Alien Pregnant by Elvis, page 16
Jack didn’t much care about that either.
“Man,” King said, reaching for a towel. “Water’s warm today. Like swimmin’ in piss. Excuse mah French, Marilyn.”
King had kept his charming northern Mississippi drawl.
“What brainy book ya readin’ now, little girl?” he added.
Marilyn deigned not to look up from her Nietzsche.
After waiting in vain for a response, King gave Jack a questioning look. Jack silently shrugged. You figure it out, guy.
King did the thing with his mouth that was a cross between a pout and a snarl, and continued to buff himself dry.
Jack assessed the breeze with a wet forefinger. “Think I’ll take the Fitz Two out later,”
“Hey, you want company?” King asked.
“Sure,” Jack answered good-naturedly.
“What about it, Marilyn? Want to go out sailing with Jack today?”
After a significant delay Marilyn quietly said, “No.”
It was King’s turn to shrug at Jack. Jack smiled. He knew Marilyn would never finish the book. She rarely finished any book she started. Why the posturing, he asked himself, after all these years? But he knew the answer: it was out of a deep and abiding sense of inadequacy. At least, that was the pop psychology answer. Who knew, though; who really could say with any authority?
His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Raul, who had come loping across the beach. He was out of breath. “Señor Jack . . .”
“What is it, Raul?”
“It is His Excellency, the Reichskanzler. He is telephoning the reporters again.”
King threw down the towel. “Damn his eyes! Jack, what the hell are we going to do with that guy?”
“Let me handle this,” Jack said. He began jogging toward the cliff.
Raul sat down, took his shoes off, and poured the sand out of them.
“That Nazi geezer’ll let the cat out of the bag yet,” King muttered.
Just before reaching the stone steps, Jack ran into Juan, who never failed to dress elegantly. Today he was in sports coat, ascot, and tan bucks.
“Jack! Where are you going in such a hurry?”
The run from the water’s edge had Jack already breathing hard. He had to stop.
“It’s the old man, on the phone again. Probably calling one of the tabloids.”
Juan laughed. “They never believe him. Why worry?”
“Gotta check him out. You never know.”
“I suppose you are right,” Juan said. “Would you like me to go along?”
“No, thanks. Where’s Evita?”
Juan pointed north along the shore. “Looking for cockles.
Our room is full to the rafters with shells, but still she wants more. And driftwood, and sea urchins, and . . . Dios mio! What a packrat of a woman!”
Jack chuckled. “Better go. Hope these damned steps don’t give me a heart attack.”
“Take it easy, Jack,” Juan said as he strolled on, swinging his cane.
“. . . yes, a Doppelganger. It is not exactly what you call a clone . . . What is it? Well, it is a duplicate, a creature which looks like the person it is substituting for . . . Yes, Dr. Mengele developed this technique. He told me it was known in antiquity . . . Yes, I always suspected that it involved black magic . . . I do not know. You are right. It was the duplicate’s body they found, not mine. I escaped with the aid of SS Colonel Otto Skorzeny . . . by light plane, then by U-boat . . . That is correct. Mengele taught Dr. Cabeza de Vaca . . . our host. Eva? She is dead. Yes . . . yes . . . that is true. Good. . . Well, I am glad to tell you all these things . . . What? I beg your pardon, what are you saying?”
The Reichskanzler did not see Jack enter the library. Jack approached slowly, breathing hard.
“I do not understand. What do you mean, ‘played for laughs’? You are telling me that your news stories are not true? I beg your—? . . . You are telling me that these stories you print are fake? You make them up? . . . But. . . but, Mr. Sacks, I—Mr. Sacks, please . . . No. I am him! Yes, I am one hundred and three years old this year . . . No, this is not impossible. . . What was that you say? I need medical attention? Are you . . . excuse me, but do you question my sanity? You think I am some kind of lunatic? Let me assure you—Wait! Wait, there is more! As I told you, there are others here at Estancia-del-Mar. Your assassinated president, for one. Yes! And the singer, what is his name? I forget. He is called ‘King’ here. I forget what his . . . No, I do not lie! . . . What? What was that? . . . Flying Saucers? Excuse me, why are you asking me about such things? . . . Wait! No, do not hang up! Listen to me! . . . Wait . . . Judischer schwein?” Jack placed a hand on the old man’s shoulder. Gently, he took the phone.
The Reichskanzler slumped. “Why? Why do they not believe me?”
Jack shrugged. “Because . . . well, because they’d rather keep us here, in limbo. Better that way. Better for them.” The Reichskanzler looked up at Jack. “I know where I made my mistake. The Jews. I did not believe that the world would care about what was done to the Jews. If I had only seen that.”
Jack said nothing. He went to a bookshelf and looked it over.
“They tell me . . .” the old man began.
Jack turned his head. “Pardon? Sorry, couldn’t hear you.”
“They tell me that Dr. Cabeza de Vaca will come to the party tonight.”
“Oh. Yeah, I believe I heard that. Uh, you all right now?” The Reichskanzler drew himself erect. “Ja. I am all right.”
“Okay.”
Jack chose a book, and was about to walk away with it when he noticed, with irritation, that although the title was in the original German, the text was a Spanish translation.
Evening, the sound of the breakers beneath a dark eastern sky. White-coated servants moving quietly about the room, bearing trays, serving drinks. Candles glowing, ice cracking in glasses.
A cork popped.
It was a good turnout. The rock stars huddled in one end of the room, making more noise than the rest.
Juan was saying to Jimmy, the labor boss: “. . . but if this were hell, we would never be told. To know is a certainty, and a certainty is a comfort.”
“In that case,” Jimmy said, “if they never tell us, we know we’re in hell.”
“A fine paradox,” Juan said, considering it. “But there is a logical flaw in your reasoning, I think.”
“Anyway, it ain’t a comfort for me to know, or not know,” Jimmy said. He took a belt of whiskey. “All I know is, someone calls me and says, there’s a contract out on you. You want out? You gotta leave everything, but we can get you out. Sure, you don’t believe at first, but then you find out there is a contract out on you. And you say, yeah, get me outta this. And here I am. I’m not saying it’s hell. I was just thinking. Lots of time to think here . . . you know?”
“I’m in the mood for some dago red,” Marilyn said to one of the servants. “What do you have?”
“Everything, Señorita.”
“Like what?”
“Barbera d’Alba, Gattinara . . . uh, Barolo, Amarone, Bardolino—”
“You have any Chianti?”
“Yes, Señorita. Right away.”
“I remember this little place in New York,” Marilyn said, looking off. Failing to add to this, she lit a cigarette.
“I know exactly what you mean,” Juan said to Jimmy, continuing the conversation.
Jimmy went on, “Sometimes I just think, hey, that phone call, the big car that came and took me away, and you couldn’t see the driver—it was spooky, know what I’m sayin’? And this place. Where the hell is it? When do we get out of here?”
“But we’re free to leave any time, Jimmy. Dr. Cabeza de Vaca has said so many times.”
“Yeah, I go back to the world and, ba-bing, two shots through the head.” Jimmy put an index finger to his temple, thumb up, thumb down, twice. Bang, bang. “Hey, I’m as free as a bird.”
“So am I, Jimmy my friend.”
“We all are,” said James, the actor. “Freedom, man. It’s cool. But I know we’re in hell. Freedom is hell, man.”
“How do you know we’re in hell?” Jack wanted to know. James drank down his Bourbon first, then smiled slyly. “The name of our host, Cabeza de Vaca. That means the head of a goat, right?”
“No,” Juan said. “Vaca is cow. Or beef.”
The actor looked disappointed. “Oh. Why’d I think it meant goat?”
“I have no idea.”
James grunted. “Hey, Juan, what’re you drinking there?”
“Manzanilla. Sherry. It has the taste of the sea in it.”
“Think I’ll try some of that.”
“Did anyone ever think of another explanation?” Everyone turned toward the speaker.
“Another explanation for what, Bogey?” Jack asked. Bogey, in white dinner jacket with a white carnation pinned to his lapel, crossed his legs. “Well, it seems to me that the story about how our clones or doubles were substituted for us is all a lot of hooey. None of it washes.”
“How come we remember it?”
“They planted the memories.”
Marilyn said, “So we’re the clones?”
“Sure,” Bogey said.
“Created by Dr. Cabeza de Vaca?” Juan asked. “I’ve often thought of it.”
Jimmy said, “Seems to me we’ve had this conversation before, lots of times.”
“Lots of times,” Marilyn said, nodding.
“And I haven’t been here all that long.”
A hush fell over the room as Raul wheeled in the Reichskanzler. The old man was in uniform, its beige wool smartly pressed. The party armband, however, was missing. Murmurs from the rock stars.
The Reichskanzler cast a glance toward them. “I have always wondered why those degenerates are here.”
“I’ve often wondered about a lot of people here,” Marilyn said. “Don’t know who some of them are.”
“Other countries, other cultures than yours, my dear,” Juan said.
Letting his eye roam around the huge drawing room, Jack caught sight of an old friend, and raised a hand. “Hi, Marty!”
Martin waved back.
“Excuse me, señores y señoras, ladies and gentlemen.”
It was Raul, announcing from the center of the room. Everyone turned to look.
Raul cleared his throat before saying, “Dr. Cabeza de Vaca sends his regrets, but he will not be able to be with you this evening. However, he bids you drink and have fun, as his guest.”
“Man, are we his guests, or what?” James said, chuckling. “Forever!”
“Do you want to go back, Jimmy?”
James didn’t answer for a moment. “I think. Maybe.”
“How about you, Jack?”
“Christ, no. I like it here.”
“I have met few guests who want to go back,” Juan said. “Charisma does something to you,” James said.
“That’s it!” Juan said.
“What’s what?”
“Herr Reichskanzler, you asked what those people were doing here. The answer is charisma.”
The Reichskanzler nodded. “Yes. This is true.”
Bogey said, “No one wants to leave because we’re created with no desire to leave.”
King detached himself from the other entertainers and wandered back to the more political side of the room. He sat down heavily. “Whew, I’m bushed. Don’t ask me why, though. Didn’t do nothin’ all day.”
“But generally speaking, everyone here feels good,” Juan said. “Most of the time.”
“Never felt better myself,” Jack said.
“This is a haven,” Juan said.
“Heaven?” Jimmy the labor boss said.
“No. Pardon my accent. Haven. A place of refuge. As the other Jimmy said, charisma does something to you. We all needed a rest. But I believe we are here for a purpose. This is . . . oh, I think the Germans say . . . Valhalla?”
“Yes,” the Reichskanzler said, “Valhalla.”
“That’s the Norse afterlife, isn’t it?” Jack asked.
“Yes, but it is more. It is a waiting area.”
“Waiting for what?” Marilyn asked.
Juan shrugged. “I am not sure of that.”
“I am sure,” the Reichskanzler said.
“Oh? What is this?”
“I am sure what the purpose is.”
“I think Juan has something,” Bogey said. “If my theory about us being clones isn’t right, then he’s right about this being a haven, or heaven, or whatever. Valhalla, Asgard, the Elysian Fields, call it what you like. Only it’s all in the mind of the human race. We’re just thoughts in people’s minds. The people. The people of the world.”
“Sounds like we really don’t exist,” Marilyn said. “Maybe we don’t, not physically. But, the way I see it—”
“No!” The Reichskanzler’s fist came down on the armrest of the wheelchair. “We exist! I know this. I am one hundred and three years old. I feel that I am this old. Why did they create me this way? No, I am the same man I was when I took power, long ago now. Long ago. I have been here longer than any of you. I knew Dr. Mengele, and I believe what he told me. I do not know the method. It is magic to me. What does it matter? I do know this. We are here for a purpose. We are a . . . brotherhood. Yes, I am in the same brotherhood with that black man there. And that Jew. The same. This is ironic, but it is for a purpose. We are. . . different. We are a breed, a different breed of human being. A
race, no? The gods, or God in heaven, have touched us. We wield great power. We have the will to use this power, though it might destroy us. It did, almost. It nearly destroyed all of us. In different ways. Nevertheless, in spite of the dangers, we pushed on as long as we could. We spoke, we acted, we led. We roused the masses. That is where the power is. The masses. We are . . . what is it . . . a small group?”
“An elite,” Juan supplied.
“Yes, an elite! You see, I am not so far from a Bolshevist! I learned much from the Bolshevists. Only a dedicated elite can rule the masses but it must rule in their name, and in their interests.”
“But what is the purpose, my friend?” Juan persisted.
“The purpose?”
“Why are we here? What are the Good Doctor’s motives?”
“I do not know what are his motives,” the Reichskanzler said.
The old man’s voice had grown progressively louder. It now took on some of the force and resonance of old. Bonfires danced, faintly, in his eyes. Rows of banners waved. Faraway echoes came to his hears. The roar of an enormous crowd, the march of heavy boots.
Around the room, conversation had gradually petered out as attention became focused on the old man in the wheelchair. Eyes regarded him askance at first. Then people turned to face him.
“I do not care what his reasons are,” he continued. “I do not care, even, if we are doppelgangers. But I know what he intends for us. I know that we will all go back one day, to our respective countries, cultures, areas of the globe, to our various professions and walks of life. And together, all of us—we will rule the world!”
The room was silent now. All eyes were on the Reichskanzler, and everyone had listened, even the longhaired skeptics. For a prolonged moment, all movement in the room froze.
Then, suddenly, breaking through the hush like the bark of a coon dog in the dead of night, came a clear Mississippi twang.
“Jesus Christ, ’Dolf, ol’ buddy. Ain’t it about time you gave it a rest?”
The hush lasted just a split second longer. Then the room exploded with laughter. Dropped glasses smashed to the slate floor. People draped over each other, helpless, clutching their sides. Even the servants laughed, unabashedly, momentarily unaware of their impertinence.
The Reichskanzler’s face at first showed horrified surprise. Then the shock passed, leaving great anger and resentment. He hated to be the butt of a joke. Furious, he wheeled himself around and began to leave the room.
Then he stopped. He looked back over his shoulder. He had rarely heard laughter in these rooms, these deathly quiet rooms. In spite of himself, he chuckled. Everybody saw this, and became all the more convulsed.
The old man began to laugh. His toothpick body shaking, he laughed as he never had in all his 103 years. He laughed even harder and longer than the time when Guderian’s tanks had rolled through the Ardennes, making fools of the fat French generals
Evita saw a glint of something in the moonlight, something white in the water. She waded in, bent over, and scooped it out of the soupy sand. She held it up to the full moon. It was the biggest, most beautiful scallop shell she had ever found. The moon shone through it, turning it a pearly gold.
She thought she heard something, and turned away from the sea. It was a sound from the villa, barely audible over the roar of the surf.
Laughter.
She wondered about it, but not for long. She spied other things in the water, bright glimmering specks, and waded further out to investigate.
Group Phenomena
by Thomas F. Monteleone
This is a wonderfully subtle story. You’ve got to be on your toes for this one.
The author, Thomas F. Monteleone, has published more than eighty short stories and eighteen novels, including the bestselling, critically acclaimed thriller The Blood of the Lamb. He has also written for stage and television and has edited five anthologies, so he knows how I feel.
It was late afternoon as I walked down 46th Street, headed for a Manhattan bar called Swaggerty’s, where I was supposed to meet a guy who probably wasn’t human . . .
