Apprehensions and Other Delusions (7 page)

“Mister ...” Fanchon began, forgetting his name.

“Muir, Doctor, actually,” he corrected her. “Like the woods. No relation.”

“Okay. Dr. Muir. It might not seem like a lot of noise to you, but maybe the floor does something. In my flat, it’s really awful.”

Eric Muir rubbed his chin. “What about your system?”

“I hardly ever play it. Most of what I have is Mozart and Bach. I don’t have any modern music. You and that heavy metal—”

“You’re kidding, right?” He favored her with a tight, uncordial smile. “You don’t expect me to believe all you ever listen to is
Eine Kleine Nacht Musik,
do you?”

“Well, not all. But I don’t play rock, not any kind of rock.” She screwed up her courage. “Maybe you ought to come down right now and listen to what it sounds like.”

“Now? I don’t have the system on right now.” He braced one arm across the door. “But you tell me you have noise?”

Fanchon stared at him. He was either the most accomplished liar she had ever met, or he had not been paying attention.

“Come down and listen,” she said at last. Then she turned on her heel and started down the wooden stairs, hoping he would be curious enough to follow her.

As they stepped into her kitchen the sound rose up around them, battering them invisibly. Fanchon winced as she held the door for Eric, then put her hands on her hips, watching him.

“This is incredible.” He had to shout to be heard. “Worse than I’ve had it.”

“My system’s off. Go into the front room and look,” Fanchon yelled back. She pointed down the hall, although this wasn’t necessary since the floor plan of both flats was the same.

He lifted a skeptical eyebrow, but did as she told him. When he returned a few minutes later, he was mollified. He started to speak, then motioned her to join him on the back steps. As soon as the door was closed, he said, “God, that’s terrible.”

“It’s not quite so loud most of the time,” she admitted, wanting to turn him from her side now that he appeared to be on it. “Whatever is doing it, please, you can understand why I need it stopped. I really can’t ignore it.”

“How long does it go on?” he asked. “A couple of hours or what?”

“That’s about all it doesn’t go on.” She heard the exhaustion in her voice and wondered if he did, too. “Sometimes at night it’s worse.”

“All night?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I never play my system after ten, and I keep the TV down after then.”

“The TV doesn’t bother me,” she said quickly. “It’s just that awful music.”

“Well, I don’t play the music,” he said firmly. “And I think if someone else in the building next door were making so much noise, I’d hear it upstairs, and so would the Dovers downstairs. Sometimes I do hear ... but it isn’t your system, and it’s nothing like the noise you have.” He stared hard at the back door of her flat. “This makes me very curious.”

“Curious?” she repeated. “How can it?”

“You’re not a theoretical physicist, are you? I am.” His expression just missed being smug. “There’s got to be a reason why this happens. And there’s got to be a reason why it’s loudest in your flat. How long has it been going on?”

“Since shortly after you moved in, maybe three weeks now. I thought you’d bought new speakers.” She did her best not to sound as irritated as she felt. “I only complained when it had been over a week.”

“I can’t blame you, not with that going on.” He opened the door and sound rushed out like a tidal bore.

“What can you do about it?” She hated asking the question, and dreaded the answer.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m up against.” He listened for a moment. “It’s hard to hear if there are any words to it, or just some kind of howling. I’ll want to bring a tape recorder down and hook it up, if you don’t mind.”

“Fine with me,” she said wearily. “I tried it once, but all I got was static.”

“Probably overloaded,” Eric said. “I’ll check this out with acoustics first, so we can make sure we get it all on tape. We’ll be improvising, but there should be an answer somewhere.” He smiled once. “I’m glad you told me about this.”

“I wish I didn’t have to,” she responded at once. “I hope you do something. I can’t wait around forever, waiting for a lull in the storm.”

He chuckled because it was expected of him. “I’d feel the same in your position.” With the suggestion of a wave he left her on the back porch and climbed up to his flat.

Fanchon had a loud evening; by ten she was seriously considering breaking her lease without notice. Sacrificing the various deposits seemed like a small price to pay for sleeping through the night. She set aside her tables of salaries of domestic servants in London in 1870-1880 and turned on her television, hoping to find a late, late movie to distract her. The pounding on her door at last broke through the relentless moaning of the walls.

“What is it?” she shouted as she fumbled her way to the back door. It was early morning, the sun not strong enough to break through the haze.

Eric Muir held out a tape recorder as she pulled the door open.

“Sorry to stop by at this hour, but I thought you’d want this set up as soon as possible.” He strode into her kitchen without invitation. “Where’s the noise the worst? I want to put this as near the epicenter as possible.”

“In the front. The main room or the bedroom, it’s all about the same.” She rubbed her fingers through her hair.

“There’s a sound-activated switch on it, and it’s an extended reel of tape. It’ll pick up sound for six hours.” He went about his self-imposed task, ignoring her as he worked.

“Some coffee?” She had to bellow it twice before he refused.

“It’s all ready to go,” he told her a little later as she sat in the kitchen, unable to eat the light breakfast she had made for herself. “It ought to pick up all fluctuations pretty well. That thumping part must be the hardest to take.”

“It’s pretty bad,” she agreed.

“There’s half a dozen guys in the department who’re interested in what’s going on here. We’ll probably come up with some kind of answer in a day or two.”

A spattering kind of rattle joined the twanging beat. Fanchon winced. “Any idea what it is?”

“Perturbed spirits?” Eric ventured enthusiastically. “Demon CBers? Dish antenna misfocus? Underground water carrying sounds through the plumbing? A misfunction of a cable? They’re all possibilities.”

“How delightful.” Fanchon got up from the table. “What am I supposed to do while you figure it out?”

“You might want to find somewhere to stay while I work on this,” he said.

“Any recommendations?” she inquired, knowing already that her sister lived too far away and her stepfather preferred she keep her visits to a minimum.

“Call a friend. You must know someone who can let you have a spare room for a few days.” He was unconcerned. “Leave me a number where I can reach you.”

That night the noise was endless, a crooning, moaning, wordless scream over steady banging and deep sobs. Fanchon went to bed at two, trying to recall everything she had read about sleep deprivation and hallucinations. It was disappointing to see the windows lighten with approaching dawn. She dragged herself into the bathroom and dressed for running, selecting her warmest sweats against the gelid fog.

By the time she got back, the sound was less oppressive. While Fanchon showered and dressed, the noise was no more distressing than recess in a schoolyard might be. She gathered her materials and hiked to campus, doing her best to convince herself that in a day or so her ordeal would be over.

The plight of working-class women a century ago seemed as remote as the extinction of the dinosaurs. She could not concentrate on her lecture, and when she opened the class to questions, she gave arbitrary answers that left her students more puzzled than before.

When she got back to her flat she found Eric Muir waiting for her. “How was last night?”

“Terrible. What about you?”

“Bearable but not pleasant. If you don’t mind, I want to change tapes.” He let her open the door, then hesitated as a series of deep, clashing chords shook her entry hall. “Nothing that bad, certainly.”

“Want to trade flats?” she inquired weakly.

“No,” he answered. He checked the microphone to be certain it was functioning properly, then switched one cassette for another. “I’ll talk to you later.”

The noise was not as ferocious as it had been, but Fanchon could hardly bear it. She felt as if her skin had been made tender by the noise. When four aspirin made no dent in her headache, she picked up the phone and did what she had vowed not to do.

“Hello?” she said when Naomi answered the phone.

“What’s the matter?” Naomi asked, her tone distant.

“It’s Fanchon. I wondered if I could sleep on your couch a couple of nights?”

“Your neighbor’s being a prick about the music?”

“It’s not him. At least, it doesn’t seem to be. He wants to check it out for me.” She let her breath out slowly, hearing Naomi’s hesitation.

“Does he have to do it now?” Naomi asked.

“Well, something has to be done, and he’s the only person who’s interested in finding out what it is.” She wanted to bite her tongue.

“You mean you don’t know if he’s doing it, after all? That sounds a little ooo-eeee-ooooo-eeeeee to me. Maybe we’d better send over some of those flakes from the parapsych division to have a look around.” She tried to laugh. “They really like poltergeists, and this one sure has the polter part down.”

“Naomi, please,” said Fanchon, doing her best not to beg.

“Oh, Fanchon, I don’t want to let you down. I know I’m being a pain about this but, it’s just that ... well, the way things are right now with Bill and me, it would be ... touchy to have someone else in the house. You know how it is. Maybe Gail or Phyllis would have room if you asked them.” She paused. “Any other time, I’d love to have you here. I don’t like to say no, but ... Fanchon, it’s important to me not to fuck this up. I’m sorry.”

Fanchon sighed. “Never mind. I’ll buy some earplugs.”

“Call Phyllis,” Naomi urged her again.

“Phyllis doesn’t like history, and we’re not close enough to make up for that.” What was the point in feeling sorry for herself, she wondered. It wouldn’t do her any good.

“Then take a couple days off. Go somewhere. Tell Bassinton that you have a family emergency, and get away.” Now that she was off the hook, Naomi was doing her best to provide an alternative. “What about your sister?”

“No chance there. She’s moving to Boston next month. And I’ve got two papers assigned in my classes. I can’t miss them. The students are depending on them for a third of their grades.” She stared at the window, seeing the plants growing on the far side of it. “I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Go to a hotel,” said Naomi, determined to make some contribution. “There’s places around here that don’t cost an arm and a leg, and they aren’t awful. What about that place down from campus that does bed and breakfast, the old Victorian place? This time of year they must have a lot of space. And it’s a great building, all that gingerbread. And quiet room service, too, so they tell me.” This last was embarrassed.

“Yeah,” said Fanchon. “Well, thanks anyway.” She was ready to hang up; there was nothing else to say.

“Give me a call when you decide what you’re going to do, Fanchon, will you? We can get together for coffee or lunch or ... we can talk over everything. Okay?”

“Sure,” said Fanchon, hanging up. So she was trapped in the house, and there was nothing she could do to change it. No matter where she went, the road would bring her back here.

She found an excuse to go back to campus for a good part of the day and into the evening. So much research, so many appointments with students—it took time, and time was what she wanted to have away from her flat. She hated to think of Eric as an insensitive clod, but she could not avoid such a conclusion, not after everything that had happened to her. He wanted more statistics and he didn’t much care where they came from, except downstairs was convenient. It was easier to resent Muir than to think about what might be happening to her. There was too much mystery, too much of the unknown for her to dismiss it as a freak or an accident. Somehow that made the whole thing worse.

By the time she had been back in her flat for twenty minutes, Eric Muir was knocking on her back door. Reluctantly she let him in, not bothering to apologize for her bathrobe and ratty slippers.

“It’s been worse,” she said, indicating the low level of throbbing that echoed through her rooms.

“You could put it that way,” said Muir, leaning back against the old-fashioned kitchen counter and crossing his arms. “We listened to the tape today.”

“And?” She had started to make some soup, and offered him a bowl with a gesture instead of words. She was pretty sure she could keep soup down.

“Let’s go out for some fish instead. I’ll give you fifteen minutes to change. There’s a lot to tell you. This whole thing is damned weird. And that’s a rare admission for a theoretical physicist to make.” He looked at her more closely, as if seeing her for the first time. “You’re exhausted, aren’t you?”

“I suppose so. I haven’t been sleeping much.” She might have laughed if he hadn’t been so worried.

“It’s more than that. You’re ... drained. Get changed. Find your coat. It’s starting to rain and you shouldn’t get wet.” He did not wait for her to refuse but turned off the fire under her pan of soup. “You can eat that tomorrow, if you want to.”

“I can’t afford another dinner out,” she warned him, recalling the twelve dollars in her purse that was supposed to last her until Friday. “I don’t have enough for anything fancy.”

“Then I’ll buy. I think I owe you something. You’ve been through a lot, and you haven’t anything but circles under your eyes to show for it.” He rested his hands on the back of one of her two kitchen chairs.

“Yeah,” she said, trying to remember the last time she had had dinner out with a man for any reason other than professional.

“Good.”

She changed and ran a brush through her hair. As an afterthought she put a little lipstick on, then took her four-year-old trenchcoat from the closet before joining him at the front door.