The Live-Forever Machine (7 page)

“Is he a very busy man, your father?”

“He’s a subway conductor, and he writes a lot in his spare time.”

Alexander nodded again. “Shall we go on? There are several other workshops you’ll find of interest.”

He led Eric to the window of a workroom
where a scholar poured over a misshapen tablet of stone, its surface covered in hieroglyphics. Through another window Eric saw a team of men and women polishing a suit of armour. Further on, a man sat in a small library, books spread out all around him, his head bowed in concentration.

“I once worked in a library,” Alexander was saying into his ear. “A vast library, with the finest collection of literature in the world. We had some half a million volumes, which was a breathtaking number in those days.”

“Here in the city?” Eric asked.

“Oh no, not here—and it’s gone now. It burned down many years ago. Everything was lost. It was a great tragedy. Those were things that will never be recovered.”

Eric glanced at Alexander. It was uncanny how much he had sounded like Dad.

“And there have recently been fires here as well, did you know?” Alexander went on in a conversational tone. “One at the rare-book library, another at the antiquarian’s. Perhaps you’ve seen the news reports. People have always craved a good fire.”

“My father says that people would rather watch the fires on
TV
than read a book.”

“Or go to the museum. People place little value on such things now.”

Like the man in black, Eric almost said. The man who had knocked over the soldier. Who was that guy? he wondered. But he knew he couldn’t ask, not without giving away the fact that he’d been hiding in the display during the fight.

“Shall we continue?” Alexander said.

They passed like ghosts through the tangle of corridors. Mounting a twisting set of stairs, they came to another room, where Oriental carpets and tapestries were being sprayed for bugs. At the next workshop, his face pressed close against the window, Eric looked on as shards of pottery were glued back together to form ancient vases.

He devoured everything. He felt as if history were being resurrected before his eyes.

“There is a great deal more to show you,” Alexander said, “but I haven’t much more time.”

“What’s below us, on the lower floors?” The buttons on the freight elevator had continued much farther down than the one Alexander had pressed.

“Those are the storage rooms, the treasure houses of Kubla Khan! There is space in the galleries, you see, to display only a minuscule portion of the museum’s collection, so the remainder is packed carefully away.”

“How far down do they go?”

“To the very pit of hell!” Alexander proclaimed with a dramatic flourish. “Ah, forgive me. A jest—a joke, rather. Let me see … twenty floors, I believe.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “No, perhaps only eighteen. The two lowest levels have been barricaded for many years now. They sealed them up during the renovations because there was a problem with water leakage from the storm drains.”

Deep as the city, Eric thought, and the clanging of machinery in the darkness rang through his head.

“Is there anything down there still?” he asked. He could still see Jonah bent over the storm drain grate, bellowing about fire and brimstone.

“Not a thing,” Alexander replied. “They are empty as tombs, home only to rats.” He tried to stifle a cough but couldn’t.

“Are you all right?” Eric looked at him with concern. “Isn’t there something you could take for that?”

“A passing fit.” His breathing calmed and his eyes settled on Eric. “How much did you see and hear in the armoury?”

Eric’s body tightened and, for a moment, he felt sick. He had been watched without his knowing. Even though he’d hidden in the
shadows of the display, Alexander had known he was there.

“Alexander’s not your real name,” he shot back to cover up his alarm. “I called the museum.”

“I see.” The tall, stooped man appeared amused, a small spark dancing in each pupil. “I applaud your resourcefulness. But it is my real name—my middle name, in fact. It is simply that no one calls me by it.”

“Only the man you fought with?”

“Yes. Your ears are very sharp. You heard everything,
saw
everything?” His gaze was piercing.

Eric couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Here,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “I found it on the floor afterwards.” He unfolded the washcloth and held out the locket. “You dropped it, right? That’s why I came. To give it back.”

Alexander’s bony hand darted out and closed around the wooden oblong.

“I’ve been searching for this,” he said.

A chill ran through Eric. His instincts told him that Alexander was lying: he’d known all along where it was. Alexander had dropped it on purpose, left it like a lure. Everything seemed to click into place: the feeling of being watched, the door at the rear of the display left
slightly ajar, the meeting in the service corridor. Had it really all been planned out, every step? But why?

For a split second he wanted to get as far away as possible. But he stood riveted, watching the rapt expression on Alexander’s face as he gazed at the locket.

“There she is,” he said softly. “A wonderful likeness, though it fails to capture her fully—or so I am told. But even Leonardo fell short with his
Mona Lisa.
Yes, truly one of the great beauties. ‘Love, that doth reign and live within my thought, / And built his seat within my captive breast.’ “

The smile faded from Alexander’s lips, and he looked up at Eric.

“Why didn’t you give it back immediately?” he demanded.

There was no anger in his voice, only a fierce urgency.

“Well—” Eric faltered. “I—”

“Tell me!”

“I wanted to keep it,” Eric heard himself saying. “I didn’t want to give it back.”

“Yes, yes,” Alexander said softly, urging him on. “And why?”

“Because it was old and beautiful.” He scarcely recognized his own voice. “Because of her. There was something about her.” How
could he explain the mesmerizing effect she had? “I wanted to know about her, more than just her name and date. I wanted it, her, for myself—to keep her safe. I didn’t want anyone else to have it.”

“That’s right, yes,” said Alexander quietly, his eyes ablaze. How strange they were, Eric noticed for the first time: a swirling ocean green, infinitely deep.

The lights went out with an electric snap, plunging the corridor into darkness. A second later came a ghostly fluorescent flicker that lasted long enough for Eric to make out the stricken look on Alexander’s face. Then blackness again.

“ ‘The day is done, and the darkness / Falls from the wings of Night, …’ “ Alexander’s voice was a hoarse, croaking whisper in the dark. For the first time Eric felt afraid.

The lights flared on. Alexander’s face was tight and pale. A muscle twitched at the corner of his mouth. His fingers tightened around the locket.

“This heatwave,” Eric said, watching Alexander nervously. “It’s really messing up the city.”

“No. It’s not the heatwave.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s him,” Alexander said, looking at Eric.

“Him? Who, the guy in black?”

At that moment, a small man in a pale blue suit walked around the corner and headed towards them. Alexander flinched and quickly closed the locket. He lifted it as if to pocket it in his coveralls, but then hurriedly pressed it into Eric’s hands instead.

Eric instinctively slid it into his jeans.

“Here you are,” said the small man, a note of disapproval in his voice. “There’s a job on the main floor. One of the air-conditioning vents is clogged. It’s all these damn power outages. You weren’t at your work station.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” said Alexander. “I’ll tend to it now.” His stoop was more pronounced now, his voice suddenly deferential.

“Right now,” said the supervisor. “It’s an emergency. And who’s this?” His eyes flicked over Eric.

“My grandson,” Alexander mumbled.

The supervisor scowled, and did not look entirely convinced. “Next time, make sure he wears a security pass.”

“Yes, I will.”

“I’ll show him out.”

Alexander turned to go, but his green eyes met Eric’s for a split second. Eric shivered and looked away. His hand brushed the concealed locket. He’d taken the bait again.

“He’s been watching me.”

“This guy’s scary,” said Chris. “Intensely scary. If I thought some dusty sixty-year-old was spying on me, I’d leave town! Why’d you let him hand you the locket like that? That was dumb.”

“I know, I know,” Eric sighed. He’d eagerly taken it, though, happy to have it for a little while longer, to touch the smooth old wood, to look at the miniature inside. But he knew it was only being used as the bait on a hook.

He shifted uncomfortably in the skeletal chrome armchair. He’d never liked Chris’s apartment. The vast living room reminded him of a very expensive furniture store, sparse and cold. The walls were a blinding white, without paintings or prints, and the furniture was carefully arranged in small clumps, as if on display: two spindly metallic armchairs, a black leather sofa, a white leather sofa, a set of gleaming
glass-and-steel shelves that held a stack of matte-black stereo equipment and a huge television, a coffee table made of a slab of ebony balanced on ivory obelisks. A few Japanese vases with dried flowers were placed discreetly around the room. The only things out of place were Chris’s designer sneakers, kicked off onto the shining checkerboard-tile floor.

On television, a man was gobbling burning cigarettes, spitting them out, lighting more, then gobbling them up too, until he had twelve smouldering in his mouth at once. Eric felt a sick stirring in his stomach.

“Amazing!” Chris said. “I’ve never seen anyone do that.”

“How can you watch this crap?” Eric said impatiently.

“It’s good,” Chris protested. “You try smoking twelve cigarettes at the same time.”

Eric took a deep breath.

“All right, okay,” Chris said, touching the remote-control. The volume faded to a distant roar. “So what’re you going to do? I wouldn’t go back.”

“Why do you think he’s been watching me?” Eric said. He twisted in the armchair, trying to find a comfortable position. There wasn’t one.

Chris shrugged. “Maybe he’s crazy. Maybe he’s some kind of pervert who likes little boys.
You shouldn’t have told him so much about yourself. You told him where you live!”

“He knew anyway,” Eric said. “I’m sure of it. A lot of the time it was as if he knew the answers to all his own questions, and was just making me talk.”

“He’s a psycho.”

“No.” Eric shook his head. There was something almost familiar about Alexander, something Eric understood. Alexander was like Eric’s father in some ways: the old-fashioned words, the snatches of poetry, the things he said about the city.

“Saying love poetry to a picture in a locket!” Chris scoffed. “Sounds pretty crazy to me.”

Eric sagged in the armchair. He remembered Alexander snatching the locket from his hands, desperate to have it back. But was that so hard to understand? He hadn’t wanted to part with it himself. Maybe Alexander just felt the same attraction, only much stronger.

“It was like it belonged to him,” Eric said. “Like he owned it.”

“I thought you said it came from the museum.”

“But the way he held it and looked at the picture—” Eric hesitated as the thought slithered into his head, almost didn’t say it. “It was as if he knew her.”

“Right,” Chris said jeeringly. “Like those old guys who look at skin magazines at the back of the corner store.”

“That’s not the way he was looking at it, you moron.” Eric could feel his face go red. He, too, had spent a lot of time looking at the portrait. Nothing abnormal about that, right? There was just something about her, something mysterious. He wondered if his father ever looked at his old pictures the same way.

“Me a moron?” Chris exclaimed. “You’re the moron. The woman in the portrait’s been dead five hundred years or something and you say that this guy knew her. Right!”

“It was just the way he looked, that’s all,” Eric said sharply.

“Yeah, because he’s crazy. He probably ripped this thing off. Why else would he hide it when his boss showed up?”

“Maybe, maybe.” Eric said. He felt suddenly deflated. The same question had stalked through his head. He supposed it was possible for Alexander to have stolen the locket, but Eric just couldn’t see him doing it. He’d worked at the museum for years, and obviously loved it. He seemed about as likely a criminal as Eric’s father. But it was impossible to know what people were really like. Everyone hid things.

“Well,” said Chris, “if you ask me, this thing has ILLEGAL written all over it in big red letters.”

“He wants me to go back,” said Eric. “That’s the only reason he gave me the locket. He could’ve hidden it himself just as easily.”

“Just ditch it,” Chris advised, stretching his muscular arms above his head. “He’s crazy.”

“But why’s he been watching me?” Eric exclaimed. “There’s got to be a reason! Why does he want me to go back to see him?”

Chris shrugged, and his eyes strayed to the television.

“Hang on a second.”

He touched the remote-control unit and the volume soared.

A curvaceous young woman in a bikini was modelling a new wristwatch
TV
, whispering guarantees with her wide, crayon-red mouth. All her beautiful friends wore wristwatch televisions, too. They were stretched out on the sand behind her, eyes glued to the miniature screens. They managed to tear themselves away long enough to smile at the camera before the commercial ended.

“Wouldn’t one of those be amazing?” Chris said.

“Great,” Eric said curtly. Chris was getting as bad as his father, always distracted. No one
paid attention anymore. At least Alexander had listened.

“The screen on those things is incredibly thin,” Chris was saying.

“A real breakthrough,” Eric said.

“Sorry, I forgot I was talking to a techno-peasant.”

“Fortunately I can think without the television on.”