The Best of Lucius Shepard (10 page)

My
knock roused a stirring inside the house, whispers, and at last the door was
cracked and an eye peeped forth. “Yes?” said Alise.

“Uh,”
I said, taken aback by this suspicious response. “My name’s Lucius. From next
door. I’ve got something to tell you about the people around here.” Silence.
“They’re afraid of you,” I went on. “They’re nervous because they’ve got dope
and stuff, and they think you’re going to bring the cops down on them.”

Alise
glanced behind her, more whispers, and then she said, “Why would we do that?”

“It’s
not that you’d do it on purpose,” I said. “It’s just that you’re...different.
You’re attracting a lot of attention, and everyone’s afraid that the cops will
investigate you and then decide to bust the whole beach.”

“Oh.”
Another conference, and finally she said, “Would you please come in?”

The
door swung open, creaking like a coffin lid centuries closed, and I crossed the
threshold. Tom was behind the door, and after shutting it, Alise ranged herself
beside him. Her chest was so flat, their features so alike, it was only the
length of her hair that allowed me to tell them apart. She gestured at a
table-and-chairs set in the far corner, and, feeling a prickle of nervousness,
I took a seat there. The room was similar to the living room of my house:
whitewashed walls, unadorned and flaking; cheap production-line furniture (the
signal difference being that they had two beds instead of one); a gas stove in
a niche to the left of the door. Mounted just above the light switch was a
plastic crucifix; a frayed cord ran up behind the cross to the fixture on the
ceiling, giving the impression that Christ had some role to play in the
transmission of the current.

They
had kept the place scrupulously neat; the one sign of occupancy was a pile of
notebooks and a sketchpad lying on the table. The pad was open to what appeared
to be a rendering of complex circuitry. Before I could get a better look at it,
Tom picked up the pad and tossed it onto the stove. Then they sat across from
me, hands in their laps, as meek and quiet as two white mice. It was dark in
the room, knife-edges of golden sunlight slanting through gaps in the shutter
boards, and the twins’ eyes were like dirty smudges on their pale skins.

“I
don’t know what more to tell you,” I said. “And I don’t have any idea what you
should do. But I’d watch myself.” They did not exchange glances or in any way
visibly communicate, yet there was a peculiar tension to their silence, and I
had the notion that they were again conferring: this increased my nervousness.

“We
realize we’re different,” said Tom at length; his voice had the exact pitch and
timbre of Alise’s, soft and faintly blurred. “We don’t want to cause harm, but
there’s something we have to do here. It’s dangerous, but we have to do it. We
can’t leave until it’s done.”

“We
think you’re a good boy,” chimed in Alise, rankling me with this characterization.
“We wonder if you would help us?”

I
was perplexed. “What can I do?”

“The
problem is one of appearances,” said Tom. “We can’t change the way we look, but
perhaps we can change the way others perceive us. If we were to become more a
part of the community, we might not be so noticeable.”

“They
won’t have anything to do with you,” I told him. “They’re too....”

“We
have an idea,” Alise cut in.

“Yes,”
said Tom. “We thought if there was the appearance of a romantic involvement
between you and Alise, people might take us more for granted. We hoped you
would be agreeable to having Alise move in with you.”

“Now
wait!” I said, startled. “I don’t mind helping you, but I....”

“It
would only be for appearance’ sake,” said Alise, deadpan. “There’d be no need
for physical contact, and I would try not to be an imposition. I could clean
for you and do the shopping.”

Perhaps
it was something in Alise’s voice or a subtle shift in attitude, but for
whatever reason, it was then that I sensed their desperation. They were very,
very afraid...of what, I had no inkling. But fear was palpable, a thready pulse
in the air. It was a symptom of my youth that I did not associate their fear
with any potential threat to myself; I was merely made the more curious. “What
sort of danger are you in?” I asked.

Once
again there was that peculiar nervy silence, at the end of which Tom said, “We
ask that you treat this as a confidence.”

“Sure,”
I said casually. “Who am I gonna tell?”

The
story Tom told was plausible; in fact, considering my own history—a repressive,
intellectual father who considered me a major disappointment, who had
characterized my dropping out as “the irresponsible actions of a glandular
case”—it seemed programmed to enlist my sympathy. He said that they were not
Canadian but German, and had been raised by a dictatorial stepfather after
their mother’s death. They had been beaten, locked in closets, and fed so
poorly that their growth had been affected. Several months before, after almost
twenty years of virtual confinement, they had managed to escape, and since then
they had kept one step ahead of detectives hired by the stepfather. Now,
penniless, they were trying to sell some antiquities that they had stolen from
their home; and once they succeeded in this, they planned to travel east,
perhaps to India, where they would be beyond detection. But they were afraid
that they would be caught while waiting for the sale to go through; they had
had too little practice with the world to be able to pass as ordinary citizens.

“Well,”
I said when he had finished. “If you want to move in”—I nodded at Alise—”I
guess it’s all right. I’ll do what I can to help you. But first thing you
should do is quit leaving lanterns in your window all night. That’s what really
weirds the fishermen out. They think you’re doing some kind of magic or
something:” I glanced back and forth between them. “What are you doing?”

“It’s
just a habit,” said Alise. “Our stepfather made us sleep with the lights on.”

“You’d
better stop it,” I said firmly; I suddenly saw myself playing Anne Sullivan to
their Helen Keller, paving their way to a full and happy life, and this noble
self-image caused me to wax enthusiastic. “Don’t worry,” I told them. “Before
I’m through, you people are going to pass for genuine All-American freaks. I
guarantee it!”

If
I had expected thanks, I would have been disappointed. Alise stood, saying that
she’d be right back, she was going to pack her things, and Tom stared at me
with an expression that—had I not been so pleased with myself—I might have
recognized for pained distaste.

*
* * *

The beach at Pedregalejo
inscribed a grayish white crescent for about a hundred yards along the
Mediterranean, bounded on the west by a rocky point and on the east by a
condominium under construction, among the first of many that were gradually to
obliterate the beauty of the coast. Beyond the beachfront houses occupied by
the expatriates were several dusty streets lined with similar houses, and
beyond them rose a cliff of ocher rock surmounted by a number of villas, one of
which had been rented by an English actor who was in the area shooting a
bullfighting movie: I had been earning my living of late as an extra on the
film, receiving the equivalent of five dollars a day and lunch (also an
equivalent value, consisting of a greasy sandwich and soda pop).

My
house was at the extreme eastern end of the beach and differed from the rest in
that it had a stucco porch that extended into the water. Inside, as mentioned,
it was almost identical to the twins’ house; but despite this likeness, when
Alise entered, clutching an airline bag to her chest, she acted as if she had
walked into an alien spacecraft. At first, ignoring my invitation to sit, she
stood stiffly in the corner, flinching every time I passed; then, keeping as
close to the walls as a cat exploring new territory, she inspected my
possessions, peeking into my backpack, touching the strings of my guitar,
studying the crude watercolors with which I had covered up flaking spots in the
whitewash. Finally she sat at the table, knees pressed tightly together and
staring at her hands. I tried to draw her into a conversation but received
mumbles in reply, and eventually, near sunset, I took a notebook and a bagful
of dope, and went out onto the porch to write.

When
I was even younger than I was in 1964, a boy, I’d assumed that all seas were
wild storm-tossed enormities, rife with monsters and mysteries; and so, at
first sight, the relatively tame waters of the Mediterranean had proved a
disappointment. However, as time had passed, I’d come to appreciate the
Mediterranean’s subtle shifts in mood. On that particular afternoon the sea
near to shore lay in a rippled sheet stained reddish orange by the dying light;
farther out, a golden haze obscured the horizon and made the skeletal riggings
of the returning fishing boats seem like the crawling of huge insects in a
cloud of pollen. It was the kind of antique weather from which you might expect
the glowing figure of Agamemnon, say, or of some martial Roman soul to emerge
with ghostly news concerning the sack of Troy or Masada.

I
smoked several pipefuls of dope—it was Moroccan kef, a fine grade of marijuana
salted with flecks of white opium—and was busy recording the moment in
overwrought poetry when Alise came up beside me and, again reminding me of a
white mouse, sniffed the air. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing at the pipe. I
explained and offered a toke. “Oh, no,” she said, but continued peering at the
dope and after a second added, “My stepfather used to give us drugs. Pills that
made us sleepy.”

“This
might do the same thing,” I said airily, and went back to my scribbling.

“Well,”
she said a short while later. “Perhaps I’ll try a little.”

I
doubt that she had ever smoked before. She coughed and hacked, and her eyes
grew red-veined and weepy, but she denied that the kef was having any effect.
Gradually, though, she lapsed into silence and sat staring at the water; then,
perhaps five minutes after finishing her last pipe, she ran into the house and
returned with a sketchpad. “This is wonderful,” she said. “Wonderful! Usually
it’s so hard to see.” And began sketching with a charcoal pencil.

I
giggled, taking perverse delight in having gotten her high, and asked, “What’s
wonderful?” She merely shook her head, intent on her work. I would have pursued
the question, but at that moment I noticed a group of expatriates strolling
toward us along the beach. “Here’s your chance to act normal,” I said, too
stoned to recognize the cruelty of my words.

She
glanced up. “What do you mean?”

I
nodded in the direction of the proto-hippies. They appeared to be as ripped as
we were: one of the women was doing a clumsy skipping dance along the tidal
margin, and the others were staggering, laughing, shouting encouragement.
Silhouetted against the violent colors of sunset, with their floppy hats and
jerky movements, they had the look of shadow actors in a medieval mystery play.
“Kiss me,” I suggested to Alise. “Or act affectionate. Reports of your normalcy
will be all over the beach before dark.”

Alise’s
eyes widened, but she set down her pad. She hesitated briefly, then edged her
chair closer; she leaned forward, hesitated again, waiting until the group had
come within good viewing range, and pressed her lips to mine.

Though
I was not in the least attracted to Alise, kissing her was a powerful sexual
experience. It was a chaste kiss. Her lips trembled but did not part, and it
lasted only a matter of seconds; yet for its duration, as if her mouth had been
coated with some psychochemical, my senses sharpened to embrace the moment in
microscopic detail. Kissing had always struck me as a blurred pleasure, a
smashing together of pulpy flesh accompanied by a flurry of groping. But with
Alise I could feel the exact conformation of our lips, the minuscule changes in
pressure as they settled into place, the rough material of her blouse grazing
my arm, the erratic measures of her breath (which was surprisingly sweet). The
delicacy of the act aroused me as no other kiss had before, and when I drew
back I half expected her to have been transformed into a beautiful princess.
Not so. She was as ever small and pale. Prettily ugly.

Stunned,
I turned toward the beach. The expatriates were gawping at us, and their
astonishment reoriented me. I gave them a cheery wave, put my arm around Alise,
and inclining my head to hers in a pretense of young love, I led her into the
house.