001 // [action] + [accidental video] // this is not my beautiful house
[One moment, the scene in the mansion's dining room is ordinary-or as ordinary as it gets in Wonderland. The next moment-poof-an unknown man is standing beside the banquet table. Those familiar with mid-twentieth century medicine may peg him as a surgeon. Those familiar might further peg him-by virtue of his attire and air of concentration-as a
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...what was that we were talking about again? Right, Sander Cohen is sad and he's making the whole room sound like failed artist sad. Well, Steinman can't whistle after that. He can't head nonchalantly for the exit. He can't even grin and ignore the obvious. He can continue to stand and stare at a point just above one of the communicators on the far wall-which is exactly what he does.
Give him another moment and-yes-Dr. Steinman smiles at that same point of nothing in the distance. The attempt at reclaiming his earlier graciousness is nearly flawless, if one doesn't look in his eyes. Don't look there and you might not even notice the uncertainty. And anxiety. And ...is that horror? Maybe. A little. Not much. Barely even worth mentioning. Perhaps just indigestion. Yes, that's it, indigestion. No surprise there. We're in the dining room, after all.]
I should-I should-[What? What do you say to the disembodied voice of a place you don't recognize?]-I-We should catch up, Sander. Over drinks. Soon?
[Sure, that's one thing you could say. It's clear that just asking the question relieves a great deal of the surgeon's tension. When was the last time that a successful, dashing genius man looked so concerned with your case that genuinely pleased at the prospect of sharing a cocktail with you, maestro? Please remember that denial is the better part of valour.]
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Of course, of course! It has been so long.
[But while he can play the part of Completely Coherent Cohen over the radio, at least for a while, some tiny and horribly honest part of him doubts that those drinks will ever happen. If Steinman ever sees him, he'll be able to see that Cohen is a long way away from the golden age. And Steinman knowing it will make it harder for Cohen not to.]
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Look all you want, maestro, that smile is now genuine as it gets and as perfect as the teeth in Steinman's pretty head. Do you know what denial looks like, Sander? Do you know what it looks like from your own face in the mirror? Do you know how good it feels? Perhaps you'll recognize it in the surgeon's smile.
Unless, of course, you'd rather not see it.]
It has been too long. I've been meaning to ask about your new work circa nineteen-fifty-long-time-ago. I should-I can reach you by name on this-[he shakes the communicator, still addressing his comments to everything and nothing in the room]-this device? Or you can give me a ring, of course...
[He relaxes into the conversation, as if he'd just run into Cohen at the bathysphere station on his way to an important appointment. Natural as day. Nothing odd about a chat between acquaintances. One of whom may or may not be trying to leave the strange house he woke up in one-too-many conversations ago. Steinman takes a step toward the exit, the standard gesture of a man making a break for it with a schedule and a purpose.]
I'll invite you over as soon as we both have a free evening. Now, however-[charmingly apologetic smile]-I'm afraid I should be going.
[Oh, those drinks are going to happen. Take a lesson from old Steinman: always sign your work shove that horrible honesty deep down inside and man up, Sander. Steinman won't make another move to leave until Cohen has had a chance to respond, but he'll certainly stand about as if he knows exactly where he's going next and really ought've been there ten minutes ago. The surgical gown helps the illusion.]
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