* * * *
Previous city (Amea Amaau)
All published cities
Copyright © 2001 Benjamin Rosenbaum
* * * *
Benjamin Rosenbaum lives in Basel, Switzerland, with his wife and baby daughter, where in addition to scribbling fiction and poetry, he programs in Java (well) and plays rugby (not very well). He attended the Clarion West Writers’ Workshop in 2001 (the Sarong-Wearing Clarion). His work has appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction and Writer Online. His previous appearances in Strange Horizons can be found in our Archive. For more about him, see his Web site.
Not to Mention Jack
By Charles Anders
1/28/02
Carol Vance lifted her balloon, seeking an altitude from which a falling body would have the chance to do some thinking on the way down.
Cursing her oversized NOMEX gloves, she turned up the burners heating the cone of air overhead, sending the gas-filled sphere higher. At last, she judged the balloon had reached 3,000 feet. She could barely see cows facing into the wind, the simplest test she knew for wind direction. She double-checked the harness fastening her to the basket.
She looked toward the sunrise and breathed deeply. Then she turned around and said, “Jack Tyrrell,” loudly and crisply. The moment she finished saying his name, a man appeared in the basket.
He looked at Carol, then at the ground far below. He gripped the side of the basket. Stress contorted his bony face into a death mask.
Carol laughed. “Just like a bad penny,” she said. “You always turn up.”
“So you’ve learned my secret,” Jack Tyrrell said. Watching him grapple for aplomb warmed Carol in the chill air. “That won’t help you. Neither will this childish stunt. Why don’t you land and we’ll—”
Jack grunted as Carol’s boot struck the knot of his Liberty tie. Her kick sent him over the rail and he lost his grip, arms flailing as he fell. Her harness holding her back from the edge, Carol reduced the gas flow to compensate for the basket’s sudden lightness.
“Carol,” a voice said from the business-band radio next to Carol’s picnic basket, “are you all right? We just saw something fall out of your balloon.”
“Not now.” Carol realized she’d lost sight of the falling man. “Jack,” she said. The man appeared before her once again, shaking but alive; Carol swallowed with relief. To her radio, she said, “It was just ballast. Thanks for asking.” She turned back to the dry-heaving man, who had lost a shoe. “You didn’t happen to notice a grey van on your way down, did you? I was wondering where my chase crew had got to, but they seem to have seen you.”
The man shook his head. “Can’t we talk?” he croaked.
“I think I loved you,” Carol said, planting her foot again on Jack’s chest. “I loved you, and you nearly killed me.” His fingers reached in vain for the basket’s edge as she flung him gently into space.
* * * *
Carol first saw Jack over the head of a mechanical Bengal tiger at the Victoria and Albert Museum. The soldier in the tiger’s mouth represented the British Empire, which had eventually overrun the tiger’s makers. Jack joked about biting off more than you can chew, and held out a smaller hand than Carol’s.
Jack spoke knowledgeably about art; better, he listened to Carol’s opinions with respect. He coughed into a handkerchief instead of his sleeve, and when he went to the gents, he returned with hands freshly washed. His accent had tinges of Essex, but he compensated well. Carol noticed no change in Jack’s behavior when she mentioned she lived in a flat just off Sloane Square. Nor did he seem to hold her cheerfully equine profile against her. When he invited Carol to lunch at Daquise, a subterranean Polish place nearby, she accepted. Over bigos and pierogies, Carol asked Jack what he did for a living and he said he was in the property business: distressed properties mainly. She said maybe he could help her find a new house.
Soon, Carol was seeing a lot of Jack. She had only to mention his name, even just his first name, and he appeared, a show of devotion that made Carol rhapsodize about him. It made buying him gifts like monogrammed boxer shorts difficult, not to mention dishing to her friends. But Jack always rejoiced to see Carol, even when he wandered into a crowded restaurant wearing only a bathrobe, which Carol interpreted as an interesting fashion statement. “Ah, Carol. What a pleasant surprise,” he would say.
“What can I say?” Carol said to her friend Mary. “He can’t tear himself away from me for a second.”
“And you like that,” Mary half-asked.
“Damn straight,” Carol said. “I like a man who knows I’m alive. He’s obviously crazy about me.”
* * * *
More accurately, Carol was driving Jack crazy. Never the best predictor of his own movements, Jack lost all mastery after he met Carol.
A typical day: Jack had a morning meeting with a bond analyst to whom he wanted to sell a house built over a Saxon tomb whose inhabitant rose every couple of weeks. He arranged a meeting at a cafe opposite Liverpool Street station, then phoned the cafe five minutes beforehand. “Hello,” he told the man who answered. “Could you see if Jack Tyrrell is there, please?”
Jack heard the man yell, “Anyone here named Jack Tyrrell?”
A glare filled Jack’s eyes and he scented lilacs. Then the smell of grease overwhelmed him and he saw a roomful of people eating fry-ups. The bond analyst hadn’t arrived yet. The cafe owner looked around impatiently until Jack identified himself. Then the owner handed Jack the phone and he pretended to talk to himself for a moment.
The bond analyst showed up, and Jack launched his sales pitch. As usual, he warned the client not to mention the deal to anyone while it was still in the works. Just as Jack started to make headway with the potential homebuyer, he scented lilacs again. Carol faced him; to her right stood a glass counter full of cakes. He recognized Harrods’ baked goods department. “Oh, it’s you,” Carol said. “I hope you’re not diabetic. I wanted to buy you an unbirthday cake as a surprise. Alice in Wonderland, you know.”
“I know,” Jack said, mustering a smile for his most promising potential client. “It’s a nice thought.” He ran across the crowded shop floor, mentally reviewing the quickest route to Liverpool Street. Of course, the bond analyst didn’t mention his name.
Not only had the bond analyst left the cafe by the time Jack arrived, but someone had stolen his coat from the back of his chair. He shivered and headed for his Bromley flat.
Halfway to Bromley, Jack scented lilacs. Carol stood in the crockery section at Harrods, reciting a poem about him. “And did that noblest brow rejoice … oh, hello. It’s you again. This is Mary. We were just talking about you.” Carol indicated the squat Henna abuser to her left.
“Oh yes,” Jack said, pretending to examine tureens. “These would perfectly complement my cream of leek soup.”
Jack headed for Bromley again, only to appear in a low-ceilinged antiques factory near Colombo. “Ah, I just mentioned you,” a short Sri Lankan whom Jack vaguely recognized said. “How is your courier business going?” Jack made small talk amidst thousands of snake masks until the bond analyst happened to complain about him to a coworker in his plush office. Jack tried to regain the client’s trust, but the analyst threatened to call security.
Jack once again headed for home, only to reappear at Carol’s side when she mentioned his good hygiene to Mary. “His hands were still moist from washing. Oh, it’s you.” He set off again, only to be called back to Carol’s side. Jack actually celebrated appearing in Ouagadougou in the mid-afternoon, as a change from the short leash on which Carol’s mentions kept him. In all, it took him ten hours to make the half-hour trip home from Harrods.
Jack’s therapist, a portly man named Walter Beasley, leaned back in his chair as Jack complained. “I can’t get away from her for a minute,” Jack wailed. “The other day I turned up in her car, five miles from Chichester.” Jack talked rapidly, afraid he’d be summoned before he finished a sentence. Beasley’s office dictated calm, from the clock which ticked only every other second to the sound-absorbing Persian rug and velvet curtains.
Jack had first met Beasley when another patient had confessed to deep emotional scars from Jack’s childhood behavior. When Jack had appeared at the mention of his name, Beasley had reacted nonchalantly. “Is this really him? The boy who stole your lunch?” The woman had sobbed and nodded, while Jack had sought an exit. “Well then,” Beasley had said, “this seems a great opportunity to sort out your issues.”
The next time Jack had felt distressed, he’d looked Beasley up.