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‘Let me in, Cal.’
He knew better than to argue with her in such a mood. He shambled to the door, and turned the key.
‘You look terrible,’ she said, her voice mellowing as soon as she set eyes on him. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘I’m all right,’ he protested. ‘Really. I just had a fall.’
‘Why didn’t you ring me? I was expecting you at the wedding rehearsal last night. Had you forgotten?’
The following Saturday Geraldine’s elder sister Teresa was to marry the love of her life, a good Catholic boy whose fertility could scarcely be in question: his beloved was four months pregnant. Her swelling belly was not being allowed to overshadow proceedings however: the wedding was to be a grand affair. Cal, who’d been courting Geraldine for two years, was a valued guest, given the general expectation that he’d be the next to exchange vows with one of Norman Kellaway’s four daughters. Doubtless his missing the rehearsal had been viewed as minor heresy.
‘I did remind you, Cal,’ Geraldine said. ‘You know how important it is to me.’
‘I had a bit of trouble,’ he told her. ‘I fell off a wall.’
She looked incredulous.
‘What were you doing climbing on a wall?’ she said, as though at his age he should be well beyond such indignities.
He told her briefly about the escape of 33, and the chase to Rue Street. It was a bowdlerized account, of course. In it there was no mention of the carpet or what he’d seen there.
‘Did you find the bird?’ she asked, when he’d finished recounting the chase.
‘In a manner of speaking,’ he told her. In fact, he’d come home to Chariot Street, only to be told by Brendan that 33 had flown back to the loft in the late afternoon, and was now back beside his speckled wife. This he told Geraldine.
‘So you missed the rehearsal looking for a pigeon that came home anyway?’ she said.
He nodded. ‘But you know how Dad loves his birds,’ he said.
Mention of Brendan softened Geraldine further still; she and Cal’s father had been fast friends since Cal had first introduced them. ‘She sparkles,’ his father had told Cal, ‘hold on to her, ’cause if you don’t, somebody else will.’ Eileen had never been so certain. She’d always been cool with Geraldine, a fact which had only made Brendan’s praise more lavish.
The smile she offered now was gently indulgent. Though Cal had been loath to let her in and have her spoil his reverie, he was suddenly grateful for her company. He even felt the shaking fade a little.
‘It’s stale in here,’ she said. ‘You need some fresh air. Why don’t you open the window?’
He did as she suggested. When he turned round she was sitting cross-legged on the bed, her back to the collage of pictures he’d put up there in his youth, and which his parents had never removed. The Wailing Wall, Geraldine called it; it had always upset her, with its parade of movie stars and mushroom clouds, politicians and pigs.
‘The dress is beautiful,’ she said.
He puzzled over the remark a moment, his mind sluggish.
‘Teresa’s dress,’ she prompted.
‘Oh.’
‘Come and sit down, Cal.’
He lingered by the window. The air was balmy, and clean. It reminded him –
‘What’s wrong?’ she said.
The words were on the tip of his tongue. ‘I saw Wonderland.’ he wanted to say. That was it, in sum. The rest – the circumstances, the description – those details were niceties. The three essential words were easy enough, weren’t they? I saw Wonderland. And if there was anybody in his life to whom he should say them, it was this woman.
‘Tell me, Cal,’ she said. ‘Are you ill?’
He shook his head.
‘I saw …’ he began.
She looked at him with plain puzzlement.
‘What?’ she said. ‘What did you see?’
‘I saw …’ he began again, and again faltered. His tongue refused the instruction he gave it; the words simply wouldn’t come. He looked away from her face at the Wailing Wall. ‘The pictures …’ he said finally, ‘… they’re an eyesore.’
A strange euphoria swept over him as he sailed so close to telling, then away. The part of him that wanted what he’d seen kept secret had in that moment won the battle, and perhaps even the war. He could not tell her. Not now, not ever. It was a great relief to have made up his mind.
I’m Mad Mooney, he thought to himself. It wasn’t such a bad idea at that.
‘You’re looking better already,’ she said. ‘It must be the fresh air.’
4
And what lessons could he learn from the mad poet, now that they were fellow spirits? What would Mad Mooney do, were he in Cal’s shoes?
He’d play whatever game was necessary, came the answer, and then, when the world turned its back, he’d search, search until he found the place he’d seen, and not care that in doing so he was inviting delirium. He’d find his dream and hold on to it and never let it go.
They talked a little while longer, until Geraldine announced that she had to leave. There was wedding business to do that afternoon.
‘No more pigeon-chasing,’ she said to Cal. ‘I want you there on Saturday.’
She put her arms around him.
‘You’re too thin,’ she said. ‘I’m going to have to feed you up.’
She expects to be kissed now, the mad poet whispered in his ear; oblige the lady. We don’t want her to think you’ve lost interest in copulation, just because you’ve been half way to Heaven and back. Kiss her, and say something fetching.
The kiss Cal could deliver, though he was afraid the fact that his passion was prompted would show. He needn’t have feared. She returned his fake fervour with the genuine article, her body warm and tight against his.
That’s it, said the poet, now find something seductive to say, and send her off happy.
Here Cal’s confidence faltered. He had no skill with sweet-talk, nor ever had. ‘See you Saturday,’ was all he could muster. She seemed content with that. She kissed him again, and took her leave.
He watched her from the window, counting her steps until she turned the corner. Then, with his lover out of sight, he went in search of his heart’s desire.
Part Two:
Births, Deaths and Marriages
‘The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve; Lovers to bed; ‘tis almost fairy time.’
Shakespeare:
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
I
THE SUIT OF LIGHTS
1
And then, to add insult to injury, he couldn’t find the damn street. He’d made his way to the house the previous day with his eyes on the birds rather than on the route he was following, so he had only an impressionistic notion of its whereabouts. Knowing he could well wander for several hours and not find the street, he asked the way from a gaggle of six-year-olds, engaged in war games on a street corner. He was confidently re-directed. Either through ignorance or malice, however, the directions proved hopelessly incorrect, and he found himself wandering around in ever more desperate circles, his frustration mounting.
Any sixth sense he might have hoped for – some instinct that would lead him unerringly to the region of his dreams – was conspicuous by its absence.
It was luck then, pure luck, that brought him finally to the corner of Rue Street, and to the house that had once belonged to Mimi Laschenksi.
2
Suzanna had spent much of the morning attempting to do as she had promised Doctor Chai: notifying Uncle Charlie in Toronto. It was a frustrating business. For one thing, the small hotel she’d found the previous night only boasted a single public telephone, and other guests wanted access to it as well as she. For another, she had to call round several friends of the family until she located one who had Charlie’s telephone number, all of which took the best part of the morning. When, around one, she finally made contact, Mimi’s only son took the news without a trace of surprise. There was no offer to drop his work and rush to his mother’s bedside; only a polite request that Suzanna call back when there was ‘more news’. Meaning, presumably, that he didn’t expect her to ring again until it was time for him to send a wreath. So much for filial devotion.
The call done, she rang the hospital. There was no change in the patient’s condition. She’s hanging on, was the duty nurse’s phrase. It conjured an odd image of Mimi as mountaineer, clinging to a cliff-face. She took the opportunity to ask about her grandmother’s personal effects, and was told that she’d come into hospital without so much as a nightgown. Most probably the vultures Mrs Pumphrey had spoken of would by now have taken anything of worth from the house – the tall-boy included – but she elected to call by anyway, in case she could salvage anything to make Mimi’s dwindling hours a little more comfortable.
She found a small Italian restaurant in the vicinity of the hotel to lunch in, then drove to Rue Street.
3
The back yard gate had been pushed closed by the removal men, but left unbolted. Cal opened it, and stepped into the yard.
If he had expected some revelation, he was disappointed. There was nothing remarkable here. Just parched chickweed sprouting between the paving stones, and a litter of chattels the trio had discarded as worthless. Even the shadows, which might have hidden some glory, were wan and unsecretive.
Standing in the middle of the yard – where all of the mysteries that had overturned his sanity had been unveiled – he doubted for the first time, truly doubted, that anything had in fact happened the previous day.
Maybe there would be something inside the house, he told himself; some flotsam he could cling to that would bear him up in this flood of doubt.
He crossed the ground where the carpet had lain, to the back door. The removal men had left it unlocked; or else vandals had broken in. Either way, it stood ajar. He stepped inside.
At least the shadows were heavier within; there was some room for the fabulous. He waited for his eyes to accommodate the murk. Was it really only twenty-four hours since he’d been here, he thought, as his sharpening gaze scanned the grim interior; only yesterday that he’d entered this house with no more on his mind than catching a lost bird? This time he had so much more to find.
He wandered through to the hallway, looking everywhere (or some echo of what he’d experienced the day before). With every step he took his hopes fell further. Shadows there were, but they were deserted. The place was shorn of miracles. They’d gone when the carpet was removed.
Half way up the stairs he halted. What was the use of going any further? It was apparent he’d missed his chance. If he was to rediscover the vision he’d glimpsed and lost he’d have to search elsewhere. It was mere doggedness, therefore – one of Eileen’s attributes – that made him continue to climb.
At the top of the stairs the air was so leaden it made drawing breath a chore. That, and the fact that he felt like a trespasser today – unwelcome in this tomb – made him anxious to confirm his belief that the place had no magic to show him, then get gone.
As he went to the door of the front bedroom something moved behind him. He turned. The labourers had piled several articles of furniture at the top of the stairs, then apparently decided they weren’t worth the sweat of moving any further. A chest of drawers, several chairs and tables. The sound had come from behind this furniture. And now it came again.
Hearing it, he imagined rats. The sound suggested several sets of scurrying paws. Live and let live, he thought: he had no more right to be here than they did. Less, perhaps. They’d probably occupied the house for rat generations.
He returned to the job at hand, pushed open the door, and stepped into the front room. The windows were grimy, and the stained lace curtains further clogged the light. There was a chair overturned on the bare boards, and three odd shoes had been placed on the mantelpiece by some wit. Otherwise empty.
He stood for a few moments and then, hearing laughter in the street and needing its reassurance, crossed to the window and drew the curtain aside. But before he found the laughter’s source he forsook the search. His belly knew before his senses could confirm it that somebody had entered the room behind him. He let the curtain drop and looked around. A wide man in late middle-age, dressed too well for this dereliction, had joined him in the half-light. The threads of his grey jacket were almost iridescent. But more eye-catching still, his smile. A practised smile, belonging on an actor, or a preacher. Whichever, it was the expression of a man looking for converts.
‘Can I be of help?’ he said. His voice was resonant, and warm, but his sudden appearance had chilled Cal.
‘Help me?’ he said, floundering.
‘Are you perhaps interested in purchasing property?’ the other man said.
‘Purchasing? No … I … was just … you know … looking around.’
‘It’s a fine house,’ said the stranger, his smile as steady as a surgeon’s handshake, and as antiseptic. ‘Do you know much about houses?’ The line was spoken like its predecessors, without irony or malice. When Cal didn’t reply, the man said: ‘I’m a salesman. My name’s Shadwell.’ He teased the calf-skin glove from his thick-fingered hand. ‘And yours?’
‘Cal Mooney. Calhoun, that is.’
The bare hand was extended. Cal took two steps towards the man – he was fully four inches taller than Cal’s five foot eleven – and shook hands. The man’s cool palm made Cal aware that he was sweating like a pig.
The handshake broken, friend Shadwell unbuttoned his jacket, and opened it, to take a pen from his inside pocket. This casual action briefly revealed the lining of the Salesman’s garment, and by some trick of the light it seemed to shine, as though the fabric were woven of mirrored threads.
Shadwell caught the look on Cal’s face. His voice was feather-light as he said:
‘Do you see anything you like?’
Cal didn’t trust the man. Was it the smile or the calf-skin gloves that made him suspicious? Whichever, he wanted as little time in the man’s company as possible.
But there was something in the jacket. Something that caught the light, and made Cal’s heart beat a little faster.
‘Please …’ Shadwell coaxed. ‘Have a look.’
His hand went to the jacket again, and opened it.
‘Tell me …’ he purred, ‘… if there’s anything there that takes your fancy.’
This time, he fully opened the jacket, exposing the lining. And yes. Cal’s first judgment had been correct. It did shine.
‘I am, as I said, a salesman,’ Shadwell was explaining. ‘I make it a Golden Rule always to carry some samples of my merchandise around with me.’
Merchandise. Cal shaped the word in his head, his eyes still fixed on the interior of the jacket. What a word that was: merchandise. And there, in the lining of the jacket, he could almost see that word made solid. Jewellery, was it, that gleamed there? Artificial gems with a sheen that blinded the way only the fake could. He squinted into the glamour, looking to make sense out of what he saw, while the Salesman’s voice went about its persuasions:
‘Tell me what you’d like and it’s yours. I can’t say fairer than that, can I? A fine young man like you should be able to pick and choose. The world’s your oyster. I can see that. Open in front of you. Have what you like. Free, gratis and without charge. You tell me what you see in there, and the next minute it’s in your hands …’
Look away, something in Cal said; nothing comes free. Prices must be paid.
But his gaze was so infatuated with the mysteries in the folds of the jacket that he couldn’t have averted his eyes now if his life depended upon it.
‘… tell me …’ the Salesman said, ‘… what you see …’
Ah, there was a question –
‘… and it’s yours.’
He saw forgotten treasures, things he’d once upon a time set his heart upon, thinking that if he owned them he’d never want for anything again. Worthless trinkets, most of them; but items that awoke old longings. A pair of X-ray spectacles he’d seen advertised at the back of a comic book (see thru walls! impress your friends!) but had never been able to buy. There they were now, their plastic lens gleaming, and seeing them he remembered the October nights he’d lain awake wondering how they worked.
And what was that beside them? Another childhood fetish. A photograph of a woman dressed only in stiletto heels and a sequinned G-string, presenting her over-sized breasts to the viewer. The boy two doors down from Cal had owned that picture, stolen it from his uncle’s wallet, he’d claimed, and Cal had wanted it so badly he thought he’d die of longing. Now it hung, a dog-eared memento, in the glittering flux of Shadwell’s jacket, there for the asking.
But no sooner had it made itself apparent than it too faded, and new prizes appeared in its place to tempt him.
‘What is it you see, my friend?’
The keys to a car he’d longed to own. A prize pigeon, the winner of innumerable races, that he’d been so envious of he’d have happily abducted –
‘… just tell me what you see. Ask, and it’s yours …’
There was so much. Items that had seemed – for an hour, a day – the pivot upon which his world turned, all hung now in the miraculous store-room of the Salesman’s coat.
But they were fugitive, all of them. They appeared only to evaporate again. There was something else there, which prevented these trivialities from holding his attention for more than moments. What it was, he couldn’t yet see.
He was dimly aware that Shadwell was addressing him again, and that the tone of the Salesman’s voice had altered. There was some puzzlement in it now, tinged with exasperation.
‘Speak up, my friend … why don’t you tell me what you want?’
‘I can’t … quite … see it.’
‘Then try harder. Concentrate.’
Cal tried. The images came and went, all insignificant stuff. The mother-lode still evaded him.
‘You’re not trying,’ the Salesman chided. ‘If a man wants something badly he has to zero in on it. Has to make sure it’s clear in his head.’
Cal saw the wisdom of this, and re-doubled his efforts. It had become a challenge to see past the tinsel to the real treasure that lay beyond. A curious sensation attended this focusing; a restlessness in his chest and throat, as though some part of him were preparing to be gone; out of him and along the line of his gaze. Gone into the jacket.
At the back of his head, where his skull grew the tail of his spine, the warning voices muttered on. But he was too committed to resist. Whatever the lining contained, it teased him, not quite showing itself. He stared and stared, defying its decorum until the sweat ran from his temples.
Shadwell’s coaxing monologue had gained fresh confidence. It’s sugar coating had cracked and fallen away. The nut beneath was bitter and dark.
‘Go on …’ he said. ‘Don’t be so damn weak. There’s something here you want, isn’t there? Very badly. Go on. Tell me. Spit it out. No use waiting. You wait, and your chance slips away.’
Finally, the image was coming clear –
‘Tell me and it’s yours.’
Cal felt a wind on his face, and suddenly he was flying again, and wonderland was spread out before him. Its deeps and its heights, its rivers, its towers – all were displayed there in the lining of the Salesman’s jacket.
He gasped at the sight. Shadwell was lightning swift in his response.
‘What is it?’
Cal stared on, speechless.
‘What do you see?’
A confusion of feelings assailed Cal. He felt elated, seeing the land, yet fearful of what he would be asked to give (was already giving, perhaps, without quite knowing it) in return for this peep-show. Shadwell had harm in him, for all his smiles and promises.
‘Tell me …’ the Salesman demanded.
Cal tried to keep an answer from coming to his lips. He didn’t want to give his secret away.
‘… what do you see?’
The voice was so hard to resist. He wanted to keep his silence, but the reply rose in him unbidden.
‘I …’ (Don’t say it. the poet warned), ‘I see …’ (Fight it. There’s harm here.) ‘I … see …’
‘He sees the Fugue.’
The voice that finished the sentence was that of a woman.
‘Are you sure?’ said Shadwell.
‘Never more certain. Look at his eyes.’
Cal felt foolish and vulnerable, so mesmerized by the sights still unfolding in the lining he was unable to cast his eyes in the direction of those who now appraised him.
‘He knows,’ the woman said. Her voice held not a trace of warmth. Even, perhaps, of humanity.
‘You were right then,’ said Shadwell. ‘It’s been here.’
‘Of course.’
‘Good enough,’ said Shadwell, and summarily closed the jacket.
The effect on Cal was cataclysmic. With the world – the Fugue, she’d called it – so abruptly snatched away he felt weak as a babe. It was all he could do to stand upright. Queasily, his eyes slid in the direction of the woman.
She was beautiful: that was his first thought. She was dressed in reds and purples so dark they were almost black, the fabric wrapped tightly around her upper body so as to seem both chaste, her ripeness bound and sealed, and, in the act of sealing, eroticized. The same paradox informed her features. Her hair-line had been shaved back fully two inches, and her eye-brows totally removed, which left her face eerily innocent of expression. Yet her flesh gleamed as if oiled, and though the shaving, and the absence of any scrap of make-up to flatter her features, seemed acts in defiance of her beauty, her face could not be denied its sensuality. Her mouth was too sculpted: and her eyes – umber one moment, gold the next – too eloquent for the feelings there to be disguised. What feelings, Cal could only vaguely read. Impatience certainly, as though being here sickened her, and stirred some fury Cal had no desire to see unleashed. Contempt – for him most likely – and yet a great focus upon him, as though she saw through to his marrow, and was preparing to congeal it with a thought.
There were no such contradictions in her voice however. It was steel and steel.
‘How long?’ she demanded of him. ‘How long since you saw the Fugue?’
He couldn’t meet her eyes for more than a moment. His gaze fled to the mantelpiece, and the tripod’s shoes.
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said.
‘You’ve seen it. You saw it again in the jacket. It’s fruitless to deny it.’
‘It’s better you answer,’ Shadwell advised.
Cal looked from mantelpiece to door. They had left it open. ‘You can both go to Hell,’ he said quietly.
Did Shadwell laugh? Cal wasn’t certain.