Kiss Kiss (4 page)

      
“It does, does it?”
      
“Yes, William, it does. And particularly for a Doctor of
Philosophy. It would be a tremendous experience. You’d be
able to reflect upon the ways of the world with a detachment
and a serenity that no man had ever attained before. And who
knows what might not happen then! Great thoughts and
solutions might come to you, great ideas that could revolutionise
our way of life! Try to imagine, if you can, the degree
of concentration that you’d be able to achieve!”
      
“And the frustration,” I said.
      
“Nonsense. There couldn’t be any frustration. You can’t
have frustration without desire, and you couldn’t possibly
have any desire. Not physical desire, anyway.”
      
“I should certainly be capable of remembering my previous
life in the world, and I might desire to return to it.”
      
“What, to this mess! Out of your comfortable basin and
back into this madhouse!”
      
“Answer one more question,” I said. “How long do you
believe you could keep it alive?”
      
“The brain? Who knows? Possibly for years and years.
The conditions would be ideal. Most of the factors that cause
deterioration would be absent, thanks to the artificial heart.
The blood-pressure would remain constant at all times, an
impossible condition in real life. The temperature would also
be constant. The chemical composition of the blood would be
near perfect. There would be no impurities in it, no virus, no
bacteria, nothing. Of course it’s foolish to guess, but I believe
that a brain might live for two or three hundred years in
circumstances like these. Good-bye for now,” he said. “I’ll drop
in and see you tomorrow.” He went out quickly, leaving me,
as you might guess, in a fairly disturbed state of mind.
      
My immediate reaction after he had gone was one of revulsion
towards the whole business. Somehow, it wasn’t at all
nice. There was something basically repulsive about the idea
that I myself, with all my mental faculties intact, should be
reduced to a small slimy blob lying in a pool of water. It was
monstrous, obscene, unholy. Another thing that bothered me
was the feeling of helplessness that I was bound to experience
once Landy had got me into the basin. There could be no
going back after that, no way of protesting or explaining. I
would be committed for as long as they could keep me alive.
      
And what, for example, if I could not stand it? What if it
turned out to be terribly painful? What if I became hysterical?
      
No legs to run away on. No voice to scream with. Nothing.
I’d just have to grin and bear it for the next two centuries.
      
No mouth to grin with either.
      
At this point, a curious thought struck me, and it was this :
Does not a man who has had a leg amputated often suffer from
the delusion that the leg is still there? Does he not tell the
nurse that the toes he doesn’t have any more are itching like
mad, and so on and so forth? I seemed to have heard something
to that effect quite recently.
      
Very well. On the same premise, was it not possible that
my brain, lying there alone in that basin, might not suffer
from a similar delusion in regard to my body? In which case,
all my usual aches and pains could come flooding over me
and I wouldn’t even be able to take an aspirin to relieve them.
One moment I might be imagining that I had the most excruciating
cramp in my leg, or a violent indigestion, and a few
minutes later, I might easily get the feeling that my poor
bladder—you know me—was so full that if I didn’t get to
emptying it soon it would burst.
      
Heaven forbid.
      
I lay there for a long time thinking these horrid thoughts.
Then quite suddenly, round about midday, my mood began
to change. I became less concerned with the unpleasant aspect
of the affair and found myself able to examine Landy’s proposals
in a more reasonable light. Was there not, after all, I
asked myself, something a bit comforting in the thought that
my brain might not necessarily have to die and disappear in a
few weeks’ time? There was indeed. I am rather proud of my
brain. It is a sensitive, lucid, and uberous organ. It contains a
prodigious store of information, and it is still capable of
producing imaginative and original theories. As brains go, it is a
damn good one, though I say it myself. Whereas my body,
my poor old body, the thing that Landy wants to throw away—well,
even you, my dear Mary, will have to agree with me
that there is really nothing about that which is worth
preserving any more.
      
I was lying on my back eating a grape. Delicious it was,
and there were three little seeds in it which I took out of my
mouth and placed on the edge of the plate.
      
“I’m going to do it,” I said quietly. “Yes, by God, I’m going
to do it. When Landy comes back to see me tomorrow I shall
tell him straight out that I’m going to do it.”
      
It was as quick as that. And from then on, I began to feel
very much better. I surprised everyone by gobbling an
enormous lunch, and shortly after that you came in to visit
me as usual.
      
But how well I looked, you told me. How bright and well and
chirpy. Had anything happened? Was there some good news?”
      
Yes, I said there was. And then, if you remember, I bade
you sit down and make yourself comfortable, and I began
immediately to explain to you as gently as I could what was
in the wind.
      
Alas, you would have none of it. I had hardly begun telling
you the barest details when you flew into a fury and said that
the thing was revolting, disgusting, horrible, unthinkable, and
when I tried to go on, you marched out of the room.
      
Well, Mary, as you know, I have tried to discuss this subject
with you many times since then, but you have consistently
refused to give me a hearing. Hence this note, and I can only
hope that you will have the good sense to permit yourself to
read it. It has taken me a long time to write. Two weeks have
gone since I started to scribble the first sentence, and I’m now
a good deal weaker than I was then. I doubt whether I have
the strength to say much more. Certainly I won’t say good-bye,
because there’s a chance, just a tiny chance, that if Landy
succeeds in his work I may actually
see
you again later, that
is if you can bring yourself to come and visit me.
      
I am giving orders that these pages shall not be delivered to
you until a week after I am gone. By now, therefore, as you
sit reading them, seven days have already elapsed since Landy
did the deed. You yourself may even know what the outcome
has been. If you don’t, if you have purposely kept yourself
apart and have refused to have anything to do with it—which
I suspect may be the case—please change your mind now and
give Landy a call to see how things went with me. That is the
least you can do. I have told him that he may expect to hear
from you on the seventh day.

Your faithful husband
William

P.S. Be good when I am gone, and always remember that it
is harder to be a widow than a wife. Do not drink cocktails.
Do not waste money. Do not smoke cigarettes. Do not eat
pastry. Do not use lipstick. Do not buy a television apparatus.
Keep my rose beds and my rockery well weeded in the
summers. And incidentally I suggest that you have the telephone
disconnected now that I shall have no further use for it.

W

      
Mrs Pearl laid the last page of the manuscript slowly down
on the sofa beside her. Her little mouth was pursed up tight
and there was a whiteness around her nostrils.
      
But really! You would think a widow was entitled to a bit
of peace after all these years.
      
The whole thing was just too awful to think about. Beastly
and awful. It gave her the shudders.
      
She reached for her bag and found herself another cigarette.
She lit it, inhaling the smoke deeply and blowing it out in
clouds all over the room. Through the smoke she could see her
lovely television set, brand new, lustrous, huge, crouching
defiantly but also a little self-consciously on top of what
used to be William’s worktable.
      
What would he say, she wondered, if he could see that
now?
      
She paused, to remember the last time he had caught her
smoking a cigarette. That was about a year ago, and she was
sitting in the kitchen by the open window having a quick one
before he came home from work. She’d had the radio on loud
playing dance music and she had turned round to pour herself
another cup of coffee and there he was standing in the doorway,
huge and grim, staring down at her with those awful
eyes, a little black dot of fury blazing in the centre of each.
      
For four weeks after that, he had paid the housekeeping
bills himself and given her no money at all, but of course he
wasn’t to know that she had over six pounds salted away in a
soap-flake carton in the cupboard under the sink.
      
“What is it?” she had said to him once during supper. “Are
you worried about me getting lung cancer?”
      
“I am not,” he had answered.
      
“Then why can’t I smoke?”
      
“Because I disapprove, that’s why.”
      
He had also disapproved of children, and as a result they
had never had any of them either.
      
Where was he now, this William of hers, the great disapprover?
      
Landy would be expecting her to call up. Did she have to
call Landy?
      
Well, not really, no.
      
She finished her cigarette, then lit another one immediately
from the old stub. She looked at the telephone that was sitting
on the worktable beside the television set. William had asked
her to call. He had specifically requested that she telephone
Landy as soon as she had read the letter. She hesitated, fighting
hard now against that old ingrained sense of duty that she
didn’t quite yet dare to shake off. Then, slowly, she got to her
feet and crossed over to the phone on the worktable. She
found a number in the book, dialled it, and waited.
      
“I want to speak to Mr Landy, please.”
      
“Who is calling?”
      
“Mrs Pearl. Mrs William Pearl.”
      
“One moment, please.”
      
Almost at once, Landy was on the other end of the wire.
      
“Mrs Pearl?”
      
“This is Mrs Pearl.”
      
There was a slight pause.
      
“I am so glad you called at last, Mrs Pearl. You are quite
well, I hope?” The voice was quiet, unemotional, courteous.
“I wonder if you would care to come over here to the hospital?
Then we can have a little chat. I expect you are very eager to
know how it all came out.”
      
She didn’t answer.
      
“I can tell you now that everything went pretty smoothly,
one way and another. Far better, in fact, than I was entitled to
hope. It is not only alive, Mrs Pearl, it is conscious. It recovered
consciousness on the second day. Isn’t that interesting?”
      
She waited for him to go on.
      
“And the eye is seeing. We are sure of that because we get
an immediate change in the deflections on the encephalograph
when we hold something up in front of it. And now we’re
giving it the newspaper to read every day.”
      
“Which newspaper?” Mrs Pearl asked sharply.
      
“
The Daily Mirror
. The headlines are larger.”
      
“He hates
The Mirror
. Give him
The Times
.”
      
There was a pause, then the doctor said, “Very well, Mrs
Pearl. We’ll give it
The Times
. We naturally want to do all
we can to keep it happy.”
      
“
Him
,” she said. “Not
it. Him!
”
      
“Him,” the doctor said. “Yes, I beg your pardon. To keep
him happy. That’s one reason why I suggested you should
come along here as soon as possible. I think it would be good
for him to see you. You could indicate how delighted you
were to be with him again—smile at him and blow him a kiss
and all that sort of thing. It’s bound to be a comfort to him to
know that you are standing by.”
      
There was a long pause.
      
“Well,” Mrs Pearl said at last, her voice suddenly very meek and
tired. “I suppose I had better come on over and see how he is.”
      
“Good. I knew you would. I’ll wait here for you. Come
straight up to my office on the second floor. Good-bye.”
      
Half an hour later, Mrs Pearl was at the hospital.
      
“You mustn’t be surprised by what he looks like,” Landy
said as he walked beside her down a corridor.
      
“No, I won’t.”
      
“It’s bound to be a bit of a shock to you at first. He’s not
very prepossessing in his present state, I’m afraid.”
      
“I didn’t marry him for his looks, Doctor.”
      
Landy turned and stared at her. What a queer little woman
this was, he thought, with her large eyes and her sullen,
resentful air. Her features, which must have been quite pleasant
once, had now gone completely. The mouth was slack, the
cheeks loose and flabby, and the whole face gave the impression
of having slowly but surely sagged to pieces through
years and years of joyless married life. They walked on for a
while in silence.
      
“Take your time when you get inside,” Landy said. “He
won’t know you’re in there until you place your face directly
above his eye. The eye is always open, but he can’t move it at
all, so the field of vision is very narrow. At present we have
it looking straight up at the ceiling. And of course he can’t
hear anything. We can talk together as much as we like. It’s
in here.”
      
Landy opened a door and ushered her into a small square
room.
      
“I wouldn’t go too close yet,” he said, putting a hand on
her arm. “Stay back here a moment with me until you get
used to it all.”
      
There was a biggish white enamel bowl about the size of
a washbasin standing on a high white table in the centre of
the room, and there were half a dozen thin plastic tubes
coming out of it. These tubes were connected with a whole
lot of glass piping in which you could see the blood flowing
to and from the heart machine. The machine itself made a
soft rhythmic pulsing sound.
      
“He’s in there,” Landy said, pointing to the basin, which
was too high for her to see into. “Come just a little closer.
Not too near.”
      
He led her two paces forward.
      
By stretching her neck, Mrs Pearl could now see the surface of
the liquid inside the basin. It was clear and still, and on it there
floated a small oval capsule, about the size of a pigeon’s egg.
      
“That’s the eye in there,” Landy said. “Can you see it?”
      
“Yes.”
      
“So far as we can tell, it is still in perfect condition. It’s his
right eye, and the plastic container has a lens on it similar to
the one he used in his own spectacles. At this moment he’s
probably seeing quite as well as he did before.”
      
“The ceiling isn’t much to look at,” Mrs Pearl said.
      
“Don’t worry about that. We’re in the process of working
out a whole programme to keep him amused, but we don’t
want to go too quickly at first.”
      
“Give him a good book.”
      
“We will, we will. Are you feeling all right, Mrs Pearl?”
      
“Yes.”
      
“Then we’ll go forward a little more, shall we, and you’ll
be able to see the whole thing.”
      
He led her forward until they were standing only a couple
of yards from the table, and now she could see right down
into the basin.
      
“There you are,” Landy said. “That’s William.”
      
He was far larger than she had imagined he would be, and
darker in colour. With all the ridges and creases running over
his surface, he reminded her of nothing so much as an
enormous pickled walnut. She could see the stubs of the four
big arteries and the two veins coming out from the base of
him and the neat way in which they were joined to the plastic
tubes; and with each throb of the heart machine, all the tubes
gave a little jerk in unison as the blood was pushed through
them.
      
“You’ll have to lean over,” Landy said, “and put your pretty
face right above the eye. He’ll see you then, and you can smile
at him and blow him a kiss. If I were you I’d say a few nice
things as well. He won’t actually hear them, but I’m sure he’ll
get the general idea.”
      
“He hates people blowing kisses at him,” Mrs Pearl said. “I’ll
do it my own way if you don’t mind.” She stepped up to the
edge of the table, leaned forward until her face was directly
over the basin, and looked straight down into William’s eye.
      
“Hallo, dear,” she whispered. “It’s me—Mary.”
      
The eye, bright as ever, stared back at her with a peculiar,
fixed intensity.
      
“How are you, dear?” she said.
      
The plastic capsule was transparent all the way round so
that the whole of the eyeball was visible. The optic nerve
connecting the underside of it to the brain looked like a short
length of grey spaghetti.
      
“Are you feeling all right, William?”
      
It was a queer sensation peering into her husband’s eye
when there was no face to go with it. All she had to look at
was the eye, and she kept staring at it, and gradually it grew
bigger and bigger, and in the end it was the only thing that
she could see—a sort of face in itself. There was a network of
tiny red veins running over the white surface of the eyeball,
and in the ice-blue of the iris there were three or four rather
pretty darkish streaks radiating from the pupil in the centre.
The pupil was large and black, with a little spark of light
reflecting from one side of it.
      
“I got your letter, dear, and came over at once to see how
you were. Dr Landy says you are doing wonderfully well.
Perhaps if I talk slowly you can understand a little of what I
am saying by reading my lips.”
      
There was no doubt that the eye was watching her.
      
“They are doing everything possible to take care of you,
dear. This marvellous machine thing here is pumping away all
the time and I’m sure it’s a lot better than those silly old hearts
all the rest of us have. Ours are liable to break down at any
moment, but yours will go on for ever.”
      
She was studying the eye closely, trying to discover what
there was about it that gave it such an unusual appearance.
      
“You seem fine, dear, simply fine. Really you do.”
      
It looked ever so much nicer, this eye, than either of his
eyes used to look, she told herself. There was a softness about
it somewhere, a calm, kindly quality that she had never seen
before. Maybe it had to do with the dot in the very centre,
the pupil. William’s pupils used always to be tiny black
pinheads. They used to glint at you, stabbing into your brain,
seeing right through you, and they always knew at once what
you were up to and even what you were thinking. But this
one she was looking at now was large and soft and gentle,
almost cowlike.
      
“Are you quite sure he’s conscious?” she asked, not looking
up.
      
“Oh yes, completely,” Landy said.
      
“And he
can
see me?”
      
“Perfectly.”
      
“Isn’t that marvellous? I expect he’s wondering what
happened.”
      
“Not at all. He knows perfectly well where he is and why
he’s there. He can’t possibly have forgotten that.”
      
“You mean he
knows
he’s in this basin?”
      
“Of course. And if only he had the power of speech, he
would probably be able to carry on a perfectly normal
conversation with you this very minute. So far as I can see, there
should be absolutely no difference mentally between this
William here and the one you used to know back home.”
      
“Good
gracious
me,” Mrs Pearl said, and she paused to consider
this intriguing aspect.
      
You know what, she told herself, looking behind the eye
now and staring hard at the great grey pulpy walnut that lay
so placidly under the water. I’m not at all sure that I don’t
prefer him as he is at present. In fact, I believe that I could
live very comfortably with this kind of a William. I could
cope with this one.
      
“Quiet, isn’t he?” she said.
      
“Naturally he’s quiet.”
      
No arguments and criticisms, she thought, no constant
admonitions, no rules to obey, no ban on smoking cigarettes,
no pair of cold disapproving eyes watching me over the top
of a book in the evenings, no shirts to wash and iron, no meals
to cook—nothing but the throb of the heart machine, which
was rather a soothing sound anyway and certainly not loud
enough to interfere with television.
      
“Doctor,” she said. “I do believe I’m suddenly getting to feel
the most enormous affection for him. Does that sound queer?”
      
“I think it’s quite understandable.”
      
“He looks so helpless and silent lying there under the water
in his little basin.”
      
“Yes, I know.”
      
“He’s like a baby, that’s what he’s like. He’s exactly like a
little baby.”
      
Landy stood still behind her, watching.
      
“There,” she said softly, peering into the basin. “From now
on Mary’s going to look after you
all
by herself and you’ve
nothing to worry about in the world. When can I have him
back home, Doctor?”
      
“I beg your pardon?”
      
“I said when can I have him back—back in my own house?”