“What?” he asked, softly.
“It’s nothing. Nothing, realty.”
“Tell me.”
She spoke, then, of loneliness.
And condemned herself with more words: for her ingratitude, her thoughtlessness, her lack of patience. He kissed her gently, and told her he would do something about it.
When he left the room, the first chill of September was in that corner of the world. But he set about finding a way to stave off her loneliness. He thought first of himself living in the room, of conducting his experiments in the room without Time. But that was unfeasible, for many reasons—most of them dealing with Time. And he needed a great deal of space to conduct the experiments: building additions to the room was impossible. He could see, himself, that there would not be sufficient funds to expand the experiment.
So he did the next best thing.
He had his Foundation scour the world for a suitable companion. After three months they submitted a list of potentials to him. There were two. Only two.
The first was a handsome young man named Thomas Grindell, a bright and witty man who spoke seven languages fluently, had written a perceptive history of mankind, had traveled widely, was outspoken and in every other possible way was the perfect companion.
The second was an unattractive woman named Yolande Loeb. She was equally as qualified as Grindell, had been married and divorced, wrote excellent poetry, and had dedicated her life to various social reforms.
Even Carl Manos was not so deeply immersed in his problem that he could not see the ramifications of possible choice. He discarded the name of Grindell.
To Yolande Loeb he offered the twin lures of extended life and financial compensation sufficient to carry her without worry through three lifetimes. The woman accepted.
Carl Manos took her to the room, and before the door was keyed-open from the control console, he said, “I want her to be happy. To be kept occupied. No matter what she wants, she’s to have it. That is all I ask of you.”
“I’ll do my best, Mr. Manos.”
“She’s a wonderful person, I’m sure you’ll love her.”
“‘I’m sure.”
He opened the outer chamber, and they entered. When they had neutralized temporarily, the inner chamber was opened, and he entered with the woman.
“Hello.”
Laura’s eyes widened when she saw her, but when Carl had told her Miss Loeb had come to keep her company, to be the friend Laura had needed, she smiled and kissed his hand.
“Laura and I will have so much time to get acquainted,” Yolande Loeb said, “why don’t you spend this time together?” And she took herself to the far corner of the room, to the bookshelf, and pulled down a Dickens to reread.
Laura drew Carl Manos down to her and kissed him. “You are so very good to me.”
“Because I love you. It’s that simple. I wish everything was that simple.”
“‘How is it coming?”
“Slowly. But coming.”
She was concerned about him. “You look so tired, Carl.”
“Weary, not tired. There’s a big difference.”
“You’ve grown older.”
“I think the gray in my beard is very distinguished.”
She laughed lightly at that, but he was glad he had brought Miss Loeb, and not Grindell. Thrown together in a room where Time nearly stood still, for endless months that would not be months to them, who knew what could happen? Laura was an extraordinarily beautiful woman.
Any man would find himself falling in love with her. But with Miss Loeb as companion—well, it was safe now.
“I have to get back. We’re trying some new catalysts today. Or rather, however many days ago it was when I came in here. Take care, darling. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Laura nodded understanding. “Now that I have a friend, it won’t be so lonely till you return, dearest.”
“Would you like me to bring anything special next time?”
“The sandalwood incense?”
“Of course.”
“Now I won’t be lonely,” she repeated. “No. I hope not. Thank you.” And he left them together.
“Do you know Neruda?” Miss Loeb asked.
“Pardon me?”
“The Chilean poet? The Heights of Macchu Picchu? One of his greatest works?”
“No, I’m afraid that I don’t.”
“I have it with me. It is a piece of blazing power. There is a certain strength within it, which I thought you—”
“…Might take heart from while contemplating death. No. Thank you, but no. It was bad enough, just thinking about all the things the few people I have read have said about life’s ending. I am a coward, and I know that one day I will die, as everyone must. Only, in my condition, I have a schedule. This happens, then this happens, and then it is all over. The only thing between me and death is my husband.”
“Mr. Manos is a fine man. He loves you very much.”
“Thank you. Yes, I know. So if you wish to console me concerning this, then I am not especially interested.”
But Yolande Loeb pursed her lips, touched Laura’s shoulder, said, “No. Not consolation. Not at all.
“Courage or faith, perhaps,” she said, “but not consolation or resignation,” and, “ ‘Irresistible death invited me many times: / It was like salt occulted in the waves / and what its invisible fragrance suggested / was fragments of wrecks and heights / or vast structures of wind and snowdrift.’”
“What is that?”
“The beginning of Section Four.”
Laura dropped her eyes, then said, “Tell me the whole story.”
“‘From air to air, like an empty net,’” said Yolande, in her deep, impressive tones, and with a slight accent, “ ‘dredging through streets and ambient atmosphere, I came / lavish, at autumn’s coronation…’”
Laura listened, and some variety of truth seemed to be present there.
After a time she reached out and their fingertips touched, gently.
Yolande told her of her girlhood in a kibbutz, and of her broken marriage. She told her of her life after that thing, and of the suffering attendant thereto.
Laura cried, hearing of this misery. She felt badly for days thereafter.
Yet these were not days to Carl Manos, who also had cause to feel badly. He met a girl whose company he enjoyed, until she said that she loved him. He dropped her like poison sumac and hot potatoes. After all, Time—their friend/their enemy—had a deal going with Laura and Carl. There was no room for intruders in this fated ménage a trois.
He cursed, paid his bills, and figured ways to make Time even more amenable to his bidding.
But suddenly he was in pain. He knew nothing of Pablo Neruda, or this Pasternak, Lorca, Yevtushenko, Alan Dugan, Yeats, Brooke, Daniels—any of them—and Laura spoke of them constantly these days. As he had no replies for this sort of thing, he just nodded. He kept on nodding. Time after time…
“You’re happy with the present arrangement?” he finally asked.
“Oh, yes! Of course,” she replied. “Yolande is wonderful. I’m so glad that you invited her.”
“Good. That’s something, anyway.”
“What do you mean—?”
“Yolande!” he cried out, suddenly. “‘How are you?”
Yolande Loeb emerged from the screened-off section of the apartment to which she discreetly retired during his visits. She nodded to him and smiled faintly.
“I am quite well, Mr. Manos. Thank you. And yourself?” There was a brief catch in her voice as she moved toward him, and realizing that her eyes were fixed on his beard, he chuckled within it, saying, “I’m beginning to feel a trifle like a premature patriarch.” She smiled, and his tone was light, but he felt pain, again.