The Man Who Turned Into Himself (9 page)

'You do that, pal,' said the barman, not even glancing up from his paper.

***

That night they were going to a fund-raiser for the opera. When Anne got home Richard was in the shower. When she entered the bathroom, he was in the dressing room getting into his tuxedo. By the time she started dressing he was watching the evening news in the bedroom, but by the time she sat down before her mirror he had moved into the living room. Somewhere along the way they kissed briefly and lied about their day.

In the car he put Vivaldi on the CD. Outwardly he was calm and a little bored, as she might have expected, by the prospect of the evening ahead. Inwardly both he and I were marvelling at Anne's cool self-control. There she was, fresh (if that was the word) from the ithyphallic delights of Balthazar's Motel, her senses presumably still resonating from those hours of fierce, adulterous carnality, now sitting next to him in the car and chatting inconsequentially about Mabel Dodge-Bryan's seating plan and how it had had to be revised five times as several big cheques for the building fund came in late.

'It's just possible, isn't it,' I found myself thinking, 'that nothing untoward was actually going on between them? Aren't we jumping to conclusions on relatively little evidence?'

This had been a private reflection and not meant for Richard, but when a loud snort of incredulity burst involuntarily from his lips I realised that he was becoming almost as deft at reading my thoughts as I was his.

Anne looked at him, startled, and he tried to disguise the outburst as a coughing fit. 'Are you all right?' she asked, with genuine-seeming concern. He assured her he was, and blew his nose unnecessarily, while growling inwardly at me: 'You're crazier than I am if you think that!'

I hurriedly apologised for the thought, and congratulated him on his alertness. 'Incidentally,' I continued, 'there's one thing we should talk about before we arrive. Harold's going to be there tonight.' I only knew this because he knew it, and I was aware that he had pushed the fact to the back of his mind. I thought it better we should deal with it and be prepared for the encounter.

'I haven't forgotten,' he informed me brusquely.

'Hadn't you better decide how you're going to behave towards him?'

'I'll behave just as I always do.'

'Okay. I'm sure you'll handle it.' I would have liked to have felt more sure, but thought it better to boost his confidence rather than undermine it by harping on the point. In the event, I must say that he was as good as his word. He and Harold, fortunately, only had time to exchange the briefest of greetings before he was whisked off by Mabel Dodge-Bryan to meet the guest of honour, a short, pinch-faced Hungarian conductor whose features he had seen on the covers of record albums, compact discs and scandal sheets for as long as he could remember.

At dinner Richard was seated on the top table between a UN Ambassador's widow, reputedly worth three billion, and the conductor's charming twenty-one-year-old sixth wife. Anne was prestigiously seated a few places along on the conductor's left. Harold was on a more modest secondary table. Throughout the evening Richard kept a discreet watch on both of them, looking for knowing glances, little smiles, or any of the tell-tale signs of secret intimacy. But there was nothing.

'You've got to hand it to them,' he said to me, 'they're very good.'

I agreed. It was impressive. Credit where credit's due.

The drive home was uneventful. Anne announced that she was tired — he resisted an impulse to say he wasn't surprised — and put her seat back and closed her eyes. Forty minutes later they were in bed, Anne already asleep, and 
Richard staring up at what little he could see of the ceiling. I remained absolutely quiet, in a state of something like suspended animation. I didn't want to start up a conversation and hoped he wouldn't. But after a while his thoughts began to cast around in search of me.

'Rick? Are you there?'

'Of course I'm here.'

'Can I talk to you?'

'Why don't you try to get some sleep?'

'I can't.'

I knew what was coming and I really didn't want to get into it. But I had no choice. I let him tell me in his own way.

'I've got such a hard-on. A real fucking boner.'

I was aware of that, and told him so.

'Well?'

'Well what? I don't know what you expect me to do about it.'

'What do you think I should do?'

'I don't know. You could jerk off very quietly without waking her.'

'I'm embarrassed with you there.'

'You don't have to be — but I understand. Try thinking about something else.'

'I can't. I want . . . I want . . . '

'I know what you want.'

'I can't help it. I'm disgusted by myself, but I want her. I can't help it.'

I'd been afraid this would happen and still, frankly, wasn't sure how to handle the situation. I decided to meet it head on.

'You could wake her up. You know she usually likes that.'

'I can't! Not after what's happened.'

'It's up to you. I'm staying out of this.'

A lengthy silence. Then: 'I'd think she was just humouring me.'

'So — maybe you should let her humour you.'

'You think?'

'Where's the harm?' I was far from being as relaxed about it as I wanted him to think. It was a risk but, to be honest, part of me was curious. In fact, to be brutally honest, pruriently so.

He turned towards her, slipped his hands under her flimsy night-dress and began softly massaging her body. She stirred, gave a little moan, and moved towards him. 'Mmmmmm, that's nice . . . ' she whispered drowsily. I could tell from the sound that her mouth was turned up in that little cat-like smile she had when she was feeling sexy.

'What is it honey, can't you . . . oh.' She had felt his erection. She snuggled closer to him, running her hands back and forth along its length and making little breathy whispering noises. He was glad it was dark. He wouldn't have wanted to see her eyes. I could hear him breathing faster as she slipped down under the covers and took him in her mouth.

I hunched into the shadows of his consciousness and, if I'd had any teeth, would have been clenching them. I began to wish I hadn't allowed this to happen.

When it was over she snaked up his body and nestled her face contentedly into the gap between his shoulder and his neck, sighed happily, and went back to sleep.

He lay still. He was tense, not knowing what to say to me. I thought I'd better break the silence.

'Well,' I said, rather feebly, 'that was all right.' I hoped he didn't sense the equivocalness in my tone.

'She serviced me.' The reply was flat, bitter, full of resentment. I tried to make the best of things.

'I thought it was very generous of her.'

'D'you think she was thinking about him?'

'I don't know. It doesn't matter. Don't think about it.'

'How can I not?'

'You can try. I'll help you.'

'How can you?' he demanded with sudden bitterness. 'You don't exist. You're just a symptom of shock, like the last time. Either you'll go away or I'll go mad again. I know that.'

I realised I had to do something. If I let him lie there all night brooding like this, heaven knows what frame of mind he could be in by dawn. 'Suppose I can prove I'm real?' I said impulsively.

He was a little taken aback by the boldness of this. 'How?' he asked eventually, half fearing that the madness had already engulfed him.

'If I can show you something that I know and you don't, would that convince you?'

'That depends,' he said cautiously, his mind a no-man's-land of uncertainty and deep suspicion.

I jumped in quickly. 'All right,' I said, 'forget the problems of proving something without external references. Like I keep saying, just take things one step at a time. I probably can't do it all in one night, but we can make a start. You're going to need a flashlight, two pieces of cardboard, scissors and some Scotch tape.'

Twenty minutes later we were all set up in his den. The flashlight was wedged horizontally between two paperweights on the edge of his desk. It was pointing at a piece of stiff cardboard that was being held up by filing cabinet drawers to serve as a screen.

About three feet behind this cardboard screen was a second one held up in the same way. The only difference between them was that in the first screen Richard had cut, under my instructions, two narrow vertical slits which could be opened or closed by two flaps of cardboard on hinges of Scotch tape.

He stepped back to regard it quizzically.

'It may not look like much,' I said, 'but you have just built a serious piece of experimental laboratory equipment. Now, switch off the overhead light and switch on the flashlight.'

The flashlight's beam cut through the darkness and hit 
the first screen, showing both slits closed. 'Open one of the slits,' I said. 'It doesn't matter which.'

He opened one. On the second screen now we saw a narrow, sharp-edged strip of light corresponding to the shape of the open slit in the first screen.

'So far so good,' I said. 'That's exactly what we would have expected to see, isn't it?' I waited for his assent before continuing. 'Now,' I said, 'suppose we ask ourselves the question, what would we expect to see on the second screen if we were to open
both
slits in the first screen at the same time? Logically you would expect to see two strips of light like the one you see now — right?'

'I guess,' he grunted, wondering what possible relevance all this could have to his problems.

'Well, let's see what actually happens. Open the second slit, would you?' He leaned over and did so. 'Now, would you care to describe what you see?'

What in fact he saw, in place of the two separate strips of light that he might logically have anticipated, was a wide pattern of dark and light strips shading into one another. It was a remarkably clear demonstration of the point I had been hoping to make, and I was frankly more than a little disappointed by his response.

'I'll tell you so fucking what!' I replied a touch sharply. 'It's irrational. It doesn't make any sense. When one slit is open you get a thin strip of light on the second screen, but when both are open you get this complex pattern. Why? Have you any idea?'

'Who knows? Reflection or something.'

'No, it isn't reflection. It's much more fundamental than that.'

'So tell me.'

'May we just establish for the record', I said, determined to drive my main point home, 'that, had you thought about it, you would not have anticipated this result with both slits open at the same time?'

'Okay, okay! So what's the big deal? Jesus!'

'Therefore,' I plowed on, 'I have shown you something that you did not already know, but which I did know.'

'I can only give a limited yes on that,' he said grudgingly. 'How do I know I didn't already know it unconsciously?'

'Okay, fair point. But I'm now going to tell you something else you don't know, which is
why
this happens. The reason is that when only one slit was open the light was behaving like it was made up of particles, kind of like tiny bullets or golf balls being fired through the opening in straight lines. But when we opened both slits at the same time, the light changed its mind and started behaving like waves. Try it again, close one slit,' he did so, 'and it goes back to behaving like particles.' Once again a single sharp-edged strip of light appeared on the second screen. 'Open the second slit . . . and we have waves.'

'Riveting.'

'Save your sarcasm and try asking an intelligent question.'

'Is this a cure for insomnia?'

'Okay, I'll ask it for you. The question is how does the light going through the first slit know whether the second one is open or not? It obviously does, because when the second slit is closed the light going through the first behaves like particles. But when the second one is open, the light going through both behaves like waves. So who tells the light going through the first slit whether the second one is open or not?'

Silence. Then: 'There's a catch here somewhere.'

'You have just demonstrated the fundamental paradox at the heart of quantum theory.'

'I have?'

'Actually
I
have. Check it out, you'll find I'm right.'

'It's still not conclusive proof that you're who you say you are.'

'We'll get there. For now you can take some comfort from the fact that you're no crazier than the rest of the universe — so get some sleep.'

'With this baby you'll pick up every word in a room fifty feet square.' The man had a face that was wide, soft and utterly without character, but which, as though by way of compensation, was set in a permanent scowl of surly hostility toward the world in general. His eyes looked out defensively from folds of flesh, alert to insult or offence. To his customers he projected the feeling that they were privileged to get this close without being hit — and they still better not fuck with him.

Richard had no intention of doing anything of the sort. He took the tiny microphone from the man's thick fingers and examined it. It was hardly larger than a pin.

'You position your transmitter within fifty yards, then you can listen in up to five, ten miles away.'

'I don't want to listen in directly,' Richard said. 'I just want to record whatever people are saying in the vicinity.'

'Voice activated — no problem. You set your transmitter like this,' he flipped a switch, 'and either connect your recording device direct via this socket, or transmit and record from your receiver.'

Richard opted for the simpler method of recording direct. He figured he would either use a car parked near the motel, or maybe even rent another cabin on a permanent basis and install the recorder there. Getting the microphone into cabin nine he was sure would present no problems.

The fat man liked people who paid cash, as Richard did. 
'Anything else you need, directional mikes, hidden cameras, they do amazing stuff with fibre optics now . . . '

'I think this'll be fine,' Richard said, taking the plastic carrier in which his purchases were wrapped. 'I'll be back if I need anything more.'

'Hey, mister — ?' Richard paused halfway to the door. The fat man was looking at him with a kind of clumsy meaningfulness, trying to communicate a man-to-man understanding that any problems Richard might have could all be taken care of with the help of this establishment. 'Need a firearm? We have outstanding weaponry.'

Richard glanced over towards the half of the shop where rifles, shotguns and handguns of all description were on display. I felt him tempted, but then he pulled back. 'I already have one,' he said, and went out the door. It was a lie, but I was glad he told it. I only regretted that I'd failed to talk him out of this idea of bugging Anne and Harold at the motel. No one, I had told him, hears good of themselves by eavesdropping.

'I'm not interested in hearing about myself,' he had replied. 'I want to hear about them. I want to know if you're right and this thing isn't serious.'

'And if it is?' I inquired, not wanting to go back on what I'd said, but at least allowing for the possibility of being wrong.

'If it is . . . well, then, I'll take it from there. And I mean
I'll
take it — without any help from you. So keep your damn nose out!'

That was all I could get out of him. He was learning with an alarming swiftness how to screen his thoughts from me. I could still read his mind, I knew the choices he faced, but I could not predict with any certainty the direction he would take. In a way this was healthy. It meant that he was increasingly accepting me as a reality, someone to be reckoned with, related to, and when necessary outwitted. But it did not make my task of maintaining control any easier.

He had been obliged to spend the morning with a group of associates with whom he was building a new condominium on the site of a remarkably fine art deco theatre. It was a moment for some self-congratulation on the way in which the planning watchdogs and preservationists had been successfully outflanked. Richard, however, was not in a celebratory mood. He explained away his glumness by claiming toothache, which also got him out of the otherwise obligatory lunch. I had wanted him to use the spare time by going to a library or book shop where he would find a simple introduction to quantum physics so that we could continue our discussion of the previous night, but we had wound up in this disagreeable establishment buying an electronic bugging device. It was obviously pointless trying to argue with him, so I settled quietly into the remotest spot I could find at the back of his mind and pointedly ignored him for a while.

'Quit sulking.' The injunction took me by surprise. We were in his car, I realised, waiting at a stop light. He was watching the reflection of his own eyes in his rear-view mirror. There was a little crinkle of amusement at their corners.

'I am not sulking,' I replied firmly, wanting him to know that I resented the imputation.

'Come on — you sound like you've got a stick up your ass.'

I didn't reply. But I realised, of course, that this was his awkward way of apologising for his earlier behaviour. I decided to let bygones be bygones. The lights changed and he drove on.

'Anyway,' I said eventually, 'if I were sulking, which I'm not, I'd have every right to be.'

'How come?'

'You accused me of wanting to interfere in your life — when all I want is to get out of it! But I can't do that without a little more cooperation from you than I'm getting right now.'

'What d'you want me to do?'

I knew exactly what I wanted him to do. I also knew how reluctant he would be to comply. 'I want you to make an appointment with Emma Todd.'

He took a moment to absorb this before answering. 'I thought you were trying to persuade me that I'm sane. Now you're asking me to see a shrink. Isn't it about time you made up your mind?'

'I'm not asking
you
to see her,' I said.
'I'm
the one who needs to talk to her. Unfortunately I can't do that without your help.'

'Wait a minute,' he said, 'let me get this straight. You're asking me to go to a shrink and say, "It isn't for myself, but there's this voice in my head wants to talk to you"? You're nuts! I'd never get out of there — except in a strait-jacket!'

'It won't be like the last time,' I assured him. 'The problem then was that neither of us knew what was happening. We were both in a state of disorientation where it took only the slightest provocation to set us at each other's throats. That can't happen again. All we have to do is stay calm and behave properly. We can say anything we like so long as we behave like sane, normal human beings. Well,
a
sane, normal human being.'

He was not convinced. I soldiered on in an attempt to bridge the gap between us.

'The reason I have to do this,' I explained, 'is that an idea came to me during those hypnosis sessions that we had with her. I think there is a way back into my other life, and I think she can help me find it.'

'So why didn't you bring it up then?'

'Because the only thing that mattered then was getting you back on your feet and out of there. I had to pretend I was an illness of which you were being cured. And I'm here to tell you that's a pretty humiliating position to be in!'

I felt him smirk. The notion of my predicament for some reason amused him. I bit back my response, but he felt it none the less. 'All right,' he said, 'don't get shirty. You have to admit it's pretty funny.'

'So are a lot of things in retrospect,' I said. 'However, since I put myself through all that to protect you, maybe now you'll be good enough to return the favour.'

He didn't answer directly. 'You think there's something special about this woman, don't you?' he said, reading my thoughts. 'I think you're wrong,' he continued without waiting for me to comment, 'I don't trust her.'

I didn't want to discuss Emma with him. There was little point in trying to explain the level on which she and I had communicated while he had been in deep trance. 'If I'm wrong, I'm wrong,' I said. 'If I'm right, I'll be gone — and you'll have your life to yourself again. It's got to be worth a try.'

'I'm not sure I trust you any more than I trust her.'

'You're still not convinced I'm real, are you?' I sighed wearily. 'I thought I'd persuaded you last night.' We had, in the sleepless hours before dawn, gone on to discuss some of the further mysteries of quantum physics, using the example of our two-slit experiment to illustrate the dual wave/particle nature of the fundamental building blocks of all reality. He had been moving towards an acceptance of the multiple universe theory when exhaustion finally overcame him and he fell asleep. Now, apparently, it had all been for nothing.

'You can check out what I said in any book on quantum physics, which is what I've been asking you to do. It's hardly my fault if you're too lazy to read!'

He bridled indignantly at this and I realised I had gone too far. He knew that I considered myself more intelligent than him and resented it. It was my turn to apologise. 'I'm not implying you're stupid,' I told him, 'so get off that high horse. I have an advantage on you merely because one of the magazines I happen to publish in my universe is called
Particle/Wave,
which deals with this kind of stuff, and more. As a matter of fact . . . '

An idea hit me like a brick on the head. Why hadn't I thought of it before? Tickelbakker!

'Listen, the guy who came to me with the idea for the 
magazine was doing research at the university right here in the city. It's very likely that he's still here . . . ' I checked myself. I was starting to use language loosely. 'I don't mean "still", I mean also. I should think, because of the degree of similarity between our two universes, that he's also here. It would be easy for you to check. His name's Tickelbakker. Dr Michael J. Tickelbakker. There aren't too many Tickelbakkers around, so it shouldn't be difficult. Just ask for him at the University Physics department.'

Richard took the information in. He was, I could tell, prepared to consider the suggestion, but just now, as we pulled on to the forecourt of Balthazar's Motel, his mind was moving on to other things.

***

The manager of Balthazar's was called Cy, and Richard's assumptions about the place turned out to have been remarkably accurate. Fifty dollars went a long way towards loosening up Cy's tongue, and another fifty ensured that he knew where his loyalties lay.

Cabin nine, we ascertained, had been the regular love-nest of 'Mr Smith' and his companion for slightly more than three months — in fact, since just after Richard came out of the clinic. The timing seemed to support my thesis that this was an affair started under the pressure of Richard's illness and liable to run its course if left undisturbed.

'You don't
know
that,' he persisted, 'any more than I do. But I
want
to know — and I intend to.'

There was no further argument. Cy handed over the key to cabin nine, which was, he said, kept on permanent reservation by 'Mr Smith' for whenever he and his companion chose to make use of it — which was, to the best of Cy's knowledge, three or four times a week.

Richard silently computed the aggregate number of times per week that Anne was currently having sex. He allowed for the fact that she was probably enjoying two, maybe three bouts per session with Harold — which was most likely the case while the affair remained at its height — and was inwardly shocked by the total when added to the amount she was still enjoying with him. I made no comment.

The room itself was a classic of vulgarity. Upmarket though the establishment was, there is in some markets only so far up you can go. The ceiling mirror was tinted pink and the queen-size bed draped in some white fluffy material that looked like washable nylon. But the sheets were clean and the whole place in good order. At the foot of the bed stood a 27-inch television which Richard flipped on with the auto-control he picked up from the built-in headboard and bedside cabinets. It was pre-tuned to the closed-circuit porn channel. He switched it off without even a flicker of interest in the writhing images.

'This is no one-off affair,' he murmured silently, 'it's pure sex! If she can do this with him, she can do it with anybody.'

'Don't brood on it,' I said. 'Just do what you have to do and let's get out of here.'

First, however, he insisted on checking out the adjoining bathroom. It had a double jacuzzi set into a recess with a shower attachment overhead. Over the hand basin was a single mirrored cabinet. I was wishing he wouldn't open it, but he did. It contained half a dozen varieties of love oil, all half used. He removed the cap of one and was almost sick from the overpoweringly sweet smell of chemically scented strawberries. It was too much. He sat down on the edge of the lime-green jacuzzi and wept.

I remained silent. What could I say? But my heart went out to him.

'I'm sorry,' he said after a few moments, 'I didn't mean to do that. I'm okay.'

'I know you are,' I said. 'Come on, let's go.'

He planted the tiny microphone in the side of the headboard where it would be unlikely to be disturbed by maids. Then he made a generous deal with Cy, renting cabin fifteen by the week and with a hundred a week on the side for Cy to 
guarantee his discretion. He attached the cassette recorder to the transmitter and left them in an identical bedside cabinet to the one in cabin nine.

In the car neither of us spoke for a while. Then he said, 'My whole life's a sham. Not just my marriage, my life.'

'Richard,' I began, choosing my words carefully, 'right now you've no better friend than me. I know how you feel, truly. But before you judge her, just remember that night that you told her about me. Well, I suppose
I
told her, or a mixture of us both. It was before we sorted ourselves out properly. But remember when you heard her on the phone next morning, sobbing her heart out at the prospect of having to commit you to that clinic. You can't pretend that wasn't real. You can't pretend she didn't love you then.'