But perhaps, perhaps, he could indeed by deliberate intent dream something to his own specifications that he had never dreamed before, something which would rescue him from the dilemma in which he found himself. It was worth a try, anyway.
That night he ate until he thought he would burst. Then he slept, and then he dreamed; and even as he dreamed he felt a flood of sudden strange optimism; and what he found beside his bed the next morning exceeded all his expectations. It was crude, it was badly proportioned, it was almost laughable; it would never fool Alvarez even for a moment. But it was a rough approximation of what he had set out to dream, and that was new, that was unique in his entire experience of the phenomenon about which he had built his life.
He tried again the next night, and the next, ordering his dreaming mind to work with the material at hand and shape it toward perfection. The first night’s work brought no visible improvement over what he already had, but to his amazement and delight there was a distinct transformation a night later, and when he awoke after one more night of work he realized that he had—in the final paroxysm of despair over his dire predicament—produced precisely what he needed.
If only I could have managed to do the second shield this way, he thought. Then I could have managed to keep my life intact.
But this, at least, would give him a way of sidestepping the wrath of Apostolides and the vindictiveness of Alvarez.
He looked down at the pale, haggard figure lying on the floor next to his bed and said, “Stand up.”
It shambled unsteadily to its feet.
“Stand straight,” Beckerman said. “Hold yourself like a man, will you?”
The figure attempted to improve its posture. It was, Beckerman saw, slightly lopsided, the left shoulder too narrow, the right leg a little short. Still, he was impressed with his own skill.
“Can you speak?” he asked.
“Yes. I can speak.”
It sounded rusty, and the voice seemed too high. But the faint European accent was a familiar one.
“Do you know who I am?”
“You are the artist Max Beckerman.”
“Yes. And who are you?”
A moment of silence.
“I am the artist Max Beckerman,” it said.
“Good. Good. We are both the artist Max Beckerman. Keep that in mind. Go to the closet, now. Find yourself some clothes, get yourself dressed.”
“I am hungry. I am in need of a shower.”
“Never mind that. Obey me. Get yourself dressed. Cover your body. Christ, you’re nothing but a skeleton with skin! I can’t stand looking at those ribs of yours. Cover yourself. Cover yourself!”
“What shall I wear?”
“Anything you like,” Beckerman said. “Whatever strikes your fancy.”
He went into the bathroom and took a quick shower. Then, ravenous, he grabbed up a loaf of bread and began to gnaw at it. The other Beckerman was dressed when he returned to the bedroom. It had chosen gray gabardine slacks, one of the good London shirts, and Beckerman’s favorite black shoes, the John Lobbs. Too bad about the shoes, he thought. But he could always have another pair run up for him.
What time was it right now, he wondered, in Zurich? Eight hours later, was it? Nine? Early evening, he figured. He picked up the phone and dialed Elise’s number.
Another miracle! She was there!
“Wer spricht, bitte?”
“It’s me, Max. Listen, I’ll be coming to stay with you for a little while, is that all right?”
“Max? Where are you, Max?”
“California, still. But I’ll be getting the next plane out. I’ll be there in twenty-four hours, maybe less. Can you manage that, Elise?”
“Of course! But—why—?”
“I’ll explain everything when I get there. Listen, I’ll phone you again from the airport in an hour or two, when I know which flight I’m on. You can meet me when I land, can’t you?”
“Natürlich, liebchen, natürlich! It’s just that—it’s all such a surprise—”
“I know,” he said. “I love you, Elise.” He blew her a kiss and hung up. He called the airport next; and then phoned his usual taxi service to arrange for a cab in thirty minutes.
The other Beckerman was still standing next to the bed.
“I am very hungry,” it said.
Beckerman gestured impatiently. “Go, then. Eat. Eat all you like. You know where to find it.” He began to shovel things into his suitcase, a couple of shirts, some slacks, his shaver, a pair of shoes, a few pairs of socks, underwear, three neckties.
The telephone rang. Beckerman went on packing. After eight or nine rings the phone fell silent; and then, in another moment, it began to ring again.
He closed his suitcase. Took a last look around. He probably would never be coming back here, he knew.
The telephone was still ringing.
“Should I answer it?” the other Beckerman asked.
“No,” Beckerman said. “Just let it ring.” He picked up the suitcase and walked toward the door. The cab would be here in another five or ten minutes. He would wait for it downstairs.
He paused at the door. The dream-Beckerman, dull-eyed, simpering, lopsided, but his twin in all essential respects, gazed stupidly at him.
“I’m expecting a visit shortly from a Mr. Alvarez,” Beckerman said. The other Beckerman nodded. “He’ll ring the bell downstairs. You press this buzzer to let him in. You got that?”
“Yes. I have that.”
“Good. Well, so long, my friend,” said Beckerman. “The place is yours now. Good luck.”
And be sure to tell Alvarez to give Mr. Apostolides my regards, he thought, as he headed downstairs to the waiting cab.