The Müller-Fokker Effect (32 page)

‘What time is it?’

His radium dial flashed. ‘We got twenty minutes.’

When his hand descended again, it rested on her knee. A moment later it moved up a little; and again.

‘Grover! What are you doing?’

‘Sshh, Amy,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘Amy, you can’t refuse a dying man’s request.’

‘But I thought…you didn’t want to.’

‘I
can’t
, usually. This time it’s different.’

They ripped off each other’s clothing and began, moving over each other smoothly and gracefully as if it were the most natural thing in the world—which to Grover’s way of thinking, it was not.

Upstairs there was a news flash.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States is dead. The wreckage of his helicopter
Little Beaver
has been found. There are no visible survivors, and a denture has been picked up which the President’s dentist identified as the President’s denture, with indentations indicating dental…’

The blast actually drove them into the concrete below, but it seemed to be lifting and opening them, so that they never knew whether death or ecstasy suddenly spilled the universe into their upright souls.

The firemen found them long after they found Fouts (headless, hanging out of the TV set as if he’d been trying to get into the picture) under a heap of shattered boxes and their contents: great mounds of nylon and bright silk and lace, sparkling sequins, taffeta petticoats, ribbons and rhinestones and rouge.

‘But you did say you’d do
anything
if your husband were restored to you.’ Mac drummed on his desk blotter.

The figure in the blanket sneezed. Mac took it for a nod.

‘Well then, I’m going to return him to you. In perfect condition. You can have say two weeks for a second honeymoon, and then I’d like for you to divorce him and marry me. I—er—love you—Marge.’

The figure made a sound very like a sarcastic, snorting laugh. ‘This is fairy-tale crap. If you thawed me out just to torment me, Mr Hines…’

‘Then you don’t believe I can restore your husband!’ Mac pressed a button. ‘Send in Dr Müller-Fokker, please.’

In the dim, distant corner of Mac’s office a door opened. Beaming, a short, fat man in a sports shirt rushed across the noiseless carpet and seized Mac’s hand. Marge, peering from the folds of the blanket, thought the little man was going to kiss the hand.

‘Hines, you old scoundrel, what devilments are you embarked upon this time? No, no, don’t tell me. Mine not to reason why, mine but to reason and accept my fee. Is this the unfortunate wife?’

‘This is Mrs Shairp. Tell her, Doctor, how you plan to recover her late husband.’

‘First let me say that I was uncontrollable, madam, when I learned of your sadness.’

Marge scrutinized his round face. ‘You were supposed to have defected to Russia—anyway, you don’t look like the picture in the newspaper.’

‘Excellent memory!’ Dr Müller-Fokker laughed Saint Nick fashion, holding his stomach and making a show of enjoying the joke of her excellent memory. ‘I shaved off the beard, and the pince-nez have given way to the modern contact lenses. My defection was a sham; I have actually been working for the CIA. And during my stay in Havana, I also put on a few weights and obtained the sun tan. My real purpose there…but enough of me. Let me tell you how we shall raise your beloved Lazarus:

‘As you by now know, Mac has kindly collected all the pertinent tapes. I have examined them and am satisfied the restoration can be done. The first step is to locate the DNA code upon the tapes. With this we prepare a virus, with which the specimen can be infected.’

‘Specimen?’

‘Some volunteer. I had in mind your son’s friend…’ He gestured out the window to where Spot and Willy were sailing a paper boat at the edge of Mac’s private lake. ‘The idiot is the correct size and general build—a little tall, perhaps…’

‘Stop it! You’re making me sick! How can you stand there and talk of murdering…’

‘Not murder. Not murdering, madam. We prepare in advance a tape of the volunteer. And at the first opportunity…’

‘A game of musical bodies? No thanks.’ Marge stood up suddenly, tripped in her blanket and fell. The two men gently helped her back to her chair.

‘Hear him out, Marge, will you?’

‘We infect the specimen with your husband’s virus and then “let Nature take His course”. We kill the virus when the proper physical state is achieved. There will be minor imperfections, some surgery…and I am afraid your husband will always have severe dandruff…but otherwise it remains only to do the forced brain growth…’

‘Please stop it!’

‘No, you do not understand. I mean like a lovely hothouse flower.
We force
the electrical…’

Marge fulfilled her promise to be sick.

She left without making any further promises. Mac called up dozens of times, but the phone was off the hook. Next day he sent a telegram:

A week later, she replied:

………. announcement: Death plan. Trick Him into allowing me to be crucified as a sacrifice to Him; the realization that I’m His only son and heir will kill him. His heart.

Still fixed in my chair still crucified by my own teaching forefinger I run down the solidifying labyrinth, at each intersection another last act of another stale Passion play. The crown of horns explodes in the back of my head.

WHOMS
[enters from stage right, hangs deerstalker on fender to dry, strikes posture]: If any man has free will at any particular instant, and assuming he has the physical means to do so, that man can at that instant commit any crime at all. Agreed?

WHATSON
[nods]: Yes.

WHOMS
[paces excitedly a peculiar labyrinth pattern in the carpet]: Then if there is at least one crime which some man cannot commit, at that instant he cannot be said to have free will. Finally, you could not tonight, genial physician, kill and dissect one of your patients, and therefore tonight at least you do not have free will. And that is but one example. There must be, for every man and for all time, some one criminal action which he cannot bring himself to do, and which therefore impedes his free will. I intend to prove that no man has ever had free will at all!

WHATSON
[opens catch on his doctor bag and pulls out a string of meaty objects]: Not quite so elementary as all that, my dear Whoms.

WHOMS
[examines objects while picking nose distractedly with one chemical-stained forefinger]:
^*
These are…?

WHATSON
: The uteri of six of my former patients.

WHOMS
: Good Lord! Jack the Rip! Then it
was
Barbara and not Bocardo who—then
you
must be…

WHATSON
: Mad? Or God. Correct—that is, I am equipped with free will. Not one action of mine can be predicted with any degree of certainty whatever, Whoms. Surely that is what we’ve always meant by free will—by God—the unknowable, unpredictable, irrational, pointless, silly side of the universe.

[Curtain. On the curtain is depicted an incomplete and distorted table of the elements, the cells of which are also cartoon panels. The cartoons are detailed drawings of the entire play, and of all members of the audience and their reactions. The members of the audience are by coincidence all the people I have known in my life. Upon the curtain are projected a set of maps and views of Cafe Island. After a figure in silver tights and a flowing turquoise cape comes out and lectures at length upon the sacramental meaning of my life, the curtain rises again on a desert island scene. I am looking at a naked footprint.]

FRIDAY
[sneaking up behind me]: That’s your own, you know. I don’t run around barefoot. Too much bloody hookworm about. [He wears neat summer suit, slim shoes, panama. I am of course naked]. You uncolored folk have your own childish preferences, of course. Well, I hope this exile has taught you a lesson, eh?

ME
: Thass right, boss. Lemme go back and work in dem cotton feels. Thass where mah heart is turnin’—evah!

FRIDAY
[as background changes]: And the gold mines?

ME
: That is right with me, baas.

FRIDAY
[as background changes]: And the oil fields, cur?

ME
: Effendi!

FRIDAY
[as background changes]: How about the stables, the kennels, the boiler rooms, the ham kitchens, the transistor factories, the coal orchards, the peanut distilleries, the jello dying vats, the suntan oil refineries?

ME
: Bwana! Sahib! Colonel! Massa! Sir! Gummint fella! Kimo sabe! Chief! Lord! Anything-san!

GASPING MESSENGER
[running in, gasping]: Mr Friday…sir…the whites…they’re…they’re revolting! [Dies].

FRIDAY
: Yes, but what news?

[BLACKOUT]

Mack and Mike, in baggy pants and huge bowties, stumble on stage and go into long extemporaneous and meaningless routine. Unfunny throughout. Audience roars. A typical line:

MIKE
[boffs him with rolled-up newspaper]: But seriously now, are we on tape? Is all this on tape, or is it real?

MACK
: Yes, absolutely [pause for laugh].

MIKE
[boffs—if that is the word for it—Mack again]: Yes, but which?

MACK
: Is a tape reel? Is it in a real state, or the real estate of the mind? Is it aped? If bits of information in formation form real states of mind,
for real
, a stated news format may form new statements: ‘If God bit man, that is not news, but obits. If man bit dog, that is newsreel. If newsman in mental state orbits, reels, reeling off in format information, good news, God knows.’ Hound of heaven tapers into newshound in the reely real bit.

[Mike pummels him to appreciative roars. End of blackout, curtain rises on man in deck chair, picking nose, watching televised self as boy receives First Holy Communion. From time to time a steward comes past to give the man a newspaper (all references to the U----- S----- of A------ have been cut out) or the news that his son is dead].

STEWARD
: Your son is dead, sir.

MAN
: Yes, yes, I know, the old Oedipus switchback thing. Now I’m free to marry his mother.

[On TV I kneel, close my eyes, put out my tongue for God. Old fat palsied Father O’C. makes few passes over the gold cup, comes up with a tiny dead hollyhock seed. Is this my body? The Word is on the tip of my tongue.

But not quite yet. First the doctor gets in there with a tongue depressor, the dentist has to do a little work while I’m strapped into the chair, the Customs man wants to see what kind of dope I’m carrying in a hollow tooth, behind them come cops, linguists, orthodontists, eye-ear-nose-and-throat specialists, spelunkers, crowds of the curious and other cops to hold them back…]

MAN
[switching it off with a yawn]: Wonder how things are getting along in old—Armorica is it?

[Dozes. Flash of dream in which Spot, his son, heaves rock at flame-throwing tank. Nazi soldiers crucify Spot. Marge, the man’s wife, weeps beneath the crucifix. Now and then during her long speech of sorrow and demand for justice, which should be improvised, she slyly hauls on the boy’s feet to add to his pain.]

STEWARD
[waking him]: Your son Spot is dead, sir.

MAN
: That’s about the worst pun in this novel. Are the crew murmuring yet?

CREW
: Why did we ever set sail to find the land of the Iructu? Why did we leave the comparative security of our homeland and set out on this silly quest? We’ll fall off the edge of the sea! We’ll drown among the plankton! We’ll go broke! We’ll get back and no one will believe us! Probably there aren’t any Iructu anyway, and Iructria is a lot of hooey!

MAN
[reappearing among the crew in the vestments of Father O’C.]: Boys, boys! As your spiritual adviser, I thought it was time we had a little chat. We’re about to find and conquer a new and virgin land, fellas, and I think this is as good a time as any to remind you that contraception is murder.

CREW
[begin to mill about, shouting slogans]: