyes—I don’t know, his eyes were unusual, but I can’t tell you how—an odd color, or very penetrating, maybe—there was something about his eyes—” His voice trails off.
“And your mother?”
“My mother. Yes.” He is staring into the past and it seems as if he sees nothing but haze and smoke there. “My mother. I just don’t know what to tell you. She’s dead, you realize. A long time, now. Hundreds of years. They both died before Process. It was all such a long time ago, Marilisa.”
His discomfort is only too apparent.
“All right,” she says. “We don’t have to talk about them. But tell me about the clothing, at least. What you wore when you were a young man. Whether people liked darker colors then. Or the food, the favorite dishes. Anything. The shape of ordinary things. How they were different.”
Obligingly he tries to bring the distant past to life for her. Images come through, though, however blurry, however indistinct. The strangeness, the alien textures of the long ago. Whoever said the past is another country was right; and Leo is a native of that country. He speaks of obsolete vehicles, styles, ideas, flavors. She works hard at comprehending his words, she eagerly snatches concrete meanings from his clusters of hazy impressions. Somehow the past seems as important to her as the future, or even more so. The past is where Leo has lived so very much of his life. His gigantic past stretches before her like an endless pathless plain. She needs to learn her way across it; she needs to find her bearings, the points of her compass, or she will be lost.
It is time for Leo to undergo Process once more. He goes every five years and remains at the clinic for eleven days. She would like to accompany him, but guests are not allowed, not even spouses. The procedures are difficult and delicate. The patients are in a vulnerable state while undergoing treatment.
So off he goes without her to be made young again. Elegant homeostatic techniques of automatic bioenergetic correction will extend his exemption from sagging flesh and spreading waistline and blurry eyesight and graying hair and hardening arteries for another term.
Marilisa has no idea what Process is actually like. She imagines him sitting patiently upright day after day in some bizarre womb-like tank, his body entirely covered in a thick mass of some sort of warm, quivering purplish gel, only his head protruding, while the age-poisons are extracted from him by an elaborate array of intricate pipettes and tubes, and the glorious fluids of new youthfulness are pumped into him. But of course she is only imagining. For all she knows, the whole thing is done with a single injection, like the Prep that she undergoes every couple of years to keep her in good trim until she is old enough for Process.
While Leo is away, his son Fyodor pays her an uninvited visit. Fyodor is the child of Miaule, the fifth wife. The marriage to Miaule was Leo’s briefest one, only eight years. Marilisa has never asked why. She knows nothing substantial about Leo’s previous marriages and prefers to keep it that way.
“Your father’s not here,” she says immediately, when she finds Fyodor’s flitter docked to the harbor of their sky-house.
“I’m not here to visit him. I’m here to see you.” He is a compact, blockily built man with a low center of gravity, nothing at all in appearance like his rangy father. His sly sidewise smile is insinuating, possessive, maddening. “We don’t know each other as well as we should, Marilisa. You’re my stepmother, after all.”
“What does that have to do with anything? You have half a dozen stepmothers.” Was that true? Could the wives before Miaule be regarded as his stepmothers, strictly speaking?
“You’re the newest one. The most mysterious one.”
“There’s nothing mysterious about me at all. I’m terribly uninteresting.”
“Not to my father, apparently.” A vicious sparkle enters Fyodor’s eyes. “Are you and he going to have children?”
The suggestion startles her. She and Leo have never talked about that; she has never so much as given it a thought.
Angrily she says, “I don’t think that that’s any of your—”
“He’ll want to. He always does.”
“Then we will. Twenty years from now, maybe. Or fifty. Whenever it seems appropriate. Right now we’re quite content just with each other.” He has found an entirely new level on which to unsettle her, and Marilisa is infuriated even more with him for that. She turns away from him. “If you’ll excuse me, Fyodor, I have things to—”
“Wait.” His hand darts out, encircles her wrist, seizes it a little too tightly, then relaxes to a gentler, almost affectionate grip. “You shouldn’t be alone at a time like this. Come stay with me for a few days while he’s at the clinic.”
She glowers at him. “Don’t be absurd.”
“I’m simply being hospitable, mother.”
“I’m sure he’d be very amused to hear that.”
“He’s always found what I do highly amusing. Come. Pack your things and let’s go. Don’t you think you owe yourself a little amusement too?”
Not bothering to conceal her anger and loathing, Marilisa says, “What exactly are you up to, Fyodor? Are you looking for vengeance? Trying to get even with him for something?”
“Vengeance? Vengeance?” Fyodor seems genuinely puzzled. “Why would I want that? I mean, after all, what is he to me?”
“Your father, for one thing.”
“Well, yes. I’ll grant you that much. But what of it? All of that happened such a long time ago.” He laughs. He sounds almost jolly. “You’re such an old-fashioned kind of girl, Marilisa!”
A couple of hours after she succeeds in getting rid of Fyodor, she has another unexpected and unwanted visitor: Katrin. At least Katrin has the grace to call while she is still over Nevada to say that she would like to drop in. Marilisa is afraid to refuse. She knows that Leo wants some sort of relationship to develop between them. Quite likely he has instigated this very visit. If she turns Katrin away, Leo will find out, and he will be hurt. The last thing Marilisa would want to do is to hurt Leo.
It is impossible for her to get used to Katrin’s beauty: that sublime agelessness, which looks so unreal precisely because it is real. She genuinely seems to be only thirty, golden-haired and shining in the first dewy bloom of youth. Katrin was Leo’s wife for forty years. Estil and Liss, the two children they had together, are almost two hundred years old. The immensity of Katrin’s history with Leo looms over her like some great monolithic slab.
“I talked to Leo this morning at the clinic,” Katrin announces. “He’s doing very well.”
“You talked to him? But I thought that nobody was allowed—”
“Oh, my dear, I’ve taken forty turns through that place! I know everybody there only too well. When I call, they put me right through. Leo sends his warmest love.”
“Thank you.”
“He loves you terribly, you know. Perhaps more than is really good for him. You’re the great love of his life, Marilisa.”
Marilisa feels a surge of irritation, and allows it to reach the surface. “Oh, Katrin, be serious with me! How could I ever believe something like that?” And what does she mean, Perhaps more than is really good for him?
“You should believe it. You must, in fact. I’ve had many long talks with him about you. He adores you. He’d do anything for you. It’s never been like this for him before. I have absolute proof of that. Not with me, not with Tedesca, not with Thane, not with—”
She recites the whole rest of the list. Syantha, Miaule, Iavilda, while Marilisa ticks each one off in her mind. They could do it together in a kind of choral speaking, the litany of wives’ names, but Marili
sa remains grimly silent. She is weary of that list of names. She hates the idea that Katrin talks with Leo about her; she hates the idea that Katrin still talks with Leo at all. But she must accept it, apparently. Katrin bustles about the house, admiring this, exclaiming rapturously over that. To celebrate Leo’s imminent return she has brought a gift, a tiny artifact, a greenish little bronze sculpture recovered from the sea off Greece, so encrusted by marine growths that it is hard to make out what it represents. A figurine of some sort, an archer, perhaps, holding a bow that has lost its string. Leo is a collector of small antiquities. Tiny fragments of the past are arrayed in elegant cases in every room of their house. Marilisa offers proper appreciation. “Leo will love it,” she tells Katrin. “It’s perfect for him.”
“Yes. I know.”
Yes. You do.
Marilisa offers drinks. They nibble at sweet dainty cakes and chat. Two pretty, young, well-to-do women idling away a pleasant afternoon, but one is two hundred years older than the other. For Marilisa it is like playing hostess to Cleopatra, or Helen of Troy.
Inevitably the conversation keeps circling back to Leo.
“The kindest man I’ve ever known,” says Katrin. “If he has a fault, I think, it’s that he’s too kind. Time and again, he’s let himself endure great pain for the sake of avoiding being unkind to some other person. He’s utterly incapable of disappointing other people, of letting anyone down in any way, of hurting anyone, regardless of the distress to himself, the damage, the pain. I’m speaking of emotional pain, of course.”
Marilisa doesn’t want to hear Katrin talk about Leo’s faults, or his virtues, or anything else. But she is a dutiful wife; she sees the visit through to its end, and embraces Katrin with something indistinguishable from warmth, and stands by the port watching Katrin’s flitter undock and go zipping off into the northern sky. Then, only then, she permits herself to cry. The conversation, following so soon upon Fyodor’s visit, has unnerved her. She sifts through it, seeking clues to the hidden truths that everyone but she seems to know. Leo’s alleged vast love for her. Leo’s unwillingness to injure others, heedless of the costs to himself. He loves you terribly, you know. Perhaps more than is really good for him. And suddenly she has the answer. Leo does love her, yes. Leo always loves his wives. But the marriage was fundamentally a mistake; she is much too young for him, callow, unformed; what he really needs is a woman like Katrin, ancient behind her beauty and infinitely, diabolically wise. The reality, she sees, is that he has grown bored already with his new young wife, he is in fact unhappy in the marriage, but he is far too kindhearted to break the truth to her, and so he inverts it, he talks of a marriage that will endure forever and ever. And confides in Katrin, unburdening himself of his misery to her.
Hot Times in Magma City - 1990-95 - The Collected Stories of Robert Silverberg Volume Eight Page 32
