Hot Times in Magma City, 1990-95

  If any of this is true, Marilisa thinks, then I should leave him. I can’t ask him to suffer on and on indefinitely with a wife who can’t give him what he needs.

  She wonders what effect all this crying has had on her face, and activates a mirror in front of her. Her eyes are red and puffy, yes. But what’s this? A line, in the corner of her eye? The beginning of age-wrinkles? These doubts and conflicts are suddenly aging her: can it be? And this? A gray hair? She tugs it out and stares at it; but as she holds it at one angle or another it seems just as dark as all the rest. Illusions. An overactive imagination, nothing more. Damn Katrin! Damn her!

  Even so, she goes for a quick gerontological exam two days before Leo is due to come home from the clinic. It is still six months until the scheduled date of her next Prep injection, but perhaps a few signs of age are beginning to crop up prematurely. Prep will arrest the onset of aging but it won’t halt it altogether, the way Process will do; and it is occasionally the case, so she has heard, for people in the immediate pre-Process age group to sprout a few lines on their faces, a few gray hairs, while they are waiting to receive the full treatment that will render them ageless forever.

  The doctor is unwilling to accelerate her Prep schedule, but he does confirm that a few little changes are cropping up, and sends her downstairs for some fast cosmetic repairs. “It won’t get any worse, will it?” she asks him, and he laughs and assures her that everything can be fixed, everything, all evidence that she is in fact closer now to her fortieth birthday than she is to her thirtieth swiftly and painlessly and confidentially eradicated. But she hates the idea that she is actually aging, ever so slightly, while all about her are people much older than she—her husband, his many former wives, his swarm of children—whose appearance is frozen forever in perfect unassailable youthfulness. If only she could start Process now and be done with it! But she is still too young. Her somatotype report is unanswerable; the treatment will not only be ineffective at this stage in her cellular development, it might actually be injurious. She will have to wait. And wait and wait and wait.

  Then Leo comes back, refreshed, invigorated, revitalized. Marilisa’s been around people fresh from Process many times before—her parents, her grandparents, her great-grandparents—and knows what to expect; but even so she finds it hard to keep up with him. He’s exhaustingly cheerful, almost frighteningly ardent, full of high talk and ambitious plans. He shows her the schematics for six new paintings, a decade’s worth of work conceived all at once. He proposes that they give a party for three hundred people. He suggests that they take a grand tour for their next anniversary—it will be their fifth—to see the wonders of the world, the Pyramids, the Taj Mahal, the floor of the Mindanao Trench. Or a tour of the moon—the asteroid belt—

  “Stop!” she cries, feeling breathless. “You’re going too fast!”

  “A weekend in Paris, at least,” he says.

  “Paris. All right. Paris.”

  They will leave next week. Just before they go, she has lunch with a friend from her single days, Loisa, a pre-Process woman like herself who is married to Ted, who is also pre-Process by just a few years. Loisa has had affairs with a couple of older men, men in their nineties and early hundreds, so perhaps she understands the other side of things as well.

  “I don’t understand why he married me,” Marilisa says. “I must seem like a child to him. He’s forgotten more things than I’ve ever known, and he still knows plenty. What can he possibly see in me?”

  “You give him back his youth,” Loisa says. “That’s what all of them want. They’re like vampires, sucking the vitality out of the young.”

  “That’s nonsense and you know it. Process gives him back his youth. He doesn’t need a young wife to do that for him. I can provide him with the illusion of being young, maybe, but Process gives him the real thing.”

  “Process jazzes them up, and then they need confirmation that it’s genuine. Which only someone like you can give. They don’t want to go to bed with some old hag a thousand years old. She may look gorgeous on the outside but she’s corroded within, full of a million memories, loaded with all the hate and poison and vindictiveness that you store up over a life that long, and he can feel it all ticking away inside her and he doesn’t want it. Whereas you—all fresh and new—”

  “No. No. It isn’t like that at all. The older women are the interesting ones. We just seem empty.”

  “All right. If that’s what you want to believe.”

  “And yet he wants me. He tells me he loves me. He tells one of his old ex-wives that I’m the great love of his life. I don’t understand it.”

  “Well, neither do I,” says Loisa, and they leave it at that.

  In the bathroom mirror, after lunch, Marilisa finds new lines in her forehead, new wisps of gray at her temples. She has them taken care of before Paris. Paris is no city to look old in.

  In Paris they visit the Louvre and take the boat ride along the Seine and eat at little Latin Quarter bistros and buy ancient objets d’art in the galleries of St.-Germain-des-Prés. She has never been to Paris before, though of course he has, so often that he has lost count. It is very beautiful but strikes her as somehow fossilized, a museum exhibit rather than a living city, despite all the life she sees going on around her, the animated discussions in the cafés, the bustling restaurants, the crowds in the Metro. Nothing must have changed here in five hundred years. It is all static—frozen—lifeless. As though the entire place has been through Process.

  Leo seems to sense her gathering restlessness, and she sees a darkening in his own mood in response. On the third day, in front of one of the rows of ancient bookstalls along the river, he says, “It’s me, isn’t it?”

  “What is?”

  “The reason why you’re so glum. It can’t be the city, so it has to be me. Us. Do you want to leave, Marilisa?”

  “Leave Paris? So soon?”

  “Leave me, I mean. Perhaps the whole thing has been just a big mistake. I don’t want to hold you against your will. If you’ve started to feel that I’m too old for you, that what you really need is a much younger man, I wouldn’t for a moment stand in your way.”

  Is this how it happens? Is this how his marriages end, with him sadly, lovingly, putting words in your mouth?

  “No,” she says. “I love you, Leo. Younger men don’t interest me. The thought of leaving you has never crossed my mind.”

  “I’ll survive, you know, if you tell me that you want out.”

  “I don’t want out.”

  “I wish I felt completely sure of that.”

  She is getting annoyed with him, now. “I wish you did too. You’re being silly, Leo. Leaving you is the last thing in the world I want to do. And Paris is the last place in the world where I would want my marriage to break up. I love you. I want to be your wife forever and ever.”

  “Well, then.” He smiles and draws her to him; they embrace; they kiss. She hears a patter of light applause. People are watching them. People have been listening to them and are pleased at the outcome of their negotiations. Paris! Ah, Paris!

  When they return home, though, he is called away almost immediately to Barcelona to repair one of his paintings, which has developed some technical problem and is undergoing rapid disagreeable metamorphosis. The work will take three or four days; and Marilisa, unwilling to put herself through the fatigue of a second European trip so soon, tells him to go without her. That seems to be some sort of cue for Fyodor to show up, scarcely hours after Leo’s departure. How does he know so unerringly when to find her alone?

  His pretense is that he has brought an artifact for Leo’s collection, an ugly little idol, squat and frog-faced, covered with lumps of brown oxidation. She takes it from him brusquely and sets it on a randomly chosen shelf, and says, mechanically, “Thank you very much. Leo will be pleased. I’ll tell him you were here.”

  “Such charm. Such hospitality.”

  “I’m being as polite as I can. I didn’t in
vite you.”

  “Come on, Marilisa. Let’s get going.”

  “Going? Where? What for?”

  “We can have plenty of fun together and you damned well know it. Aren’t you tired of being such a loyal little wife? Politely sliding through the motions of your preposterous little marriage with your incredibly ancient husband?”

  His eyes are shining strangely. His face is flushed.

  She says softly, “You’re crazy, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, no, not crazy at all. Not as nice as my father, maybe, but perfectly sane. I see you rusting away here like one of the artifacts in his collection and I want to give you a little excitement in your life before it’s too late. A touch of the wild side, do you know what I mean, Marilisa? Places and things he can’t show you, that he can’t even imagine. He’s old. He doesn’t know anything about the world we live in today. Jesus, why do I have to spell it out for you? Just drop everything and come away with me. You won’t regret it.” He leans forward, smiling into her face, utterly sure of himself, plainly confident now that his blunt unceasing campaign of bald invitation will at last be crowned with success.

  His audacity astounds her. But she is mystified, too.

  “Before it’s too late, you said. Too late for what?”

  “You know.”

  “Do I?”

  Fyodor seems exasperated by what he takes to be her willful obtuseness. His mouth opens and closes like a shutting trap; a muscle quivers in his cheek; something seems to be cracking within him, some carefully guarded bastion of self-control. He stares at her in a new way—angrily? Contemptuously?—and says, “Before it’s too late for anybody to want you. Before you get old and saggy and shriveled. Before you get so withered and ancient-looking that nobody would touch you.”

  Surely he is out of his mind. Surely. “Nobody has to get that way any more, Fyodor.”

  “Not if they undergo Process, no. But you—you, Marilisa—” He smiles sadly, shakes his head, turns his hands palms upward in a gesture of hopeless regret.

  She peers at him, bewildered. “What can you possibly be talking about?”

  For the first time in her memory Fyodor’s cool cocky aplomb vanishes. He blinks and gapes. “So you still haven’t found out. He actually did keep you in the dark all this time. You’re a null, Marilisa! A short-timer! Process won’t work for you! The one-in-ten-thousand shot, that’s you, the inherent somatic unreceptivity. Christ, what a bastard he is, to hide it from you like this! You’ve got eighty, maybe ninety years and that’s it. Getting older and older, wrinkled and bent and ugly, and then you’ll die, the way everybody in the world used to. So you don’t have forever and a day to get your fun, like the rest of us. You have to grab it right now, fast, while you’re still young. He made us all swear never to say a word to you, that he was going to be the one to tell you the truth in his own good time, but why should I give a damn about that? We aren’t children. You have a right to know what you really are. Fuck him, is what I say. Fuck him!” Fyodor’s face is crimson now. His eyes are rigid and eerily bright with a weird fervor. “You think I’m making this up? Why would I make up something like this?”

  It is like being in an earthquake. The floor seems to heave. She has never been so close to the presence of pure evil before. With the tightest control she can manage she says, “You’d make it up because you’re a lying miserable bastard, Fyodor, full of hatred and anger and pus. And if you think—But I don’t need to listen to you any more. Just get out of here!”

  “It’s true. Everybody knows it, the whole family! Ask Katrin! She’s the one I heard it from first. Christ, ask Leo! Ask Leo!”

  “Out,” she says, flicking her hand at him as though he is vermin. “Now. Get the hell out. Out.”

  She promises herself that she will say nothing to Leo about the monstrous fantastic tale that has come pouring out of his horrid son, or even about his clumsy, idiotic attempt at seduction—it’s all too shameful, too disgusting, too repulsive, and she wants to spare him the knowledge of Fyodor’s various perfidies—but of course it all comes blurting from her within an hour after Leo is back from Barcelona. Fyodor is intolerable, she says. Fyodor’s behavior has been too bizarre and outrageous to conceal. Fyodor has come here unasked and spewed a torrent of cruel fantastic nonsense in a grotesque attempt at bludgeoning her into bed.

  Leo says gravely, “What kind of nonsense?” and she tells him in a quick unpunctuated burst and watches his smooth taut face collapse into weary jowls, watches him seem to age a thousand years in the course of half a minute. He stands there looking at her, aghast; and then she understands that it has to be true, every terrible word of what Fyodor has said. She is one of those, the miserable statistical few of whom everybody has heard, but only at second or third hand. The treatments will not work on her. She will grow old and then she will die. They have tested her and they know the truth, but the whole bunch of them have conspired to keep it from her, the doctors at the clinic, Leo’s sons and daughters and wives, her own family, everyone. All of it Leo’s doing. Using his influence all over the place, his enormous accrued power, to shelter her in her ignorance.

  “You knew from the start?” she asks, finally. “All along?”

  “Almost. I knew very early. The clinic called me and told me, not long after we got engaged.”

  “My God. Why did you marry me, then?”

  “Because I loved you.”

  “Because you loved me.”

  “Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.”

  “I wish I knew what that meant,” she says. “If you loved me, how could you hide a thing like this from me? How could you let me build my life around a lie?”

  Leo says, after a moment, “I wanted you to have the good years, untainted by what would come later. There was time for you to discover the truth later. But for now—while you were still young—the clothes, the jewelry, the traveling, all the joy of being beautiful and young—why ruin it for you? Why darken it with the knowledge of what would be coming?”

  “So you made everybody go along with the lie? The people at the clinic. Even my own family, for God’s sake!”

  “Yes.”

  “And all the Prep treatments I’ve been taking—just a stupid pointless charade, right? Accomplishing nothing. Leading nowhere.”

  “Yes. Yes.”

  She begins to tremble. She understands the true depths of his compassion now, and she is appalled. He has married her out of charity. No man her own age would have wanted her, because the developing signs of bodily deterioration in the years just ahead would surely horrify him; but Leo is beyond all that, he is willing to overlook her unfortunate little somatic defect and give her a few decades of happiness before she has to die. And then he will proceed with the rest of his life, the hundreds or thousands of years yet to come, serene in the knowledge of having allowed the tragically doomed Marilisa the happy illusion of having been a member of the ageless elite for a little while. It is stunning. It is horrifying. There is no way that she can bear it.

  “Marilisa—”

  He reaches for her, but she turns away. Runs. Flees.

  It was three years before he found her. She was living in London, then, a little flat in the Bayswater Road, and in just those three years her face had changed so much, the little erosions of the transition between youth and middle age, that it was impossible for him entirely to conceal his instant reaction. He, of course, had not changed in the slightest way. He stood in the doorway, practically filling it, trying to plaster some sort of façade over his all-too-visible dismay, trying to show her the familiar Leo smile, trying to make the old Leo-like warmth glow in his eyes. Then after a moment he extended his arms toward her. She stayed where she was.

  “You shouldn’t have tracked me down,” she says.

  “I love you,” he tells her. “Come home with me.”

  “It wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be fair to you. My getting old, and you always so young.”

  “To hell with that. I want you
back, Marilisa. I love you and I always will.”

  “You love me?” she says. “Even though—?”

  “Even though. For better, for worse.”

  She knows the rest of the passage—for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health—and where it goes from there. But there is nothing more she can say. She wants to smile gently and thank him for all his kindness and close the door, but instead she stands there and stands there and stands there, neither inviting him in nor shutting him out, with a roaring sound in her ears as all the million years of mortal history rise up around her like mountains.

  THE MARTIAN INVASION JOURNALS OF HENRY JAMES

  Kevin Anderson and I were having dinner one night late in 1994—he wanted me to provide him with some technical information about the business aspect of a writing career—and at the end of the meal he asked me, changing the subject completely, whether I’d be interested in doing a story for an anthology he was about to edit. “I very much doubt it,” I replied, perhaps a trifle coolly. I was still working on my novel Starborne and was looking forward to an extended holiday from writing once I finished it. And short-story writing had become such a pain in the neck for me, anyway. Kevin persisted. He mentioned the theme: H.G. Wells’ War of the Worlds retold as eye-witness accounts from the viewpoints of other great writers of the era (Kipling, Verne, Tolstoy, Mark Twain.) I perked up. He mentioned the fee, a very generous one. Very generous. Sometimes even a pain in the neck can be worthwhile. “Can I have Henry James?” I asked.