"The gentleman knows how to live in style! It's only fair that he should have a long time to do so! Who's next?" asked the woman, tucking the bills away. "Who will delve into Fate's plans?"
Around the table there were light coughs and sidelong glances. Doubtless some trick allowed the gypsy to control the parrot's answers… Ventriloquism, perhaps? Yet the illusion was so convincing it intimidated. There was a moment of uncertainty, almost discomfort. Then in spite of himself-so to speak-Orne jumped in.
" " Me!
He dug out his wallet and laid a hundred-franc bill on the table. "I… well… Handsome bird-"
He would have liked to shine, all the more so because he felt Philippina's gaze upon him, but he knew himself to be pitiful at impressions. If he couldn't be funny, he could at least be nervy or brave-or seem brave, since it was all a trick anyway. Of course the parrot had no connection with the stars above. It was nothing but a gray bird with a big beak and big round eyes. It answered whatever it was ordered to by the device hidden in the perch and shoulder pad, operated by its mistress.
"Handsome bird, tell me: have I more than a year left to live?"
No.
"You're not going to believe that nonsense? It's a trick, of course. That gypsy just wanted to have a laugh at your expense."
"I'm sure you're right, but it really rattled me. I'm too impressionable, too sensitive… Less than a week, according to that stupid creature. What if it's right?"
Orne swayed as he spoke. It could hardly have been called a binge, but all the same, it'd taken him several Irish Coffees to recover. The darkness of the street hid Philippina's irritated expression. Leaving the restaurant, she hadn't slipped away quickly enough, and now she could no longer manage to rid herself of him.
"If it's true," she snapped, "if you die this week, it'll be pure coincidence."
"You really know how to cheer a guy up!" Orne said.
"But why did you keep pushing on? From a psychological standpoint, less than a year feels better than less than a week."
Orne nodded apologetically. To the three questions he'd asked" Have I more than a year, a month, a week left to live?" — the parrot had answered no three times over. The gypsy had pocketed his three hundred francs, then scarpered off with her parrot on her shoulder.
"Philippina, the more I think about it, the more upsetting it gets, because it's bad business. Predicting the impending death of a client in front of other potential clients is bad business! If you ask me, it wasn't a trick. The parrot spoke the truth."
"That's ridiculous-oh my, it's late!"
"Don't leave me! You don't understand: I've maybe less than a week left… Philippina, I wanted so much to spend my last days with you!"
"Excuse me?"
"I've been crazy about you for months now. I didn't dare tell you. Now, in the face of imminent death, all my shyness has disappeared. Philippina, be mine, even if only for a few hours, so at least I'll have known happiness!"
Philippine rolled her eyes skyward. Just her luck. Her gaze, finding no help in the heavens, fell once more to the world below. She picked out headlights on the avenue, an available taxi. Saved!
"Dear, dear friend! I'm very touched, really, and also very flattered! You're a man who's so-but excuse me, please, here comes a taxi. At this late hour, it would be a crime to let it slip away!"
She lifted her arm and practically threw herself onto the taxi's hood. A moment later, the cab carried her off into the night.
As he was crossing Market Square, Orne stopped short before one of the machines. According to the article by Lupus, there were three in alclass="underline" one behind City Hall; one in front of the elementary school, its use forbidden to minors; and the one now before him. He drew closer, curious. The automatons of lithographed iron, in their basrelief firing squad, gleamed in the moonlight. Their uniforms evoked the Empire, without Orne being able to say which, exactly: First or Second. In any case, the soldiers looked quite distinguished in their dress blues and gold-buttoned trousers, white gaiters and leather bandoliers, the appropriate expressions on the twelve faces individualized by mustaches and sideburns of varying shades, a military cap tilted to the right or the left, jammed tightly down or tossed back behind the head. Both arms, the only moving parts, were for the moment drawn back to the chest, in their hands carbines that a mechanism permitted them to aim at a post a few steps away. You were shot more or less point-blank, so there was no need to fear any inaccuracy of aim. The customer was sure to have his fill of bullets. To one side was a mechanical officer, identified by his pistol and epaulettes, mounted on a little cart that slid along a rail, bringing him to the dying man in order to administer, for the sake of good form, the coup de grace. Peering more closely at the post, Orne found a clever adjustable pedestal allowing each user to adapt it to his or her own size. Thus the coup de grace, delivered of necessity at a standard height, would not run the risk of missing. A duly lighted notice clarified a few operating procedures. The requisite restraints consisted of thin iron hoops that automatically closed around the body of the self-condemned. As for the body's disposal, a diagram outlined the workings. A door opened behind the post, which turned, then pitched forward as the hoops retracted into their housings. The freed corpse fell into a temporary casket that slid into a slot in a morgue chambered like the barrel of a gun. They'd thought of everything, reflected Orne admiringly.
A discreet cough made him jump. He turned around. In the lunar clarity, he made out a woman of about thirty with a small boy.
"Excuse me, sir, but are you going to use-"
Orne said no. He had no intention of using the machine. He was interested, very interested, of course, but he could not foresee resorting to it for the time being.
"Then, please-we're in a hurry."
He stepped aside, absentmindedly at first, as if before a telephone booth, but at the sight of the woman placing her hands on the child's shoulders and nudging him gently toward the post, he couldn't stop himself from speaking up.
"What are you going to do?"
"It has to end," the woman answered in a woeful voice. "My little boy and I are too unhappy. My husband's dead. I'm unemployed. My landlord just threw us out. We're so alone, all alone, oh God! That's why they made these things, right? So we could be done with all the misery and the loneliness?"
"Maybe, but-but you don't have the right!"
The woman shrugged. "Of course I do. I've got the right to use this machine because it's here. I didn't invent it, did I? They put it here so I could use it, and if I've got the money I will, that's all there is to i t!"
"But the boy-!"
"What do you suggest, sir? Will you marry me, feed and raise him? No, of course not!"
She pulled a gaunt coin purse from her coat and set to counting out change.
"I'm not even sure I have enough for the half-dozen," she said. "Would you be so kind as to help me out?"
"Absolutely not!"
"Whatever happened to charity? Oh, wait…I think I've got enough. Be good, sweetie, just a moment and we'll be in heaven," she told her son.
She made all the adjustments with an eye to her child's execution, covered him with kisses one last time, inserted the coins into the slot and then pressed herself to him before the firing squad.
A tinny recorded voice burst from a speaker hidden in the officer's head: "On my order… Ready! Aim!"
With a single synchronized screech, six of the metal soldiers drew their rifle stocks to their shoulders and took aim at woman, child, and Orne.
"Out of the way, you fool!" she yelled.
He only had enough time to obey.
"Fire!" cried the officer.
The salvo shattered the night.
Only the child was entitled to the coup degrdce, since there was only one per round, and the woman had in a way snuck in for free. Fortunately, she expired quickly, while the machine swallowed her son's body. After the tragedy, Orne remained rooted to the spot, shivering before the unhappy woman's corpse. What could he have done? Everything had happened so fast! The woman's words still rang in his head: "Are you going to marry me, feed him, and raise him?" No, obviously not. But what was a man worthy of the name supposed to have done? Surely not panic, stammer, and let widows and orphans die before his eyes. Feelings of guilt and impotence all but drowned him. It crossed his mind that to redeem himself he might wait for the next would-be executee and devote himself to saving him, by force if necessary. Then he remembered that he had less than a week to live. His hour might even come that night. He no longer had time for anything. Wasn't he exempt from all responsibility? The living could struggle with life, he was but a dotted outline now, barely even there. After all, who cared about him? Leaving the restaurant, his friends had all vanished, abandoning him to face the prospect of his imminent death alone. And the women! Brunehilde with her silky tresses, Gina with her peach-down skin, Philippina with her splendid bosom… Gone, flown, nowhere to be found! What was the world coming to if women no longer bestowed even the least consolatory favors on the dying?