A man cannot free himself from the past more easily than he can from his own body. -- André Maurois
If I could drop dead right now, I'd be the happiest man alive. -- Spike Spiegel
-
Lying, lying on cold floor, cold stairs, hands full of blood.
Soon the time will stop, in the middle of scarlet bath.
Earth path have its hidden purpose. My drew by shining blade.
Mysterious hand of someone invisible above, is extinguishing the star of my living.
Slowly, the matter is vanishing from packet and earth will accept the body back.
Only my own mulishness kept me alive till this moment.
Saw it, saw it.
Saw the light.
And then, Spike Spiegel died...
-
Then piece of ceiling, what fell on my head, woke me up.
There was no time to reflect nonsense dreams, so I set on path.
-
The gravitate facade of the Tharis Historical Society stretched from 76th to 77th St. in a single crisp classical gestalt. Ionic columns rose from a fortress-like base, at the center of which the museum's small entry looked like an afterthought, as though the architect only reluctantly had conceded the possibility that people might go in and out. Inside the revolving door there was a desk, where a large sing informed me of the admission charges. The ticket agent looked up inquiringly from the paper back he was reading and said.
"Would you like a ticket, Sir?"
I agreed, he took my money, and torn ticket in half, putting it in a box by his side. I saw a large free-standing bulletin board which showed me the maps of each floor of the museum. There was a special exhibition of 19th century portraits of famous Earth artists in the first floor galleries to the north and south. Ahead of me to the west was a broad double-staircase mounting to the second floor. I went up the staircase, which took a ninety-degree twist to the left on the way. The second floor was to the east. I entered the gallery devoted to the Neustandt Collection of Tiffany lamps. I began to feel as i did on entering the sauna, a giddiness and trembling, a sense of my mind speeding away from my will's control with a purpose all its own. But i didn't faint. I just stood there spellbound, until i heard, close at hand, a voice that whispered.
"John, darling John." I turned around. It was Alice.
"Do you remember the first time that I brought you here?" She asked me.
"No, I can't remember anything." I answered.
"We kissed beside this very lamp that you've been standing here staring at so long. And the vow we swore."
She placed her hands, gently, on my shoulders, and tilted her head back, closing her eyes as she did so. She waited for my kiss. I kissed her and she yielded to my lips.
"Does that mean what I hope it does?" She asked me when she has caught her breath.
"Will you marry me now?"
But all that was just my hormones.
"No."
If looks could kill, the Neustadt Collection would just had acquired a corpse.
"Damn you, John. I guess you're too confused to think straight. Let's talk it out. Ask me what you need to know." She then said.
"Who is Spike Spiegel?" I asked question what rang in my head for some time now.
"Maybe Spike Spiegel is only a role you've played, one among many - though I doubt that any of your other roles paid so well. It all started a year ago when some guy got busted for drugs. You wanted to start a new life when you 'died'. So between the bust and his trial, while he was out on bail, he contacted you and got you to agree to go down there and stand trial for him - and serve his time, if you had to." She continued.
"You took his place, and got sentenced to five years at Earth's prison. Your physical resemblance must have been uncanny, but I've never laid eyes on him." I didn't remember anything.
"As soon as you went to prison, he had to go into hiding, and then, when you escaped, killing a guard in the process he was in a fix. And very pissed off with you, I would think. Anyhow now you know as much as I do about it. And you may appreciate a little better the wisdom of emigrating to Ganymede. How about it? Does a fishing look more appealing now?" She finished.
"I hate fish." I answered.
"Well, John, you cannot blame a girl for trying." Said Alice, as tears began to well up the recesses of her eyes.
"What happened in the prison?" But i was too concerned on my past.
"First you were busted for drugs, now you're wanted for murder! That's the real reason for going to Ganymede. I can't tell you any more about your escape or the guard you killed. Anyhow by the time we met you only had a couple of memories left from that time. Something about a bowl of chili with a dead tarantula in it." She finished and i remembered that dream.
"Do you know Ann?" I asked again.
"I don't know the woman from Eve. I found a letter she'd written to you once inside a desk drawer. I remember the name on the letterhead. Out of jealousy, I suppose. When we parted company in the chapel, I left notes for you everywhere I could think that you might show up. And the one I left with Ann was the one that got through."
"What about the hotel?" I continued.
"The Sunderland is where you've been staying. We are supposed to get married there one of these days, you know."
"That 'Luke' figure is your father?"
"He isn't. I guess you sensed that, didn't you? I don't know that much more about him - and I don't want to. The shotgun wedding scenario was all his idea." She started again.
"He said that with your amnesia getting worse every day that only an overt threat would get you moving. I was reluctant, but I went along with the idea for your sake, John. You've got to believe that." Alice made that look again.
"Who the hell is 'John'!" I shouted from anger with repeating of that name.
"Sorry, I cannot tell you anything about that." Alice shook her head.
That woman, Ann, why I said that?
"Who is Julia?"
Alice ignored my question and gave me a cutting look.
"All these questions, questions, questions are getting us nowhere. You really never loved anyone but..."
She hesitated and then smiled.
"...Julia. Good-bye and good riddance!" There were tears in her eyes as she turned and left the hall.
But that is a lie.
I left the museum.
"Hey there, you in the white tux. Come here!" A voice hailed me.
I looked about to see who called out to me, and saw a young man seated on the curb, who gestured for me to come nearer. He was wearing the classic uniform of a bohemian - blue jeans, a black leather jacket, and a black beret. His goatee matched his clothes. There was a sketchpad propped against the back of the bench, with a sing carefully handlettered on the page turned open to view.
Your portrait in charcoal.
The young man saw me reading his sing and smiled.
"I like that white suit. It's classic." He held out his hand to greet me.
"My name's Tony." He said.
"I'm... John." I responded to his invitation with a cautions handshake. He didn't seem to mind my reticence, for he asked.
"Want to have your portrait drawn?"
"Uh, why not?" I answered his invitation.
"Great! Just take a seat here on the bench, and I'll be done in a jiffy."
I sat on the bench, and Tony began his sketch. He worked quickly, keeping up a steady stream of chatter all the while concerning the fascination of my white tuxedo. In a few minutes he finished the sketch and handed it to me to look at. It was evident from his careful rendering of my tuxedo and much-erased blur of my face that Tony's interest really concentrated on my clothes and not on the person wearing them. Tony apologized for the poor likeness, and explained that his real ambition is to be a fashion designer.
"I guess I'm just not cut out for this sort of work. Almost everyone who sits for a portrait decides not to buy it once they see it. Can you draw a good likeness?" He asked all of a sudden
"I don't know." I told him quite honestly.
"Here, try it. Draw me." He said handing me a stick of charcoal and a kneaded eraser.
I finished my attempt to draw Tony, and he looked at my work.
"That's okay. It's better than my stuff." He admitted.
"I'll tell you what. I got a proposition."
"I got few woolongs so far doing this. I'll give you hundred, plus this sketchpad, and the charcoal, and the clothes I got on, if you'll let me have that white tux. We're about the same size. I know a place in the park where we can switch clothes without anyone seeing. What do you say?"
"Sounds good." I already got tired from that dress.
"Ok, follow me."
After some distance, i came to a part of Park, where Tony judged it to will be safe to change. He stepped behind a thick strand of bushes and began to take off his clothes.
"Come on, Strip!" He said.
I stepped behind the bushes and hesitated. I felt embarrassed.
"Hey, come on. Save the blushes till later." Tony urged.
I pulled off my pants, and a momentary flash of memory tingled my mind as the breeze tingled the bare skin of my legs. I saw myself standing in a room. I'm changing personalities, names, lives, just as easily as i stood in Park and changed my clothes. I was in a tiny apartment, but since it took no space to change into else its size was of no importance. Alice stood there with me, smiling. And then the memory was gone like the breeze what brought it. I and Tony stepped out from behind the bushes, in the white tuxedo he looked like a shy usher at a stranger's wedding.
"Go down to the park at Delta Square in the village and draw there. You should have good business at the park, and the police will not bother you." Tony said good-bye.
I made my way into that Delta Square park.
It was a sunny day, and park was full of people. Some sat in groups on the rim of the central waterless fountain, some played a conceptual version of volleyball without a net. There were dog-walkers and girl-watchers, rollerskaters and derelicts in various stages of disintegration. The paths were full of strollers, and the benches packed with people eating hotdogs or reading newspapers or talking to each other. One corner of the park was given over to chess-players, and nearby a man with a sketchpad just like mine was completing a sketch of a woman. When he was done, she paid him and took the sketch. Then they left in opposite directions, leaving the bench they'd occupied up for grabs. I sat at the empty bench and opened the sketchpad to the page bearing the hand-lettered sing. I propped the sketchpad against the back of the bench, assumed an artistic expression, and waited for a fish to take the bait. A few people glanced my sing as they passed by, but none even slowed down. Finally someone appeared interested. A pair of teenagers, one blonde, the other brunette, came to a halt some few feet from the bench and conferred in whisper.
"Can we see one of your sketches?"
I showed them the sketch of Tony i did earlier, and they conferred again. The brunette seemed eager to have me do her portrait, but she had not enough money. Reluctantly her friend loaned her few woolongs.
"Okay." the brunette said, and sat down stiffly on the edge of the bench to pose.
"But if I don't like it, I don't have to buy it. Okay?" I nodded my acquiescence.
"Should I smile?" She asked.
"No." I said and she complied with a nod, and slowly her face relaxed into an expression of dreamy tranquility. It was the face of an angel.
I rapidly sketched the brunette's angelic face, capturing the essence of her dreamy beauty. The result was somewhere between Raphael and a very expensive Valentine's Day card. I finished the drawing with a flourish, and she asked to see it. She reacted to her portrait with an exclamation of pleasure.
"It's wonderful! It looks just like me, doesn't it, Jill?" The blonde took the sketch.
"Not bad." She conceded grudgingly. I asked for my money and got it with a tip besides.
"Thank you so much. I'm going to have it framed and give it to my fiance for his birthday." Brunette said.
"You're welcome..."
Two girls left me and i remained on the bench, glowed with a sense of professional accomplishment.
Maybe i was a painter... yeah right.
I waited again.
Finally one of the denizens of Delta Square paused before my bench to ponder at my sing. He was about forty years old, and about many pounds overweight, and he was dressed like Roy Rogers. His cowboy hat alone must have cost decent sum of woolongs and the deaths of a large family of rabbits.
"Howdy. Think you could do MY portrait, pardner?" He said. I thought all cowboys died.
"Of course, thats why I'm here." I replied.
The urban cowboy took a seat at the other end of the bench and adjusted the brim of his hat.
"Ya want to have me lookin' right at ya, pardner, or ya want my profile?" He asked.
"Look straight at me."
He faced me and assumed a poker-faced expression.
I decided to draw him warts and all. I tried to make the broad curve of his chin a graceful curve that complemented the curve of his Stetson - though it was no compliment to him. I finished the drawing and he asked to see it. His first reaction to my portrait was ill-concealed dismay, but then he took the sketchpad to study it more carefully.
"Well, pardner, I could wish I had a different shape of chin, but I reckon that's my own lookout. The drawin' itself ain't half bad. Here."
He peeled off a few woolong bills from a thick roll.
"Keep the change. Ya look like you can use it." He took the sketch and walked off, fingering his flabby chin with a thoughtful expression.
I waited long three hours until some other customer appeared.
"You do pore-traits?"
A twangy voice inquired, rousing me from a half-doze. I looked up into the wizened face of a man wearing a tarboosh-style hat with the emblem of the Fraternal order of Shrines and his hometown embroidered on it. He was dressed in a bright plaid jacket and red Bermuda shorts, and the name on badge on the lapel of his jacket said. 'Hi My Name Is Bud!'.
"Yes i do." I assured him. And he took a seat on the bench.
"Well, I could use the rest," he said with a sigh. "I tied one last night. You Tharis people sure know how to have a good time. Well, what are you waiting for - do my pore-trait."
I began to do his portrait but only set down the first few lines defying the volumes of his head when his eyes slowly dropped closed and he began to quietly snore. His head remained erect, and i was able to continue drawing him. The wrinkles presented an interesting technical problem, but i managed to render them realistically without making him look like a giant prune. The result was a good drawing but rather comical in its effect. As i putted the finishing touches, he woke up, blinked away in confusion, and asked to see what i done.
"Why, it looks just like me!" he said admiringly. "Maybe you went a bit overboard on the wrinkles, but you did the eyes just the way they were! Here's your money."
He took it from his wallet and gave it to me in exchange for the rolled-up sketch.
"Thank you young fella, this will make a fine souvenir of Tharis." He said as he left the park.
While i was waiting for another customer, i became aware that i was being scrutinized intently by a woman standing some twenty feet away. She came closer. I smiled, and that seemed to stop her in her tracks.
"Hello." I said and she smiled uncertainly and came a few steps nearer the bench.
"You... draw portraits?" She asked in the tone of voice of someone first arriving at Oz.
"Of course." I said, already well placed in my new job.
She sat at the other end of the bench and regarded me wonderingly.
"Very well, then draw me. I will sit here and not say a word." She took off the camera what she carried by a strap round her neck and placed it beside her.
I opened the sketchpad to a fresh sheet and took the stick of charcoal in my right hand. I noticed that my hand was trembling, and that my forehead broke out in a cold sweat. I looked at the woman before me and felt an indescribable sweetness. I placed each line upon the paper as carefully as if my life depended on it, as if it were a tightrope on which i was balancing above an abyss. Slowly a likeness formed upon the sheet of paper. But it was no more than that, an amateurish scrawl, and the wild hope that first inspired me, began to fade - the hope that she will see in what i drew the same pale reflection of these extraordinary feelings, this wonderful sweetness that could be, i realized, described - by a single word. The stick of charcoal snapped in my fingers, and i dropped the pad and the charcoal, and at that moment she burst into tears.
"Spike!" She cried aloud.
"It is you! It is! Oh, Spike, I thought you'd left me. I thought you were dead. But you're alive!"
"What's your name?" I asked her, because of amnesia.
"My name?" Her delight clouded with bewilderment.
"It's same name it's always been, Faye Valentine! You don't suppose that I'd married since... you went away. Where have you been, Spike? Why didn't you call? I've been so worried. And seeing you like this, drawing portraits on the street. I don't understand." She said.
"Me neither. Since some time I'm not able to remember anything, nothing. Just scraps from my childhood. Like if someone took away my memories... I have, amnesia." She was astonished, but not skeptical.
"So you reached your goal, you forgot your past..." She stood up decisively from the bench and slang her camera back around her neck.
"We'll go to the place I've sublet on Gramercy Park. It's only a studio, I'm afraid, and you'll have to sleep on a sofa. But that's nothing new for you. It's so strange having to explain all this to you. When I think of all the times that we --" She broke off, blushing, and then laughed aloud.
"But I'm so happy! Come on --" She held her hand out to me.
"Let's stroll back to my place."
She took my hand and led me from the square. On the way to Gramercy Park Faye, dismissed all my questions by her kisses.
"What's so wonderful, is that you've fallen in love with me at second sight - for second time!"
I entered the lobby of a small apartment building identified by its canvas canopy as the Noblese. I was introduced to the doorman as a houseguest who was to be admitted into building at any time. In the elevator going up to her fifth floor apartment my rediscovered beloved re-introduced herself affectionately. She was Faye Valentine; single, age 24, a former bounty hunter now a fashion photographer by profession, and a woman madly in love with a mysterious stranger, me. The elevator arrived at 5, and Faye led the way to Apartment 5E, unlocked the door, opened and stood aside for me to enter. I entered the apartment and Faye followed me inside.
"Welcome. Now, why don't you sit down and ask all those questions you're obviously bursting with. But first, do you want a drink?" She asked then.
"Why not?" Meanwhile i tried hard to remember.
"I can't offer more than a glass of wine, I'm afraid." Faye said as she got out a bottle of wine and two wine glasses. She gave me one of the glasses.
The two of us drank the wine, and Faye disposed of the two dirty glasses when i was through.
"I hope the place doesn't give you claustrophobia. It costs five thousand a month to sublet, and for this neighborhood, that's a bargain. But it is small for two people."
I spent a quite a while talking with this woman named Faye - learning who she really was, and learning how much i meant to her. When I looked at the time, it was after nine p.m.
"Do you know any John Cameron III?" I asked.
"I don't know anything about him." She replied.
"Who am I? Am i that Spike, who is he? What was he like?" I was desperate.
"I could tell you many things about the man, and he went by the name of Spike Spiegel, but I never learned very much about the life history of Spike Spiegel. You were stubborn, idiotic, asshole and imbecile. But quite a good guy." She then said.
She walked over to bed.
Impulsively i kissed Faye, and she responded like a dam bursting. Her fingers clawed my back, tangled my hair, and touched all my buttons. Her arms slipped around my body. Our tongues took taste tests of each other's flesh. The temperature arose, the beat accelerated, and one thing led to another.
-
Faye declared that she must be early the next day for work. After we each had a shower, we went to bed together on the unfolded sofa and were soon asleep.
When i woke up, i found Faye almost ready to depart for the day.
She announced that it was time for her to go to work, and that she'll be back around six. She gave me a kiss on her way out the door, then left.
I looked around the room...
"Thank heaven," Faye said, bursting into the room breathlessly.
"I thought of this before I got out of the lobby - you might come down with a recurrence of your damned amnesia. And if you do, I don't want you to disappear again. So roll up your sleeve, please. This won't hurt, I promise."
"What the hell are you doing Faye?"
With a felt-tip maker Faye wrote her telephone number in large letters on my left wrist: 555-0042.
"I've gotten this ink on my hands by accident a couple of times and it's nearly impossible to wash off. So here you are, tattooed with your lady's phone number! How's that for romantic!" Faye promised not to surprise me again, then closed the door behind her on her way to work.
I looked around once again.
Faye's apartment represented, spatially, the Minimum Daily Requirement for a civilized life. The single large window closed, and was shaded by the blinds which were also closed. The kitchenette in the far corner, equipped with a small refrigerator surmounted by a microwave oven. In the same corner was a round glass top table with two ice-cream parlor chairs. The table clearly doubled as a desk, for it was strewed with letters, bills and contact sheets, just as the sofa doubled as bed when it folded out. There was a large walk-in closet facing the entrance of the apartment, its door partly ajar, and another door to the left of that: the bathroom, but most notable piece of furniture on the room was a baby grand piano, its gleaming ebony lid raised high. The whine in my stomach led me over in the kitchen. I looked inside the fridge and found, in the freezer, what seemed like a year's supply of frozen grommet foods. Each packaged in its own microwavable dish. Expensive but convenient. Faye wasn't there, so i didn't have to worry about her. I looked at all of the choices before me, and saw Veal Chasseour, Duck a L'Orange, Chicken Veronique, Escargots au Beurre, and Quiche Lorraine. Duck was it. I took my meal out of the icebox, read the cooking instructions, popped it in the microwave, took it out and dig up some plastic silverware. Somewhere under a thin slice of orange and on top of the bed of rice was supposed to be a boneless breast of duck. And there it was! I sliced it into two mouthfuls to make it last. I enjoyed the meal thoroughly. When i was done, the dishes and utensils went in the garbage. Ecologically unsounded but undeniably convenient.
I turned on the TV. I flipped through the channels on the TV, but found nothing appealing during the daytime hours. Frustrated, i turned the TV off. I turned on the radio. I was listening to WQXR FM. At the moment they were playing a piece by Mozart. I turned it off. Boredom appeared. I started to examine random things in her apartment. The dresser was from deep rosewood. There was a clock radio what i turned off moment ago, a framed picture and a telephone on top. The photo showed me, in evening clothes standing before a wall from which the patterned paper was peeling. The contrast between my perfect formal attire and the dismal wallpaper was striking. Then i recognized the pattern of the wallpaper. I saw those pea-green rosettes and khaki-colored leaves before. It was the hallway of the tenement where i slept and dreamt the dream that faded from my memory till this moment.
Remember dammit!
Its no use...
I took a seat at the piano and placed my hands on the keyboard. I let my mind go blank, and then like water rising from some deep artesian spring the music welled from me, filling the small apartment with a soaring melody. Again i turned the chair and watched the ceiling. Boring. I laid at sofa and took a restful nap. It reminded me something, something about ceiling fan, nevermind. In that i must have fell asleep.
Faye entered the apartment with a Macy's shopping bag, inside of which was a box.
"I got you something new. I just couldn't stand seeing you wearing that old black leather jacket any longer. And I also thought, what if today's his birthday? You can't be sure it isn't after all. Go ahead, open it."
"What's wrong about my outfit. I feel good in it." I asked myself when i was opening the box.
In the box was a black leather jacket. With a Ralph Lauren label. Faye looked dismayed.
"Shit, I told Ned to get anything BUT a black jacket. He must have misheard me." She blushed.
"Ned's my assistant, and he loves to shop for clothes, so I sent him to Macy's with the shopping list."
"I'll take it back and get you something else."
"Whatever..." I gave her the box back and she put it and the Macy's bag away.
Next day she filled a nylon bag with camera equipment, apologized for having me alone.
"I'll be back as soon as i can, probably around six."
Again i leeched around all day, waiting for her to return.
Faye came home with a package from Woolworth's. She didn't let me see what it was till after dinner, which i delegated to select and prepare from choices available in the freezer. After dinner, Faye banished me into the bathroom for five minutes, and when i came out, i found that she spread the pieces of an enormous jigsaw puzzle over the glass-topped table.
"You used to love to do jig-saws, and you said it was because they put you into a kind of trance state. This is a 2000 piece set that we've worked on once on the ship." She explained.
"Yeah... they kept me awake..." I mumbled to myself.
"But don't look at the picture on the box. My idea was that you might stir some of your buried memories by our working it together again. Do you want to try it?"
"Its worth the try." I said in a little worried voice.
With Faye's help, i turned all pieces right-side up, sorting out the edge pieces, and joining those together first. At the moment the frame was complete, i suddenly was able to envision the completed jigsaw and i described it in detail to Faye:
"There are rowboats in the foreground clustered round a dock; the dark rippled water of a harbor or moat, and beyond the water a square-towered castle that must be somewhere on Earth in Europe, since it seems the genuine medieval article, and a great quantity of cloudless blue sky." Very heart breaking for me.
Faye showed me the picture on the box, and it was all there just as i described it. I continued working on the puzzle till well past midnight, and though i found it a pleasant pastime, i uncovered no further buried memories. I laid on the bed and dreamt about jigsaw puzzle. Puzzle called Who am I? Puzzle with blank pieces, which are slowly getting together.
-
To himself everyone is immortal; he may know that he is going to die, but he can never know that he is dead. -- Jet Black
-
Am I dead?