The Best of All Possible Worlds

Ray Bradbury The Best of All Possible Worlds

The two men sat swaying side by side, unspeaking for the long while it took for the train to move through cold December twilight, pausing at one country station after another. As the twelfth depot was left behind, the older of the two men muttered, «Idiot, Idiot!» under his breath.

«What?» The younger man glanced up from his Times.

The old man nodded bleakly. «Did you see that damn fool rush off just now, stumbling after that woman who smelled of Chanel?»

«Oh, her?» The young man looked as if he could not decide whether to laugh or be depressed. «I followed her off the train once myself.»

The old man snorted and closed his eyes. «I too, five years ago.»

The young man stared at his companion as if he had found a friend in a most unlikely spot.

«Did — did the same thing happen once you reached the end of the platform?»

«Perhaps. Go on.»

«Well, I was twenty feet behind her and closing up fast when her husband drove into the station with a carload of kids! Bang! The car door slammed. I saw her Cheshire-cat smile as she drove away. I waited half an hour, chilled to the bone, for another train. It taught me something, by God!»

«It taught you nothing whatsoever,» replied the older man drily. «Idiot bulls, that's all of us, you, me, them, silly boys jerking like laboratory frogs if someone scratches our itch.»

«My grandpa once said, „Big in the hunkus, small in the brain, that is man's fate.“»

«A wise man. But, now, what do you make of her?»

«That woman? Oh, she likes to keep in trim. It must pep up her liver to know that with a little mild eye-rolling she can make the lemmings swarm any night on this train. She has the best of all possible worlds, don't you think? Husband, children, plus the knowledge she's neat packaging and can prove it five trips a week, hurting no one, least of all herself. And, everything considered, she's not much to look at. It's just she smells so good.»

«Tripe,» said the old man. «It won't wash. Purely and simply, she's a woman. All women are women, all men are dirty goats. Until you accept that, you will be rationalizing your glands all your life. As it is, you will know no rest until you are seventy or (hereabouts. Meanwhile, self-knowledge may give you whatever solace can be had in a sticky situation. Given all these essential and inescapable truths, few men ever strike a balance. Ask a man if he is happy and he will immediately think you are asking if he is satisfied. Satiety is most men's Edenic dream. I have known only one man who came heir to the very best of all possible worlds, as you used the phrase.»

«Good Lord,» said the young man, his eyes shining, «I wouldn't mind hearing about him.»

«I hope there's time. This chap is the happiest ram, the most carefree bull, in history. Wives and girl friends galore, as the sales pitch says. Yet he has no qualms, guilts, no feverish nights of lament and self- chastisement.»

«Impossible,» the young man put in. «You can't eat your cake and digest it, too!»

«He did, he does, he will! Not a tremour, not a trace of moral seasickness after an all-night journey over a choppy sea of innersprings! Successful businessman. Apartment in New York on the best street, the proper height above traffic, plus a long-weekend Bucks County place on a more than correct little country stream where he herds his nannies, the happy farmer. But I met him first at his New York apartment last year, when he had just married. At dinner, his wife was truly gorgeous, snow-cream arms, fruity lips, an amplitude of harvest land below the line, a plenitude above. Honey in the horn, the full apple barrel through winter, she seemed thus to me and her husband, who nipped her bicep in passing. Leaving, at midnight, I found myself raising a hand to slap her on the flat of her flank like a thoroughbred. Falling down in the elevator, life floated out from under me. I nickered.»

«Your powers of description,» said the young commuter, breathing heavily, «are incredible.»

«I write advertising copy,» said the older. «But to continue. I met let us call him Smith again not two weeks later. Through sheer coincidence I was invited to crash a party by a friend. When I arrived in Bucks County, whose place should it turn out to be but Smith's! And near him, in the center of the living room, stood this dark Italian beauty, all tawny panther, all midnight and moonstones, dressed in earth colours, browns, siennas, tans, umbers, all the tones of a riotously fruitful autumn. In the babble I lost her name. Later I saw Smith crush her like a great sunwarmed vine of lush October grapes in his arms. Idiot fool, I thought. Lucky dog, I thought. Wife in town, mistress in country. He is trampling out the vintage, et cetera, and all that. Glorious. But I shall not stay for the wine festival, I thought, and slipped away, unnoticed.»

«I can't stand too much of this talk,» said the young commuter, trying to raise the window.

«Don't interrupt,» said the older man. «Where was I?»

«Trampled. Vintage.»

«Oh, yes! Well, as the party broke up, I finally caught the lovely Italian's name. Mrs.Smith!»

«He'd married again, eh?»

«Hardly. Not enough time. Stunned, I thought quickly, He must have two sets of friends. One set knows his city wife. The other set knows this mistress whom he calls wife. Smith's too smart for bigamy. No other answer. Mystery.»

«Go on, go on,» said the young commuter feverishly.

«Smith, in high spirits, drove me to the train station that night. On the way he said, „What do you think of my wives?“

„Wives, plural?“ I said.

„Plural, hell,“ he said. „I've had twenty in the last three years, each better than the last! Twenty, count them, twenty! Here!“ As we stopped at the station he pulled out a thick photo wallet. He glanced at my face as he handed it over, „No, no,“ he laughed, „I'm not Bluebeard with a score of old theater trunks in the attic crammed full of former mates. Look!“

I flipped the pictures. They flew by like an animated film. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, the plain, the exotic, the fabulously impertinent or the sublimely docile gazed out at me, smiling, frowning. The flutter-flicker hypnotized, then haunted me. There was something terribly familiar about each photo.

„Smith,“ I said, „you must be very rich to afford all these wives.“

„Not rich, no. Look again!“

I flipped the montage in my hands. I gasped. I knew.

„The Mrs.Smith I met tonight, the Italian beauty, is the one and only Mrs.Smith,“ I said. „But, at the same time, the woman I met in New York two weeks ago is also the one and only Mrs. Smith. It can only follow that both women are one and the same!“

„Correct!“ cried Smith, proud of my sleuthing.

„Impossible!“ I blurted out.

„No,“ said Smith, elated. „My wife is amazing. One of the finest off-Broadway actresses when I met her. Selfishly I asked her to quit the stage on pain of severance of our mutual insanity, our rampaging up one side of a chaise-longue and down the other. A giantess made dwarf by love, she slammed the door on the theater, to run down the alley with me. The first six months of our marriage, the earth did not move, it shook. But, inevitably, fiend that 1 am, I began to watch various other women ticking by like wondrous pendulums. My wife caught me noting the time. Meanwhile, she had begun to cast her eyes on passing theatrical billboards. I found her nesting with the New York Times next-morning reviews, desperately tearful. Crisis! How to combine two violent careers, that of passion-disheveled actress and that of anxiously rambling ram?“

„One night,“ said Smith, „I eyed a peach Melba that drifted by. Simultaneously, an old playbill blew in the wind and clung to my wife's ankle. It was as if these two events, occurring within the moment, had shot a window shade with a rattling snap clear to the top of its roll. Ligit poured in! My wife seized my arm. Was she or was she not an actress? She was! Well, then, well! She sent me packing for twenty-four hours, wouldn't let me in the apartment, as she hurried about some vast and exciting preparations. When I returned home the next afternoon at the blue hour, as the French say in their always twilight language, my wife had vanished! A dark Latin put out her hand to me. „I am a friend of your wife's,“ she said and threw herself upon me, to nibble my ears, crack my ribs, until I held her, off and, suddenly suspicious, cried, „This is no woman I'm with — this is my wife!“ And we both fell