Motorman (14 page)

Moldenke opened both eyes.

Roquelle said, “Welcome back, champ.”

“I have to get out of this tunnel, Roquette. One of my hearts is stopped completely.” He pressed his chest, snorted, coughed up a cricket. “Roquette, let me out. Let me out of here. I can't breathe.”

“Slow down, son. Stop rushing. We'll see a movie. Get on the cycle.”

“Let me off the boat, Roquette!”

“No. We're moving too fast now. Seven moons are up. We're in for some weather. The river is thick and tricky. You're safer here.”

“I'll jump.”

“He says he'll jump. Tell me, son, do you think you could swim in a tub of syrup? You'll get stuck there and drown.”

“What's the distinction? I'm drowning now.”

“We'll see a movie.”

“Throw me in the road, Roquelle. Help me up, push me in front of a k-bus.”

“Nonsense, Bufo. Stick around for the flood. Meanwhile, we'll see a movie, have some popcorn and wheat candy. When was the last time you saw a movie, son?”

“Wait. My other eye is open.”

“Can you see from it? ”

“No. It hurts.”

“In time, Buf, in time. Things will improve. Don't be so afraid of your selves. This is a good boat. We'll ride the flood and sail on.”

“Where to, Roquette? ”

“I wouldn't want to guess at that. No, I wouldn't want to chance it.”

“Push me in the road.”

“Don't be silly. No walking in the roadway. No shrimping in the water tubs. You know the game, son. Don't be trying to cheat the folks.”

“When do we get to Burnheart's? ”

“Soon, son. Soon.”

“I don't want to see a movie. I want to go back to my room and sleep.”

“No sleeping. No. On the cycle.”

Moldenke held to Roquelle's coat with one hand, one foot dragging on the asphalt, a second heart gone, the scarf flapping in his face.

They cycled out of the tunnel, curved up a ramp into a parking yard filled with k-vehicles. Roquelle said, “Looks crowded. Must be a good movie.”

At the ticket booth a woman said, “Tickets, please.” Roquelle said, “Lean against the wall, Bufona. I can't be holding you up all the time. I have to get my ticket out.”

The woman said, “Tickets, please.”

Moldenke leaned against the wall.

Roquelle said, “Hold on, son.” He searched his khaki pockets and found a ticket, gave it to the woman.

The woman said, “Tickets, please.” She adjusted an ear valve, pinching out a drop of jelly into a handkerchief.

Moldenke slid down the wall, a third heart fluttering.

Roquelle said, “Where's your ticket, son? You need a ticket.”

The woman said, “Tickies?”

Roquelle said, “Tickets, jock. You need a ticket to see the movie!”

Moldenke slumped to the sidewalk, both eyes wide open, his face flushed.

“Tickets, please.”

Roquelle went through Moldenke's pockets, found a tin of crickets, went to the window. “He doesn't have a ticket,” he explained to the woman, “He has crickets. Will you take crickets?”

The woman said, “No crickets.” She gave Roquelle a pair of scissors, “We do take hair, sir.” She gave him a paper bag.

The third heart stopped.

Roquelle snipped off a bag of Moldenke's hair.

They sat toward the back of the theater.

“Moldenke? ”

He fell over on Roquette's shoulder. Roquette said, “How can I watch a movie with that going on? Moldenke?”

The curtain opened, music came over speakers.

“Moldenke? ”

The second heart stirred, the third began a steady beat. He sat up.

Roquette said, “They usually show a weather report first.”

The music stopped, a voice came over the speakers.

Moldenke said he was feeling better. The eye had closed again.

The weatherman said,
“Government sun falls on T-City."
The film showed a burned area from a high angle, smoke columns rising up.
“Great Chicago sinks, has to be abandoned."
The film showed an empty hole. Moldenke smiled.

Roquette said, “I don't like that weather. I'll have to give that weatherman a phone call. I don't like what he's getting into.”

Moldenke said, “That's Shelp. He s a friend of mine. I know Shelp.” He sat up straight in the seat, eating popcorn and crickets.

Shelp said,
"Government relaxes moon control. Moons behave erratically. You are urged to stay indoors."

Roquette stood up and waved toward the projection room. “Turn him off! ”

Moldenke said, “Is Shelp on the boat?”

Roquette didn't want to guess about it.

Shelp said,
“Coast to coast, the wind is dying."

Moldenke said, “So, they finally killed it.” Roquette said, “Kill the weather show! Get the movie on!”

“They fooled around with it till they killed it.”

“Hold the sentiment, Moldenke. Let's not talk about the weather.”

The movie began in gray. A k-taxi drove through a wooded area, slowed and stopped at an ether grove. Four figures emerged and walked among the ethers. Moldenke said, “I've seen it.”

Roquette said, “Quiet.”

“I've seen the movie, Roquette. I'd rather not sit through it again.”

“Calm down, son. Watch the movie. You haven't seen it before.”

The camera followed them into the ether grove. One of the figures carried a screwdriver. The camera drew in closer. Moldenke saw himself carrying the screwdriver, the taxi man carrying the woman.

Moldenke said, “They changed it.”

The film flickered, the screen went black, the lights west up. Moldenke saw two of the folks sitting in the first row. Otherwise the theater was empty.

“Where's the crowd, Roquette?”

Roquette said he wouldn't chance a guess, clapping his hands, kicking the seat ahead of him. “Make noise, Dink, make a clatter. Wake the projectionist up.” Moldenke refused.

One of the folks in the first row turned toward the projection booth. Moldenke saw the face. He stood up.

“Burnheart? ”

“Sit down, son. Sit down. The movie's about to start again.”

“Excuse me, Roquette. I'm going to slip down the aisle and talk to Burnheart.”

The lights went down. Roquette pulled him back into the seat. Three hearts lapsed into half-beats.

The movie began again. A k-rambler drove along slush ruts and stopped at the end of a road. Three figures emerged. Two men and a woman. The woman favored her stomach.

“I've seen this one too,” Moldenke said. “My hearts, Roquette. Let me go talk with Burnheart. That's probably Eagleman with him. They can fix me.”

Roquette said, “No!”

Moldenke recognized himself. He saw the letter opener in his own hand. He saw himself open a hole in one of the jellyheads. He saw the jelly spill out.

He said, “I didn't do that.”

Roquette said, “I beg your pardon.”

The movie ended, the lights went up.

Moldenke said, “I don't think I did that.”

“Poor, Moldenke. So you don't think you did that? What does it matter anyway, son? They were jellyheads. No one cares about the jellyheads these days. You shouldn't feel guilty.”

“I don't.” The heart beats improved. He looked toward the front. The folks were gone. “Where did they go, Roquette? Burnheart and Eagleman. Where did they go?”

“Never mind, son. Let me take you up to my office. I want you to listen to some tapes.”

“No. No tapes, Bunce. No tapes!”

“All right, Moldenke. Easy. You're confused. You don't even know my proper name. All right. You'll get some sleep. I'll take you to your room, you'll get some sleep, then we'll listen to the tapes. I have them in my kitty-box.”

108]

Dear Cock,

I've quit the job on the Health Truck. I'll be chitless again, but Burnheart will probably help me out. I've had a few ugly phone calls from a fellow by the name of Bunce. Some nights they keep me awake. I don't quite understand why I bother him the way I do, although I'm willing to believe him when he says I do. I try not to interfere with government business. But it appears that government business is interfering with me. I learned my lesson in the auditorium a long time ago, Roberta, I can't describe what they did to me.

I've tried my best to be scientific about things, as Burnheart would say. I've tried to mock the tripodero, as he said I should. I want to see things as they are, Cock. And I do accomplish that on occasion. Once in a hundred moons I find myself at the bottom of some phenomenon, or I might harness a minor force and use it to benefit. Of course Burnheart says that there are different sorts of science, and that my particular pursuit is only one of many, all of them excellent in their own way, and correct, and just as wrong as mine. He says I shouldn't get excited about minor successes. I respect his advice, I listen to what he says. But, Roberta, the weather is getting worse.

It would be nice if you could be with me, so I would have someone to talk to. I sit here silent, too shy to talk to myself, too tired to leave the room, not that I could if I wasn't. Times are hard. This chair smells of peat. I never see a greenbird these days, and if I do, it shortly dies. The legs are getting numb. If you were here you'd help me with my feelings. I thought I had them back again when I left the Health Truck, but every time the phone rings they fade away. Once Burnheart said, “Dink, one day you'll run out of ink and you'll go out to the ink store and find it closed, boarded up, and a sign that says: CLOSED FOR THE END.” This is it, Roberta. My ink is low. This letter may grow weak and end in empty space.

The Bunce I mentioned has turned my electricity off and there's no water in the pipes. The refrigerator door opens without my touching it and there are icicles on the lamp shade. What can I do, Roberta? The chair has become a part of me. When I move, the chair moves. Burnheart isn't writing me any longer. I have to rely on the old letters, a little out of date. Bunce has a jellyhead in the hallway. I can hear him shuffling, inhaling, deflating.

What is my sin, Cock? Have I eaten innocent tissue, innocent muscle too often? I always killed them, in the old days, before I ate them. Now I'm afraid I wouldn't hesitate to eat them alive.

The weather is getting worse. I suppose at some juncture, I don't know where, I myself will be eaten. Something will pounce and grind me in its teeth.

I don't know what else to say. I could talk about the suns and the moons, but why? Look up. See yourself.

I've imagined myself a private acre. Trees, pollen. An occasional red-eyed rabbit. A place to go. A soft wind blowing. A sky with color, no trace of architecture. Sometimes I succeed in getting there. I walk there in peace for a while, until something with claws spits clots from the bush.

I hope to see you soon.

Love,

Moldenke

109]

Roquette opened the door and Moldenke went in.

“Good night, son. Sleep now. I'll see you in the morning.” He closed the door.

Moldenke lay in the bed, his head sunk in the rubber pillow, his hearts idling smoothly. The sway of the boat kept him awake. He turned on the radio, got a weather report:

Two suns cooling at the horizon, restless moons, animals should be sheltered, travelers are warned, all craft should return to port, possible flood on The Jelly, toxic snakes in the treetops, the wind alive again, temperatures will...

Static interfered, the signal weakened. He moved the dial. Further static, then dead air.

He went to the lookout. Seven moons up, all full. A strong wind blew against the boat.

He strapped on his backpack, his sidepack, tied on double gauze pads, put on a moon hat.

He stepped into the hallway, walked to the elevator, pushed the button, waited. The elevator didn't come. He took the stairs to the mezzanine. The boat dipped forward, snooker tables slid against one another, balls rolled over the floor. He looked down from the mezzanine. The ballroom was empty. He called out, “Roberta?”

He would look for Burnheart and Eagleman. He ran down hallways knocking on doors, “Burnheart?”

The major heart expanded in its cavity.

In the arboretum he sat on peat bags and breathed air. Banana plants were bent over dead, jujube fruit scattered along the paths. “Roberta? Eagleman?”

He climbed stairs to deck level.

The wind increased.

He buttoned his trenchcoat and jumped.

110]

Dear Roberta,

I am calm now, though doubtful about the outcome. I jumped from the boat and rode an old refrigerator up to the bank. I've built a little fire here. I was lucky to find a rotted camphor full of root grubs, bitter as they were. I was hungry enough to forget their minor flaws. The gases are cold tonight, Roberta, and my fingers are stiff. I can see my own reflection in the flames, if I look. Myself. Moldenke of T-City, air starved, yellow, and burning cold.