The Man Who Melted (4 page)

You sonofabitch, Mantle thought. You were feeding on me, that's what was going on in my mind. Don't take the bait, he told himself. Don't let him
manipulate you into confession. It's the old trap. But the net that Pfeiffer dragged could still catch him. “Bourbon?”

Pfeiffer nodded, and Mantle poured him a shot. “Are all the other paintings like the Dead Bird?” Pfeiffer asked.

“They all contain subliminals, if that's what you mean,” Mantle said, coming around from behind the bar. Shock the little fisherman and maybe he won't leave his bags, Mantle told himself. I don't need a guest tonight.

“And not all the triggers are visual,” he continued. “There are some audio and olfactory sublims. I've even got several inductors hooked up; they're like very subtle tachistoscopes.”

“You're perverse,” Pfeiffer said, but he craned his neck and looked into the other room. “Why are you painting that crap, you're a fine artist.”

“I'm an illustrator, remember? A subliminal technician.” He thought it a confession rather than a statement of fact. “And why should subliminals affect the quality of art? Rembrandt used embeds in the seventeenth century. Did that make him a lesser painter?”

“Well, it won't make you a better one.”

Mantle laughed, and Pfeiffer said, “Don't beg the question. Why are you painting that stuff and keeping it in your house?”

“What does it matter?” Mantle asked. “You don't think they have any effect, anyway.”

“I never said that, and you know it. I just don't think they have
much
effect. For the most part, we still choose products on the basis of quality, and like it or not, the same basic values remain. But I think you're crazy to expose yourself to subliminals like this.”

“You once told me that you don't believe in the unconscious, either,” Mantle said. “So these subs should have no effect on you.”

Pfeiffer blushed, and Mantle found himself facing him. Too close, he could smell Pfeiffer's sour breath, see the faint chicken-lines in his soft face. And suddenly Mantle thought of Josiane. A flicker of memory, a flash: Josiane lost in a crowd, screaming. A complex of risors reflecting distant sunlight. Brooklyn swathed in grayness. But there was no emotional component; he had simply watched a few frames of a film that played in his mind.

Breaking away from Pfeiffer, he began to talk, hoping to jar his memory
again. He was talking to himself; Pfeiffer was only a catalyst. “After Josiane was lost, I searched everywhere, did everything possible to find her. But she might as well have been swallowed up. I couldn't stand the thought that she might be dead, or that she might be only a mile away and I would never find her. It was all too close to me; that's one of the reasons I left the States.”

“What were the other reasons?”

“One of my European sources found a woman who fit her description.”

“Surely it was a hoax,” Pfeiffer said.

Mantle nodded. “But I stayed on anyway. I couldn't face going back home. That was two years ago.”

“Then you've given up.” Pfeiffer stood in the doorway between the sitting room and living room and gazed at the painting of the dead bird.

“No, I never gave up.” Mantle sat down in one of the uncomfortable high-backed chairs and watched Pfeiffer. Then he said, “I began painting privately as therapy. But I couldn't live with the paintings. I kept seeing things in them that weren't there.”

“Like what?” Pfeiffer asked.

“I saw demonic faces, strange beasts, my own face, and people I knew,” Mantle continued. “So I began turning my hallucinations into subembeds. Once I painted them into pictures, they no longer threatened me. And I supposed that, by painting my fears and visions, I could trick my memory.”

“Did that work?”

“Not really,” Mantle said. “I found bits and pieces, but not enough to make a difference.” He regretted telling Pfeiffer anything. But Pfeiffer's presence had joggled his memory. For an instant, Mantle had
seen
Josiane; that was important, not what Pfeiffer thought. “I threw out a whole batch of those early paintings. I didn't even gesso them over; they could have been used again. But I had this crazy fear that somehow I would be able to see right through the gesso to the original painting. I couldn't live with them.

“I continued to paint in my spare time—I'm here on loan to Eurofax as a consultant, as you probably know. They kept me busy. Anyway, I traveled inland and all over the coast, but soon I wasn't painting for myself anymore. I began to pick up a lot of commission work. And, of course, I experimented with new kinds and combinations of subliminals, but I didn't use nearly as
many as in the paintings you see around you.” After a pause, Mantle said, “And I see you're still looking.”

Pfeiffer turned away from the paintings. “Then for whom did you paint these?” he asked, making a gesture toward the living room.

“I started making paintings for every woman I slept with,” Mantle said. “It became a kind of game. My work didn't frighten me as much as it had before—”

“What about the work you do for Eurofax?” Pfeiffer asked.

“What about it?”

“Didn't all that subliminal stuff upset you?”

Mantle chuckled. “I experimented with subs as a way of working out my problems, and most of the work I did translated easily into fax and other media. Made quite an impact, actually. On the whole industry. But translating my ideas for fax was a technical, not an emotional, problem. I'm old-fashioned: my inspiration still comes from brush, canvas, and the old masters.”

Don't look so smug, Mantle thought. We
both
sold out.

“You were saying that your work didn't frighten you,” Pfeiffer said.

“Oh, yes, not as much as it had before. So I began trying to trick my memory again by painting the past.”

“But these are all landscapes….”

“The real paintings are hidden under those you see,” Mantle said. “They're models of my memory, sort of. There—” He stepped past Pfeiffer into the living room and pointed at a large painting in a simple metal frame. “That looks like the Cours Mirabeau—see the fountains and the plane trees and smoky sky? But the real picture is hidden in all that prettiness. Look at it long enough and you'll see a Slung City, then the fountains and trees will disappear. And finally, if I've done it correctly, they will both register. Memory works like that. You're gazing at the ocean and suddenly you're seeing a city where you once lived or a woman you've known.”

“They're portraits of your past,” Pfeiffer said, looking relieved.

“As an exercise,” Mantle continued, “I painted some ‘portraits' for friends, such as yourself. Some of the people I never expect to see; in fact, some are dead, or probably dead.”

“Then why did you bother?”

“Anything might help me remember,” Mantle said. “Even seeing you. If only I could remember, no matter how bad it might be, then maybe I could rest.”

“But you know what happened to Josiane. She got caught up in the Scream. She's either dead or a Screamer. Same difference.”

“And you are still a sonofabitch.”

Pfeiffer looked taken aback, but Mantle recognized it as an affectation. “Jesus Christ,” Pfeiffer said. “It has to be faced.”

“I know it happened, but I don't know how it happened, or exactly what happened. I don't
remember
. I can't see it….” For an instant, Mantle thought that Pfeiffer was gloating. Yes, he had seen that. Well, he had confessed, lapsed back into old patterns. It's my own fault, he told himself. But how Pfeiffer must have wanted that confession.

“You can't even remember the Scream?” Pfeiffer asked. “You
were
there.”

“I don't remember any of it. What I know is what I've been told, but it didn't happen to
me
. I can't even remember Josiane.” She's a holo on my desk, you sonofabitch, help me.

“It's the spider and the fly,” Pfeiffer said, changing the subject as if he had heard enough.

“What?” Mantle asked.

“Sympathetic magic. It's as if you thought that you could bring us out of your past with a paintbrush.”

“Perhaps I should have washed my brushes,” Mantle said, collecting himself.

“So you really did want me to come….”

Mantle walked around the living room, as if to gain comfort from his paintings, then sat down on the divan. He had to get Pfeiffer out of here. Pfeiffer sat down beside him. “There's a painting for Caroline, too.”

“Which one is it?” Pfeiffer asked, looking genuinely surprised.

“Aha, that
you'll
have to figure out by yourself.”

“Tell me,” Pfeiffer said, a hint of anxiety in his voice. But Mantle shook his head.

“How is Caroline?” Mantle asked. “Is she still taking those crazy rejuvenation treatments?”

“I haven't seen Caroline for five months,” Pfeiffer said, his face turned
away from Mantle. “We decided that a short separation was in order, what with my work and—”

“You mean she left you.”

So Caroline finally got up the nerve to cut herself loose from him, Mantle thought, remembering. Caroline had been trying to leave Carl since she was nineteen, but Carl needed to care for his fragile flower, his little solipsist, as he called her, lest she turn inward again and lose touch with the world—the real world of Pfeiffer's books and Pfeiffer's career and Pfeiffer's dreams: Pfeiffer, the maddened sleepwalker, the man with no unconscious. Hadn't he started her on her career as a novelist, didn't he correct and criticize all her work, didn't he rewrite her stories, didn't he provide the main income and fame?—Never mind that Caroline had the critical reputation, that her books were all in covers, and that without any self-promotion. But Carl promoted her work, made sure it reached the proper people.

“She didn't exactly leave me,” Pfeiffer said, moving closer to Mantle on the divan. Uncomfortable, Mantle edged away. He felt that Pfeiffer was already suffocating him. Ironically, Pfeiffer had always kept a physical distance from Mantle, who needed less psychological space. Once, before they became involved with each other, they circled an entire room at a press club cocktail party, Mantle stepping forward to talk face-to-face, Pfeiffer stepping back, fumbling for an inhalor, excusing himself to check on Caroline and to freshen his drink.

“I can't imagine you two apart,” Mantle said, excited and elated over Pfeiffer's misfortune. As the old guilt rose again, he tried to press it down like a cork on an opened wine bottle. “You'll just have to be strong.”

“Oh, no, it's not like that,” Pfeiffer said, defensive. “Separation was the natural thing. Our careers were moving in different directions; we began to have different interests.”

“Of course,” Mantle said, becoming fidgety, trying to think up excuses to dissuade Pfeiffer from staying. He sensed that a trap was about to close.

“But that's all in the past,” Pfeiffer said, “and I'm using this time to acclimate myself to my new life.”

“That's very good,” Mantle said hollowly. “I'm sorry to have to cut this so short, Carl, but I have an engagement tonight and…”

“Jesus, I haven't seen you in five years. Is that all you can say?”

“Well, I'm sorry, Carl.”
Take a goddamn hint!
He forced himself to look directly at Pfeiffer who, then, lowered his eyes.

“Would you mind if I stayed here with you for a few days?” Pfeiffer asked.

Horrified, Mantle heard himself say, “No.”

THREE

When Mantle finally received a call from Pretre, he was lying on his bed and watching Josiane move about his locked bedroom as she dressed. She kept turning toward him, gesticulating and speaking silently. Mantle had turned off the audio. He knew all the words: he had run this holographic sequence a thousand times.

He had this room redone as a duplicate of their old bedroom in New York. It was to Josiane's taste: an odd mixture of antiques and modern rounded architecture. There was almost something Oriental about the room, Mandarin. On the walls were mirrors, fanlights, and a glazed and coved cabinet. The bed was beside a computer console built unobtrusively into the ornamented wall; above the console was a large, arched mirror. The slightly domed ceiling was a mirrored mosaic from which hung a chandelier of white crystal flowers. The rug, which Josiane seemed to glide over, was deep red and blue with a floral design that matched the ceramic tiles on the door and lower part of the walls.

It was a mausoleum, an untidy showcase of Josiane's oddments that Mantle had collected: diaries (both his and Josiane's), holos, old fische and photographs, old fax clippings, annotated calendars; even clothes, jewelry, and toiletries were strewn about the room as if Josiane had just left in a hurry. And hidden in drawers and pockets were letters, notes, and various papers; they were the keys to his memory, which he could not bring himself to trust to the computer Net.

Mantle disappeared Josiane when the telie buzzed.

The holographic image of a neatly dressed man appeared, as if seated naturally, in the center of the bedroom.

“Ah, Monsieur Mantle,” Pretre said, mispronouncing the name. “Again I see you have not turned on your visual. If we are ever to meet, how will I be able to recognize you?” Pretre was dressed in brown with a white shirt buttoned to the neck; he looked, as he always did, uncomfortable.

“I'm not dressed,” Mantle lied, “and everything is such a mess.” He made an arc with his arm, as if Pretre could see. But Mantle wouldn't let
anyone
see or come inside this room. “I'm
sure
you'll recognize me when the time comes,” Mantle said sarcastically. “Now tell me what you have.”

“You realize that when I called earlier, I made you no promises.”

“Yes, yes,” Mantle said. “Now, is there going to be a plug-in service or not?”

“A deal has been made with the church to let you participate,” Pretre said.

“A deal?”

“As I explained to them, you are a man of honor and truly interested in conversion. However, if you have second thoughts…” Pretre had the look of a zealot; to Mantle it seemed that all religious fanatics were incongruous-looking, too neatly dressed, hair too sharply trimmed, shoes too polished. They all looked uncomfortable, as if clothes and body were coffins for the soul.

“What do you want in return?” Mantle asked.

“As I said, if you have second thoughts. I really think we must conclude this—”

“Where shall we meet, then, and when?” Mantle asked.

“Of course, when we meet is contingent upon the demise of the one who is offering himself to the church,” Pretre said, bowing his head slightly; oddly, the pious gesture did not seem pompous. “But, as is mostly the case,
le Crier
will die at the appointed time.”

“Which is…?”

“Why don't you take a walk to the Quai Saint Pierre tonight at about eight o'clock,” Pretre said. “It is still Festival, and very beautiful at night. Now, if you will turn on the visual for an instant so I will be able to recognize you—”

“I'm sure my holo is in your file,” Mantle said, about to switch off the phone.

“Ah, but that is not fair, nor is it the way we do things. Now, I have been patient with you; it is your turn to do me the courtesy of proper introduction.”

“All right,” Mantle said, making an adjustment on the computer console
so that only a sliver of the room could be seen. Then he struck the visual key much too hard and leaned forward.

Pretre smiled uncharacteristically and said, “Very pretty.” Then the image disappeared, leaving the smoke flower, the symbol of the church, which dissipated into the room.

Pfeiffer had insisted on coming along with Mantle, at least as far as the quay; he had to pick up the rest of his bags at the old Carleton Hotel, anyway, and he was at loose ends. It was difficult to imagine Pfeiffer without his self-imposed regimen of writing and napping and watching the tube; in the old days Pfeiffer would work all night and never go out. Mantle had never gotten used to the constant clatterclack of Carl's and Caroline's old-fashioned typewriters; in more paranoic moments, he had entertained the idea that they were trying to make him insecure because he wasn't working.

And now the little fisherman has nothing to do, Mantle thought. Then he was seized with the aching loneliness that he associated with Josiane. As always, he could almost remember her; but even in those few childhood memories of Josiane that were left to him, she was out of focus.

They walked south toward the boulevard and the quay. The street was becoming crowded, and the sky was alight with color. The boom-boom of distant fireworks could be heard as the locals kept their holiday in the old fashion. Curfews had been temporarily lifted, and there were children laughing in the streets. Indeed, it was like the old days before the Scream.

“Where are you going tonight?” Mantle asked, regretting the question even as he asked it. He was making small talk because he was nervous about meeting Pretre, who could lead him to Josiane. He would find her, even if it meant passing through the dead.

“More to the point,” Pfeiffer said, “where are you going?”

“I was invited to a plug-in ceremony.”

“Christ, you are morbid as ever. Going to a funeral service on Saturday night. Anyone I might know?” There was a touch of humor in Pfeiffer's voice. “Who is it, then?” he asked more seriously, but he didn't wait for an answer. “I think the plug-in ceremony is disgusting. It violates the dead.”

Mantle chuckled, albeit nervously; if he weren't on his way to meet some unknown, dead Screamer (and if he weren't haunted by Josiane), he might enjoy the cool dampness of the evening and Pfeiffer's prissiness. It was raining hard now; a full moon could be seen as a bright smear in the mist above. But the rain didn't reach Mantle and Pfeiffer, who had activated their rain repellors and were walking along briskly, creating a wake like a ship at sea. “They're not really dead,” Mantle said. “After all, psyconductors can't work unless there is some brain activity. So the person you're plugging into must be alive, at least clinically.”

“But dead in the real sense,” Pfeiffer said.

“It's no different than using a psyconductor in court or family counseling or, for that matter, for pleasure,” Mantle said. “One can't get any closer than by touching another's mind. Brain activity is life itself.”

“You sound like the man who directed my mother's funeral,” Pfeiffer said. Mantle laughed; Pfeiffer had actually developed a sense of humor in the intervening years. Then Pfeiffer was serious again. “It's the same as necrophilia, this plugging-in with the dead. And plug-in necrophilia is actually becoming common at funerals.”

“But you plugged into your mother when she died, didn't you?” Mantle asked, baiting him.

Pfeiffer blushed. “She insisted. When she first became ill, she begged me, and I promised.”

“And was it so terrible?”

“I found it revolting, it makes my skin crawl to remember it.” Pfeiffer quickened his pace, as if he could leave the memory behind. Mantle began to feel more anxious about meeting Pretre and entering the mind of a dead Screamer. Hooking into a Screamer, or anyone who was mentally unbalanced, could be disastrous, especially if one was prone to schizophrenia. The bicameral Screamers, just like our ancestors who heard the voices of the gods they worshiped, carried the voices and visions of their community in the right
lobes of their brains. But to know one Screamer's thoughts was also to know, at least potentially, the thoughts and memories of every other, even those who had passed into the black and silver regions of death.

And one of those voices might be Josiane's.

When they reached the quay, it had stopped raining. The streets were comfortably filled with locals and visitors alike, everyone dressed in costume. A parade made its way down the boulevard like a great, colorful, segmented bug. Light-sticks burned in rainbow colors, held by all manner of demons and beasts and angels and religious figures. Children were up late and cavorting with the spirits, playing
jump-the-cross
and begging for the indestructible American money. Looking across the port, Mantle could see the festival floats covered with mimosa, roses, carnations, violets, narcissus, and hyacinth. The wetness seemed to make everything pellucid, preternaturally bright; Mantle was reminded of Mardi Gras in New Orleans. Indeed, Shrove Tuesday was not far away.

“You'd best get to the hotel for your bags,” Mantle said to Pfeiffer as he looked around for Pretre, wondering if he would come at all.

“There's plenty of time for that,” Pfeiffer said; he seemed to be enjoying the noisy Festival atmosphere. “Come on, let's take some wine before your rendezvous.” Another touch of sarcasm there.

Mantle thought he glimpsed Pretre, who disappeared behind some people. “I'll see you later, then, at the house.”

“Come on,” Pfeiffer said earnestly, “we'll all have a drink together or, perhaps, something to eat. It is time.” For all his bluster and show of independence, Pfeiffer did not do well alone except when he was writing—and even then he preferred to have people around so he could read his work aloud. “Perhaps I can join you. I can wait for you during the service, and then you can show me the town.” He smiled. “I haven't had a woman in some time, you know.”

Pfeiffer's false show of intimacy embarrassed Mantle. Again Mantle felt trapped, as if Pfeiffer really did have hooks into him. “Dammit, Carl, hasn't it occurred to you that I might not feel like seeing the town tonight? Or not feel like seeing you? I have something to do, give me some room.”

Pfeiffer, ever the immovable object, said, “The funeral is only going to depress you. Going out will make you feel better.”

“Fuck off,” Mantle said wearily. “You haven't changed at all, have you? You still can't understand
no
.”

“All right, Raymond, I'm sorry. But you can at least tell me what kind of ceremony it is that you can't take me.”

“The ceremony is for a Screamer,” Mantle said, watching for Pretre. “Now would you still like to come along?” he asked, turning to Pfeiffer. “Perhaps you could plug-in and meet your mother.”

“I said I was sorry, Raymond.” How Mantle hated the way Pfeiffer still used his full Christian name, as if Pfeiffer were a professor addressing a callow, pimply faced student. “You don't have to reach to try to hurt me, especially with my mother. You were close to her once upon a time, remember?” Pfeiffer stood his ground, his presence suffocating Mantle more than the people around him. It was then that Mantle became aware that the Festival gathering was becoming dense, turning into a crowd which might become dangerous.

Mantle caught sight of Pretre and saw that Joan was with him. “Damn,” he said under his breath, forgetting about Pfeiffer, who was saying something to him. What's
she
doing here? Does she think she's going along? Joan had introduced Pretre to Mantle as a favor—she had interviewed him once, she said; but never, never had she spoken of having ever been to a ceremony. He felt conflicting emotions. Seeing her again, especially now, excited him. He loved her more than he admitted, felt protective toward her, and didn't want her around as there might he trouble. But more than that, he didn't want to share Josiane with her. For a split second, though, he considered giving up the whole venture. He could have his own life with Joan; after all, the past was already buried.

Mantle waved at Joan and Pretre, who acknowledged by waving back. They made their way toward him through the crowd.

Could she have been a member of that fucking church all along? Mantle asked himself. Anger and anxiety began to boil inside him. Pfeiffer took his arm to get his attention, “You don't want to get involved with that sort of thing. What's the matter with you?” Pfeiffer asked—a bit too loudly, for an American couple nearby were staring at him. “Plugging into a Screamer is illegal and dangerous, and the fate of the Christian Criers is in litigation.”

“You can't litigate faith,” Mantle said, and then he turned to greet Joan and Pretre.

“Hello, darling,” Joan said to Mantle. She appeared to be out of breath, but Mantle knew that as a sure sign of her nervousness. “I'm sorry we're late…the usual problems. Jesus, it's more crowded than we expected.” She looked over at Pfeiffer and said hello. Pretre glared at Pfeiffer, then turned his gaze toward Mantle.

“Carl Pfeiffer, this is Joan Otur,” Mantle mumbled. Ignoring Pfeiffer and Pretre, he asked Joan, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I thought to come with you,” she said, her eyes averted. “The first time can be a bit unhinging.”

“Then you have done this before,” Mantle said, feeling himself turning cold, and controlled, “And you never told me. Why?”

“I kept losing my nerve. I was going to try to tell you when you came back from Naples. I was going to try….” She composed herself and looked him directly in the eyes. “It seems you have brought someone else, also,” she said, then turned to smile at Pfeiffer, who looked a bit embarrassed and bewildered, as did Pretre. But Pretre also looked anxious.