The Simulacra (14 page)

“Chrissake,” Al’s peevish voice filtered through the layers of semi-consciousness to him. “Wake up! We have to get the lot moving; we’re supposed to be at the White House in less than three hours.”

Nicole,
Ian realized as he sat up groggily. It was her I was dreaming about; ancient and withered, with dry, shrunken, deathly-stale paps, but still her. “Okay,” he muttered as he rose unsteadily to his feet. “I sure as hell didn’t mean to doze off. And I sure paid for it; I had a terrible dream about Nicole, Al. Listen—suppose she really is old, despite what we saw? Suppose it’s a trick, a projected illusion. I mean—”

“We’ll perform,” Al said. “Play our jugs.”

“But I couldn’t live through it,” Ian Duncan said. “My ability to adjust is just too precarious. This is turning into a nightmare; Luke controls the papoola and maybe Nicole is old—what’s the point of our going on? Can’t we go back to just seeing her on the TV screen? That’s good enough for me, now. I want that, the image. Okay?”

“No,” Al said doggedly. “We have to see this through. Remember, you can always emigrate to Mars; we have the means right at hand.”

The lot had already risen, was already moving toward the East Coast and Washington, D.C.

When they landed, Harold Slezak, a rotund, genial little man, greeted them warmly; he shook hands with them, putting them at their ease as they walked toward the service entrance of the White House. “Your program is ambitious,” he burbled, “but if you can fulfill it, fine with me, with us here, the First Family I mean, and in particular the First Lady herself who is actively enthusiastic about all forms of original artistry. According to your biographical data you two made a thorough study of primitive disc recordings from the early nineteen hundreds, as early as 1920, of jug bands surviving from the U.S. Civil War, so you’re authentic juggists except of course you’re classical, not folk.”

“Yes sir,” Al said.

“Could you, however, slip in
one
folk work?” Slezak asked as they passed the NP guards at the service entrance and entered the White House, the long, quiet corridor with its artificial candles set at intervals. “For instance, we suggest ‘Rockaby My Sarah Jane.’ Do you have that in your repertoire? If not—”

“We have it,” Al said shortly. A look of repugnance appeared on his face and then immediately was gone.

“Fine,” Slezak said, prodding the two of them amiably ahead of him. “Now may I ask what this creature you carry is?” He eyed the papoola with something less than active enthusiasm. “Is it
alive?
”

“It’s our totem animal,” Al said.

“You mean a superstitious charm? A mascot?”

“Exactly,” Al said. “With it we assuage anxiety.” He patted the papoola’s head. “And it’s part of our act; it dances while we play. You know, like a monkey.”

“Well I’ll be darned,” Slezak said, his enthusiasm returning. “I see, now. Nicole will be delighted; she loves soft furry things.” He held a door open ahead of them.

And there she sat.

How could Luke have been so wrong? Ian Duncan thought. She was even lovelier than their glimpse of her at the lot, and in comparison with her TV image she was much more distinct. That was the cardinal difference, the fabulous authenticity of her appearance, its reality to the senses. The senses knew the difference. Here she sat, in faded blue-cotton trousers, moccasins on her small feet, a carelessly-buttoned white shirt through which he could see—or imagined he could see—her tanned, smooth skin. How informal she was, Ian thought. Lacking in pretense or vainglory. Her hair cut short, exposing her beautifully-formed neck and ears—which fascinated him, captured his whole attention. And, he thought, so darn young. She did not look even twenty. He wondered if by some miracle she remembered him. Or Al.

“Nicole,” Slezak said, “these are the classical juggists.”

She glanced up, sideways; she had been reading
The Times
. Now she smiled in greeting. “Good afternoon,” she said. “Did you two have lunch? We could serve you some Canadian bacon and butterhorns and coffee as a snack, if you want.” Her voice, oddly, did not seem to come from her; it materialized from the upper portion of the room, almost at the ceiling. Looking that way, Ian saw a series of speakers and he realized with a start that a glass or plastic barrier separated Nicole from them, a security measure to protect her. He felt disappointed and yet he understood why it was necessary. If anything happened to her—

“We ate, Mrs. Thibodeaux,” Al said. “Thanks.” He, too, was glancing up at the speakers.

We ate Mrs. Thibodeaux,
Ian Duncan thought crazily. Isn’t it actually the other way around? Doesn’t she, sitting here in her blue-cotton pants and shirt, doesn’t she devour
us?
Strange thought . . .

“Look,” Nicole said to Harold Slezak. “They have one of those little papoolas with them—won’t that be fun?” To Al she said, “Could I see it? Let it come here.” She made a signal, and the transparent wall began to lift.

Al dropped the papoola and it scuttled toward Nicole, beneath the raised security barrier; it hopped up, and all at once Nicole held it in her strong, competent hands, gazing down at it intently as if peering deep inside it.

“Heck,” she said, “it’s not alive; it’s just a toy.”

“None survived,” Al explained. “As far as we know. But this is an authentic model, based on fossil remains found on Mars.” He stepped toward her—

The barrier settled abruptly in place. Al was cut off from the papoola and he stood gaping foolishly, seemingly very upset. Then, as if by instinct, he touched the controls at his waist. The papoola slid from Nicole’s hands and hopped clumsily to the floor. Nicole exclaimed in amazement, her eyes bright.

“Do you want one, Nicky?” Harold Slezak asked her. “We can undoubtedly get you one, even several.”

“What does it do?” Nicole said.

Slezak bubbled, “It dances, ma’am, when they play; it has rhythm in its bones—correct, Mr. Duncan? Maybe you could play something now, a shorter piece, to show Mrs. Thibodeaux.” He rubbed his ample hands together vigorously, nodding to Ian and Al.

“S-sure,” Al said. He and Ian looked at each other. “Uh, we could play that little Schubert thing, that arrangement of ‘The Trout.’ Okay, Ian, get set.” He unbuttoned the protective case from his jug, lifted it out and held it awkwardly. Ian did the same. “This is Al Miller, here at first jug,” Al said. “And beside me is my partner, Ian Duncan, at second jug. Bringing you a concert of classical favorites, beginning with a little Schubert.”

Bump bump-bump BUMP-BUMP buump bump, ba-bump-bump bup-bup-bup-bup-buppppp . . .

Nicole said suddenly, “Now I remember where I saw you two before. Especially you, Mr. Miller.”

Lowering their jugs they waited apprehensively.

“At that jalopy jungle,” Nicole said. “When I went to pick up Richard. You talked to me; you asked me to leave Richard alone.”

“Yes,” Al admitted.

“Didn’t you suppose I’d remember you?” Nicole asked. “For heaven’s sake?”

Al said, “You see so many people—”

“But I have a good memory,” Nicole said. “Even for those who aren’t too dreadfully important. You should have waited a little longer before coming here . . . or perhaps you don’t care.”

“We care,” Al said. “We care a lot.”

She studied him for a long time. “Musicians are funny people,” she said aloud, at last. “They don’t think like other people, I’ve discovered. They live in their own private fantasy world, like Richard does. He’s the worst. But he’s also the best, the finest of the White House musicians. Perhaps it has to go together; I don’t know, I don’t have any theory about it. Someone should do a definitive scientific study on the subject and settle it once and for all. Well, go ahead with your number.”

“Okay,” Al said, glancing quickly at Ian.

“You never told me you said that to her,” Ian said. “Asking her to leave Kongrosian alone—you never mentioned that.”

“I thought you knew; I thought you were there and heard it.” Al shrugged. “And anyhow, I didn’t really believe she’d remember me.” Obviously it still seemed impossible to him; his face was a maze of disbelief.

They began to play once again.

Bump bump-bump BUMP-BUMP buuump bump . . .

Nicole giggled.

We’ve failed, Ian thought. God, the worst had come about; we’re ludicrous. He ceased playing; Al continued on, his cheeks red and swelling with the effort of playing. He seemed unaware that Nicole was holding her hand up to conceal her laughter, her amusement at them and their efforts. Al played on, by himself, to the end of the piece, and then he, too, lowered his jug.

“The papoola,” Nicole said, as evenly as possible. “It didn’t dance. Not one little step—why not?” And again she laughed, unable to stop herself.

Al said woodenly, “I—don’t have control of it; it’s on remote right now.” To Ian he said, “Luke’s got control of it, still.” He turned to the papoola and said in a loud voice, “You better dance.”

“Oh really, this is wonderful,” Nicole said. “Look,” she said, to a woman who had just joined her; it was Janet Raimer—Ian recognized her. “He has to
beg
it to dance. Dance, whatever your name is, papoola-thing from Mars, or rather imitation papoola-thing from Mars.” She prodded the papoola with the toe of her moccasin, trying to nudge it into life. “Come on, little synthetic ancient cute creature, all made out of wires. Please.” She prodded it a little harder.

The papoola leaped at her. It bit her.

Nicole screamed. A sharp pop sounded from behind her, and the papoola vanished into particles that swirled. A White House NP man stepped into sight, his rifle in his hands, peering intently at her and at the floating particles; his face was calm but his hands and the rifle quivered. Al began to curse to himself, chanting the words singsong over and over again, the same three or four, unceasingly.

“Luke,” he said, then, to Ian. “He did it. Revenge. It’s the end of us.” He looked timelessly old, haggard, worn-out. Reflexively he began wrapping his jug up once more, going through the motions in mechanical fashion, step by step.

“You’re under arrest,” a second White House NP guard said, appearing behind them and training his rifle on the two of them.

“Sure,” Al said listlessly, his head nodding, wobbling vacuously. “We had nothing to do with it so arrest us.”

Getting to her feet with the assistance of Janet Raimer, Nicole walked slowly toward Al and Ian. At the transparent barrier she stopped. “Did it bite me because I laughed?” she said in a quiet voice.

Slezak stood mopping his forehead. He said nothing; he merely stared at them all sightlessly.

“I’m sorry,” Nicole said. “I made it angry, didn’t I? It’s a shame; we would have enjoyed your act. This evening after dinner.”

“Luke did it,” Al said to her.

“‘Luke,’” Nicole studied him. “Yes, that’s right; he’s your employer.” To Janet Raimer she said, “I guess we’d better have him arrested, too. Don’t you think?”

“Anything you say,” Janet Raimer said, pale and terribly frightened-looking.

Nicole said, “This whole jug business . . . it was just a cover-up for an action directly hostile to us, wasn’t it? A crime against the state. We’ll have to rethink the entire philosophy of inviting performers here—perhaps it’s been a mistake from the very start. It gives too much access to anyone who has hostile intentions toward us. I’m sorry.” She looked sad, now; she folded her arms and stood rocking back and forth, lost in thought.

“Believe me, Nicole—” Al began.

Introspectively, to herself, she said, “I’m not Nicole. Don’t call me that. Nicole Thibodeaux died years ago. I’m Kate Rupert, the fourth one to take her place. I’m just an actress who looks enough like the original Nicole to be able to keep this job, and I wish sometimes, when something like this happens, that I didn’t have it. I have no real authority, in the ultimate sense. There’s a council that governs . . . I never see them; they’re not interested in me and I’m not in them. So that makes it even.”

After a time Al said, “How—many attempts have there been on your life?”

“Six or seven,” she said. “I forget exactly. All for psychological reasons. Unresolved Oedipal complexes or something bizarre like that. I don’t really care.” She turned to the NP men, then; there were now several squads of them on hand. Pointing to Al and Ian she said, “It seems to me they don’t appear as if they know what’s going on. Maybe they are innocent.” To Harold Slezak and Janet Raimer she said, “Do they have to be destroyed? I don’t see why you couldn’t just eradicate a portion of the memory-cells of their brains and then let them go. Why wouldn’t that do?”

Slezak glanced at Janet Raimer, then shrugged. “If you want it that way.”

“Yes,” Nicole said. “I’d prefer that. It would make my job easier. Take them to the Medical Center at Bethesda and after that release them. And now let’s go on; let’s give an audience to the next performers.”

A NP man nudged Ian in the back with his gun. “Down the corridor, please.”

“Okay,” Ian managed to murmur, gripping his jug. But what happened? he wondered. I don’t quite understand. This woman isn’t really Nicole and even worse there is no Nicole anywhere; there’s just the TV image after all, the illusion of the media, and behind it, behind her, another group entirely rules. A corporate body of some kind. But who are they and how did they get power? How long have they had it? Will we ever know? We came so far; we almost seem to know what’s really going on. The actuality behind the illusion, the secrets kept from us all our lives. Can’t they tell us the rest? There can’t be much more. And what difference would it make now?

“Goodbye,” Al was saying to him.

“W-what?” he said, horrified. “Why do you say that? They’re going to let us go, aren’t they?”

Al said, “We won’t remember each other. Take my word for it; we won’t be allowed to keep any recollections like that. So—” He held out his hand. “So goodbye, Ian. We made it to the White House, didn’t we? You won’t remember that either, but that’s still true; we did do it.” He grinned crookedly.