Corrupting Dr. Nice (9 page)

"There's two kind of woman,

there's two kind of man,

there's two kind of romance

since time began:

there's the real true love,

and that good old jive;

one tries to kill you,

one helps to keep you alive.

I don't know what kind of blues I've got."

Eyes squinted shut, head cocked sideways, he slid into a discordant harp solo. Owen had never heard the song before, but he knew there was something twisted in the boy's performance of it. The boy did not know how ludicrous he looked. He probably thought he was making himself into a modern man by adopting the time travelers' clothes and music and language. Instead he had made himself into a joke. Despite the champagne and the evening and the woman beside him, Owen felt a wave of sadness.

The song ended and a few patrons applauded. "Isn't this flagrant?" Gen asked him.

"It's a car wreck between the 21st and first centuries. He's singing in the ruins of his own culture, and doesn't know it."

"But it's a music that never existed before, could not have existed before the invention of time travel."

"Doesn't it bother you a little?" Owen said. "Once these people had their own future."

"A lot of that future was misery. For all we know that boy--his name is Samuel--might not be alive without us."

"You know him?"

"I ran into him in the street earlier today."

Owen tried to judge the smile on her face. Was she pulling his leg? "Well, I'll bet you he can't read the words stenciled on his shirt. He doesn't understand the song he's singing. It's from another world."

"He sings it well."

"If we weren't here he'd be singing his own song, not something written two thousand years after he was born."

"Culture is miscegenation," Gen said. "That's how progress happens. Monocultures are vulnerable; they're too easily destroyed."

"Is rape better than virginity?"

"Those aren't the only options. Those are the extremes."

"This situation is extreme."

"We come from an extreme age," Gen said.

"The people we're exploiting think the age we come from is heaven. All that boy wants is to get to our time. He doesn't know he'd be fatally out of place there, and the things that he otherwise would have happily devoted his life to--his family, his work, his god--are devalued into nothing."

"Maybe," Gen said, "but in 70 AD this city would have been sacked and destroyed by the Romans. The temple would be demolished, not one stone left on a stone. The Jews would be dispersed in a hostile world. Because we came here, that's not going to happen, at least in this universe."

"You don't think there's anything wrong with the way we're treating them?" he said.

"If you're a chronological protectionist, why are you stealing a dinosaur from the Cretaceous?"

It was, Owen realized, a good question. Before he could think of an answer there was a commotion in the back of the room. A troop of Roman soldiers, carrying assault rifles, had entered the club. They fanned out, scanning the tables. The manager hustled up to them and an argument began.

"What's going on?" Gen asked a passing waiter.

"Uprising in Salim,” the man whispered in a thick accent. "They’re looking for zealots."

Already a few of the patrons had headed for the rear exit. Up on the platform, the harmonica boy slipped his harp into his pocket and faded off the back of the stage. One of the soldiers collared him before he could hit the men's room. When the boy resisted the soldier whipped the butt of his rifle across the boy's shoulder fast enough to make an audible crack. The boy fell against a table. Without thinking, Owen found himself coming to his feet.

He went up to the soldier. "Hold on there, friend. What do you think you're doing?"

The soldier turned, knuckles white on the rifle, then realized Owen was not a historical. He would not make eye contact. "This boy is wanted for questioning."

"You've made a mistake. He's not a native. He works for me." Samuel had gotten to his feet, holding his shoulder, eyes blazing in the dim light. "His name is Thor."

"And who are you?"

"Owen Vannice, Miracle Optivideo Productions. We're shooting a movie. Thor's an actor from the future. From Cincinnati." The soldier looked skeptical. Owen tried not to sweat. This was exactly the kind of situation Bill was programmed for. Owen expected him to take over at any second, turn Owen into a whirling dervish of cross kicks and lethal martial arts chops. Probably break every bone in Owen's hands, and get them shot in the process. He tried to sound sure of himself. "What's your name, soldier?"

The soldier's brows knit. "You will show me your passport," he said to Samuel.

The boy looked confused. "I have his papers." Gen said, fumbling in her purse. "I hope you haven't damaged that costume, Thor."

From across the room came the explosive slam of a fist on a table. Owen and the soldier jerked around. A slender, fair-haired man was arguing with two of the other soldiers. Owen recognized him as the man from the hotel elevator, Serge Halam. Halam shouted something at the soldiers about thuggery; when one of them grabbed his shoulder he shrugged it off. In the midst of his apparent fury he glanced over at Owen and winked.

"You should spend your time on the real troublemakers," Owen said, gesturing. "If we lose any shooting days because you've hurt this boy, you'll have some explaining to do. Thor, come with me! Genevieve?" Owen put his hand on Samuel's shoulder and pushed him toward the door. He tried to hold his back straight and walk as calmly as possible. Behind them, the soldier hesitated for a moment, then went to help his compatriots with Halam.

As soon as they got outside, before Owen could ask any questions, Samuel dashed off down the street. "Who was he?" Owen asked Gen.

"The son of a historical I met earlier."

"How do you know he wasn't involved in this uprising?"

"I don't. But if they took him in for questioning it's not likely he'd come out again in one piece."

"He probably is a terrorist."

"Maybe. Why did you go to help him?"

Owen felt flushed and a little embarrassed. "I couldn't help it."

"That was some pretty good pretending. Interfering with the past is easy, is it?"

"Entirely too easy. Which proves my point." Up the street the lights of a jeep flared. "We'd better get back to the hotel."

=Good idea,= said Bill.

"Where have you been?" Owen subvocalized. "I could have used some insurance back there."

=I’ve been thinking. Are those Roman soldiers paranoid, or what?=

They wound their way back to the hotel as quickly as possible. Owen was shaking after the confrontation. But at the same time he felt exhilarated. He could actually do things. Gen liked him.

He imagined what it would be like to introduce her to his parents. It wouldn't have to be a long engagement, and he would insist that Mother not turn the wedding into a production. They could live in the town house in Cambridge, and he could lecture at MIT. The more he thought about it, the more feasible it became.

Back inside the hotel complex the dance was over and the white awning of the empty pavilion snapped in the warm breeze. They walked through the gardens to the western wall. He drew her aside. "Genevieve, I won't be put off any more. I don't think our meeting was an accident. I can’t tell you how much fun I’ve had with you."

On the plain outside the city, the glare of floodlights from a hovercraft field obliterated the night sky. A squad of troops was being lifted out of the city.

"You're awfully sure of yourself, Owen. Suppose that little game back there had gotten you shot--it might have, you know."

"That's a chance I was willing to take."

"Yes." Gen looked at him, more soberly than she had all that evening. Owen had never seen anyone more beautiful. "You always try to do the right thing, don't you," she said.

"I know you well enough to see you do, too."

"What if we don't agree what's right? It’s hard to change the bad habits of a lifetime, Owen. There's a difference between you and me."

"You're against marriage."

"That was just a tease. But let me give you an example. Suppose you were celibate for a year--two years. Then you fall in love with a young woman. But she's not the right sort of girl. Your family would never approve of your marrying her. What do you do?"

His heart leapt. "If I love her, I don't care what my family says."

"That's because you're honorable. Me, I don’t get into that fix in the first place. I find me the richest, homeliest man in the room and seduce him."

Owen was instantly deflated. "I see," he said. "You're smarter than I am."

"Just remember that," she said, touching his cheek. "I'm smarter than you are."

NINE: SIMON
AT HOME

It was late before Simon returned to his home in the lower city. A small mud brick building around the corner from a tannery, it stank with the reek of the tannin vats. He walked by the hut of the old woman who lived next door, who had helped Simon when Samuel was small, then through the door of his home.

He lit the oil lamp and put the leftover cheese he had brought from the hotel aside for the morning, not without guilt. He had not kept the dietary laws for a long time. He located a piece of hard greasy bread and gnawed at it, sitting cross-legged on the floor, wondering where his son was. The previous night Simon and Samuel had argued when Simon scolded the boy for running with thieves.

Samuel had fought back: hadn't Simon himself kept company with tax collectors and prostitutes when he had followed Yeshu? The question only fueled Simon's rage.

He knew that he was not as good a father as he might have been. He had tried to set a good example, teach his son to respect God, learning and tradition. They had gone to the temple on the feast days, and despite Simon's poverty, he had bought a spotless lamb for the Passover sacrifice. But he had not been able to keep Samuel away from the time travelers and their seductive ways. What was tradition compared to television? Samuel was no doubt out at that very moment begging at the hotel entrance, joy-riding in some stolen vehicle, indulging in a virtual reality dream at some arcade.

Simon put aside the bread and crawled over to Samuel's pallet in the corner. He searched among the boy's possessions: a music bead for his ear, an English/Aramaic dictionary, a copper bracelet that had been his mother's. Underneath the rolled up robe that served Samuel for a pillow Simon found, to his surprise, the sling that Simon had made for Samuel from bull's hide when he was only six. Perhaps the fact that Samuel had kept it meant that he was not yet completely beyond reach.

Simon slid the sling back into its place, sat by the fire pit. Halam was right: the uprising in Salim would only put the hotel security staff on alert. If so, Simon, as the point man in the assault, was not likely to survive the day. And if that happened, what would become of Samuel?

He thought about those people in the hotel. They would be swept away. They deserved to die. But he wondered what their future world was like. Halam said that in the future the Jews had been driven from Israel and lived under the rule of gentiles for two thousand years. Not only that, but they were persecuted for killing Yeshu, by a new religion sprung from Yeshu's teachings. Flocks of the tourists who visited Jerusalem were these Christians. Simon could not imagine what connection the divine being they spoke of had to do with the wise and passionate man who had been his teacher. Some of these had even established a mission in the upper city to convert followers of Yeshu like Simon to "Christianity."

Halam had outlined for Simon an entire history, none of which would take place since the futurians had arrived. Yet in his own time, Halam claimed, it had happened. Holding these thoughts in one head was too painful--assuming that anything Halam said was true.

Simon had met people in the hotel who claimed to be Jews from the future, dressed more outlandishly even than the Greeks. Their women were without shame. Simon believed in the one God, without doubt, and had felt that His commandments were clear, if not easy to follow. Now, on the eve of the assault his heart told him would bring them freedom, he felt wracked by doubt.

He knelt on his hemp mat, bowed his head, and prayed. Lord, your enemies shall lick the dust! I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God, than to dwell in the tents of wickedness. Head touching the hard earthen floor, he tried to hear the word of God.

Faintly, from the distance, drifted riotous music from the amusement park.

He was drawn from his prayer by the sound of a footstep at the door. Samuel came in, his red robe pulled loosely across hunched shoulders.

Simon straightened. "Where have you been?"

Saying nothing, Samuel went past his father to his pallet. The boy lay down on his side, rubbing his shoulder. The garish suit he wore was torn.

"What happened to your arm?"

"Nothing."

Simon knelt beside him, drew down the zipper and pulled back the sleeve. The corner of Samuel's collar bone was bruised, swollen and turning purple. Simon fetched a basin of water and a cloth. "What happened?"

Samuel flinched at the cloth's touch. "Some soldiers came into the club. When I tried to sneak out they hit me."

"How did you get away?"

"That woman I saw you with. She was there, with a man, and they helped me."

Simon put aside the cloth. "Why did she help you?"

"Does she really look like my mother?" Samuel drew the sleeve awkwardly back over his shoulder.

"She's not your mother. Under that woman's shawl her hair is cut as short as that of an adulteress." Simon paused. He had never told Samuel how rebellious Alma had been. How she had run away from her parents to follow Yeshu, how if Simon had not married her it was likely no one would have. "When your mother died you were too young to remember her."

"If they had not helped me, the soldiers would have taken me to the Antonia, and you would never have seen me again."

Simon stood, feeling the stiffness of his own joints. "If you did not waste your time in those places, they never would have found you. Playing their music, wearing their clothes. Don't you understand that to them you are nothing more than a toy?"

"They have things we don't have!"

"They have nothing that we need. They have nothing that comes without a cost."

"What about the cost we pay by not having those things?"

"Don't speak like a child."

The boy struggled to his feet. "If you had used their medicine, mother would be alive!"

Simon slapped him. Immediately he felt sick.

Samuel looked up at him. In the dim light his cheek was pale from the blow. Without a word he turned and left the house.

"Samuel! Don't go!" Simon followed into the street, but his son was a retreating figure against the glare of the mercury vapor lights at the top of the hill. Simon took a few steps, then stopped. From the direction of the Essene's Gate he heard the sound of trucks shifting gears.

Simon stormed back into the house, kicked over the lamp stand, crushed Samuel's ear bead beneath his foot. He raged around the room, cursing until he was out of breath, then fell to the floor, tears in his eyes. Every year of his life weighed on his shoulders like ten. The world was tied into a knot. He could neither forgive Samuel's disrespect nor feel righteous in punishing him.

After a time he forced himself to move, stirred the fire in the pit, and in the flickering light found the box that held his most valuable possessions. As a boy he had carved the top himself from a single piece of olive wood. He remembered hearing one of the tourists say that some of the olive trees in the Garden of Gethsemane would still be alive two thousand years from now. By tomorrow afternoon, Simon might be dead. Samuel could be dead before the night was done.

Sick at heart, from the box Simon took a photograph of himself and Alma, a still from a digital recording taken soon after the advent of the futurians. No devout Jew was supposed to keep an image of man or beast, yet Simon could not part with this relic. In the picture Simon and Alma stood among a crowd of Yeshu's followers on a hill outside Capernaum. Simon wore the same red robe, worn and faded now, that Samuel had used to cover his wounded shoulder.

When Samuel was three, a few years after Yeshu had gone and the men from the future were solidifying their rule over Judaea, Alma had taken ill. The strangers had medicines proof against all sickness, the promise of which was enough to bend the weak of Jerusalem to their will. But in that day Simon had not considered himself weak. He did not believe the time travelers' promises when they had lied so many times before, and he refused to give in.

So Alma had withered and died in a year, falling into a sleep from which she would not wake, and soon after breathed her last. Yeshu's magic might have saved her, but Yeshu was gone. At the time Simon told himself it was because of the theft of Yeshu that she had died, but since then he had wondered if it had been because of his own stubbornness. Either way, she was gone. Samuel was right.

In the photograph Alma stood at Simon's side, young and strong. He looked into the face of the woman who was now dead, into that of a young man rigid with certainty, untouched by grief. These strangers had control over time, and he did not. Everything was possible for them, nothing for him. Nothing he could do would give him back the feeling that had filled his breast that morning on that hill, as he listened to the nabi speak of the poor and the kingdom of heaven, while he held his wife's hand. Nothing could bring Alma back.

Samuel might not understand, but in order to give his son his own life, Simon would have to act. He put the photograph back into the box and from beneath it took out the pistol. He had learned enough from the strangers to accept this fact: the future was not something irrevocably written. Tomorrow he would begin its change.