The Man Who Melted (22 page)

“This will only happen once,” Pfeiffer said. “Would you really miss it?” When Joan didn't respond, he said, “If you'd like, we could do the
Titanic
story together, a double by-line.”

Joan looked surprised.

“Now, that's what she's been after all along,” Mantle said lightly, knowing that it was nevertheless true.

“Jesus, I don't know what to say. I'm not prepared, and—”

“I can assure you, it's the chance of a lifetime.”

Joan turned to Mantle, who said, “He's right. I'd go along with him if I were you.”

“I can't see you, Ray.”

“Just go,” Mantle said, trying to soften his voice.

“We should figure out an original angle for the story,” Pfeiffer said to Joan. “Ray, would you like to join us? We're going to the Café Parisien. I was there earlier, it's quite nice.”

“I think I'll stay on deck awhile,” Mantle said. Joan looked distraught. “I'll be fine,” he said to her.

“But—”

“I do need to be alone,” Mantle said; and after a beat, Joan reluctantly left with Pfeiffer.

Mantle stood by the rail as the ship slipped through the curtains of Southampton's smog. Sky and sea seemed dark and smooth, as if made of some tinted, striated glass. Toward the west, the ocean was a green expanse turning to blue toward the horizon. But Mantle looked back toward Southampton, as if he could discern the shapes of his past in the unclean water and air.

“What did you mean when you said you couldn't see Raymond?” Pfeiffer asked.

“Nothing,” Joan said. “Nothing at all.”

NINETEEN

When Joan and Pfeiffer returned to the suite to dress for dinner, they found Mantle asleep in the curtained four-poster. Although Joan was not in the mood for sex, Pfeiffer was; and he insisted that they make love in the same bed with Mantle for the sake of the
ménage
. Joan obliged him while Mantle slept fitfully, once again dreaming of Josiane.

When they were finished, Pfeiffer questioned Joan about Mantle, about his dreams. He most often questioned her, rather than asking Mantle directly.

“What do you want from him?” Joan whispered. She had not yet caught her breath; after their initial few times together, Pfeiffer became more and more sexually passive, and Joan exerted herself far more than he.

“I don't want anything from him, I want to help him.”

“That old saw.”

“Believe what you will, but it's true.”

“What do you know about Josiane?” Joan asked.

For an instant, Pfeiffer seemed taken aback, and Joan caught her breath and waited for his response. Carefully, he got up from the bed.

“Where are you going?”

He waved his hand, walked across the room, and opened his suitcase, which he had left in the corner and refused to unpack. He took out a white box and returned to the bed. “You know, I realize that Raymond took me in because he thought I could help him remember.”

“And you, in turn, wanted to question him.”

“That's not true! Stop it. I know also that it wasn't entirely that he thought I could help him find the past—it was to relive the past, bring it back, have it again, have each other again. We've watched too much of our blood pass under the bridge to let each other go.”

“What's in the box, Carl?”

“Yes, what's in the box?” Mantle asked without opening his eyes.

“I thought you'd be awake,” Pfeiffer said. “Anyway, I appreciate what both of you have done for me.”

“It wasn't charity, for God's sake. We wanted to be with you,” Mantle said.

“Because you find me extraordinarily sexy, I know.” Pfeiffer grinned; Joan did not.

“Because we care about you,” Joan said.

“I had this made for you,” Pfeiffer said to Mantle, “if you would care to open your eyes and look at it.”

Mantle sat up, then propped himself against a wall that was contiguous with the bed. Leaning forward he said, “Jesus, you can hear the damned engines through the pillows and bed and walls. It's enough to give anyone a migraine.”

“That was one of the problems that the Ismay line didn't have a chance to iron out,” Pfeiffer said smiling, and he handed Mantle the package. “This should explain all my impertinent questions. I'm sure that Joan has also complained of them to you….”

“You're a bastard, Carl,” Joan said.

“But it's programmed as best as I know how; it has as much of the past as I could find; it's as correct as I could make it—”

“Then I'd better open it, hadn't I?” Mantle said, picking up the box from the bed.

Suddenly, Joan didn't want him to open it. But it was too late. He opened the package and pulled out something wrapped in gauze. Pfeiffer leaned over and unveiled it.

It was Josiane's head.

“Jesus Christ,” Mantle said, almost dropping it to the bed. Then, sickeningly, the face came alive. It moved and changed expression, eyes narrowing, mouth pursing slightly, just as Josiane's used to do.

“Are you so afraid of me, Ray?” it asked.

Then Mantle did drop it on the bed, and drew away from it, shuddering. Joan found herself standing beside the bed. She laughed, half out of embarrassment.

“Make it stop,” Mantle said tightly.

“Just place it—or we should really say ‘her'—back in the box, which is real cedar, incidentally. It will be quiet, or rather she will be quiet.”

“Please don't put that gauze around me,” said the head. “Don't put me away,” it pleaded. “I'm afraid of the dark—”

Quickly, Mantle shut the head inside the box, closing the lid. The gauze wrap lay across his pillow.

“What
is
it?” Joan asked.

“A talking head,” Pfeiffer said matter-of-factly. “These are going to be all the rage in the next few months. They aren't on the market yet, but you can imagine their potential for both adults and children. They can be programmed to talk and react very realistically. The next logical step from talking books, don't you agree?”

“I think you're a sadist,” Joan said.

Pfeiffer looked genuinely shocked and turned to Mantle, who was holding the box and staring at it. “She is as authentic as I could make her. I thought it would help. It wasn't meant as a joke or as a toy, I can promise you that. It was expensive as hell and took a lot of time to—”

“I understand, Carl,” Mantle said. “Thank you.” Then, looking at Joan: “Maybe it will bring something back.”

“I'm sorry,” Pfeiffer said.

“No need to be, really.”

“Even if it might be painful at first, I thought—”

“You thought correctly,” Mantle said.

“There is a party being given by the captain in the smoking lounge before dinner,” Pfeiffer said. “We're all invited. There should be some interesting and influential people there.” Pfeiffer showered and dressed quickly. He wore a black tuxedo with tails, studs, fluff shirt, and diamond-initial cuff links. Joan and Mantle sat on the bed, Mantle opening and closing the box, peering at the head; and Joan watched him.

“Well, I can see you're not going to make the party,” Pfeiffer said, after going into the bathroom to take one last look at himself in the mirror. He reeked of expensive perfume. “I thought you'd find her interesting. If you have any flashbacks, remember that I get the credit. She's my creation. You see, you're not the only artist.”

“Carl, why are you giving me this
now
?” Mantle asked. “Wouldn't it have been more, ah, theatrical to have waited until we parted?”

“First of all, that's not a nice way to put it. You're always looking for motives. I once told you that I had no unconscious, and there's more truth to that than not.” He smiled. “It's simply because we're going to different destinations after our…accident.”

“Then you're not going to New York?” Joan asked.

“Not right away, I'm afraid. Now, if you two can manage to dress each other, I'll meet you for dinner.”

“You know,” Joan said to Pfeiffer as he opened the door, “you're not dressed properly.”

“What do you mean?”

“We're supposed to be wearing the period clothing provided by the ship.”

“That's an option, not a requirement,” Pfeiffer said stuffily. “And, at any rate, it would not apply to me.” With that, he left.

“Well, I suppose he's back to his old self,” Joan said to Mantle.

“You never knew his old self.”

“I think I can take credit for knowing him a little. After all, I was hooked-into him, remember?”

“Who knows,” Mantle said, “maybe this thing will help.”

“I'd be careful,” Joan said.

“I'll check it out on the computer—I brought my plug. It's just a question of asking it—her—the right questions.”

“I'd check for subliminals, too.”

“Thank you, Miz Otur, I'll make a note of it.”

“I don't trust him, Raymond.”

“Stop calling me Raymond.” Mantle looked up at her and smiled. “I don't either…trust him, that is. Now, why don't you shower and dress? Maybe you can make the party.”

“And you?” Joan asked.

“I've got some questions to ask Josiane.”

After considerable coaxing, Joan left, and Mantle took the head out of the box and placed it on the desk. Even under the harsh illumination of the desk lamp, it looked like a living head.

And it was Josiane—that lovely, mobile face, arched eyebrows, narrow nose, and faint joylines drawn from the corners of her painted lips to flared nostrils. Her hair was a halo around her face, more silver than gold under the light. “Ray,” she said, “I'm afraid. Even now in the light, I'm afraid of that…coffin, it's so dark.”

“Do you know how you got here?” Mantle asked.

“Where am I?”

“You're on the table in my stateroom on the ship
Titanic
.”

Josiane looked from side to side. “I can't move my head, I can't feel my body, I'm—” And then her face relaxed, as if she were about to go unconscious, and she continued. “I know what I am, but I'm me and not me. I am Josiane, and I'm alive.”

“Until I put you back.”

Josiane shut her eyes for a second, then looked at Mantle as if she were the old Josiane—that intense stare that could rivet Mantle as no one else's could. That couldn't be faked, Mantle said to himself suddenly remembering. It was working. He was beginning to
believe
that this construct was Josiane. “You've been a lot of things, Ray,” Josiane said, “but never cruel. It was always me who was cruel, who made mistakes….”

Mantle found himself almost saying, “No, you were never cruel.” She could push the old buttons, elicit the old responses. “You're not Josiane,” Mantle said flatly.

“I am, please don't say that. I
am
. I
feel
the same, even though I know what I am. But it's me, and this is a terrible nightmare. It's as if I've been thrown into hell, and you, of all people, are my tormentor. Ray, I love you. I know you, I'm the only one, remember?”

“Then tell me what happened the day I lost you,” Mantle demanded.

“I went shopping; that's all I remember. It was on a Friday—I always shopped on Fridays, remember? The next thing I knew I was feeling your hands on my face and then falling.”

“When was that?” Mantle said, excited.

“I don't know, my time sense seems to be gone,” Josiane said.

“Perhaps during the Great Scream, perhaps I had found you…?” Mantle asked, pleading, forgetting he was talking to a construct.

“The gauze was removed, I remember that,” Josiane said, “and then I remember the softness of a blanket, I guess it was. You looked at me with such horror, Ray.”

“Damn you,” Mantle said, standing up and pacing the room. “That was a few minutes ago, when I took you out of the box. That's no answer. What do you
remember
?”

“What I told you.”

“Well, it's a piss-poor job of programming, then.”

“I remember when we went to Florida with Carl and—”

“Oh, shut up,” Mantle said, disgusted. “Carl's fed you what he knows, which isn't much. Sonofabitch!”

“Ray…?”

Mantle paced slowly, back and forth. “I should put you away and meet Joan and—”

“Who's Joan?” Josiane asked. “Is she your wife? Oh, God, I never even thought of that. I'm really dead, aren't I?”

“You're a construct.”

“Ray, help me. Whatever you think I am, I feel the same way I did about everything when I was…as I was…as…”

“Say it,” Mantle said, sitting down before the desk again.

“I know what I am, but I can't believe it. Help me.”

“Pfeiffer made you up to help
me
, remember?”

“No, I don't remember. Some things are clear, but time is all mixed up for me. How's Mom? I thought she came through the operation really well. Remember, we were both in the room, waiting for her in the hotel—I can't remember the name of it—and the doctor called and you fell asleep right on the phone. But I don't remember anything else. Ray…?”

She
was
there, Mantle thought. He had glimpsed it, just now, remembered that it was she who woke him up after everyone else had left, after she had taken the phone from him and found out that Mom was all right. They had gone to Le Cygne for dinner and then spent the night sitting at Mom's bedside. He remembered making love to Josiane in the hotel room—no, it was a suite. The furniture was all cream-colored, and there was a living room and, God, he could taste and smell Josiane right now; he remembered.

“Ray?”

“Yes,” Mantle said, sitting back. He had been staring into Josiane's face. “Mom's dead. She died in a Screamer attack.”

“Oh my God.” And Josiane began to cry, softly, as she always had. Tears leaked from her eyes. “God, this is hell, I'm in hell.”

“Stop it,” Mantle said softly. “I'll try to make it easy for you; I can imagine what you're feeling.”

“Can you?” she asked, sobbing.

“I'm sorry, but I have to know what happened to you; I've got to find you…Josiane.”

“Then you still love me.”

“I love her, yes. And I can't remember.”

“I'll help you,” said the head. “Please let me help you.”

Sighing, Mantle said, “You know only what Pfeiffer knows.”

“I remember the ice cream,” Josiane said, trying to smile. Her tears made lines down her face, and she was sniffing.

“What do you mean?” Mantle asked, but he smiled in spite of himself.

“The first time, when we were kids, and we used to call it making ice cream. And I remember that you used to always want to do it with those stupid videotectures hanging all over the room in the air. And I remember how you used to come to me when you were afraid, and make love to me. Ice cream.” She closed her eyes as if to squeeze out the last tears, and whispered, “I can't believe Momma's dead.”

“Stop it,” Mantle said, oddly embarrassed that he could react to the head as if it were Josiane. “I'll try to make it as easy as possible for you, but I can't believe you're Josiane, no matter how you feel or think you feel. You're a construct. Believe that and it will be easier for you. And perhaps if I don't take you out, then—”

“No,” she said, fear transforming her face. “Don't put me back in the box. I'm afraid of the dark, just as you are. Oh my God, no. Just leave me, but don't do that to me.” Then suddenly her face became calm, just as it had before. She closed her eyes, then opened them. “I suppose I have emotional fail-safes,” she said. “So you see, I can't throw a tantrum and get my way as I used to.” She smiled, but the eyes looking out from that sad, incredibly realistic face were Josiane's. They reflected the loss.