The Curiosity (19 page)
Authors: Stephen Kiernan
M
y name is Jeremiah Rice, and I begin to understand.
They did not expect to succeed. That remains the only plausible explanation for their failure to anticipate the awakening of a human being, with a personality, with attitudes and attributes, with desires. They made no accommodation because they were entirely unready for such a thing. They had no plan beyond ambition.
Perhaps a monkey accepts imprisonment in the zoo as the lot of the ignorant beast, but a man knows in his soul when he is not free. The passage of a century eclipses none of my perception of present realities: I am under constant observation. I have neither proper clothing nor cash. I pass my days and sleep my nights in a chamber more laboratory than boudoir. There is an electronic combination to enter or exit my quarters, and I have not been entrusted with the number. The people of here and now mean me no ill, I believe, but neither does the mule driver to his mule. Free man that I am by law and Constitution, I have no liberty to speak of. Until my overwhelming experience with Drs. Gerber and Philo about the progress of aviation, no one had bothered much to acquaint me with the brilliant and violent nature of the time in which I again live.
The exception, quite clearly, is Dr. Philo. She attends kindly to my needs at all times. She it was who told me where I am, and in which month and year. In rare moments she reminds me of my eldest sister, whose years of teaching school gave her a patient and instructive way. Dr. Philo's efforts to ease my transition, to gentle my introduction to here and now, are compassionate. Whilst she answers to many in this enterprise, however, I surmise by observation that none answers to her. Normally I would need no ambassador, but these times are far from normal. I might advocate more effectively on my own behalf, had I the energy. Instead I frequently endure fatigue as severe as it is sudden. I remain optimistic, however; each day exhaustion afflicts me less.
I recall when Joan was confined with the swelling and fatigue that became Agnes. Mornings I would bring her tea to our chamber with a bit of bread and cheese. Whilst wholly contradictory to Joan's prior habit of leaping into the day with guns ablaze, cats scampering under the furniture, and myself taking orders in longhand, she found that eating before rising proved an effective prophylactic against nausea. Moreover I discovered a pleasure in providing for her in this way, before I hastened off to court and my day of disputes small and large.
Joan complained that I was spoiling her. Today, at this remove in time, I sincerely hope so. Who leaves this world having known too much love? Who departs this life having received an excess of kindness?
Besides, she was perpetually tired in those months. If I returned home for the midday meal, I might discover Joan upstairs napping. Evenings she retired early, such that I frequently savored my dram of port by the fire alone, wondering whether solitude might become the primary atmosphere of my parental life. Hm. I think now on those quiet hours, and better appreciate the inexpressible richness they contained: a true and loyal wife creating our child within herself.
Joan recovered from her exhaustion within minutes of bearing Agnes into the world, which I recall optimistically each time I now experience an episode of lapsed vigor. So, too, by degrees, did an intimacy return between us of surpassing tenderness, with Agnes beside us nursing, or murmuring in her bedside cradle. When I pause in my exertions to understand the here and now, and contemplate the severing of that kindness, that mercy, the ache is so acute I half expect to see some place on myself that is bleeding.
The magnitude of what I have lost eclipses my amazement at being alive again. I have been parted from Joan more than one hundred years, yet my confused heart feels only the passage of weeks since our ship sailed for the north. This is why, much as I desire to visit Lynn, I feel reluctance as well: it would be as though returning from our great voyage, but the additional reality of her absence would incapacitate me. Whenever my mind turns in that direction, my body literally shudders.
Yet also I wonder, as I battle with heartache and fatigue and as my eagerness for freedom recovers, with what odd idea am I now pregnant? What new prospect does my existence birth upon the world?
The answer thus far seems the rather, to lie in the opposite direction. That is to say, the world apparently wishes to birth itself upon me. I have received interview and introduction invitations by the thousands. Dr. Philo diligently screens the requests, prioritizing them, assessing their value to me and the project. Thusly did we select an unusual first foray into public life, my novitiate experience with the world of today. Remembering the social pleasures of market days in Lynn, I had professed an interest in witnessing a place of common trade. After some conversation, we settled on a location Dr. Philo said offered the likelihood of anonymity whilst providing ample opportunity to participate in contemporary commerce. She said this place was called a supermarket.
Ha ha, the experience proved as overstimulating as a carnival. It began the moment we stepped out of the laboratory building. A crowd of people stood gathered, waving signs in a half circle around some strange devices on waist-high stilts.
“Damn,” Dr. Philo said. “Wouldn't you know we'd step into the middle of one of their news conferences.”
“What is happening here?” I said.
“They're doing a little show for the TV cameras,” she said. “Let's get out of here before someoneâ”
“There he is,” a man shouted from the crowd. They all turned, fifty strong, as one. The cameras followed suit. A comic memory came to mind from my boyhood in Lynn, about throwing a bread end in the shallow end of a pond at one mallard, only to see dozens of ducks suddenly swimming in my direction. This crowd rushed toward me like a swarm of ducks.
“It's him. Wait.”
“Damn,” Dr. Philo said again, and she pulled me by my elbow to the end of the block. The world seemed a blur of noises and smoke. Automobiles sped past, fearsome and purposeful. She held up an arm and one of the vehicles yanked to the edge of the sidewalk. “Perfect,” she said, opening the door. “Get in quickly, please.”
I obeyed despite my apprehensions, and she tumbled in after me. Breathless, she gave the driver an address and sat back.
“What was that?” I asked. “Who are those people?”
Dr. Philo began to formulate a reply but I confess to missing it, because the vehicle lurched into the traffic and I tumbled against her. My hands went somewhere indistinct, my face undeniably in her breasts. Then the car swerved the opposite way, which disentangled me from the embarrassing situation but tossed me against the opposite door.
“Ease up, will you?” Dr. Philo called forward. The driver replied in a foreign tongue. I found handles on the door and clung to them.
We proceeded to careen through the city, my stomach pressed back when we accelerated and pulled forward when cars ahead required us to slow. I tried looking out the window, wondering if I would recognize anything while attempting to attend to Dr. Philo's explanation of that crowd. Candidly, though, the ride was like a toboggan run down an icy hill. I concentrated primarily on holding down my breakfast, thin lab gruel that it had been.
Eventually we reached a quiet area of the city, and the driver halted as abruptly as he apparently did everything else. He announced the price for our ride and it was a staggering sum. My Joan could have fed dinner to an army for that cost. Yet Dr. Philo paid without even haggling. I held my tongue.
“Here we go,” Dr. Philo said. She held the door as I climbed out. We stood in a place the size of a small cornfield, but it was paved just like the roads. She held her arms out as though framing the building. “Your basic American grocery store. Taa-daa.”
Outside the market stood racks of wheeled metal cages parked one into the other. Dr. Philo pulled on the end of a chain of them, at which one unfolded with a great clatter. I glanced around but no one remarked upon our hubbub. She piloted the cart toward the supermarket's doors, which opened at our approach though there was no doorman in sight. I jumped back, of course, as she strolled through the door without me.
Then Dr. Philo noticed my absence, turned, and held a hand in my direction “It's all right,” she said. “Come on in.”
Inside, the place was lit as brightly as a surgical theater and seemed the size of a city block. She led me down row after row of commodities, so many sizes and varieties I wondered how anyone could know enough to purchase the right thing. Three sizes of eggs, available in white or brown shells. Possibly forty forms of bread, lined up on their shelves and wrapped in a material like soft glass, transparent but somehow flexible. I imagined all the commerce of century-ago Lynn collected in one giant room, and still this store surpassed. Eventually we came to flour, which incidentally I know a little about. A baker of breads and pies, Joan often asked me to purchase flour on my way home from court. There were nine kinds in this market, available in three different sizes.
“This will not do,” I told Dr. Philo, holding a five-pound bag in each hand.
“No? Why not?”
“How am I to choose which to buy when I cannot see whether it's wormy or spoiled?”
“Wormy?” She was smiling at me.
“I am quite serious. Moreover, how do I know that these containers are a legitimate measure? Do you believe this is five pounds? I've known many a grocer with a thumb on the back of his scale.”
She laughed; it was a fine melody, no tone of mockery but rather of delight. Then Dr. Philo embarked upon an explanation about the government enforcing food quality standards, as well as uniform weights and measures. It reminded me of my professor in law school who taught contracts, his bow-tied confidence in written documents as the reliable basis for trust in transactions. Dr. Philo similarly believed what she was saying, and evinced no foolhardiness about it. In the end I surmised that people here and now simply trust the sellers. The weight on the package will be accurate, and flour moths are a thing of the past.
That means my skepticism as a customer must also be a thing of the past. Hm. What an odd way to conduct commerce.
Dr. Philo saved the market's most stunning revelation for last: the produce. I remember Christmas when I was six, and in addition to mittens my grandmother had knitted from thick lamb's wool, and calf-high boots my father had purchased all the way down on Hanover Street, my mother gave me the unprecedented joy of an orange, an entire orange all my own.
Here there were oranges singly and by the bag, bright and unblemished, as well as lemons, limes, grapefruits, and tangerines. I saw strawberries perfect and huge, though outside it was the budding of springtime, ripe berries ordinarily months away. There were bananas piled in sunny bunches, potatoes by the dusty sack, carrots long and orange, peppers and cucumbers, tomatoes in May, one marvel upon another. I realized, too, that I craved these foods, and wondered when the flavors of the world might be returned to me, when I would taste more than lab porridge and the memory of throat-scouring salt.
Here stood pyramids of apples: I counted seven different varieties, glossy under the lights. The horn of plenty had arrived on this earth and it was displayed like a shrine.
Yet inexplicably the people moved their carts dully amid all of this abundance, picking and choosing as though it were as ordinary as firewood.
Seized by boldness, I grabbed an orange. “May I?”
“I suppose we can risk upsetting Dr. Borden's caloric experiments without the world coming to an end,” Dr. Philo said. “Would you like a bag of them?”
I read the price. It was breathtaking. “Thank you, no. One is plenty.”
She placed my orange in the cart beside the oatmeal, raisins, and soap she'd chosen earlier. I followed her to a line of people standing behind carts like ours. Most contained many more objects, with nearly all of the goods wrapped in that soft glass material. As we advanced, racks displaying small, bright packages formed us into rows like so many cattle on our way to branding. I saw money change hands, and realized: this is where we pay. Whilst we waited I scanned the people thumbing through magazines, poking away at miniature versions of the computer device Dr. Gerber had demonstrated for me, playing with their infants, or staring blankly into the air.
Soon, though, my attention was riveted on the young woman in charge of our line. She operated a device like a cash register, though instead of ringing and showing the cost, it beeped and produced a slender sheet of printed paper. Despite a face that made no effort to conceal its thorough boredom, she worked with the speed of a dervish. A stocky fellow stood behind her, packing purchases into sacks, and he could not keep up. More than her competence, though, I was fascinated by the ring she wore in her nose as though she were some kind of pygmy. There was another hooked through the bone of her right eyebrow. Hm. I could not imagine anything more painful, but she showed no discomfort. Once our turn at her machine arrived, I saw that she had three more rings on each ear as well. When she opened her mouth to announce the total cost to Dr. Philo, I could not decide which was more flabbergasting: the price of our little sack of groceries or the fact that our cashier had somehow impaled a bar of steel into the center of her tongue. I cannot remember the last time I witnessed something so simultaneously disgusting and fascinating. When the transaction concluded and she said to us, “Have a nice day,” I heard the metal clack against her teeth.