Leiber, Fitz - SS Collection - The Black Gondolier And Other Stories.pdf - Fritz Leiber - przemosta

The Black Gondolier and Other Stories

Fritz Leiber

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Fritz and me

If you ask any long-time aficionado of fantastic literature to name his favorite authors, the fan of science

fiction will likely name Fritz Leiber somewhere in his top five. So, too, will the devotee of sword and

sorcery mention the wonderful tales of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser as among the very best that the

genre has to offer. There have been many excellent writers of fantasy over the years, many excellent

writers of science fiction, and many fine writers of horror stories. Arguably, the very best of them all was

Fritz Leiber.

Leiber was the author that showed us what sword and sorcery fiction can and should be with his

Lankhmar stories that spanned nearly fifty years. In the realm of science fiction, his Change War saga has

stood the test of time and remains a classic in the genre. As far as horror fiction, most readers will place

Our Lady of Darkness and Conjure Wife at or near the top of any list of great novels in the field. Then

of course we have the socio-political satire of A Specter is Haunting Texas and the classic X-files- like

paranoia of You're All Alone , written years before Chris Carpenter was a twinkle in his father's eye.

I'm afraid that I won't be able to fill this introduction with many personal anecdotes, I met the author on

only a few occasions and our conversations often revolved around the malady of alcoholism and it's

peculiar affinity for the creative sort. A subject that holds considerable fascination for those for whom it's

a life or death issue, but to the average person it's a rather dull topic. I do treasure the fact that I was able

to meet and chat with the man whose influence on my own reading and writing was so profound.

Like many of us who came on their first genre fiction at an early age in the sixties, I'd quickly discovered

the works of Edgar Rice Burroughs and Robert E. Howard; I was quite impressed, but when I stumbled

on a book entitled Swords Against Deviltry , I was transported ... This was what I'd been looking for! I

quickly used my meager allowance money to snap up every book that I could find that had the magical

name of Leiber on it. This included some terrific science fiction, the novel Gather, Darkness, and finally a

handful of anthologies where I discovered “Smoke Ghost", “The Dreams of Albert Moreland", and

“Spider Mansion” for the first time.

Over the years I managed to accumulate as close to a complete collection of Leiber's work as you're

likely to find. And for years I assumed that all his work was readily attainable, if not perpetually in print.

The book that you hold in your hands is a result of a curious serendipity, that there is no author living or

dead that I would be more honored to pen an introduction about than Fritz Leiber goes without saying.

That I would've thought this to be an unlikely occurrence is an understatement. After all, Leiber belongs

to that pantheon of great writers that have shaped and molded the field of fantastic literature in the latter

half of the twentieth century and the works of such individuals are perpetually kept in-print and readily

accessible by one and all. Aren't they?

Apparently the answer to that question is in the negative. When Steve Savile first approached me to

verify the appearances of several Leiber stories in conjunction with a chapbook that he was preparing for

the British Fantasy Society I was amazed at just how much material was no longer available to modern

readers. A few e-mails later and we were busily at work preparing two volumes that would bring the

“lost Leiber” stories back into print. Even with the space of two volumes to work with it's been

impossible to include everything that we would have liked to. We've chosen to focus on those stories that

most modern readers would have the most difficult time locating with a couple of familiar tales included.

Some stories we considered far too significant to be excluded and you will see some of these familiar

tales interspersed in these two volumes. For the most part, our focus has been to restore to print the most

significant of Leiber's weird tales that have been unavailable for twenty or more years.

The first thing that became apparent to me as we assembled this collection was just how early in his

career Leiber had established himself as a master of the weird tale. While he did write a few stories that

could be considered standard fare for the pulps, (such as “Spider Mansion” with its weird-menace

excesses) as an example. From the very start his stories took on a modern attitude quite unlike that of his

contemporaries in Weird Tales , who were busily scrambling to pen stories of improbably-named cosmic

monstrosities and babbling aliens in a misguided homage to H.P. Lovecraft...

While Leiber's earliest stories can be classified as updates of the tropes of earlier horror fiction, there is a

decided modernity about them. A primary concern is that of the science fiction writer concerned about

technologies gone horribly awry. In the early story “Spider Mansion", for all its classic gothic trappings it

is at its core a tale of medical experiments gone wrong. The same can be said of the much later (1950)

tale “The Dead Man” In both cases, it's not the science that is at fault for the dire consequences, but

rather the fallible human element that manages to muck things up badly.

Both of these stories foreshadow Leiber's later work where he fuses the concerns of the twentieth

century with the mold of the classic weird tale of decades past. In “The Girl with the Hungry Eyes” he

considers the “vampirism” of advertising as a quite literal reality. In “The Black Gondolier", “The Man

Who Made Friends with Electricity", and “Mr. Bauer and the Atoms” present our modern forms of

energy in a new and terrifying light. Leiber's “mad” scientists are not mad in the sense of the old villains

from the old Universal films from the 1930's, but rather they are often as not blinded by an arrogance and

absolute certainty in their own wisdom that they fall afoul of their own inventions and concepts. In fact it

could be said of Leiber that among his contemporaries only Philip K. Dick was his equal at writing

science fiction that was truly horrifying.

The theme of humanity as but a bit player in the cosmic drama was an idea that Leiber often made use of

in ways far more inventive than that of many of his contemporaries. Whereas H.P. Lovecraft took this

idea in one direction, Leiber made the concept of an unknowable and hostile cosmos far more personal

in stories such as “The Dreams of Albert Moreland". In this story a chess master is drawn into a game

with frighteningly high stakes against an opponent reminiscent of one of Lovecraft's Great Old Ones.

(Cthulhu as a galactic gamesmaster)? Not exactly, though in the hands of a lesser writer the story could

easily have become that ludicrous. In Leiber's hands it's more about the all-consuming nature of the

obsessive and the danger of actually getting what we want. Albert Moreland wants a suitable opponent

to test his skill on and he gets exactly that.

Leiber's correspondence with Lovecraft is interesting in that of all of Lovecraft's correspondents only

Leiber seemed immune to the desire to begin banging out slavish pastiches of the mythos created by the

elder writer. In fact, it may well be that Leiber's correspondence led him to an early realization that the

horrors of the past were just that, the past and would need a new and vital approach in the latter half of

the century. It was not until considerably after Lovecraft's death that Leiber penned an actual mythos

story. In this area as in other sub-genres, he excelled and his “The Terror from the Depths” is perhaps the

standout piece in Edward Berglund's watershed anthology Disciples of Cthulhu .

Taken as a whole, this book chronicles Leiber's remarkable achievements in weird fiction, stories that are

thoroughly modern examples of the horror story, tales such as “The Thirteenth Step” which uses the

unlikely device of a speaker's “qualification” talk at an AA meeting to tales such as “Lie Still, Snow

White", a masterpiece of erotic horror written years before the term had degenerated into a marketing

label. There's a variety and richness here that could only have come from an author as gifted as Fritz

Leiber.

John Pelan

Midnight House, 2000

THE BLACK GONDOLIER

Daloway lived alone in a broken-down trailer beside an oil well on the bank of a canal in Venice near the

café La Gondola Negra on the Grand Canal not five blocks from St. Mark's Plaza.

I mean, he lived there until after the fashion of intellectual lone wolves he got the wander-urge and took

himself off, abruptly and irresponsibly, to parts unknown. That is the theory of the police, who refuse to

take seriously my story of Daloway's strange dreads and my hints at the weird world-spanning power

which was menacing him. The police even make light of the very material clues which I pointed out to

them.

Or else Daloway was taken off, grimly and against his will, to parts utterly unknown and blackly horrible.

That is my own theory, especially on lonely nights when I remember the dreams he told me of the Black

Gondolier.

Of course the canal is a rather small one, showing much of its rough gravel bottom strewn with rusted

cans and blackened paper, except when it is briefly filled by one of our big winter rains. But gondolas did

travel it in the illusion-packed old days and it is still spanned by a little sharply humped concrete bridge

wide enough for only one car. I used to cross that bridge coming to visit Daloway and I remember how

I'd slow down and tap my horn to warn a possible car coming the other way, and the momentary

roller-coaster illusion I'd get as my car heaved to the top and poised there and then hurtled down the

opposite dusty slope for all of a breathless second. From the top of the little bridge I'd get my first

glimpse of the crowded bungalows and Daloway's weed-footed trailer and close behind it the black

hunch-shouldered oil well which figured so strangely in his dreads. “ Their closest listening post,” he

sometimes called it during the final week, when he felt positively besieged.

And of course the Grand Canal is pretty dismal these days, with its several gracefully arching Bridges of

Sighs raddled with holes showing their cement-shell construction and blocked off at either end by heavy

wire barricades to keep off small boys, and with both its banks lined with oil wells, some still with their

towering derricks and some—mostly those next to beach side houses—with their derricks dismantled ,

but all of them wearily pumping twenty-four hours a day with a soft slow syncopated thumping that the

residents don't hear for its monotony, interminably sucking up the black petroleum that underlies Venice,

lazily ducking and lifting their angularly oval metal heads like so many iron dinosaurs or donkeys forever

drinking—donkeys moving in the somnambulistic rhythm of Ferde Grofe's Grand-Canyon donkey when

it does its sleepy hee ... haw. Daloway had a very weird theory about that—about the crude oil, I

mean—a theory which became the core of his dreads and which for all its utter black wildness may still

best explain his disappearance.

And La Gondola Negra is only a beatnik coffee house, successor to the fabulous Gashouse, though it did

boast a rather interesting dirty drunken guitarist, whose face always had blacker smears on it than those

of his stubbly beard and who wore a sweatshirt that looked like the working garment of a coal miner and

whom Daloway and I would hear trailing off (I won't venture to say home) in the small hours of the

morning, picking out on his twangy instrument his dinky “Texas Oilman Suite", which he'd composed very

much in imitation of Ferde Grofe's one about the Grand Canyon, or raucously wailing his eerie beatnik

ballad of the Black Gondola. He got very much on Daloway's nerves, especially towards the end, though

I was rather amused by him and at the same time saw no harm in his caterwauling, except to would-be

sleepers. Well, he's gone now, like Daloway, though not by the same route ... I think. At least Daloway

never suggested that the guitarist was one of their agents. No, as it turned out, their agent was a rather

more formidable figure.

And they don't call the plaza St. Mark's, but it was obviously laid out to approximate that

Adriatic-lapped area when it was created a half century ago. The porticos still shade the sidewalks in

front of the two blocks of bars and grimy shops and there are still authentic Venetian pillars, now painted

salmon pink and turquoise blue—you may have seen them in a horror movie called Delirium where a

beautiful crazy slim Mexican girl is chased round and round the deserted porticos by a car flashing its

headlights between the pillars.

And of course the Venice isn't Venice, Italy, but Venice, USA—Venice, California—now just another

district and postal address in the sprawling metropolis of Los Angeles, but once a proud little beach side

city embodying the laughably charming if grotesque dream of creating Venice, Italy, scaled down but

complete with canals and arched bridges and porticos, on the shores of the Pacific.

Yet for all the childish innocence of its bizarre glamor, Venice developed an atmosphere, or became the

outpost of a sinister deep-rooted power, that did in Daloway. It is a place of dreams, not only the

tinseled ones, but also the darker sort such as tormented and terrified my friend at the end.

For a while toward the beginning of this century the movie folk and real estate agents and retired farmers

and the sailors from San Pedro went to spanking-new Venice to ride the gondolas—they had authentic

ones poled by Italian types possibly hired from Central Casting—and eat exotic spaghetti and gambol

romantically a bit with their wide-hatted long-skirted lady friends who also wore daring bathing suits with

bare arms and rather short skirts and long black stockings—and gamble too with piled big

yellow-backed green bills—and, with their caps turned front to rear, roar their wooden-spoked or

wire-wheeled open touring cars along the Speedway, which is now a cramped one-way street that

changes direction every block.

But then Redondo and Laguna and Malibu called away the film folk and the other people with fat

pocketbooks, but as if to compensate for that they struck oil in Venice and built wells almost

everywhere, yet despite this influx of money the gambling never regained its éclat, it became just bingo for

housewives, and the Los Angeles police fought that homely extramural vice for a weary decade, until

sprawling LA reached out a pseudopod one day and swallowed Venice up. Then the bingo stopped and

Venice became very crowded indeed with a beach home or a beach apartment or a beach shack on

every square yard that wasn't sidewalk or street—or oil well!—and with establishments as disparate as

Bible Tabernacle and Colonic Irrigation Clinic and Mother Goldberg's Home for the Aged. It would have

been going too far to have called Venice a beach slum, but it was trending in that direction.

And then, much later, the beats came, the gutter geniuses, the holy barbarians, migrating south in driblets

from Big Sur and from North Beach in Frisco and from Disillusion, USA, everywhere, bringing their ratty

art galleries and meager avant garde bookstalls and their black-trousered insolent women and their Zen

and their guitars, including the one on which was strummed the Ballad of the Black Gondola.

And with the beats, but emphatically not of them, came the solitary oddballs and lone-wolf intellectuals

like Daloway.

I met Daloway at a check-out desk of the excellent Los Angeles downtown public library, where our

two stacks of books demonstrated so many shared interests—world history, geology, abnormal

psychology, and psychic phenomena were some of them—that we paused outside to remark on it. This

led to a conversation, in which I got some first intimations of his astonishing mentality, and eventually to

my driving him home to save him a circuitous bus-trip, or, more likely, as I learned later, a weary

hitch-hike.

Our conversation continued excitingly throughout most of the long drive, though even in that first

exploratory confabulation Daloway made so many guarded references to a malefic power menacing us all

and perhaps him in particular, that I wondered if he mightn't have a bee in this bonnet about World

Communism or the Syndicate or the John Birch Society. But despite this possible paranoid obsession, he

was clearly a most worthy partner for intellectual disputation and discourse.

Toward the end of the drive Daloway suddenly got nervous and didn't want me to take him the last few

blocks. However, I overcame his reluctance. I remarked on the oil well next to his trailer—not to have

done so would have implied I thought he was embarrassed by it—and he retorted sardonically, “My

mechanical watchdog! Innocent-looking ugly beast, isn't it? But you've got to keep in mind that much

more of it or of its domain is below the surface, like an iceberg. Which reminds me that I once ran across

a seemingly well-authenticated report of a black iceberg—"

Thereafter I visited Daloway regularly in his trailer, often late at night, and we made our library trips

together and even occasional brief expeditions to sleazily stimulating spots like La Gondola Negra. At

first I thought he had merely been ashamed of his battered aluminum-walled home, though it was neat

enough inside, almost austere, but then I discovered that he hated to reveal to anyone where he lived, in

part because he hesitated to expose anyone else to the great if shadowy danger he believed overhung

him.

Daloway was a spare man yet muscular, with the watchful analytic gaze of an intellectual, but the hands of

a mechanic. Like too many men of our times, he was amazingly learned and knowledgeable, yet unable

to apply his abilities to his own advancement—for lack of connections and college degrees and because

of nervous instabilities and emotional blockages. He had more facts at his fingertips than a Ph. D.

candidate, but he used them to buttress off-trail theories and he dressed with the austere cleanly neatness

and simplicity of a factory hand or a man newly released from prison.

He'd work for a while in a machine shop or garage and then live very thriftily on his savings while he fed

his mind and pondered all the problems of the universe, or sometimes—this was before our meeting and

the period of his dreads—organized maverick mental-therapy or para-psychology groups.

This unworldly and monetarily unprofitable pattern of existence at least made Daloway an exciting

thinker. For him the world was a great conundrum or a series of puzzle boxes and he a disinterested yet

childishly sensitive and enthusiastic observer trying to unriddle them. A scientist, or natural philosopher,

rather, without the blinkered conformity of thought which sometimes characterizes men with professional

or academic standing to lose, but rather with a fiercely romantic yet clear-headed and at times even

cynical drive toward knowledge. Atoms, molecules, the stars, the unconscious mind, bizarre drugs and

their effects, (he'd tried out LSD and mescaline), the play of consciousness, the insidious interweaving of

reality and dream (as climatically in his dreams of the Black Gondola), the bafflingly twisted and folded

strata of Earth's crust and man's cerebrum and all history, the subtle mysterious swings of world events

and literature and sub-literature and politics—he was interested in all of them, and forever searching for

some unifying purposeful power behind them, and sensitive to them to a preternatural degree.

Well, in the end he did discover the power, or at least convinced himself he did, and convinced me too

for a time—and still does convince me, on lonely nights—but he got little enough satisfaction from his

knowledge, that I know of, and it proved to be as deadly a discovery, to the discoverer, as finding out

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