He lifted his head then but didn’t look at me; he just shrugged and turned his face away. “That Adventure was my big break. It was my shot. What I’d been working toward for fifteen years. And then-and then you. .”
“Yeah,” I said. “And then me.”
“I don’t know what you’re angry about-that Adventure made you. It gave you the career I should have had.”
“Except you’re not me.”
“True.” He sighed. “Too true. The funny part is, you’re not you either.”
“Oh, that makes sense.”
He finally turned back to me and he was trying for an ironic smile but his lips were twisted like his fingers and his eyes were too bright and too wet. “Did you never figure this out? It wasn’t you, Michaelson. It was never you. It was the demon. What do you Monastics call them? Outside Powers. The one that runs the dil T’llan-that is the dil T’llan. I mean, Retreat from the Boedecken was the foundation of more than your career. It’s the foundation of your self-image. It made Caine into Caine. You think I didn’t watch you? You think I didn’t second-hand your adventures? How many times were you up against it and pulled yourself through by thinking of Retreat-how you’d been through worse and didn’t buckle? Retreat let you fool yourself into believing you were the baddest of the bad. The toughest of the tough. The guy who could take anything. Who could suck it up and spit it back out. And it was all because the first time you were really tested, you had a demon eating your fear. That’s what made you brave. It was eating your despair. That’s what made you strong. It was an illusion. A con. You were never that strong. You were never that brave. You’re no tougher than anybody else. Caine was a fake from the start-but you fooled yourself along with everybody else. You were just make-believe. That’s all. Make-believe.”
I nodded. “Funny how shit works out, huh?”
He stared at me with those wet eyes.
“You think this was a mystery? I was Monastic, Rababal. I knew it then.” I turned one of my strapped-down wrists so I could open a hand. “I take whatever edge I can find. That’s who I am.”
Those wet eyes threatened to spill tears. “But-but then how. .”
I guess some things you never really get over.
I should know.
“If it hadn’t been me, it would’ve been Marade,” I said. Softly. Gently. Because, y’know, I felt for him. I really did. It was too easy to imagine how I could have ended up him. “Or Stalton. Even Pretornio.”
He shrugged helplessly.
“It’s not complicated.” My open hand flexed and curled, once, like it belonged to somebody else. “Look, after you, uh, left, what happened? You went back to work, right?”
He turned his face away from me, but he nodded.
“So that’s what you’ve been doing for the last twenty-five years? Bird-dogging?”
He shrugged. “Up till-well, you know. Assumption Day.”
“Yeah.” Assumption Day changed things for a lot of people. “You married?”
“Yes-thirty-three years-we’d celebrated our thirtieth anniversary just before-”
“Children?”
“Two. Five grandchildren. .”
“And that’s it,” I said. “Right there.”
He turned back to me then, and instead of tears on his face there was the start of a frown of comprehension, which was a relief. For both of us, I’m betting.
“You probably know how my marriage went. My daughter. . well, our relationship is-complicated. The difference between you and me, Rababal, is that I wanted to be a star more than I wanted to live. For you it was the other way around. We both got our wish. So even in the middle of those nights when we wake up and think about all the shit we wish we’d done, we both ought to shut the fuck up and just be grateful for what we got.”
He shook his head. “And. . that’s it? It’s that simple? If I’d wanted it more. .?”
I shrugged. “Who knows? The difference between me and Marade, me and Stalton or Pretornio. . basically comes down to luck, as far as I’ve ever been able to see. They wanted it as much as me. They were as tough as I am, probably tougher-Marade sure as hell was-as smart or smarter. I was lucky. They weren’t. Imponderables. Shit falls one way, you’re a star. Shit falls another, you’re dinner.”
“Luck? Just luck?”
“That’s why you don’t see guys like me sitting around in our old age whining about what could have been. Because if we don’t get what we want, we’re not around to complain about it. We’re fucking well dead.”
He looked thoughtful.
“But you could say the same, y’know? You’re one of the lucky ones too. You’ve had a forty-year career in some of the most exotic and exciting places that exist, and you still got to have a real marriage, a family, a home. . how many men get all that?”
He nodded. “My wife says the same. I spend too much time thinking about what I don’t have, and not enough being grateful for what I do. .”
“Yeah, well,” I said, “a guy I met the other day was telling me that happy men are only half alive.”
“He sounds like another bastard.”
“Yeah. I don’t think you’d like him.”
Abruptly he laughed, and then he was shaking his head again, but now in some kind of half-astonished amusement. “I came in here to-and then we’re talking about my wife and my grandkids, and you’re cheering me up-”
I shrugged. I could feel myself flush a little. Embarrassed, I guess, at being so easy. “As a tactic, being human works pretty well.”
“That’s not-it wasn’t part of my-”
“You walked in doing the hard-on with pockets thing. Come at me like that, what do you think I’m gonna do? Swallow?”
He nodded. “I just-I didn’t mean to dump my troubles on you, Michael-son. It’s a funny thing, but after all these years, it’s like I know you-”
I nodded back. “Don’t take this wrong, Rababal. Faller. I’m used to it.”
He frowned at me.
I sighed. “People who followed my Adventures all those years-lots of times when I’d do public appearances, people would start talking to me like we’re old friends. Kind of like you just did. Because Caine was part of their life. They’d known me so long, they just somehow figured-without ever really thinking about it-that I knew them too. It used to bug me. A lot. I hated it. Now I miss it.”
He squinted at me. “Really?”
“Really. Doesn’t happen on Home. Over there I’m, y’know, the Prophet of Ma’elKoth, or the hero of Ceraeno, or the Enemy or God or whateverthefuck.
I’m a walking motherfucking Epic. People forget I’m a human being. I have to pretend to be somebody else just to have a normal goddamn conversation with a normal goddamn person.”
“Be careful what you wish for, eh?”
“Got that right.” I found myself chuckling. “Tan’elKoth-Ma’elKoth during his exile on Earth-he used to say, ‘When the gods would punish us, they answer our prayers.’ ”
He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “This wasn’t what I wished for.”
I rolled my eyes around the cream-colored walls. “Not exactly the top of my Christmas list either.”
“Michaelson-Caine-” He sighed. “What should I call you?”
“You can call me Jonathan Fist.”
He frowned at me. “Jonathan Fist?”
“He made a deal too.”
“I don’t get it.”
“That’s because you’re thinking in English. The original name is German.” He shook his head. “And?”
I just shook my head. “Nobody fucking reads anymore, you know that?
“Fist, then. Please understand. I’m sixty-six years old. I was trapped on Overworld three years ago when you cut off Studio operations on Assumption Day. Along with all the Actors and scouts and Overworld Company personnel and everybody else. I thought I would die there, finally, after all. I mean, we didn’t know what you had done; all any of us knew was that we couldn’t get home. I was near retirement, looking forward to watching my grandchildren grow up. . and then-”