Gene Wolfe - An Evil Guest

“Do so now.”

In the momentary silence that followed, the waitress laid a small blank book and a pen on the table in front of Cassie. “It’s not for me,” the waitress explained, “it’s for Ida. She collects them, only she’s not your waitress and she’s shy. Could you sign it for her? Best of luck, Ida? Something like that?”

Much impeded by traffic, they drove from the House of Toast to Barclays Bank. When they had at last completed their business, Gideon took Cassie to her building on West Arbor, and at her insistence let her out at the curb. Parking places were hard to find at that hour; but he found one, walked four long blocks back to her building, and stationed himself across the street for a time.

There he thought about a great many things, including (but far from limited to) a sculptor of ancient Greece and the beautiful woman George Bernard Shaw had called Galatea. “I could reverse it,” he told himself, “but time and chance will do that soon enough.” As soon as he spoke, he knew that for him no reversal would have the least effect.

Returning to the brown convertible, he drove to his own Pine Crest Towers several miles away, where he parked in the space assigned to him. A doorman smiled, nodded, and touched his cap. “Professor Chase.”

There seemed to be nothing wrong. Why then, he asked himself, did he feel so utterly certain that something was? The impression was so strong that he would not have boarded the elevator if there had been anyone else in it.

He was walking down the long second-floor corridor when the sound of a pistol slide being racked made him turn. For an instant he saw the muzzle of the gun and threw himself against the door of the nearest apartment with all his strength.

It gave way, and he staggered into someone’s living room as the gun spoke in the corridor behind him. He had nearly reached the kitchen before he felt the stab of pain in his right calf.

He had known there would be no way out of the kitchen save one window. There was no time to break that window or climb through it, but kitchen gadgets hung above the sink. He threw a cleaver and saw the gunman stagger backward, his bleeding face in both hands.

With a meat tenderizer in one hand and a carving knife in the other Gideon tried to pursue him, but found that it was all that he could do to walk without falling. Before he limped away, he picked up his assailant’s gun and left three hundred dollars under a book on the coffee table.

MARGARET was fifteen minutes late. “There was a phone call, Miss Casey. Miss Dempster called wanting the number of your cell phone.”

Cassie nodded. “You must not have given it to her.”

“I didn’t. You had given it to me, but I didn’t think you would want me to give it out. So I told her I didn’t have it.”

“What’s this!” Cassie’s smile would have broken the heart of every man in sight, had there been any. “You lied to India, Margaret? Tsk, tsk!”

“I didn’t, Miss Casey. Things like that really bother me, so I don’t do it unless I’ve got to. You had written your number on that napkin. Remember?”

“Right, I do.”

“Well, before I told Miss Dempster I didn’t have it, I got the napkin and threw it away. I’ve got a pretty little round wastebasket next to my phone.”

“Handy,” Cassie remarked.

“It truly is, Miss Casey, and while we were still talking back and forth I took your napkin out of my purse and dropped it into there. Of course after we’d hung up I looked down real careful and read the number. I copied it into my book, only there was a good deal said between Miss Dempster and me before. Before she’d let me off the phone, you know.”

“Wait a bit,” Cassie said. “What would you have done if you hadn’t been able to read the number?”

“Why I’d shake the wastebasket, Miss Casey, just like anybody would. Made that napkin jump around in there, you know, until I could read it.”

“Golly, I should have thought of that. What did India have to say?”

“Ever so many things.” Margaret looked vague. “A read-through was one. She’d got the Tiara, she said, by telling them her new show might open there. One tomorrow afternoon, it will be.”

“I’m not signed,” Cassie remarked.

“I don’t think anybody is, Miss Casey. Or nobody but Miss Dempster and Mr. Palma. She said he was, come to think.”

“I see.”

“Only she said she’s been talking to Ms. Youmans and it’s all settled except for signing. She said to tell you she absolutely had to have you and you’d be letting them all down if you wouldn’t take it, so she was ever so very glad you were going to do it. Because of Mr. Rosenquist is what she said.”

“I’ve got it. Before I sign, I want to talk to Zelda. She’s sold me down the volcano much too cheaply, unless I’m badly mistaken.”

Margaret tittered. “Then, too, she wants to know how many solo songs you’ll do.”

“None,” Cassie said firmly.

“That Mr. Rosenquist wanted five, she said. Only Miss Dempster doesn’t want you to strain your voice. She is trying to get him down to the three, she said. There is a voice coach, too, now. I don’t recall the name.”

“Doesn’t matter. Dammit! I can sing along with two or three other people, but I’m no singer.”

“You sing beautifully, Miss Casey.”

When Cassie objected, Margaret raised her voice. “I know you do, Miss Casey. I’ve heard you talking. I’m hearing you right now. There’s nobody in the world who can talk like you who can’t sing.”

“You’re a very nice person, Margaret, but no. I’ve... The other night...”

“What is it, Miss Casey?”

“Have you ever heard of a mountain that was alive, Margaret? Honestly, now. A mountain whose wife washed clothes?”

Doubtfully, Margaret shook her head. “A dream, Miss Casey? I was going to say I sing in the choir. In church, you know, when I’m not on the road, because there’s hardly ever a show on Sunday morning. I’m not much of a singer, but I know some good singers and I know how they sound.”

“Do you really, Margaret? Give me a sample. What do you sing?”

“I’ll try to get the tune right, Miss Casey. It’s such a lovely song, but I’m not good with tunes unless I have the music.” She sang, her voice quavering a bit on the high notes. When she had finished, Cassie applauded.

Smiling gratefully, Margaret said, “Now let’s hear you sing it, Miss Casey. You can’t help but be better than I was.”

Cassie stood and coughed to clear her throat: a soft, apologetic sound.

“Louder, Miss Casey!”

The song seemed to fill her, a host of angels caroling through the corridors of her mind.

When she had finished singing as much as she could recall, Margaret clapped enthusiastically. “Wonderful! You have a wonderful, wonderful voice, Miss Casey. I knew it. Why, I declare, it was like — like I don’t know what. If you could come to church just once — ”

The telephone rang. Cassie excused herself with a gesture and picked it up.

“Was that you singing?”

“I’m afraid so.” Cassie managed a rueful smile. “I’m sorry I disturbed you.”