The Masters of Atlantis

by Charles Portis

  Popper said, “This is the greatest business in the world, Esteban. You do absolutely nothing but collect money.”

  But he wondered if these two weed lots could continue to support Mr. Moaler’s expanded household. Would he be announcing sharp cutbacks at the dinner today? Or what? Something to do with the Society? Would he proclaim himself Master?

  Esteban said, “Why don’t we go back to Corpus, boss?”

  “No, I’m just not up to it. I’m tired of all that chasing around. I’m tired of jabbering. I haven’t had a drink in five years. Your brewers, your vintners, your distillers, they don’t even exist for me anymore, and I try to put a good face on things, but the fact is, Esteban, that I’m still not getting enough air to my brain. The truth is that my powers are failing and I can’t cut it any longer. You saw how they worked me over up there at Austin.”

  Babcock had no Christmas morning duties to perform either. He poked at the pile of Gnomon goods with a stick, looking for his stenotype machine, as a survivor pokes the rubble after a tornado in search of a favorite shoe. The light winds had disturbed the covering sheets again, leaving the mound exposed. The rain and sun had been at work. Alternately soaked and baked, the mass was dissolving, blending and settling into a lumpy conglomerate, something like fruitcake. Around the base there lay exfoliating copies of Hoosier Wizard.

  Babcock’s eye ranged over the big trailer. This was the new Temple, or rather Great Hall. It seemed an unlikely place for one to await apocalyptic events, but then what would be a likely place? He noted that the Hall was growing on him. The stark lines had become pleasing, the horizontal values, the very human scale. It was a Temple that could be hauled away in the night by anyone with a two-inch ball on his car bumper, but then Temples of marble and granite did not last either, as he had reason to know.

  “Hey, what do you think Mr. Moaler’s announcement will be?”

  This from Ed, who had slipped up behind him. Ed was apprehensive.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Lázaro thinks he may kick some of us out. Or all of us.”

  “I don’t know anything about it, Ed. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  Babcock thought he did know what the announcement would be but it was not the kind of thing you could discuss with Ed, who, he knew now, was not Nandor. He had seen it coming. He had felt it coming, this climacteric, this revelation that Mr. Moaler was himself the Lame One, and that Mr. Jimmerson and Sir Sydney were Nandor and Principato, or Principato and Nandor. It was all falling together. He could see now the necessity for the flight south. It was nothing less than the coming together of the Three Secret Teachers.

  Adele served Hen his cup of gumbo and his cup of cocoa in bed, and advised him to wear his green silk gown for the reenactment of the Masters’ handshake. The gown was of oriental design, with ample sleeves that covered the hands when joined in front, Chinese fashion. There were white four-pointed stars scattered about over it, representing Ptolemy’s fifteen fixed stars of the first magnitude.

  Adele said, “The green makes a stronger statement and will help to offset Mr. Jimmerson’s thicker presence. Your super-tall green Poma will help to diminish him somewhat too.”

  Hen nodded. He was brooding over Mr. Moaler’s interesting announcement. When would it come? Before dinner? After? During? With ding of spoon on glass? What could it be? Interesting to whom? Something to do with the Lag? A recent dream? A vision? A program of compulsory physical exercise? A day trip on a motor launch?

  He waved off the gown chatter. “Yes, but what news, Adele? What do you hear about this announcement or proclamation?”

  “Ed told Whit that Mr. Moaler thinks there are too many people living here and that he’s going to turn some of us out.”

  “On Christmas day?”

  “Ed didn’t know when. He got it from Lázaro.”

  “And who was Lázaro’s source?”

  “I have Whit working on that now.”

  “Babcock, you think?”

  “I wouldn’t think so. He never knows anything.”

  “Popper?”

  “That would be my guess. Through Esteban to Lázaro to Ed.”

  “Or Popper directly to Lázaro to Ed.”

  “Or through Maceo to Lázaro.”

  “They confide?”

  “They confer. Over their pots.”

  “Nothing about a boat ride?”

  “No, sir.”

  “But who is to go? Who is to be given the black spot?”

  “Whit is working on that now. Shall I lay out the green silk?”

  “Yes, my dear, and then you can draw my tub.”

  ADELE TOO chose to make a green statement, with her sea-green terry-cloth coveralls, cinched in at the middle with a pirate’s black belt, for the occasion of this extraordinary conclave at Rancho Moaler. Mr. Jimmerson called her Juanita. Never good at sorting women out, he had thought Adele and Teresita to be the same person, though they were nothing at all alike, and he addressed them both as Juanita. Now he saw them together for the first time and was confused. Teresita wore different hues of black.

  All were crowded into the big trailer or Great Moaler Hall, and all were spruced up, faces scrubbed, Ed with clean boots, Babcock in borrowed necktie, Maceo in his old tan suit and long pointed tan shoes, Esteban in his frilly white guayabera shirt, Hen resplendent under a green spire, a Merlin hat. Mr. Jimmerson’s original Poma looked squat and crude in comparison. Still the eye was drawn to it.

  Again the two Masters clasped hands across the burning bowl, before rapt faces. Popper did not lead the applause but he did join in. Whit took shots from different angles. He said, “Hold it, please. That flame is so faint and I want to make sure I get it in.” He wanted to catch a blue wisp, seemingly unsupported, on his color film.

  Sir Sydney was on edge, unnaturally animated, talking too much and laughing too readily under the tension of waiting for Mr. Moaler’s announcement. He said, “Do you know, Lamar, there really is something to this stuff. There were times when I thought I might be deluded. There were moments when I wondered if my condition might not be a pathological one, but now I’m convinced that old Papa Pletho was really on to something.”

  Mr. Jimmerson said, “It’s too bad that Fanny and Jerome can’t be here to share in this.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t believe you have any children, do you, Sydney?”

  “Oh no, it wouldn’t have done for me. I spared the world the late-life spawn of an aesthete and a socialite. I didn’t want to foist off some rotten, helpless, exotic kid on the world. It would never have done. Out of the question. It must all end with me. The Hen line must die with me in what I had hoped would be a Wagnerian finish.”

  A whiff of sage came from the corn-bread dressing and there were other pleasant smells from the long buffet table. Mr. Moaler struck a green note himself, with a Gnomon sash across his body, which was like that of an Eagle Scout or a South American president. When the ceremony was done and the congratulations had trailed off, he rang his thumb bell. The guests looked at one another and became very still, like Sweet Boy. They steeled themselves. Breathing was suspended. Here it comes. Mr. Moaler offered a long prayer of thanksgiving for their many blessings, but made no announcement.

  “Amen,” said Popper. “After all, we still have our—I started to say our health. But we do still have our wits about us and we still hold our ancient secrets inviolate and we have our Society intact, lean and strong, under the generous patronage of Mr. Morehead Moaler.”

  There was applause for Mr. Moaler. He stopped it with a raised hand. “Time to eat,” he said. Plates were prepared and served to the two Masters, and to Mr. Moaler and Popper in their wheelchairs, the four of them sitting en banc. Then the others formed a line and served themselves.

  Adele said, “No need to overload your plate like that, Ed. There’s plenty of food. You can come back.”

  Hen helped Mr. Moaler tuck his napkin, showing that he was not too pro
ud to perform such small offices. “A lovely dinner, Morehead. Do you know, I believe I’m recovering some of my old form, thanks to you and your kindness.”

  “Good food,” said Mr. Jimmerson. “Give me the dark meat every time and you can have your white meat.”

  Popper said, “Did you hear that, Maceo? Lázaro? Teresita? The Master’s compliments. Mine too. A real dining experience. How about it, everyone? Can’t we show a little appreciation for our cooks?”

  More applause.

  Outside there was a rustling noise, which, to Babcock, reminded of that last terrible day in the Temple, sounded like many thousands of cockroaches on the march. Again the guests looked at each other with alarm, in the way of the Atlanteans, when they first heard the rumbling on their single day and night of misfortune. What now? There was a rush for the windows, such that the Great Hall tilted a bit. Outside they saw a magnificent new mobile home, yellow, with pitched roof, being towed in under the palm trees and brushing against the dead fronds. This was Mr. Moaler’s surprise. He had bought a new trailer.

  His red face was glowing under his Poma. “How do you like it?” he said. “That’s your eighty-foot Cape Codder with cathedral roof and shingles of incorruptible polystyrene. It’s the top of the line. The Cape Codder is built with sixteen-inch centers and will never sag in the middle like those cheaper models with twenty-inch centers. The furniture is done in indestructible Herculon and there are two master bedrooms for our two Masters. Plenty of room for everybody. By day we’ll study or do whatever we please and every night we’ll play Sniff.”

  There were more cheers for Mr. Moaler, on this day of cheers and goodwill. Even Popper, who never laughed, was moved to laugh a little. Another trailer! And the suggestion that there were still more where that one came from! A Gnomon panzer formation in the Moaler grove! It wasn’t the Temple of the old days but it was better than being breathed on by Dean Ray Stuart!

  Hen, exultant, foaming, almost weeping, said, “I think I’ll grow tomatoes by day, Lamar. The Better Boy variety for preference, in this sand. Yes, a little garden for me. How about you?”

  “It’s study for me, Sydney.”

  Babcock remained standing at a window but he was not looking at the long yellow flanks of the new Temple. He could feel the Telluric Currents. The pulsing made him a little dizzy. The surge and ebb. He saw what must be done. The flame was faint indeed and he had much work to do. He need no longer take account of the thoughtless multitude in the cities of men or of the three elderly gamesters at their table in their conical caps. He had often suppressed the thought but now he knew in his heart that he himself was a Master and that Maurice Babcock was to be Master of the New Cycle.

  Whit said, “What a wonderful Christmas!”

  Ed, who no longer missed the Red Room, said, “This is the best party I’ve ever been to!”

  ALSO BY CHARLES PORTIS

  Norwood

  True Grit

  The Dog of the South

  Gringos