Perchance to Dream, page 15
“Brabham. Nice enough, but getting on, if you know what I mean. Tends to tremble and totter. Still, a decent sort.”
“Alone?”
“I fear so.”
Mrs. McKenzie took a sip of cold tea and said: “I hope you understand a bit more of our attitude, Mrs. Ransome. And I do hope you will forgive us for staring at you and your husband occasionally. It’s quite impolite, but I think we are not actually seeing you so much as we are seeing ourselves, as we were fifty years ago. Isn’t that foolish?”
Eileen tried to say something, but it didn’t work. She shook her head.
“One other thing,” Mrs. McKenzie said. “You are in love with each other, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I said. “Very much.”
“Splendid. I told Jack that when I first saw you this morning. But, of course, that wasn’t the point. I’d forgotten the plan.”
“Sally!” McKenzie frowned. “Do watch it.”
The old woman put a hand to her mouth, and we sat there quietly. Then Burgess said, “I think it’s time for the men to adjourn for a cigar. With your permission?”
We walked to the bar and Burgess introduced me around. “Van Vlyman, this is Ransome. He’s American but he’s all right. Nothing to worry about.” “Sanders, shake hands with young Ransome. He and his wife are on their honeymoon, y’know. Picked the Lady Anne! No, no, I tell you: it’s all been straightened out.” “Fairman, here now, wake up; this is—”
The warmth of these men suddenly filled me, and after a while it seemed as though, magically, I wasn’t thirty-two at all, but seventy-two, with all the wisdom of those years.
The man called Sanders insisted upon buying a round and raised his glass. “To the finest, loveliest, happiest ship that ever was!” he said, and we drank, solemnly.
“Pity,” someone said.
“No!” The portly ex-colonel, Van Vlyman, crashed his fist down upon the polished mahogany. “Not a ‘pity’! A crime. An evil, black-hearted crime, perpetrated by stupid little men with bow ties.”
“Easy, Van Vlyman. Nothing to get heated over now.”
“Nothing, indeed!” roared the old soldier. “Easy, indeed! God Almighty, are all of you so ancient, so feeble that you can’t see the truth? Don’t you know why they want to scrap the Lady?”
Sanders shrugged. “Outlived her usefulness,” he said.
“Usefulness? Usefulness to whom, sir? Nonsense! D’you hear? She’s the best ship on the sea.” Van Vlyman scowled darkly. “A little slow, perhaps—but, I put it to you, Sanders, by whose standards? Yours? Mine? Thirteen, fourteen days for a crossing is fast enough for anyone in his right mind. Only people aren’t in their right minds any more, that’s the trouble. That’s the core of it right there. People, I say, have forgotten how to relax. They’ve forgotten how to appreciate genuine luxury. Speed: that’s all that counts nowadays. Get it over with! Why? Why are they in such a hurry?” He glared at me. “What’s the damned rush?”
Burgess looked sad. “Van Vlyman, aren’t you being a bit—”
“To the contrary. I am merely making an observation upon the state of the world today. Also, I am attempting to point out the true reason for this shameful decision.”
“Which is?”
“A plot, doubtless of Communist origin,” declared the colonel.
“Oh, really, Van Vlyman—”
“Haven’t you eyes? Are you all that senile? The Lady Anne was condemned because she represents a way of life. A better way of life, by God, sir, than anything they’re brewing up today; and they can’t stand that. She’s not just a ship, I tell you; she’s the old way. She’s grace and manners and tradition. Don’t you see? She’s the Empire!”
The old man’s eyes were flashing.
“Nothing,” he said, in a lower voice, “is sacred any more. The beasts are at the gate, and we’re all too old to fight them. Like the Lady herself, too old and too tired. So we stand about in stone fury like pathetic statues with our medals gone to rust and our swords broken while the vandals turn our castles into sideshows, put advertisements for soap along our roads, and—wait! the time is soon!—reach up their hairy hands and pull the Queen down from her throne. Scrap the Lady! No. But how are we to stop them from scrapping England?”
The old man stood quite still for several minutes, then he turned and walked away; and McKenzie said, beneath his breath: “Poor chap. He’d planned this with his wife, and then she had to go and die on him.”
Burgess nodded. “Well, we’ll have some cards tonight and he’ll feel better.”
We drank another; then Eileen and I had dinner with the McKenzies and retired to our cabin.
Mrs. McKenzie had been right. Love does have its own particular vision: the plaster cupids and golden door didn’t seem grotesque at all; in fact, very late at night, with the moon striping the calm black ocean, it seemed to me that there could hardly be a nicer room.
The next twelve days were like a lazy, endless dream. We had trouble, at first, adjusting to it. When you’ve lived most of your life in a city, you forget that leisure can be a creative thing. You forget that there is nothing sinful in relaxation. But the Lady Anne was good to us. She gave us time, plenty of time. And on the fourth day I stopped fidgeting and began to enjoy the pleasures of getting to know the woman I’d married. Eileen and I talked together and made love together and walked the ancient deck together, hoping that it would never end, secure in the knowledge that it would . . . but not for a while.
We forgot, too, that the other passengers were in their seventies and eighties. It wasn’t important, any longer. They were married couples, as we were, and in a very real way, they were on their honeymoons, too. Twice we surprised McKenzie and his wife on the promenade deck well after midnight, and the Burgesses hardly ever stopped holding hands. The women and men who were alone looked melancholy, but somehow not sad. Even the old colonel, Van Vlyman, had stopped being angry. We’d see him every now and then seated in the deck, his eyes looking out over the Atlantic, dreaming.
Then, treacherously, as if it had sneaked up on us, the twelfth day came, and the smell of land was in the air. Far in the distance we could see the gray spine of Cherbourg, and we wondered what had happened to the hours.
McKenzie stopped us in The Imperial Lounge. His face wore a slightly odd expression. “Well,” he said, “it’s almost over. I expect you’re glad.”
“No,” I told him. “Not really.”
That pleased him. “The Lady’s done her job for you, then?”
“She has,” said Eileen, a different, softer, more feminine Eileen than I’d known two weeks before.
“Well, then; you’ll be coming to the dance tonight?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Capital! Uh . . . one thing. Have you packed your luggage?”
“No. I mean, we don’t dock till tomorrow night, so—”
“Quite. Still, it would do no harm to pack them anyhow,” said McKenzie. “See you at the dance!”
Like so many of the others, the things he said frequently sounded peculiar and meant nothing. We went outside and stood at the rail and watched the old sailors—who were all part of the original crew—scrubbing down the ship. They seemed to be working especially hard, removing every trace of dirt, scraping the rails with stiff wire brushes, getting things neat.
At eight we went back to the cabin and changed into our evening dress; and at nine-thirty joined the others in the Imperial Lounge.
The incredible little band was playing antique waltzes and fox trots, and the floor was filled with dancing couples. After a few drinks, we became one of the couples. I danced with Eileen for a while, then with almost every other woman aboard. Everyone seemed to be happy again. Eileen was trying to rumba with Colonel Van Vlyman, who kept sputtering that he didn’t know how, and Mrs. McKenzie taught me a step she’d learned in 1896. We drank some more and danced more and laughed, and then the clock struck midnight and the band stood up and played Auld Lang Syne and the people held hands and were quiet.
McKenzie and Burgess walked up then, and Burgess said: “Mr. Ransome, Mrs. Ransome: we’d like you to meet our captain, Captain Protheroe. He’s been here as long as the Lady has; isn’t that right, sir?”
An unbelievably old man in a neat blue uniform nodded his head. His hair was thin and white, his eyes were clear.
“A most unusual man, the captain,” said Burgess. “He understands things. Like the rest of us, actually—except that his wife is a ship. Still, I doubt I love my Cynthia more than he loves the Lady Anne.”
The captain smiled and looked directly at us. “You’ve had a pleasant voyage?” he asked, in a good strong voice.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “We’re grateful to have been part of it.”
“Indeed? Well, that’s very nice.”
There was a pause, and I suddenly became aware of a curious fact. The vibration of the engines, deep below us, had stopped. The ship itself had stopped.
Captain Protheroe’s smile broadened. “Very nice, indeed,” he said. “As Mr. McKenzie pointed out to me earlier, your presence aboard has been rather symbolic, if I may use the word. Us ending, you beginning; that sort of thing, eh?” He rose from the chair. “Now then. I’m afraid that I must say good bye to you. We’ve radioed your position and you oughtn’t to be inconvenienced for more than a few hours.”
“Beg pardon?” I said.
Burgess coughed. “They don’t know,” he said. “Thought it would be better that way.”
“Eh? Oh, yes, how stupid of me. Of course.” Captain Protheroe turned his clear eyes back to us. “You won’t mind obliging us,” he said, “by gathering up your things?”
“Gathering up our things?” I parroted, stupidly. “Why?”
“Because,” he said, “we are going to put you off the ship.”
Eileen grabbed my arm, but neither of us could think of a thing to say. I was vaguely conscious of the stillness of the boat, of the people in the room, staring at us.
“I’m very much afraid that I shall have to ask you to hurry,” said the captain, “for it is getting rather late. The rescue vessel is already on its way, you see. You, uh, do understand?”
“No,” I said, slowly, “we don’t. And we’re certainly not going anywhere until we do?”
Captain Protheroe drew up to his full height and glanced sharply at McKenzie. “Really,” he said, “I should’ve thought you’d have anticipated this.”
McKenzie shrugged. “Didn’t want to worry them.”
“Indeed. And now we’re in a mess, for, of course, we’ve no time at all for lengthy explanations.”
“In that case,” said Burgess, “let’s skip them.” His eyes were twinkling. “I rather think they’ll understand eventually.”
The captain nodded. He said, “Excuse me,” walked out of the room, returned a moment later with a pistol. Then, aiming the pistol at me: “Sorry, but I must insist you do as we say. McKenzie, take this thing and see to it that the Ransomes are ready within ten minutes.”
McKenzie nodded, brandished the gun. “Come along,” he said. “And don’t take it too hard, my boy.”
He prodded us down to the cabin and kept waving the pistol until we’d packed our bags. He seemed hugely delighted with his new role.
“Now, gather up the life jackets and follow me.”
We returned to the boat station, where almost everyone on the ship had gathered.
“Lower away!” cried the captain, and a useless-looking white lifeboat was cranked over the side.
“Now then, if you will please climb down that ladder . . .”
“For God’s sake,” I said. “This—”
“The ladder, Mr. Ransome. And do be careful!”
We clambered down into the lifeboat, which was rocking gently, and watched them raise the rope.
We could see the McKenzies, the Burgesses, Van Vlyman, Sanders and Captain Protheroe standing by the rail, waving. They had never looked so pleasant, so happy.
“Don’t worry,” one of them called, “you’ll be picked up in no time at all. Plenty of water and food there; and a light. You’re sure you have all your luggage?”
I heard the ship’s engines start up again, and I yelled some idiotic things; but then the Lady Anne began to pull away from us. The old people at the rail, standing very close to one another, waved and smiled and called: “Good bye! Good bye!”
“Come back!” I screamed, feeling, somehow, that none of this was actually happening. “Damn it, come back here!” Then Eileen touched my shoulder, and we sat there listening to the fading voices and watching the immense black hull drift away into the night.
It became suddenly very quiet, very still. Only the sound of water slapping against the lifeboat.
We waited. Eileen’s eyes were wide; she was staring into the darkness, her hand locked tightly in mine.
“Shhh,” she said.
We sat there for another few minutes, quietly, rocking; then there was a sound, soft at first, hollow, but growing.
“Alan!”
The explosion thundered loose in a swift rushing fury, and the water began to churn beneath us.
Then, as suddenly, it was quiet again.
In the distance I could see the ship burning. I could feel the heat of it. Only the stern was afire, though: all the rest of it seemed untouched—and I was certain, oddly certain that no one had been harmed by the blast.
Eileen and I held each other and watched as, slowly, as, gracefully and purposefully, the Lady Anne listed on her side. For an eternity she lay poised, then the dark mass of her slipped with incredible speed down beneath the waves, sliding, sinking into the water as quickly and smoothly as a giant needle into velvet.
It could not have taken more than fifteen minutes. Then the sea was as calm and as empty as it ever was before there were such things as ships and men.
We waited for another hour in the lifeboat, and I asked Eileen if she felt cold but she said no. There was a wind across the ocean, but my wife said that she had never felt so warm before.
BLOOD BROTHER
“Now, then,” said the psychiatrist, looking up from his note pad, “when did you first discover that you were dead?”
“Not dead,” said the pale man in the dark suit. “Undead.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Just try to keep it straight. If I were dead, I’d be in great shape. That’s the trouble, though. I can’t die.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not alive.”
“I see.” The psychiatrist made a rapid notation. “Now, Mr. Smith, I’d like you to start at the beginning, and tell me the whole story.”
The pale man shook his head. “At twenty-five dollars an hour,” he said, “are you kidding? I can barely afford to have my cape cleaned once a month.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you about that. Why do you wear it?”
“You ever hear of a vampire without a cape? It’s part of the whole schmear, that’s all. I don’t know why!”
“Calm yourself.”
“Calm myself! I wish I could. I tell you, Doctor, I’m going right straight out of my skull. Look at this!” The man who called himself Smith put out his hands. They were a tremblous blur of white. “And look at this!” He pulled down the flaps beneath his eyes, revealing an intricate red lacework of veins. “Believe me,” he said, flinging himself upon the couch, “another few days of this and I’ll be ready for the funny farm!”
The psychiatrist picked a mahogany letter opener off his desk and tapped his palm. “I would appreciate it,” he said, “if you would make an effort to avoid those particular terms.”
“All right,” said the pale man. “But you try living on blood for a year, and see how polite you are. I mean—”
“The beginning, Mr. Smith.”
“Well, I met this girl, Dorcas, and she bit me.”
“Yes?”
“That’s all. It doesn’t take much, you know.”
The psychiatrist removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “As I understand it,” he said, “you think you’re a vampire.”
“No,” said Smith. “I think I’m a human being, but I am a vampire. That’s the hell of it. I can’t seem to adjust.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, the hours, for instance. I used to have very regular habits. Work from nine to five, home, a little TV, maybe, into bed by ten, up at six-thirty. Now—” He shook his head violently from side to side. “You know how it is with vampires.”
“Let’s pretend I don’t,” said the psychiatrist, soothingly. “Tell me. How is it?”
“Like I say, the hours. Everything’s upside-down. That’s why I made this appointment with you so late. See, you’re supposed to sleep during the day and work at night.”
“Why?”
“Boy, you’ve got me. I asked Dorcas, that’s the girl that bit me, and she said she’d try and find out, but nobody seems to be real sure about it.”
“Dorcas,” said the psychiatrist, pursing his lips. “That’s an unusual name.”
“Dorcas Schultz is an unusual girl, I’ll tell you. A real nut. She’s on that late-late TV show, you know? The one that runs all those crummy old horror movies?” Smith scraped a stain from his cloak with his fingernail. “Maybe you know her. She recommended you.”
“It’s possible. But let’s get back to you. You were speaking of the hours.”
Smith wrung his hands. “They’re murdering me,” he said. “Eight fly-by-night jobs I’ve had—eight!—and lost every one!”
“Would you care to explain that?”
