Einstein's last words were, “Erleichda, erleichda.”
Memories of Einstein, and of his own first (but, alas, not last) exploits as a science saboteur, distracted the prisoner “Albert Barr,” permitting him to escape momentarily from the two cells in which he was locked; the chamber of steel, cold and indestructible; the chamber of flesh, feverish and deteriorating.
The instant the reminiscence faded, the symptoms of deterioration took over, grabbing the limelight like an insecure celebrity, drowning out, with Welkian schmaltz, the shy snores of embezzlers, the out-of-sync rasps of homicidal maniacs, the nocturnal whimpers of lifelong bullyboys. The noise of aging came from deep inside him, and although it was relatively soft, it had an urgency that the distant country/western of the guards' radio did not.
More disturbing was the odor. What chemical evil could be working in his tissues to cause them to smell like the bottom drawer in a maiden aunt's dresser?
At that moment, Alobar became aware of a new symptom. His ears had started to burn. Of itself, it wasn't a ruinous sensation, and he recalled the folk wisdom that attributed ear heat to gossip. If your ears burned, it meant that someone was talking about you. That would be okay, Alobar thought, especially if it were the parole board. But at this saw-log hour of the morning, who on Earth could possibly be talking about him?
Who, indeed?
“A thousand years old,” said Priscilla. “No-oo! He was feeding you a whopper.”
“Your man here is a scientist,” said Wiggs. “I am trained in skepticism. I'm not the chap to be swallowin' whoppers.”
“Ha! I've heard from informed sources that you believe in fairies.”
Wiggs reddened slightly. “'Tis an entirely different matter,” he said.
“Maybe not.”
“Myths explain the world.” He cleared his throat in a pedagogic manner. “Both the psychic and physical world. The world past, present, and future. When your ancient Celts spoke o' fairies, they were describin' the photon. Not the unintelligent pulse o' light that is the basis, the creator, o' all matter, but the pulse o' light charged with consciousness, the new photon that is evolvin' out o' matter. Faith, don't be gettin' me started on quantum physics and the wisdom o' the Irish. Alobar, for all his age, was no bloody fairy.”
“You know, your brogue is getting worse by the minute.”
“'Tis the drinkin'. And I shouldn't be drinkin'. Alcohol runs counter to me immortalist aspirations.”
Priscilla looked at her own glass of spirits. She thought of Ricki, waiting — perhaps worrying — at her apartment. “I shouldn't have anymore, either. Here, I'm gonna go in the kitchen and get us some ice water.”
“Arraugh!” Wiggs grabbed his collar as if he were strangling. “Water?” He rolled off the couch, still clutching his throat. “Water! Of all the liquids on Earth, the only one chosen for scrubbin' and flushin'. The liquid they rinse the baby's nappies in, the fluid that floods the gutters o' this cloud-squeezer town; a single drop o' water discolors a glass of Irish, and you, false friend, are wantin' me to pour this abrasive substance into me defenseless body!”
Priscilla giggled, which delighted him. His heart thought it was an electric toaster, set for “tan.” In her heart, the yeast was rising.
“Okay, okay, no water. What can I get you to replace the booze?”
Dr. Dannyboy straightened his tie and his eye patch, and reoccupied his seat on the sofa. The only illumination in the room was from the fireplace. It lent a cheerful glint to the cannibal cutlery above the mantel. “Another nice wet kiss would be fillin' the bill,” he said quietly.
Pushing aside anxiety about Ricki and curiosity about beets, she slid into his arms.
Across the continent, near Boston, in a cell inside Concord State Prison, Alobar's ears abruptly ceased burning.
“Ahh, I do love zippers. Zippers remind me o' crocodiles, lobsters, and Aztec serpents. I wish me tweeds had more than the single fly. . Zippers are primal and modern at the very same time. On the one hand, your zipper is primitive and reptilian, on the other, mechanical and slick. A zipper is where the Industrial Revolution meets the Cobra Cult, don't you think? Ahh. Little alligators of ecstasy, that's what zippers are. Sexy, too. Now your button, a button is prim and persnickety. There's somethin' Victorian about a row o' buttons. But a zipper, why a zipper is the very snake at the gate of Eden, waitin' to escort a true believer into the Garden. Faith, I should be sewin' more zippers into me garments, for I have many erogenous zones that require speedy access. Mmm, old zipper creeper, hanging head down like the carcass of a lizard; the phantom viper that we shun in daytime and communicate with at night.”
“Here, let me help you with that.”
Throughout Dr. Dannyboy's monologue, he had been trying to unzip Pris's dress, to part the teeth of the Talon that ran down the length of her green knit back; trying to maneuver it coolly, unobtrusively, as if Pris, suddenly noticing her dress falling away, would regard it as a spontaneous act of nature, organic and ordained, but he couldn't budge the damn thing, though he tugged until sweat burst out on his brow, and finally, she said. .
“Here, let me help you with that.”
And with one smooth stroke, she separated the interlocking tracks, the 'gator yawned, and, lo, there she sat in her underwear.
Her bra was rust-stained and more than a size too big.
Is that a brassiere or a flotation device? Wiggs wondered.
At least it was a cinch to remove. He simply pulled it over her head without unhooking it, catching her breasts as they tumbled out, like croquet balls from a canvas bag. They were as smooth as peeled onions and perfectly pinked. He squeezed one, nuzzled the other. The pink did not lick off.
There was a run in the seat of her nylon panties. Neither of them seemed to notice. His hand passed over the run like a streetsweeper passing over a skid mark, maintaining momentum, registering nothing. The longest finger on his left hand curled like a celery stalk and dipped into the bowl of her buttocks, a bowl in which metaphors were easily mixed.
“Sweet Jesus, 'tis wonderful you feel!”
“Wiggs. . you're still dressed for dinner.”
In a minute he was wearing nothing but his eye patch.
“You feel wonderful, baby,” he said, fingering her again. He had dropped his brogue with his shorts.
Priscilla had forgotten how it was with older men. The last man with whom she had lain was a twenty-year-old dishwasher from El Papa Muerta. During a single evening, he had made love to her four times — for three minutes each time. Perhaps it is noteworthy, she thought, that the performance of a young man in bed is roughly the same length as a rock song on AM radio.
“I. . had. . ummm. . forgotten. . how. . it is. . with. . older. . men.”
That must have been the wrong thing to say. Wiggs paused in midstroke. “Age,” he grumbled. “There are only two ages. Alive and dead. If your man is dead, he should go lie down somewhere and get out o' the way. But if 'tis alive he is. .”
He completed the stroke, then paused again. Oh, no, thought Priscilla. Surely he isn't going to get pedantic at a time like this?
Her worry was soon abated, for although Wiggs cleared his throat and tapped his patch with his finger, a clear signal that he was on the verge of expounding, he became distracted by the wiggly thrust of her pelvis, and gradually, after mumbling something about senility being wasted on the old, and something else about never having met an adult who really liked him, he fell silent, except for the occasional sweet grunt, and gave full attention to the further stoking of the hot box in which he found himself.