Robert Silverberg: To Live Again

The guru reached his peroration and vanished from the screen. Roditis returned, beaming.

“What did you think of that?”

“Fine, John. Wonderful.”

“He really sounded happy about the gift”

“I’m sure he was. It was very handsome.”

“Yes,” said Roditis. “I’ll give him some more, by and by. I’ll make them name a whole damn wing of that place after me. The John Roditis Soul Bank for Departed Lamas, or something. Onward and upward, yes? Om mani padme hum, fella.”

Noyes said nothing. Kravchenko seemed to chuckle; Noyes felt it as a tickling in his frontal lobes.

Then, as though experiencing some inner shifting of gears, Roditis lost his look of jovial self-satisfaction, and a glimmer of strain showed through his carefully abstract expression. He said, “Mark Kaufmann is giving a party Saturday at his Dominica estate.”

“He’s coming out of mourning, then?”

“Yes. This is the first social thing he’s done since old Paul was gathered to repose. It’s going to be a big, noisy, expensive affair.”

“Are you invited?” Noyes asked. Roditis looked scornful. “Me? The filthy little nouveau riche with delusions of grandeur? No, of course I’m not invited! It’s mainly going to be a party for various Kaufmanns and their Jewish banking relatives.”

“John, you know you shouldn’t use that phrase.”

“Why? Does it make me seem a bigot? You know I’ve got nothing against Jews. Can I help it if the Kaufmanns are related to the other big Jewish bankers?”

“When you say it, somehow, it comes out like a sneer,” Noyes dared to tell him.

“Well, I don’t mean it as a sneer. You don’t sneer at a social and cultural elite. What you hear in my voice isn’t anti-Semitism, Charles, it’s simple envy without any neurotic irrational manifestations attached. There’ll be a mess of Lehmans and Loebs at that party. There won’t be any John Roditis. Frank Santoliquido is going to be there, too.”

“He’s not Jewish.” Roditis looked annoyed. “No, dolt, he isn’t! But he’s important, and he’s socially well-placed besides, and Mark Kaufmann is trying to buy his support in this business of the old man’s persona. Santoliquido and his girl friend are flying down on Mark’s own jet; that’s how tight things are getting. And you can bet that Mark is going to spend the whole day letting Santo know how important it is to keep Uncle Paul out of my clutches. That’s got to be counteracted somehow. Which is why you’re going to go to the party, too.”

“Me? But I’m not invited!”

“Get yourself invited.”

“Impossible, John. Kaufmann knows I’m connected to your organization, and if you’re on the dead list, you can bet that I—”

“You’re also connected to the Loebs, aren’t you?”

“Well, my sister married a Loeb, yes.”

“Damn right, she did. Won’t she be at the party?”

“I suppose she’s been invited, at any rate.”

“I know she has. I’ve got the complete guest list right here. Mr. and Mrs. David Loeb. That’s your sister, right?”

“Right.”

“Fine. Now, what happens if she phones Kaufmann and says she’s in the air over Cuba, say, and she’ll be landing in five minutes, and she’s happened to bring her kid brother Charlie along for the party? Is Kaufmann going to say no, send the scoundrel home?”

“He’ll be furious, John.”

“Let him be furious, then. He’ll have to maintain decorum, though. It’s not the sort of formal party where one extra guest throws the whole thing out of balance, and he can’t very well refuse you permission to attend with your sister. You’ll be admitted. The worst that’ll happen is you’ll get a few sour stares from Kaufmann. But socially you’ll be among your equals, and everybody else will be glad to see you, and there’ll be no hard feelings.”

Noyes’ fingers began to tremble. Kravchenko scrabbled derisively against the walls of his cranium. Carefully, Noyes reached to his left, out of the range of the sensors relaying his image to Roditis, and scooped a drink capsule from a tray. He activated the capsule and let the fluid flow into his arm. That was better. But not good enough. He felt sick. The idea of muscling his way into a party like this, parlaying his own tattered status and his sister’s connections by marriage into Roditis’ advantage, chilled and saddened him.

He said, “Assuming I succeed in crashing the party, John, what’s the purpose of my going there?”

“Mainly to get next to Santoliquido and work on him.”

“About the Paul Kaufmann persona?”

“What else? You can be subtle. You can be indirect. He’s going to make up his mind about the transplant any day now. I want it so bad I can taste it, Charles. Do you realize what I could do with Paul Kaufmann inside my head? The doors that would open for me, the plans I could bring off? And it’s all up to Santo. He’ll be down there, relaxed, out in the sunshine, drinking too much.

And you can work on him. Use the old charm. That’s what I pay you for, the old Episcopalian Anglo-Saxon charm. Turn it on!”

“All right,” Noyes muttered. “And even if you don’t get anywhere immediately with him, perhaps you can find a plan of action. Some vulnerable spot in his makeup. Some opening wedge that we can get leverage on.”

Appalled, Noyes said, “Are you thinking of blackmailing Santoliquido into approving your request?”

“Now, did I say that? What a terribly crude suggestion, Charles! I expect more finesse from you.” Roditis laughed heavily. “Call your sister. Get everything set up. Oh — Charles? How’s Jimmyboy?”

“Kravchenko? I think he’s asleep.”

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate going to the party too. He’ll see many of his old friends there. Call your sister, Charles.”

The screen darkened. Noyes looked at the floor. He knelt and dug his fingers into the carpet, trying to steady himself. His head seemed to be splitting into segments.

—Call your sister, Charles. Didn’t you hear the man? “I won’t!” — You’d better. You don’t dare defy him. “It’s filthiness! To crash a party so he can use me to suck up to Santoliquido—”

—He wants the old Kaufmann persona, doesn’t he? It’s his ticket to social respectability. Your job is to help him get what he wants.

“Not at the cost of my integrity.” — You got rid of that a long time ago. Come on, Chuck. He’s right: I want to go to that party. At least three of my wives ought to be there. I’d love to see how they’re aging.

“I’ll kill myself first!” — If you had the guts, I suppose you would. Pick up the phone. Call your sister.

Noyes heard mocking laughter in his skull.

He returned to the bedroom and eyed the carniphage flask. But, as ever, it was only a dramatic gesture, fooling neither himself nor the demonic persona he harbored. Defeat dragged at his muscles. He seized the phone and jabbed out the numbers. Moments later, his sister’s privacy code appeared on the little gray screen. She’s taking her morning bath, Noyes thought. He said, “It’s me, Gloria, just Charlie. Your wombmate.”

The screen cleared, and the face and shoulders of Gloria Loeb appeared. She wore some sort of flimsy wrap, and her cheeks and forehead were glossy with whatever mystic preparation she favored to keep her complexion eternally young. She was three years older than Noyes, and looked at least a dozen years younger. They had never liked one another. Her marriage to David Loeb had been a stunning social event sixteen years ago, a grandiose blowout, as was appropriate for the union of old New England aristocracy with old Jewish aristocracy. That was the fashionable sort of marriage these days, rapidly creating a tribe of AngloSaxon Hebrews whose formidable bloodlines linked them securely to Plantagenets on one hand, Solomon and David on the other, an unbeatable combination. Noyes had become very drunk at his sister’s wedding; in a way, his decline and fall had begun that evening, a few weeks after he had turned twenty-one.