We'll Always Have Paris by Ray Bradbury Page A

then, suddenly, a wild shriek of laughter.
    ‘Me,’ whispered Gerald Vesalius. ‘Him.’
    ‘Jesus! Blair and you? Wedding?’
    ‘That’s it.’ Gerald’s voice was clearer, stronger. ‘That’s it.’
    ‘Impossible!’
    ‘It is, it is!’
    I felt a terrible urge toward laughter, but stopped.
    ‘You mean—’ I cried.
    ‘Softly,’ said Gerald, his voice fluid now. ‘He’ll hear, he’ll throw,’ he
    gasped, ‘you out!’
    ‘Gerald, that’s not legal,’ I cried softly.
    ‘Legal,’ he whispered, swallowed hard. ‘Make legal, headlines, news!’
    ‘My God!’
    ‘Yes, God!’
    ‘But why?’
    ‘Doesn’t,’ said Gerald, ‘care. Fame! Figures the more he wants to marry me,
    more fame and the more I will give him.’
    ‘But again, why, Gerald?’
    ‘He wants to own me, completely. Just,’ said Gerald, ‘in,’ he said, ‘his,’ he
    gasped, ‘nature.’
    ‘Lord!’ I said. ‘I know marriages where a man owns the woman, or the woman
    completely owns the man.’
    ‘Yes,’ said Gerald. ‘He wants that! He loves, but this is madness.’
    Gerald stiffened, eyes shut, and then in a
    frail voice which rose and faded: ‘Wants to own my mind.’
    ‘He can’t!’
    ‘Will try, will try. Wants to be world’s greatest philosopher.’
    ‘Lunatic!’
    ‘Yes! Wants to write, travel, lecture, wants to be me. If owns me, thinks he
    can take my place.’
    A noise. We both sucked breath.
    ‘Madness,’ I whispered. ‘Christ!’
    ‘Christ,’ Gerald snorted, ‘has nothing…to do with it.’ Vesalius blew a
    surprise of mirth.
    ‘But
still
!’
    ‘Shhh,’ Gerald Vesalius cautioned.
    ‘Was he like this when he first started to work for you?’
    ‘I suppose. Not this bad.’
    ‘It was okay then?’
    ‘o’—a pause—‘kay.’
    ‘But—’
    ‘As years passed he was more gree–gree–greedy.’
    ‘For your cash?’
    ‘No.’ A derisive smile. ‘My mind.’
    ‘He’d steal
that
?’
    Gerald sucked in, blew out. ‘Imagine!’
    ‘You’re one of a kind!’
    ‘Tell–tell–tell
him
that.’
    ‘Son of a bitch!’
    ‘No, jealous, envious, covetous, admiring,
    part monster, now monster full-time.’ Gerald cried this in a few clear instants.
    ‘Jesus,’ I said. ‘Why are we talking?’
    ‘What else?’ whispered Vesalius. ‘Help.’ He smiled.
    ‘How will I get you out of here?’
    Vesalius laughed. ‘Let me count the ways.’
    ‘No time for jokes, damn it!’
    Gerald Vesalius swallowed. ‘Have strange…sense’–he paused–‘humor. List!’
    We both froze. A door creaked. Footsteps.
    ‘Should I call the cops?’
    ‘No.’ A pause. Gerald’s face writhed. ‘Action, drama, wins!’
    ‘Action?’
    ‘Do as I say or all’s lost.’
    I bent close, he whispered frantically.
    Whisper, whisper, whisper.
    ‘Got that? Try?’
    ‘Try!’ I said. ‘Oh, damn, damn, damn!’
    Footsteps in the hall. I thought I heard someone yell.
    I grabbed the phone. I dialed.
    I ran out the French doors, around the house, to the front walk.
    A siren screamed, then a second and a third.
    Three trucks of paramedic firemen booted up the walk with nothing else to do
    so late at night. Nine different paramedic firemen ran, eager not to be bored.
    ‘Blair,’ I yelled. ‘That’s me! Damn, I’ve
    locked myself out! Around the side! Man dying. Follow me.’
    I ran. The black-suited paramedics blundered after.
    We flung wide the French doors. I pointed at Vesalius.
    ‘Out!’ I cried. ‘Brotman Hospital. Fast!’
    They laid Gerald on a gurney and plunged out the French doors.
    Behind us I heard Blair yelling hysterically.
    Gerald Vesalius heard and waved gaily, calling out ‘Tata, toodle-o, farewell,
    solong, good-bye!’ as we rushed toward the waiting ambulance.
    Gerald whooped with laughter.
    ‘Young man?’
    ‘Gerald?’
    ‘Do you love me?’
    ‘Yes, Gerald.’
    ‘But don’t want to own me?’
    ‘No, Gerald.’
    ‘Not my mind?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Not my body?’
    ‘No, Gerald.’
    ‘Till