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Base telephone 8897 4434-83622

Chelle 7990 7374-17840

I am Jane Sims Jane Sims I am Jane Sims

REFLECTION 2

Seashell

“God is love.”

“Love is blind.”

If these be true, then God is blind: simple logic that would appear to have escaped the theologians.
Res ipsa loquitur
, love is not blind, neither God’s love nor man’s, though we all wish at times to escape God’s eye, and though it must at times appear that the lover cannot see what we see—unless, of course, we ourselves are that lover.

Like God, the lover sees but forgives. Chelle is hard and violent, but that is scarcely a fault; she could never have returned to me if she had not been both. She is self-centered; how could a woman so tall, so strong, and so lovely not be? She seems blind to my faults, but without that blindness I could not have had her love; I am a mass of faults, held together as it were by a little skin and the law,
mortalium rerum misera beatitudo
.

These arms—my arms—held her. That is the sole great and significant point, the pivotal thing and the unforgettable thing. We had made love: I clumsily and without spontaneity, she a tigress and a nymph. (Indeed, I ought to have been Zeus, since none but Zeus could have matched her.) Nothing that we did in bed, nothing that we could ever do there, could match that first embrace, when I held her in my arms beneath an overcast sky, with the cold wind whipping dust from between a thousand parked cars and the crowd jostling us without courtesy, mercy, or effect.

The Army thinks her mad and so do I, a woman so young and fine cleaving to a balding middle-aged lawyer? Yes, Chelle is mad, and I am mad to love so much something that I cannot, finally, possess—as mad as an astronomer who loves the stars. Bedlamites wandered naked once, begging, with traces of the straw they slept in still in their hair, or so we read, those few of us who still read anything at all. Did they love at times, the naked madman and the naked madwoman? Surely. Oh, surely. Chelle and I were naked, Caliban and Miranda, and how we loved! Let the Army think her mad and let her go with me. The Army itself is mad, as are all bureaucracies.

And yet Chelle loves it.

The resurrected Vanessa is sane, and as a sane woman must surely see that I see through her every stratagem, though she does not desist from them and in fact doubles and redoubles her efforts. How can I resist her? I have had brain scans, too; will I not find myself in similar straits at some far-off date, a resurrected defense lawyer restored to life’s shallow shadow to defend the indefensible? Then how I shall struggle to prolong the case! Struggle, knowing that I will live no longer than the cause I champion in that future court. “Ladies, gentlemen, visiting Os, and self-aware mechanisms of the jury, surely you realize that your verdict, whenever you may reach it, must…”

Jarndyce and Jarndyce.

Who is Jane Sims? Well, quite obviously, Chelle is. Multiple personality disorder is by no means unknown, though I would think it must be uncommon. Can it be cured? If so, how? I should ask Boris.

What if I wake beside Jane Sims? What will she be like, and what will I be like in her company? How long will she persist, and what will she want to do? Want me to do?

So many questions.

Where’s Charlie? We did the show in high school and had a most wonderful time pretending to be English and Victorian, inserting lovely little digs at the EU. Now I find the question with me still.

Where is Charlie? Chelle and Vanessa hardly speak of him. Hey, kids! One of our cast is missing.

He visited Chelle when we were in college, as to the best of my knowledge her mother never did—a tall blond man who had run to fat. He wore sunglasses indoors and out; when I asked him about it, he told me quite frankly that he did it so others couldn’t tell what he was looking at.

That frankness is the quality I remember best. Women delight (or so they say) in men who are brave and strong, yet vulnerable—in men who will feel the lash, in other words. Charles C. Blue, I feel quite certain, would never feel any woman’s lash.

Once, in an old stone restaurant not far from the campus, we talked about firings; and now, when I have to fire someone I can sense the ivy on the walls outside and feel that if I were to look down hard enough at the surface of my desk I would see the clams casino that Chelle’s father insisted upon ordering as an appetizer.

He had spoken casually of firing his secretary. I said that it must have been a trying interview, and he laughed. “I said you’ve been doing a lousy job for the past year so clean out your desk, and she started bawling. I told her to shut the hell up or I’d say she stole office supplies. Which she did, by the way. I told her I wanted her out in an hour, and she almost made it.”

Chelle said, “Charlie!”

“Look, honey. She could have done a good job if she’d wanted to. She’ll be two or three years on unemployment, and when she finally gets a job she’ll try to hang on to it.” Charlie laughed again. “I’d phoned NEO, so she had to fight her way through the applicants. Don’t you think she loved that?”

“She thought you’d never fire her.”

“Because I’d been balling her? It was grow-up time, honey.”

I would never fire Susan. Nor will she ever give me reason to. There never was a better secretary, nor a more loyal one; although she believes that Dianne will replace her (as Dianne herself believes) Susan will remain with me for as long as I practice my profession.

“I got a secretary and two assistants for as much as I’d been paying Marcia,” Chelle’s father told us. “They know what happened to her, so they won’t sit around doing their nails and wondering about a five-letter word for jaguar.”

3

GETTING AWAY

The executive smiled the smile of a gambler who knows that he can only win. “I told you I’d give you fifteen minutes, Mr. Grison. You’ve used only six. I’ll try to be equally concise.”

Skip waited.

“You say that Vanessa Hennessey is a human being, and that reverting her will result in her death. For that death you threaten Reanimation with the law, both criminal and civil. We can prove by public records that Vanessa Hennessey died some years ago. Fingerprints and retinal patterns will prove that the woman to whom you refer is in fact an employee of ours, and not Vanessa Hennessey. Let me add that I have no intention of divulging our employee’s identity to you here. It will be divulged in court—if necessary. Comment?”

“None at this time.”

“Good.” The executive offered Skip a cigar, which he declined. “Mr. Grison, you’re in an odd position. I won’t say an unethical one, but it’s pretty odd. You’re Vanessa Hennessey’s sponsor as well as her attorney. Pro bono?”

Skip nodded.

“Odd, to say the least.” The executive rolled his cigar between his palms. “If you succeed, you’ll be saving your own money.”

“I would also be freeing Ms. Hennessey. As things stand I can stop paying. That would be tantamount to a death sentence, so I hold the power of life and death over her. I don’t want it.”

“You signed a contract with us. I assume you read it thoroughly. An attorney would.”

Skip nodded.

“In that case…,” the executive studied his cigar, “you may have noticed that although we have no right to increase the payments agreed upon, we have the right to refuse your payment and reclaim our employee.” He sighed. “That, you see, is what we do in such cases as this. Your most recent payment has been refused, Mr. Grison. Check your account, and you’ll find that your money has returned to it.”

“I was afraid of this.”

“You should’ve been more afraid of it.” The executive closed large, yellow teeth upon his cigar and lit it with a gold Florentine lighter.

“My client will not willingly come back to you.”

“Here we differ, Mr. Grison. Our security people will contact her, and she’ll come. They’re very persuasive.”

Skip stood up. “You asked for my comments, which I withheld. I’ll offer them now. You’re not an attorney, Mr. Feuer. I’m certain your company must have some on retainer, and I suggest you consult them. Your case is much weaker than you suppose.”

“You are about to rush out to warn your client.” The executive’s gentle smile was worse than a smirk. “You’ll be too late, and the case you boast will be moot.”

Skip left, followed by a puff of reeking smoke.

*   *   *

A card that would open Apartment 733 was in his hand, but there was no need for it; the lock had been broken out of the doorframe. Grimacing, Skip pushed aside the door and went in. A tele, a telephone, and a sofa—period. The black tele looked old; presumably she had bought it used, as he had suggested. The pink sofa had been more than a trifle worn; it was ruined now, its disemboweled cushions scattered across the floor, their springs exposed, their stuffing shredded. In the bedroom, blankets and sheets had been torn from the bed. The pillow had been cut open. The drawers of a battered bureau had been pulled out and thrown aside. Skip examined them, bending and peering to scrutinize their interiors without touching them.

He was about to go when his right foot sent a small, brown object skittering across the bare concrete floor. He picked it up, opened it, and tested the edge.

From his own apartment he called Michael Tooley. “You won’t have forgotten the woman we talked about, Mick. Have you heard from her?”

“No, sir. Nothing.”

“Have you been in contact?”

“No, sir. You gave me her number, but I haven’t used it and she hasn’t called me. Should I call her?”

“No. I was just in there. There’s no one there.”

“Am I to take it that there should’ve been, sir?”

“Not necessarily. Do you still eat lunch where you did this summer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll be there. If I can’t come I’ll call you. Wait half an hour. If I still haven’t come or called, talk to the police.”

“Like that, sir?”

Skip paused, took out the slender brown object, and touched its edge to the rosewood of his telephone stand. “I’m afraid so,” he said.

The old man’s resale shop was on Avenue AA, not quite too far to walk. Selecting a platform rocker, Skip waited for the old man to deal with his customer.

“Good morning, Mr. Grison.” The old man smiled as his customer left. “Something I can do for you?”

“I hope so. I sent Vanessa Hennessey to you. Did she come?”

The old man rubbed the side of his nose, with his forefinger. “Good-looking. Younger than I expected. Spent…” He paused. “Four hundred and ninety-eight. About that. Pretty much all of it for furniture. I got Acacio to deliver it for her. He’s cheap, and as good as anybody. Is she going to sue me?”

“I wish she would.” Skip took the brown object from his pocket. “Did she buy this here?”

The old man studied it for a long moment. “You know, she did. I asked her what she wanted it for, and she said she just liked it. I think I had it priced at two noras, but since she was buying so much I threw it in.”

“Good of you. What’s it for?”

“It’s an old-time shaver.” The old man demonstrated, holding handle and blade at an obtuse angle and not quite touching the edge to his cheek. “They had to be careful, though.”

“It looks more like a knife,” Skip said.

“No point.” The old man demonstrated, tapping the blunt end of the blade with his finger.

The park was too far to walk, but Skip walked anyway, edgy and eager to spend his energy on something. There was a chill in the air; the sky, gray and lowering, veiled the upper two-thirds of the towering buildings.

Mick Tooley was sitting on the bench farthest from the silent fountain, sipping coffee from the same cracked mug he used at the office and frowning at two gray pigeons. He rose. “Glad you made it, sir.”

“So am I.” Skip sat. “That number I gave you was for her apartment in my building. She doesn’t have a mobile phone as far as I know.”

Tooley resumed his seat.

Skip sat, too. “You can probably forget the number.”

“This is Reanimation, sir?”

“Probably. I talked to them this morning.”

Tooley nodded. “How’d it go?”

“Badly. I told them we had a good case, which we do. They—his name is Feuer, he’s a vice president—indicated that their security boys would make our case moot.” Skip paused to turn his coat collar up. “When I got away from him I tried to call her. That may have been a mistake.”

“So you were careful with me.”

“I tried to be, yes. After that I went straight back to my building. I thought they didn’t know where she was, and that Feuer had spoken as he did so they could follow me to her. I also thought they’d think I was going to my own appartment to get something, and they’d wait to follow me when I came out.”