Carousel

(say hello to Ray Bradbury, Harry Harrison and friends)


In the center of the park, under the old linden trees, an orchestra was playing, and Fred sat down on a bench to listen. This was not some sort of run-down orchestra, the kind that usually play on the streets, but a real orchestra from some theater, which had to play here for the occasion of a city festival.

It was just like that day from his faraway childhood. Fred thought it was probably that very orchestra, playing the same melodies as back then.

The music began out of the silence, somewhere in the distance, as if beyond the trees, a misty French horn called out. The brass and violins answered, weaving together the mood of an old film. Then the cellos came in, and out of nowhere the electric guitar, fresh as an orange, broke through it all. It played three notes and flew on, and the violins and cellos retreated into the background. He wondered who the author was, who came up with the idea of blending a symphony orchestra with a rock band.

It would be perfect to hear this music just before dying. Then he would die happy.
And at that point, the quivering Hammond would have played its lunar chords — but not for him; he wouldn’t have heard them anymore.

Fred looked over the square. There was no one around, only the old fountain murmured in quiet streams. The orchestra played only for him. He rose and wandered to the edge of the square, where a kiosk sold lollipops and cotton candy.

And even the saleswoman looked the same as before — he remembered her well: rosy-cheeked, wearing a white cap embroidered with the park’s name.
He held out a coin,
- The pink one, please.
It was exactly like before — only now, it was an old man’s fingers reaching for the cotton candy, not a child’s.
 - And some gum — that strawberry one.

- - -

Mike finished tightening the last bolt and wiped his hands on a greasy rag.
It seemed to him that the horse was far too dusty; after all, fifty years in a trailer was a long time to lie still, and he began to wipe it clean.
 - Mike! Come on! He’s coming — we barely made it as it is! What the hell are you doing?!
The boss made it clear - not to wipe them. He said the horses should be as dusty as they were fifty years ago.
 - Well, it’s kind of a mess. Damn millionaire!
 - When you’re as rich as he is, then it’ll be you calling the shots.
 - Yeah, he was lucky. The land had already been slated for a new house, but he bought it back, lock, stock, and barrel — broken carousels and all.
What can I say, with the old staff who are still around.
 - Get to your places, here he comes!
Mike gave a sad nod and trudged into the booth.
The old man approached and held out a ticket.

- - -

He walked slowly along the carousel, taking in the smell of aged wood. Past an airplane, a carriage with a velvet seat, and two camels that took turns craning their necks as they moved in circles... There it is – the horse, the very one!
As a child, he used to run to get there first — now, no one even tried to take his place. He was alone on the carousel. Its spongy tail is a little torn, and the right stirrup hangs a bit lower than the left.
And now, climbing into the saddle takes more effort than it did when he was a child. It seemed so tall back then, but he was strong and full of life.

The bell rang, and the carousel started moving almost imperceptibly, picking up speed, an old mechanical organ began to play, but some notes were missing, making the music sound strange, yet somehow charming. Fred looked to the right — the square was spinning around. For a moment, it seemed to him that the square was filled with a lively crowd and laughing children, but the carousel turned, facing the dense bushes, behind which cars were rushing by. And then it began to slow down and stopped.

Fred released the reins he was holding, and extended his hand, his heart trembling. There was just one small thing left to do. There should be a piece of gum behind the horse’s ear that he stuck there - as if it were yesterday, sixty years ago. If it’s not there, well... he had his final good ride — and let the orchestra play that very music.

Yes! It was still there. Fred carefully scraped it off with his finger. It was old and completely dried out, it was surprising how easily it fell off.

The bell rang and Fred waved to the man in the booth.
I have my special day today! I want to do it again!

- - -

Three days ago, Fred and his old friend, Dr. John Peterson, sat in front of a screen where long lines scrolled by. They were filled with triplets of letters repeating endlessly.
Some pieces of text were highlighted in a different color.
 - Doc, so... nothing can be done?
 - Well, you see, you don’t have a single healthy T-cell left. Not a single cell. They all originate from mutated tissue. If only even one could be found. If you could invent a time machine and go back...
 - What if I gave you a sample of my saliva from when I was ten?
 - If only it were possible... In old chewing gum, for example.