Dead Lines. Greg Bear
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had evaporated. She suddenly looked fragile, like chipped china.
It was time to get this charade over with.
‘Please,’ Sandaji insisted. ‘The question.’
‘Mr Benoliel asks if a man can live without a soul.’
She dropped her gaze to look over his shoulder, then slowly returned her focus to Peter. ‘He asks if a man …’ The wrinkle between her brows became a dark valley. She was starting to look all of her years, and more. ‘Live without a soul?’
‘No,’ Peter corrected himself, getting flustered. ‘He said “someone”, actually. Not “a man”, but “someone”.’
‘Of course,’ Sandaji said, as if it were the most obvious question in the world. Peter blinked. For an instant, a shadow seemed to fill the room, sweeping across walls and ceiling and then hiding behind the furniture.
Sandaji appeared shocked and frightened. She stopped smoothing her gown. ‘I beg your pardon,’ she said. ‘I did not expect … I am not feeling well. Could you call my assistant?’
Peter started to get up from the couch. Before he could reach for her, she slumped forward like a dying ballerina. Her hands fell limp against the worn oriental carpet. A copper bracelet dropped and lodged around her wrist. Her grey hair slipped and pooled. Peter kneeled, decided it would not be wise to touch her – she appeared stunned, half conscious.
He shouted, ‘Help!’
Jean Baslan entered with a prim, pale look and together they lifted Sandaji back into the chair. ‘No, this isn’t very comfortable,’ Baslan observed, her face a tight mask of concern. They picked the woman up by her arms and helped her to the couch, where she lay back gracefully enough, skin waxy and hair in disarray.
‘Of course,’ Sandaji said as she opened her eyes.
‘What happened?’ Baslan asked Peter.
‘She just spoke a few words and fell over,’ Peter said. ‘She must have fainted.’
‘I saw her,’ Sandaji said. She angled her head to stare straight-on at Peter. Her green eyes were intense. ‘I am not a psychic,’ she repeated. ‘I do not have visions.’
‘Did you slip her something?’ Baslan accused Peter. ‘In her water?’
‘Water? No, of course not,’ he insisted to her steady glare.
‘Did you see her?’ Sandaji asked. Both women stared at Peter.
‘There was a reflection,’ he said. ‘That’s all I saw.’
‘It’s time for you to leave, Mr Russell,’ Baslan said.
Sandaji made an effort and sat up. ‘I’m so sorry. This has never happened before. I’m usually a strong, healthy woman.’ She tried to resume control, but it was a poor effort.
‘Let’s go,’ Baslan insisted to Peter. She took his arm and started to drag him away.
‘No, his question,’ Sandaji said.
‘It can wait,’ Baslan said. Peter nodded, eager to get out of the house, away from this nonsense. He wondered how much was being staged. It would not have taken much digging to find out about his children. A good conjuror or medium was always prepared
‘No, it’s a good question. I should answer.’ Sandaji sat upright on the couch and took a deep breath. She lifted her shoulders and arched her neck, then slowly let out her breath. She looked at them with renewed deliberation and her voice resumed its rich cello intonation. ‘Many live on without souls,’ she said. ‘They are intense in a way most cannot understand. They are driven and hungry, but they are empty. There is nothing you or I can do for them. Even should they try for enlightenment, they are like anchorless ships in a storm.’ Her lips moved without sound for a moment, as if practicing a line, then she concluded, ‘A curious question, but strangely important. My beloved guru once spoke long on the subject, but you’re the first who has ever asked me. And now I wonder why.’
‘It was the wrong question.’ Baslan glared at Peter.
‘I am feeling much better,’ Sandaji said, attempting to stand. She fell back again with an expression of mild disgust. ‘I am so sorry, Mr Russell.’
‘You have your answer,’ Baslan insisted.
‘We are polite, Jean,’ Sandaji remonstrated softly. ‘But I am tired. And the evening started so well. I think I should go to bed.’
Baslan brusquely escorted Peter to the front door. ‘The gate will open automatically,’ she said, her face still tight and eyes narrowed, like a mother cat protecting kittens.
Peter walked onto the porch and down the steps, then turned and looked back as the door closed. He stood there for a moment, the anxiety returning, and the shortness of breath. For an instant, he thought he saw something dark in the bamboo, like an undulating serpent. Then it was gone; a trick of light.
He reached into his pocket and felt the smooth plastic phone – Trans, he corrected – and the roll of hundred-dollar bills.
The donation.
For a moment, he thought of just walking on and pocketing the money. Otherwise, what a waste. He could pay a lot of bills with ten grand, Helen’s bills in particular. Lindsey was starting school soon. She needed clothes. He would tell Joseph and Michelle that Sandaji’s people were lying, that he had given Baslan the money.
But he had never stolen money in his life. Not since he had been a little boy, at any rate, lifting coins from his mother’s change bowl. And he was not a good liar. Perhaps for that reason, he had always hated liars and thieves.
His feet again made soft cupping noises on the porch’s solid wood. He knocked.
Baslan swiftly opened the door.
‘How is she?’ he asked.
‘Some better,’ she said tersely. ‘She’s gone upstairs to rest.’
‘I asked her a question on behalf of Mr Benoliel. I got an answer. That’s why I came here. No other reason. Anything like a personal reading was uncalled for. You do her research, no doubt. I resent you telling her about Daniella. I just wanted you to know.’
He held out the roll of money. Baslan, her face coloring to a pale grape, took it with an instinctive dip of her hand. ‘I do not do research,’ she snapped. ‘I told her nothing. Sandaji does not do readings or communicate with spirits. We don’t even know you, Mr Russell.’ She bobbed left to put the money aside. He heard the clinking of a jar or ceramic pot. ‘We are not charlatans. You can leave now.’
With Baslan out of the doorway, Peter had a clear view through an arch to the dining room, about thirty feet from the porch. A little boy in a frilled shirt and knee stockings stood there. He looked sick; not sick, dead; worse than dead, unreal, unraveling. His face turned in Peter’s direction, skin as pale and cold as skim milk. The head seemed jointed like a doll’s. The grayish eyes saw right through him, and suddenly the outline blurred, precisely as if the boy had fallen out of focus in a camera viewfinder.
Peter’s eyes burned.
Baslan straightened. She gripped the edge of the door and asked sharply, ‘Do you need a receipt?’
Peter’s neck hair was bristling. He shook his head and removed his glasses as if to clean them.
‘Then good night.’
When he did not move, Baslan looked on with agitated concern and added, ‘We’re done, aren’t we?’ She prepared to close the door. Her motion again revealed the arch and the dining room. The boy was no longer visible. He couldn’t have moved out of the way, not without being seen.
He simply wasn’t there. Perhaps he had never been there at all.
Baslan closed the door