Unknown, p.25
Unknown, page 25
"Here's the mansion, sir," the totally confused chauffeur told Eric.
Frightened, he studied the big open gates, the wide smooth lawn, the huge black road that curved up to the massive house. It's like a castle, Eric thought. Apprehensively he told the driver, "Go up to the front."
Suppose there's no one home, he thought. Suppose they don't remember.
What if someone else is living there?
He left his burden in the car. At once both hesitant and frantic, he walked up the marble front steps toward the large oak door. His fingers shook. He pressed a button, heard the echo of a bell inside, and was surprised when someone soon opened the door.
A gray-haired woman in her sixties. Kindly, well-dressed, pleasant-looking though wrinkled.
Smiling, with a feeble voice, she asked how she could help him.
He stammered, but the woman's gentle gaze encouraged him, and soon he spoke to her with ease, explaining he knew her husband's work and admired it.
"How good of you to remember," she said.
"I was in the neighborhood. I hoped you wouldn't mind if I stopped by.
To tell you how I felt about his novels."
"Wouldn't mind? No, I'm delighted. So few readers take the time to care. Won't you come in?"
The mansion seemed like a mausoleum-cold and brittle. Sounds reverberated.
"Would you care to see my husband's study? Where he worked?" the aging woman asked.
They went along a chilly marble hall. The old woman pushed an ornate door and gestured toward the sacristy, the sanctum.
It was wonderful. A high wide spacious room with priceless paintings on the walls-and bookshelves, thick soft carpeting, big windows that faced toward the white-capped ocean where three sunset-tinted sailboats listed in the evening breeze.
But the attraction of the room was in its middle-a large gleaming teakwood desk, and, like a chalice on its center, an old Smith-Corona from the fifties.
"This is where my husband wrote his books," the old woman told him proudly." Every morning-eight till noon. Then we'd have lunch, and we'd go shopping for our supper, or we'd swim and use the sailboat. In the winter, we took long walks by the water. Winston loved the ocean in the winter. He-I'm babbling. Please forgive me."
"No, it's quite all right. I understand the way you feel. He used this Smith-Corona?"
" Every day."
"I ask, because I bought a clunky typewriter the other day. It looked so strange it appealed to me. The man who sold it told me your husband used to own it."
"No, I- His throat constricted him. His heart sank in despair.
"Wait, I remember now," the gray-haired woman said, and he held his breath.
"That awful ugly one," she said.
"Yes, that describes it," he blurted.
"Winston kept it in a closet. I kept telling him to throw it out, but Winston said his friend wodld never forgive him."
" Friend?" The word stuck like fishbone in Eric's throat.
"Yes, Stuart Donovan. He owns a typewriter store in the village.
Winston spent a lot of time with Donovan. They often sailed together.
One day Winston brought that strange machine home. 'It's antique,' he said. 'A present. Stuart gave it to me." Well, it looked like junk to me. But friends are friends, and Winston kept it. When he died, though-" The old woman's voice changed pitch, sank deeper, seemed to crack." Well, anyway, I sold it with some other things I didn't need."
He left the car. The sun had set. The dusk loomed thickly around him.
He smelled salty sea-air in this quaint Long Island village. He stared at the sign above the shop's door: DONOVAN'S TYPEWRITERS-NEW AND USED-REBUILT, RESTORED. His plan had been to find the shop and then to come back in the morning when it opened. But amazingly a light glowed faintly through the drawn blind of the window. Though a card on the door said CLOSED, a shadow moved behind the shielded window.
Eric knocked. A figure shuffled close. An ancient gentleman pulled up the blind and squinted out toward Eric.
"Closed," the old man told him faintly through the window.
"No, I have to see you. It's important."
"Closed," the man repeated.
"Winston Davis."
Though the shadow had begun to turn, it stopped. Again pulling the blind, the ancient gentleman peered out.
"Did you say Winston Davis?"
"Please, I have to talk to you about him."
Eric heard the lock snick open. The door swung slowly inward.
The old man frowned at him.
"Is your name Stuart Donovan?"
The old man nodded." You knew Winston? We were friends for many years."
" That's why I have to see you."
"Then come in," the old man told him, puzzled. Short and frail, he leaned on a wooden cane. He wore a double-breasted suit, a thin silk tie. The collar of his shirt was too large for his shrunken neck. He smelled of peppermint.
"I have to show you something," Eric said. Hurrying back from the limousine, he lugged his ugly typewriter toward the shop.
"Why, that's-" the old man said, his eyes wide, surprised.
"I know. It wasvour gift to Winston."
"Where-?"
"I bought it in a junk shop."
Wearied by his grief, the old man groaned.
"It's broken," Eric said." I've brought it here for you to fix."
"Then you know about-?"
"Its secret. Absolutely. Look, I need it. I'm in trouble if it isn't fixed."
"You sound like Winston." The old man's eyes blurred with memories of long ago." A few times, when it broke, he came to me in total panic.
'Contracts. Royalties. I'm ruined if you can't repair it,' he'd say to me. I always fixed it, though." The old man laughed nostalgically.
" And will you do the same for me? I'll pay you anything."
"Oh, no, my rate's the same for everyone. I was about to leave.
My wife has supper waiting. But this model was my masterpiece. I'll look at it. For Winston. Bring it over to the counter."
Eric set it down and rubbed his aching arms." What I don't understand is why you didn't keep this thing. It's worth a fortune."
"I had others."
Eric stiffened with surprise.
"Then too," the old man said, "I've always had sufficient money.
Rich folks have too many worries. Winston, for example. Toward the end, he was a nervous wreck, afraid it'd be stolen or would break beyond repair. It ruined him. I wish I hadn't given it to him. But he was good to me. He always gave me ten percent of everything he earned."
"I'll do the same for you. Please fix it. Help me."
"I'll see what the problem is."
The old man tinkered, hummed and hawed, and poked. He took off bolts and tested levers.
Eric bit his lips. He chewed his fingernails.
"I know what's wrong," the old man said.
"That brace is cracked."
"Oh, that's a minor problem. I have other braces. I can easily replace it."
Eric sighed with absolute relief." Then if you wouldn't mind…
" The keys are stuck because the brace is cracked," the old man said." Before the keys stuck, though, this model wasn't typing what you wanted. It wasn't composing."
Eric feared he'd throw up. He nodded palely.
"See, the trouble is," the old man said, "this typewriter ran out of words. It used up every word it had inside it."
Eric fought the urge to scream. This can't be happening, he told himself." Then put more words inside it."
"Don't I wish I could. But once the words are gone, I can't put new ones in. I don't know why that happens, but I've tried repeatedly, and every time I've failed. I have to build a brand new model."
" Do it then, I'll pay you anything."
"I'm sorry, but I can't. I've lost the knack. I made five successful models. The sixth and seventh failed. The eighth was a complete disaster. I stopped trying."
"Try again."
"I can't. You don't know how it weakens me. The effort. Afterward, my brain feels empty. I need every word I've got."
"God dammit, try!"
The old man shook his head." You have my sympathy."
Beyond the old man, past the counter, in the workshop, Eric saw another model. Knobs and levers, bolts.
" I'll pay a million dollars for that other one."
The old man slowly turned to look." Oh, that one. No, I'm sorry.
That's my own. I built it for my children. Now they're married. They have children of their own, and when they visit, my grandchildren like to play with it."
" I'll double what I offered."
Eric thought about his mansion on the Hudson, his estates in Bimini and Malibu, his yacht, his jet, his European trips, and his Ferrari.
"Hell, I'll triple what I offered."
Six more days, he thought. I've got to finish that new book by then.
I'll just have time to do it. If I type every day and night.
"You've got to let me have it."
"I don't need the money. I'm an old man. What does money mean to me?
I'm sorry."
Eric lost control. He scrambled past the counter, racing toward the workshop. He grabbed the other model. When the old man tried to take it from him, Eric pushed. The old man fell, clutching Eric's legs.
"It's mine!" the old man wailed." I built it for my children! You can't have it."
"Four! Four million dollars!" Eric shouted.
"Not for all the money in the world!"
The old man clung to Eric's legs, constricting, suffocating.
"Dammit!" Eric said. He set the model on the counter, grabbed the old man's cane, and struck him on the head." I need it! Don't you understand!"
He struck again and again and again.
The old man shuddered. Blood dripped from his mangled forehead; blood dripped from the cane.
The shop was silent.
Eric stared at what he'd done. Stumbling back, he dropped the cane and put his hands up to his mouth.
And then he realized." It's mine."
He wiped his fingerprints from everything he'd touched. He exchanged the models so his broken one sat on the workshop table. His chauffeur wouldn't know what had happened. It was likely he'd never learn. The murder of an old man in a tiny village on Long Islandthere was little reason for publicity. True, Mrs. Davis might recall her evening visitor, but would she link this murder with her visitor? And anyway, she didn't know who Eric was.
He took his chance. He grabbed his prize, and, despite its weight, he ran.
His IBM Selectric sat on the desk in his study. For pure show. He never used it, but he needed it to fool his guests, to hide the way he actually composed. He dimly heard the limousine drive from the mansion toward the city. He turned on the lights. Hurrying toward his desk, he shoved the IBM away and set down his salvation. Six more days. Yes, he could do the job. A lot of bourbon and television. Stiff joints in his aching fingers after all the automatic typing. He could do it, though.
He poured a brimming glass of bourbon, needing it. He turned the Late Show on. He lit a cigarette, and as The Body Snatcher's credits began, he desperately started typing.
He felt shaky, scared, and shocked by what had happened. But he had another model. He could keep his yacht, his jet, his three estates.
The parties could continue. Now that Eric thought about it, he'd even saved the four million dollars he would have paid the old man for this model.
Curious, on impulse he glanced at what he'd typed so far.
And began to scream.
Because The quick brown fox was something different, as he'd expected. But not the gushy prose of Parson's Grove. Something far more different.
See Jane run. See Dick run. See Spot chase the ball. ("I built it for my children. Now they're married. They have children of their own, and when they visit, my grandchildren like to play with it.") He screamed so loudly he couldn't hear the clatter as he typed.
See Spot run up the hill. See Jane run after Spot. See Dick run after Jane.
The neighbors half a mile away were wakened by his shrieks. They feared he was being murdered, so they called Emergency, and when the State Police broke in the house, they found him typing, screaming.
They weren't sure which sight was worse-the man or the machine. But when they dragged him from the monstrous typewriter, one state policeman glanced down at the page.
See Jane climb up the tree. See Dick climb up the tree. See Spot bark at the cat.
Then further down-they soon discovered what it meant-See Eric murder Mr.
Donovan. See Euc club the old man with the cane. See Eric steal me.
Now see Euc go to jail.
Perhaps it was a trick of light, or maybe it was the consequence of the machine's peculiar keyboard. For whatever reason, the state policeman later swore-he only told his wife-the damned typewriter seemed to grin.
14 - Tanith Lee - Nune Dimittis
The vampire was old, and no longer beautiful. In common with all living things, she had aged, though very slowly, like the tall trees in the park. Slender and gaunt and leafless, they stood out there, beyond the long windows, rain-dashed in the grey morning. While she sat in her high-backed chair in that corner of the room where the curtains of thick yellow lace and the wine-coloured blinds kept every drop of daylight out. In the glimmer of the ornate oil lamp, she had been reading. The lamp came from a Russian palace. The book had once graced the library of a corrupt pope named, in his temporal existence, Roderigo Borgia. Now the Vampire's dry hands had fallen upon the page. She sat in her black lace dress that was one hundred and eighty years of age, far younger than she herself, and looked at the old man, streaked by the shine of distant windows.
"You say you are tired, Vassu. I know how it is. To be so tired, and unable to rest. It is a terrible thing."
"But, Princess," said the old man quietly, "it is more than this. I am dying."
The Vampire stirred a little. The pale leaves of her hands rustled on the page. She stared, with an almost childlike wonder.
"Dying? Can this be? You are sure?"
The old man, very clean and neat in his dark clothing, nodded humbly.
"Yes, Princess."
"Oh, Vassu," she said, "are you glad?"
He seemed a little embarrassed. Finally he said:
"Forgive me, Princess, but I am very glad. Yes, very glad."
"understand."
"Only," he said, "I am troubled for your sake."
"No, no," said the Vampire, with the fragile perfect courtesy of her class and kind." No, it must not concern you. You have been a good servant. Far better than I might ever have hoped for. I am thankful, Vassu, for all your care of me. I shall miss you. But you have earned," she hesitated. She said, "You have more than earned your peace."
" But you," he said.
"I shall do very well. My requirements are small, now. The days when I was a huntress are gone, and the nights. Do you remember, Vassu?"
" I remember, Princess."
"When I was so hungry, and so relentless. And so lovely. My white face in a thousand ballroom mirrors. My silk slippers stained with dew. And my lovers waking in the cold morning, where I had left them. But now, I do not sleep, I am seldom hungry. I never lust. I never love. These are the comforts of old age. There is only one comfort that is denied to me. And who knows. One day, I too…"
She smiled at him. Her teeth were beautiful, but almost even now, the exquisite points of the canines quite worn away." Leave me when you must," she gaid." I shall mourn you. I shall envy you. But I ask nothing more, my good noble friend."
The old man bowed his head.
"I have," he said, "a few days, a handful of nights. There is something I wish to try to do in this time. I will try to find one who may take my place."
The Vampire stared at him again, now astonished." But Vassu, my irreplaceable help-it is no longer possible."
"Yes. If I am swift."
"The world is not as it was," she said, with a grave and dreadful wisdom.
He lifted his head. More gravely, he answereA "The world is as it has always been, Princess. Only our perceptions of it have grown more acute. Our knowledge less bearable."
She nodded.
"Yes, this must be so. How could the world have changed so terribly? It must be we who have changed."
He trimmed the lamp before he left her.
Outside, the rain dripped steadily from the trees.
The city, in the rain, was not unlike a forest. But the old man, who had been in many forests and many cities, had no special feeling for it .
His feelings, his senses, were primed to other things.
Nevertheless, he was conscious of his bizarre and anachronistic effect, like that of a figure in some surrealist painting, walking the streets in clothes of a bygone era, aware he did not blend with his surroundings, nor render them homage of any kind. Yet even when, as sometimes happened, a gang of children or youths jeered and called after him the foul names he was familiar with in twenty languages, he neither cringed nor cared. He had no concern for such things. He had been so many places, seen so many sights; cities which burned or fell in ruin, the young who grew old, as he had, and who died, as now, at last, he too would die. This thought of death soothed him, comforted him, and brought with it a great sadness, a strange jealousy. He did not want to leave her. Of course he did not. The idea of her vulnerability in this harsh world, not new in its cruelty but ancient, though freshly recognised-it horrified him. This was the sadness. And the jealousy.
.. that, because he must try to find another to take his place. And that other would come to be for her, as he had been.
The memories rose and sank in his brain like waking dreams all the time he moved about the streets. As he climbed the steps of museums and underpasses, he remembered other steps in other lands, of marble and fine stone. And looking out from high balconies, the city reduced to a map, he recollected the towers of cathedrals, the starswept points of mountains. And then at last, as if turning over the pages of a book backwards, he reached the beginning.
There she stood, between two tall white graves, the chateau grounds behind her, everything silvered in the dusk before the dawn.
