Nest of Worlds (11 page)

Two days later, Gavein took Ra Mahleiné home from the hospital. Dr. Nott’s face was stern. Her jowls hung more, her shoulders seemed even bonier. The news wasn’t good. Ra Mahleiné, after her many beatings by the guards, had internal scarring—adhesions—and most likely was sterile. In addition, she needed an operation: there was a growth that might or might not be malignant. They didn’t know, because Ra Mahleiné wouldn’t agree to a biopsy, afraid that the knife would spread the tumor. Dr. Nott decided they should remove it and examine it afterward.

Zef brought Gavein an article clipped from an afternoon tabloid, the
Central Davabel Courier
. The headline was “Death Is in the Masculine Gender, and His Name Is Dave.” The article began:

(DDP) According to a high-placed, confidential source in the Division of Hierarchy and Classification, the mortality rate is soaring. The deaths have taken place exclusively in Central Davabel, and the victims are all reported to have come into contact, before their demise, with a certain David, B, who recently arrived here from Lavath. The police have ruled out direct involvement on the part of this person, in every case, and yet without exception the deceased met their end only after meeting him. Those who are acquainted with him die, as well as those who merely exchange a few words with him. No explanation has yet been offered for this phenomenon, but a study has been initiated. It has been determined that in every instance death came in accordance with the victim’s Significant Name.

We can only advise our readers to give a wide berth to any individual named David who recently came from Lavath, as one of them may be this David Death. And in the event that you have actually met him, or know him . . . well, all we can say is, do your best to stay on his good side. It may improve your chances.

“I cut it out so my mother wouldn’t see it. I don’t believe a word of this crap, of course,” said Zef, “but my mother goes into hysterics, and she’s already filled the ear of one idiot policeman.”

On television they were showing the victims of the airport explosion. In isolated units, beds were draped with IVs and colored wires. Then a close-up: a tightly bandaged face, a tube coming from a nose, narrow slits for the eyes, swollen lips.

“Irma Rahm, G,” said the commentator, “seriously burned in the accident. She was standing at the end of the line of passengers who had just arrived from Lavath. Yesterday afternoon she regained consciousness. One can communicate with her.”

The camera cut to another bed in the ward, a man encased in plaster.

“Walter Ravitzer, B. Besides burns, has a broken back. He was pulled from the rubble. He too was a passenger from Lavath waiting to go through customs. He is conscious and has sensation in both legs. The other survivors are in satisfactory condition.”

“At times I find myself almost believing Medved,” Gavein said. “This catastrophe, it might make a good dissertation for you. Local anomaly in the probability curve of human events in sector N.”

“You think?” Zef mused. “Doesn’t sound bad.”

“Thirty-eight, thirty-nine,” Ra Mahleiné began counting loops out loud. That meant she had something to say but didn’t want to lose her place in the row. There were new glasses on her nose, with pretty blue frames.

“That jackass should have some sense beaten into him,” she finally stated. “With a two-by-four. A whack for every jackass idea.”

The phone clattered. Gavein picked up the receiver. It was Medved again.

“Lewis died of a heart attack. He’s the cop who came with Tobiany and took Haifan Tonescu away. The one who put the handcuffs on Haifan. He was also at your place when the gas exploded and Gwenda and the Hougassian girl died.”

He stopped for Gavein to say something, but Gavein didn’t.

Then Medved added, “There have been no other deaths in Davabel.”

In the evening news it was reported that Irma Rahm died of blood poisoning. And Walter Ravitzer’s condition had taken a turn for the worse. At dinner Edda announced that she had found someone who was interested in the apartment vacated by Helga.

At the bookstore the next day, the main topic of conversation was the enigmatic David Death. Both assistants, of course, had read the article in the
Courier
. Bette was of the opinion that David Death must be gorgeous, “to die for.” Agatha joked that he must be Gavein, and she should become his wife to protect herself from fatal accidents. Gavein’s gruff reply was that he already had a wife. Wilcox was too engrossed in his book to join in the banter. Gavein dreaded the next phone call from Medved.

It came toward the end of the day. Medved’s voice was different.

“Finally we have a death that doesn’t fit the pattern,” he said. “One should not take pleasure in the passing of any person, but it does seem as if this cursed run has been broken. Lola Low, the film actress, died yesterday, in a car crash. She was speeding; there was alcohol in her blood. She died this morning, not regaining consciousness.”

“Not that long ago,” Gavein said, lowering his voice so the girls wouldn’t hear, “I saw her in one or two movies, with Maslynnaya.”

“Hold on. Maslynnaya? . . . Maslynnaya stopped filming on the coast so she could attend Lola Low’s funeral. I may have time to make it.” Medved hung up.

That evening they met the new tenant. It turned out to be Anabel. There was an awkward silence as Ra Mahleiné, led in by Gavein, sat opposite her at the table.

Anabel was the first to speak. “Hello, Dave,” she said, and added, for the others, “We know each other.” Only then did she look at Ra Mahleiné. Gavein felt his wife tense, as if preparing to spring, to go for Anabel’s throat. Although taller, Ra Mahleiné was weak and would have had no chance in a fight with the veteran guard. And Anabel’s rank could cause problems, if it came to blows between the women.

Zef stepped in. “You were Magdalena’s guard, is that true?” he began and went on before she could answer: “In thirteen years I move to Ayrrah, where blacks have a zero on their passport and reds a three. Could it happen that I would be a guard in your quarantine?”

“Not likely.” Anabel was angry at being interrupted, and in addition this insolent red was putting her on the defensive before she could get properly acquainted with her fellow tenants. “Women have women guards. And guards are all reds. I am not a guard. I supervise a section.”

Zef smiled too widely. “Ah . . . Then it must have been a vicious lie.”

“I still have not recovered, from her supervising,” said Ra Mahleiné. To some degree she could speak freely, having been written into Gavein’s passport as a wife.

“I regret what happened,” said Anabel. “It was procedure, a part of my job.”

“Are you now maiming another girl as part of your job?” Zef asked.

Anabel ignored him.

“Admit it, Anabel,” Ra Mahleiné said to her directly, taking pleasure in pronouncing the name, when for years she had to say, always, “Supervisor ma’am, number 077-12-747 reporting.” “You devoted special attention to me, favored me with more than your usual professional care. The name Anabel, so like Davabel, will sound funny in Ayrrah. But no—they will give you a nice number instead, and that will be the end of your name.”

“You! Mind who you’re talking to!” Anabel snarled, losing control for a moment. ,The rule that had been instilled in them from childhood said clearly that she was in her first incarnation, while the hated white prisoner was in her second.

A silence followed. Anabel ate, wiped her mouth, moved easily, sure of her position. She was superior to the former prey that now sat across the table from her. Anabel had parried the few verbal thrusts without trouble.

“Let me guess, Anabel, why you moved here,” Gavein said. “You used your professional contacts and from the file at Hierarchy and Classification learned the identity of David Death. You’re frightened. You want to save your skin. By keeping close to him, maybe you will live longer. Am I right?”

“Ridiculous!” Anabel huffed. A drop of spaghetti sauce from her mouth hit the tablecloth.

“But you must know, surely, that our Dave is David Death,” said Zef. “Observe what sharp white teeth he has.”

“We really shouldn’t joke about such things,” said Myrna Patricks.

“But I’m not joking,” protested Zef. “Death has sharp white canines, and how he bites with them!”

“And before long,” Gavein said, theatrically baring his teeth in a wolfish grin, “he’ll have a shiny white skull, when he loses what’s left of his hair.”

“The skull doesn’t show quite yet,” Ra Mahleiné put in. She gently scratched his pate where the hair was thinnest. “You can hold on to your miserable life a little longer, Anabel. But watch him every evening, and you’ll see his skull shining through . . .”

Anabel said nothing this time. The bolt had hit home.

“Lorraine has off until the end of next week,” said Myrna. “But she’s feeling fine, and if you like, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind giving you a hand with the housework.” The loving mother believed every word of the
Courier
article. “You don’t have to pay her. She’s glad to do a good deed, aren’t you, dear?”

“What do you say to that, Little Manul?” Gavein asked. “Would you like a red . . . a friendly red helper?” His laughter and his flashing teeth chilled the blood of Anabel and Myrna.

“Why not?” laughed Ra Mahleiné. “It doesn’t matter if she’s red, as long as she’s friendly. But a black would be good only for cleaning out the toilet.”

“Looks like the toilet’s your only chance, Anabel. You might not get another,” said Zef, laughing too. “I’ve finally hit on the title of my dissertation: Probability Field Fluctuation as Generated by Brain Power. Dave will be the subject of my research.”

“You change the title every other day,” said Gavein.

“In any ambitious undertaking I begin with the title. A work of genius must have a carefully crafted title.”

The conversation at the table continued in this vein. Anabel was ignored.

Laila turned on the TV. She said that with the itching she couldn’t sit in one place. She scratched and scratched, loosening the bandages. Zef caught her hands, but even so she managed to draw blood on the new skin of her face.

“Enough. I want to see that puss of yours someday, and you won’t let it heal.”

“You forgot it already?”

“It was different before the fire.”

The news anchor read the news:

. . . when Gaisa Maslynnaya, R, died in a plane crash this afternoon. She was flying her private Equite 90 to the funeral of Lola Low, scheduled for tomorrow. An engine caught fire. Instead of taking the plane up to the altitude of minutes and waiting there for firefighting aircraft to arrive, she descended, and the plane went down in a municipal park. Two people on the ground were badly burned. One Hans Hartnung, B, was killed. He was unemployed and sleeping on a bench.

It has been decided to postpone Lola Low’s funeral for a day so that these two great film stars can be buried together. After the news there will be a special program devoted to their work.

“See, an R. She had a low category,” Zef said. “That was why she shaved her head.”

“She must have got special permission to remove the strip.”

“In her line of work, the law can be bent.”

“She didn’t go to a higher altitude,” said Gavein, “because she wanted to make it to the funeral.”

“She will make it now,” said Ra Mahleiné.

“That Hans, he was in our gang. A dopehead, but all right,” muttered Zef.

In connection with the brutal beatings of two individuals named Dave, who recently arrived from Lavath, the Division of Hierarchy and Classification categorically denies any truth to the article that appeared in the Courier. No correlation yet has been found between the deaths taking place in Davabel and any one individual.

After the news there was an hour-long tribute. Film clips were shown in which the two stars appeared together and with other actors: Clinton Prado, G; Miriam Ohindee, B; Eddie Davis, R; and Lopez de Gabriel, B.

Zef remarked that no scenes were included in which Maslynnaya and Lola Low removed their clothes.

“Obviously,” said Gavein. “We’re seeing only the nonnude scenes from their films. An hour contains them all.”

As Gavein and Ra Mahleiné were preparing for bed, Gavein said, “The teeth, that was an exaggeration. The ones in front are okay, but I have only a few molars left.”

“They’re enough for me,” answered Ra Mahleiné, brushing her hair before the mirror. She was trying to sit very straight and with her chest out.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her. “So what do you say to Anabel as a maid? A little revenge. Why should we ruin our hands scrubbing the toilet when that bitch can do it?”

“Even then I would be better to her than she was to me. If you want, you can give her a child. I won’t be able to do that now. She can stand in for me.”

He could say nothing for a moment. Such a thought would never have entered his head.

“Are you crazy? I would hate the child, as I hate her. You also.”

“I don’t know. I might not live long enough to hate it.”

The next day, Walter Ravitzer died. The death toll now, from the airport explosion, was fifteen. That evening Laila ran another fever; she had scratches now all over her body.

Gavein questioned Zef about some of the mysteries of physics. He didn’t learn much that day but earned, from Zef, the rank of “physicist
honoris causa
, who chops with his brain a lot better than the morons taking the same course that I do.”

“You’re so boring, Dave,” said Lorraine.

Gavein turned. She rarely appeared in the dining room, having gone back to work and her late shift.

“I mean, it’s always your wife, your wife. Then you go to work, and then you come home, and it’s your wife again. Your only recreation is talking with this punk.”

“Don’t tell me you wouldn’t love to take Magdalena’s place,” said Zef. “The white woman has beat you to it.”

“I can’t stand these wise-mouth red brats, with their beady eyes and squirrel teeth.”

“I would have thought I was an object of interest,” answered Gavein. “My teeth, aren’t they sharp and white? And when my hair goes, the entire skull will emerge. I won’t be boring then.”

“You made that joke already.”

“I’m getting old.”

They were interrupted by a phone call from Medved.

“Ravitzer died,” he told Gavein.

“I’m not surprised. They shouldn’t have shown him on television. Anyone else?” Gavein was in a black-humor mood, expecting fresh confirmation of his powers.

“Yes. But I don’t see a connection.”

“Impossible.”

“Dr. Alfe Bode. Heart attack.”

“From the hospital where Ra Mahleiné was?”

“Another hospital. A surgeon.”

“I did see another doctor. When I was coming back from Port 0-2. It was, hold on . . . the twentieth of December. He took the minibus driver who had suffered a heart attack. I don’t remember what street the hospital was on.”

“That may be important. I’ll check.”

“It may.” Gavein smiled. “One more thing, Captain: I watched a television show about Maslynnaya and Lola Low. A lot of people were in it, Miriam Ohindee and others. You can view the tape.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Nothing. Just that I saw them.”

Gavein hung up.

Lorraine turned pale, and the comb on Zef’s head jutted so stiffly, it seemed to want to jump free.

“It appears I am indeed Death,” Gavein told them. “Stray not one step from us, Lorraine. Sleep like a dog at our threshold, if you wish to live. And the same for you, Zef. Stick close instead of hanging out with your fellow delinquents.”

“So you’re starting to believe that article,” said the young man. “But there could be laws at work here other than what was written in the
Courier
. One must learn what they are.”