by Max Frei
I remembered how I had produced a box of cigars out of thin air for General Boboota. I had had to strain my imagination thinking about the presumed owners of those cigars: coffee cups in their hands, wooden humidor on the desk, and all. Now I tried to use the same method, summoning up in my imagination the bookshelves in a library. It triggered a strange association in my head, and I remembered The Library Policeman, a novella by Stephen King. I smirked at myself and thought, Yeah, ransacking that library wouldn’t be such a great idea. These thoughts kept me from focusing properly, but a few minutes later a paperback book fell out of my numb fingers onto the floor. I picked it up and read the title: Our Time Has Gone by one Ingvar Stefansson. Neither the name of the book nor the author’s name rang a bell. No wonder, though. Even though I used to be a voracious reader, there was no way I could have even made a dent in everything my scribbling compatriots had ever written. With my trophy tucked under my arm, I headed to the House by the Bridge.
A courier from the Glutton was bustling about in our office. Sir Juffin had decided to feed the prisoner. Lonli-Lokli, just out of his cell, was playing absentmindedly with a cup of kamra.
“I thought you went to the palace,” said Juffin, “to pick up a book and sing a lullaby to your harem.”
“You know what? I’ve had it up to here today with Melifaro’s snide little quips,” I said. “I sure don’t want to hear the same ones from you.” I turned to Shurf. “Here’s a book for you, buddy. Just one, but it’s from another World. I figured no one besides me would bring you a book like this.”
“Indeed,” said Lonli-Lokli, his usually stony face expressing ordinary surprise. “A book from another World! Who would have thought? Oh, it is so much better than anything one could find in the old university library.”
“Well, not necessarily. Actually, I haven’t read it, nor have I ever heard of the author, so I can’t guarantee you this will be a quality read.”
“A quality read? I think that is quite irrelevant. I have never read books written in another World before. To me, this is more than just a book.”
“Well, of course.”
I imagined how I would react if someone had lent me a book from another World five or six years ago, before I had become Sir Max from Echo or had dared hope that these other Worlds even existed. I doubted I’d be interested in the literary value of such a book. It probably would be “more than just a book” to me, too. Shurf was absolutely right.
“A book from your World?” said Juffin. “Oh, my. You write books there? I thought that movies were enough to entertain you. How do you manage all this in just seventy years, or however long you live there?”
“We’re smart and quick,” I said. “Can’t you tell by looking at me?”
“I sure can. Are you smart and quick enough to descend to Xumgat already?”
“Let’s go back to the good old terminology,” I said. “Those words you’re using now reek of some ancient mystical bunkum, as you yourself admitted the other day. I’m sort of ready for a stroll down the Corridor between Worlds, but to ‘descend to Xumgat’? Uh-uh, sir. No way.”
“You know, I had a similar reaction when certain allegedly powerful Magicians used such words in my presence,” said Juffin. “Maybe that was why I captured so many Magicians—Grand and not so grand—back in the day. I was sick of their manners of expression. The rest was just a pretext.”
“Sounds like it could be true,” I said, laughing. “So this is the confession of the famous Kettarian Hunter. All the bloodshed could have been avoided, but their highfalutin terminology proved to be the ultimate undoing of the poor little Magicians.”
“You sure are in great spirits,” said the boss. “Let’s go now while you’re still in this mood.”
“Do we need to go somewhere? I thought you could open the Door between Worlds anywhere.”
“I can. Well, not just anywhere: there are places in the World that facilitate such undertakings and places that inhibit them. But today we must use your personal Door. You have only one so far, and it’s in your former bedroom.”
“Is there a difference between these Doors?” I said. “I thought—”
“Never mind what you thought. When two people travel through Xumgat—I mean the Corridor between Worlds—one of them must be the guide, the other the guest. We need to get to the World from your dreams, so you will be the guide. That’s why you and I are going to the Street of Old Coins.”
“And kick two beautiful ladies out of the movie theater?” I said. “They’re going to scratch my eyes out for this.”
“I’m sure they will. Let’s go, hero. Sir Shurf, I’m sure you can’t wait for us to get out of here so you can be alone with this mystical monument of otherworldly literature, huh?”
Lonli-Lokli didn’t contradict him. He sighed and looked at the cover of the book with undisguised tenderness. We locked him up in his detention cell and proceeded to the Street of Old Coins.
I wasn’t worried or scared about the upcoming journey. I had never been what you would call brave, but having Sir Juffin Hully at my side was the best calmative I knew: with him I could go to Hades itself. So on our way, I wasn’t haunted by premonitions and chatted about inconsequential things with Juffin instead.
“By the way, why were there no women at my reception?” This question had been bothering me all evening. “Neither among the grandees of the provinces, nor among the ambassadors. Looks like women have a hard time climbing up the government ladder in the Unified Kingdom.”
“Can you stop thinking about women for a minute?” said Juffin. “Then again, you have a harem now. You’re partly right: all the grandees of our provinces are men. And you won’t find too many women in the Royal Court, either. But it’s not because someone holds them back from occupying higher positions in the government. Usually they don’t wish to move up themselves. You see, these jobs normally require being in the public eye and a great deal of fuss and bother. Wise women can’t stand that sort of thing, and no one needs stupid women in the government service any more than he needs stupid men. If some eccentric lady does want to try her hand at government affairs, she’s usually much better at her job than most of her male colleagues. She quickly becomes far too important to be seen hanging around the residences of foreign kings. You know, women are much more radical than we are: it’s all or nothing with them. I already told you this once, when you asked me why there were no women Grand Magicians. If a woman becomes a member of an Order, she won’t be interested in such petty things as nominal power over her fellow members. If she gets a government job, she quickly becomes one of the Secret Ministers under almost any government.”
“I see,” I said, laughing. “In the World where I was born, people still think that, as a rule, women are not good enough to hold a high post. Here you think they’re too good for it. But the results are just the same.”
“Don’t pretend you don’t understand it,” said Juffin. “The results are radically different, even if it doesn’t seem so at first glance. Back in the day, Grand Magician Nuflin turned to seek my help only because our friend Lady Sotofa Xanemer wanted him to. He would have preferred not have me anywhere near Uguland. Better yet, he’d rather have had my head on a platter: back then Nuflin thought everyone would have benefitted from that. And that’s just one example.”
“Whoa! So someone like Lady Sotofa is behind each pivotal decision made by our government officials?”
“Almost. There are some pleasant exceptions. Take me, for example. I’m an independent guy. Which is for the better. Speaking of women: you’d better start thinking up a way to explain to your girlfriends why we have to pry them away from the TV. We’re almost there.”
Just as I had suspected, Melamori and Tekki were sitting in my former bedroom, glued to the TV and giggling like tipsy schoolgirls. The show they were watching—a weightlifting competition—baffled me. Where on earth did this come from? I wondered. I’d never tape something like that in a million years. The tape wa
s probably a humble contribution of the former owner of the collection. So much for knowing someone like the back of your hand.
When they saw us, the ladies were visibly embarrassed. They even blushed. “We’re busted. Caught red-handed, right in the middle of some hot stuff,” said Tekki. She buried her face in Melamori’s shoulder, and they both giggled.
“We’re Secret Investigators; it’s our job to bust people,” I said. “And what, pray tell, is this ‘hot stuff’ you’re referring to?”
“Oh, this?” said Melamori, pointing to the TV. “I’ve never seen a more vulgar spectacle than these huffing and puffing, half-naked fat guys. Or anything funnier. Is this the usual pastime in your homeland, Max? Have you ever done this?”
“Well, see, I don’t exactly have the right constitution,” I said. “Besides, this isn’t a pastime. It’s a way of determining who’s the strongest person. Not the smartest way, if you think about it, but still . . .”
Meanwhile, Juffin was staring at the TV. On the screen, a giant in a pink leotard was trying, and failing, to lift a five-hundred-thirtypound barbell.
“Disgusting,” he said. “Ladies, are you really enjoying this?”
“And how,” said Tekki. “We’ve watched it twice already.”
“You have, have you? Well, now turn it off and get out of the room. Go have a cup of kamra and get spiffed up. You can come back in thirty minutes and continue your highly intellectual activities since you’ve grown so fond of these horrible creatures.”
“Oh, I see. You need to go somewhere from here,” said Melamori.
“No, we want to admire these beauty boys, too. We’re just embarrassed when you’re around,” I said.
“Ah, okay then,” said Melamori.
Tekki was already standing in the doorway, smiling at me. It was the kind of desperate smile you would adopt to see off a hero when he’s about to embark on a journey down Xumgat, I thought. Jeepers.
“Good night, ladies,” said Juffin, bowing to them. “And don’t stay here until dawn, or you risk having us land on top of your beautiful heads when we return.”
“Not to worry, sir. Our heads are hard enough. But you just might hurt yourselves,” said Melamori. Tekki didn’t say anything, just shook her head. Then they both walked out of the room.
“Will you look at that?” I said. “They’re best friends now. So much for old family feuds.”
“Are you joking? Melamori would love to be best friends with Loiso Pondoxo himself, not just with his daughter, just to annoy her daddy. She and Korva have been competing to annoy each other for as long as I can remember. And I think Ms. Melamori is ahead of the game.”
“Starting from the fact that she was born a girl, in spite of his dream of having a son.”
“Precisely. Now, while we’re on the subject, have you noticed that your Tekki is a lot like yourself? You two look different, of course, but the way she talks and walks and—”
“I know. It was the first thing I noticed about her,” I said. “And, like any normal narcissistic jackass, I thought it was the best thing that’d ever happened to me. I still do.”
“She is a mirror,” said Juffin. “Like all Loiso Pondoxo’s children, Lady Tekki becomes the reflection of her interlocutor. And their famous daddy was one of the best mirrors around, believe me. It’s the most devastating kind of personal charm. Only when she’s very scared, sad, or alone does the true Tekki come out, which doesn’t happen all that often, right? While you were having a vacation in your World, I dropped by the tavern a few times. Then we often met here in this room to watch movies. Trust me, chatting with Lady Tekki feels like having a split personality, in a nice way. When Tekki spends time with Melamori, she becomes her replica. Disarming, right? No one can resist. The most logical step is to become best friends.”
“You can say that again,” I said, perplexed. “Are you . . . sure you know what you’re talking about? I mean, I had no idea.”
“Of course you didn’t. But I know very well what I’m talking about.”
“I thought Tekki really was a lot like me,” I said in a plaintive voice. “Now it turns out I don’t even know the real Tekki.”
“Well, you do know the real Tekki a little. The night she poisoned you by mistake, that was the real Lady Shekk. She was very, very scared then. But, as I understand it, that was when you fell in love with her,” said Juffin. “Besides, when you look at her, she looks like you for real. This isn’t some cheap acting, boy. This is Magic. And what do you care about what’s going on with her when you’re not around? If you think about it, it’s none of your business.”
“Right.”
“Here’s something to ponder. You can’t actually know the ‘real’ anybody. Including yourself. Why should Lady Shekk be a sad exception to this beautiful rule?” said Juffin.
“I guess you’re right,” I said. “But why are you telling me all this now?”
“Now is as good a time as any. Besides, it might not have occurred to you for the next thousand years.”
“Recently the ground seems to keep disappearing from under me,” I said. “When it returns, I realize that it’s all for the better. It’s like a miniature death—the World becomes more beautiful afterward.”
“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” said Juffin. “Now let’s get down to business. We just kicked out two beautiful ladies and are sitting here gossiping. As if your bedroom is the only place in the World one can have a good long talk.”
“Maybe it is,” I said. “So what do we do now?”
“You lie down in your favorite spot and fall asleep, the same way you do when you want to sneak into the Corridor between Worlds. I know it’s too early for you and you don’t feel tired, but I’ll help you. Trust me on this. Now, when you find yourself in the Corridor, look for the Door to the World with sandy beaches that you and Shurf were talking about, and enter it. I’ll be right behind you. You’re in luck here: I’m an experienced traveler. You won’t have to do anything to help me. You’d have a much harder time with a novice. Now go lie down and try to sleep.”
I settled in the middle of the soft bedcover. The rack with the video gear was pressing against my back. This inconvenience felt as pacifying as the presence of Juffin himself. Now I really was prepared for anything.
“This is the best way to treat insomnia,” said my boss, producing a huge cartoonish hammer out of thin air. “Don’t even think of dodging, or it won’t work. How do you like my new trick, Max? Much more fun than the old ways.”
I was so taken aback that I didn’t know how to reply. Things like this didn’t happen to me very often. A bright pink hammer smashed down on my poor head.
I didn’t feel the hit, of course. Nothing much happened, in fact, except that I felt really sleepy. It didn’t resemble general anesthesia: my sleepiness felt very natural, as though I hadn’t slept for days and had just now finally reached the bed. I even had the illusion that I could wave off this drowsiness if I wanted to—but I didn’t want to . . .
And then I fell asleep. What else could happen to a person when Sir Juffin Hully sang him a lullaby.
And again I was in that improbable place where there was nothing—nothing at all. Even I wasn’t there in a sense. I can’t explain what the Corridor between Worlds is. Experience isn’t a boon here. Rather, the more often you end up in this bizarre place, the more you realize that you’ll never be able to explain it to those who haven’t been there. Our ancestors, unfortunately, didn’t provide us with the necessary vocabulary when they created the languages we must resort to now, for lack of anything better.
I am still surprised that some part of me is fully capable of finding its bearings in this irrational space. Somehow I knew exactly which of the Worlds I had to allow to envelop me, which of the shining dots I had to allow to grow until they obscured all the others so that I could again feel the bright sand crunching under my feet on the empty beaches of my childhood dreams.
I sat down on a warm, red-g
ray rock and looked around.
Something was amiss with this alien yet so familiar World. A few moments later, I knew what was wrong. There were other people here besides me—far away by the water, but not so far away that I couldn’t see them. But I remembered this World as empty and abandoned. That was one of its signature qualities. For this is how we construct a picture of someone we love in our memory: facial features, the voice, a mannerism, a way of responding to an event—all these things make the person predictable, recognizable, and, thus, beloved. When one of these features changes, it unnerves us, for we lack the courage to say goodbye to our old friend and let a stranger into our lives.
Recently I had had to learn to accept such changes without giving way to tantrums. Things had just happened the way they had; I had no choice but to accept them. But the changes that had taken place in the World of sandy beaches I used to love disgusted me right from the start. Even if I could have written that feeling off as a reflex, that emotion was soon replaced by a strong sense of foreboding.
I got up from the warm rock, forgetting that I should probably wait for Juffin, and walked to the sea. To the sea, where there were people who shouldn’t have been there at all. They just couldn’t be there, period.
A small motley crowd was walking toward me: tattered old gypsy women in colorful skirts and headscarves that glittered with golden threads. One of them carried a scruffy baby in her arms. Another kid, a bit older, was grabbing onto the skirt of a different woman. They began to nag and whimper. Their voices, as piercing as the shrieks of a seagull, were plaintive and brazen. Of course they demanded money, using their dirty babies as an argument. One of the women offered a range of esoteric services by way of bait and lost no time in urging me to “cross her palm with silver.”
“I can see your destiny, pretty boy! You’ll live a long life. You’ll be rich—if you don’t die today, that is.”