Fata Morgana

by William Kotzwinkle

  “Of course,” said the bent man, “a discerning collector. Of course, my dear sir, I have exactly what you’re looking for.” He signaled to the dim-witted young man, who lifted a second trunk onto the toy maker’s bench. The bent man opened it and withdrew a toy man, clothed in a barrel. “Now here is a somewhat unusual...” He lifted the barrel over the man’s head, and in so doing exposed the man’s miniature sexual member, which rose up quickly to erection, supported by a rubber spring. The peddler lowered the barrel again, covering the man’s private parts. “A novelty.” He smiled. “A comic piece.... Here we have something for your tree...”

  He brought out a large Christmas ball, beautifully made, wreathed with bright bands and bits of sparkle. Handing it to Picard, he said, “Look closely, sir. Yes, Father Christmas has come...”

  Picard held up the Christmas ball. On one side of it was a tiny glass window. He peeked through it, into the interior of the ball, where a tiny naked lady lay, upon a tiny bed, with Father Christmas atop her, delivering his gift.

  “Yes,” said the bent man, taking back the ball, “just a touch of cheer, for the holiday season, you see... now, let me...” He dug in his trunk again, like Father Christmas himself, mumbling amongst his gifts.

  “I’m looking for a fortune-telling machine,” said Picard. “One which clicks out information of a very special kind...”

  “You’ve seen the work of Robert Heron, then.”

  “Robert Heron?”

  “My dear sir, who else could make such a thing as you describe. Surely none of these jackasses!” The bent man gestured toward the other booths in the fair.

  “Who is Robert Heron?”

  “The greatest toy maker in the world.”

  “Where may I find him?”

  “His home is in Nuremberg.”

  “And he makes a fortune-telling toy?”

  “His automatic mechanisms are without peer. I daresay his toys can do what angels cannot.”

  There was a scuffling outside the tent, and the door was suddenly filled by a grey-frocked policeman and the wife of the next-door toy maker. The woman was still red-faced with indignation and the policeman came forward, spurred on by her loud protestations.

  “Who is the owner of this tent?”

  “I am,” said the bent man.

  “I understand that obscene objects are for sale here, which is strictly against the law. I must ask you, sir, to...”

  “Excuse me,” said Picard, opening his wallet and showing his credentials, as well as the special visitor’s badge issued him by the Viennese Chief of Police.

  “Yes, sir,” said the policeman. “May I be of assistance?”

  “I’m working with your Chief,” said Picard, “and this man is helping me in my investigation. I would appreciate it if his perfectly innocent display of toys”—Picard gestured toward a tricycling goat—”be left unmolested. He is of great service to me.”

  “Very good, sir,” said the policeman. Turning to the dumbfounded woman, he gestured toward her with his walking stick and directed her out of the tent. At the last moment, he leaned back in and touched his hat with his fingers. “Don’t worry, gentlemen, there’ll be no further interruptions.” He disappeared, then, and the next-door neighbors were silenced.

  “Thank you,” said the bent man.

  “Robert Heron is in Nuremberg, you say?”

  “He was when last I saw him, nearly a year ago.”

  Picard adjusted the collar of his cape and took hold of the tent flap. “I’m grateful for your help.” He moved the tent flap aside, but then turned back, drawn to a toy the idiot assistant was placing on the wooden display bench.

  “You like it, sir?” asked the bent man. “You may have it.”

  Picard picked up the glass ball. It was clear glass, and constructed within it were a few tiny buildings and a man pulling a cart beside them, through a layer of snow which covered the bottom of the ball. He shook the ball and the snowflakes rose up, suspended in water, and slowly fell around the rooftops and onto the man’s head. Picard watched them fall, a peculiar feeling coming over him, as if he knew the figure in the glass, had known him for many years, indeed for all time.

  “A beautiful thing,” said Picard, setting the ball back onto the bench.

  “Worlds within worlds, sir. I have here another transparent glass, the subject of which is somewhat more sophisticated, Miss Schmidt and the Delivery Boy, for private collectors only...” He reached into his other trunk, but Picard was already departing the tent, into the blowing storm.

  The train was halted by drifting dunes of snow. Picard left his compartment and walked to the end of the coach. The conductor shook his head; there was no telling when the tracks would be cleared. “We’re not far from the inn, if you care to walk.” He pointed toward a curl of smoke that played among the falling snowflakes. “You can hire a carriage from there.”

  Picard returned to his compartment and picked up his bag. Other passengers were doing the same. They stepped from the train, into the knee-deep snow. The snowflakes fell upon his face, and he raised his footsteps high, drinking in the fresh clean draughts of winter air. Nuremberg can’t be more than an hour’s ride; up this hill, then, that’s a stout lad, push your fat along and don’t eat so much today.

  The road to the inn was being plowed by a team of men and horses, who dragged a large wooden blade

  through the snow. The horses’ manes were filled with snow and the men’s beards glistened with frost. They’d obviously been working all night, for the way was now wide enough for a carriage sled to pass through easily. Picard entered the inn with four other passengers and they engaged the carriage for immediate departure.

  The horses were fresh, shivering and stamping in their harness, eager to be moving. Picard tossed his luggage on top and settled in by the window, joined by an elderly man and his wife, and two young women, apparently of the teaching profession, for they had taken out a textbook and were sharing it on their laps. Picard considered opening the book he had in his own coat pocket, then decided against it. The memoirs of Celeste Savidant bore a rather lurid cover and might prove upsetting to the young women, and perhaps to the old boy and his wife. It was the sort of reading matter Picard liked, but not now; a trifle inappropriate. Just relax and watch the scenery.

  “You’re going to Nuremberg, sir?” asked the old man.

  Picard nodded.

  “On business, yes?”

  “I’m a toy collector,” said Picard.

  “Ah, I see,” said the old man. His wife, a shy little Frau, whispered in her husband’s ear, and he smiled, nodding toward Picard. “Yes, if you’re a collector, you must see our friend Hermann Wilderstein. He lives in the shadow of the great Tower. I’ll write down the address for you.”

  “I’m very grateful,” said Picard. “Is Herr Wilderstein a collector?”

  “A toy maker. An excellent one.”

  “Are you familiar with the work of Robert Heron?”

  “Naturally. He is the finest in the world.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “I’ve seen him about. You’ll find his shop. It’s near the... isn’t it near the Hauptmarkt, mama?”

  The old woman nodded her head and smiled at Picard. Her husband, now satisfied of the stranger’s business, closed his eyes and folded his hands across his stomach. The two young women continued their lesson, in mathematics, and Picard turned toward the window. He’d been flung out of school as a boy, mathematics being only one of the things about which he had no understanding, or interest, and their voices brought back all his old feelings of insecurity, as if the lesson were being prepared for him, for the stout, stupid little Picard, hiding in the last row.

  The runners of the sleigh cut along through the snow with a softly hissing sound, and Picard took refuge in it, forgetting all voices, from the present and the past. Snow-laden trees bent low over the road, and the horses gave off a subtle perfume, the scent of vigor, of strength. Cottages appeare
d, fell away behind them; the old man snored quietly, and Picard looked toward the next bit of firelight and smoke, where a house and barn were nestled at the edge of the forest. The cows were standing outside the barn, and had made a tangle of paths all around it, through the snow. The farmer who’d just milked them had loaded his wagon with milk cans and was bringing it toward the road.

  The moment froze, a cheap Christmas calendar, an innocuous winterland scene become the quintessence of horror to Picard, who stared dumbfounded at each suspended detail: the smoke held in the air, unmoving, the farmer and his horse immobile as two wooden toys.

  “That is for Nuremberg,” said the old woman softly, destroying the spell, setting free the smoke, the farmer, the horse, and Picard, whose heart began beating again. The old man muttered in his sleep, and she touched his sleeve. He woke, looked around him in puzzlement for a moment, then smiled at Picard.

  “Your toys, sir, do they bring a good price in other parts of Europe?”

  “Depending on who has made them,” said Picard nervously, looking out the window, turning back to be sure the farmer and his horse did not again become creatures of ice. He faced the old man, tried to smile. “The toys of Robert Heron...”

  “Of course, they’ll fetch the best price, as well they should. A remarkable craftsman.”

  “I’ve heard he even makes a fortune-telling machine.”

  “I’ve never seen it, but I can tell you this—old Heron knows a thing or two. He’s a strange fellow, Heron is. A trifle mad, yes?”

  The old woman shook her head no, and clucked her tongue in disapproval. Her husband cleared his throat, changed his tone. “You’re right, mama, old Heron isn’t mad. He’s—a visionary. Yes, that’s the better word. Old Heron is a visionary. His father was the same way; a watchmaker, but what a watchmaker! He built a clock— you should have seen it, sir—a clock that had angels circling on it, and peculiar little animals, and there were entrances and exits and hallways in this clock. It was enormous, bigger than two men, and as the hands went round the various figures danced, synchronized with the hands of time. It was in the town hall for years and then —then, I think it was presented as a gift to a visiting king. Anyway, sir, you see what I mean—Robert Heron came by his gift honestly, for his father was one of our city’s great masters.”

  The old man turned toward the window. More houses had appeared, and other sleighs were moving on the side roads, and on the main road. The spires of a cathedral appeared in the distance, rising out of the storm. Then the clouds parted for a moment and thousands of snowcapped roofs could be seen.

  “There is the Tower,” said the old man, pointing to the ancient castle that sat upon the rock heights of Nuremberg. “Herr Wilderstein lives just next to it. You will find him most hospitable.”

  The huge rock walls of the city loomed up, snow-covered, silent, unmanned; the city was at peace. The sled entered with many others, and fell in behind a brewer’s wagon, which bore its barrels of beer undeterred by the storm. On the sidewalks, the shopkeepers were shoveling out side by side with home owners. The windows of the restaurants and beer gardens were only just beginning to lose their frosty designs as inner fires warmed them, and children pummeled the passing sleds with snowballs, one of which crashed against the glass just beyond Picard’s face. He started, saw the answer to the entire case, and lost it. His mind raced frantically, seeking to overtake the half-formed intuition, but it was gone, back into the land of shadows, leaving him with only a single impression, of glass which must shatter—a breaking bottle on a ship’s bow, a window broken by stones, a crystal ball flung against the wall.

  “There is a hotel on the next corner,” said the old man. “You won’t be uncomfortable there. Not too expensive either.”

  Picard rapped on the driver’s window, and the sled was drawn over to the doorway of the hotel. A servant came immediately and received Picard’s luggage. The old man leaned out the window. “I trust you’ll find the toys you seek. If I can find any old ones in my attic I’ll send them round to you... Ah no, mama says I cannot. We must hang on to them for the grandchildren. So—there’s the value... goodbye then...”

  * * *

  The hotel staff was still shoveling, and Picard watched them from his window as he changed into his Norfolk jacket. The knickerbocker trousers, ending just below the knee, would make snow-walking easier. The socks were thick, would turn the water.

  He tugged on the tweed cap he always wore with the Norfolk, an Irish creation whose brim had been bent through the years into a smoothly rounded arch. Fastening the belt of his jacket, he observed with some pleasure that it closed one notch tighter. Traveling has taken off some of the spread; let me just check this...

  The Lefaucheux revolver came open with a click, he examined the chamber, blew a minute particle of dust out of it, and returned it to his jacket. He was feeling strong, exhilarated by the blowing weather, walked down the stairs and through the lobby, into the wind, the close-fitting Norfolk suit having the feel of a uniform as he strode into the snowy street.

  He walked toward the center of the city, following the slope of the gentle valley on which the town had been built. A postman was coming toward him, shouldering his letter bag. Picard stopped the man, inquired for the house of Robert Heron.

  “Henkersteg,” said the postman, pointing toward a succession of small wooden bridges. Picard continued down the sloping street and turned in the direction the postman had pointed, along the narrow little stream that flowed through the fairy-tale city. The small gently arching bridges spanned it, one after another, as in a matchbox Paris with a miniature Seine.

  Henkersteg, the Hangman’s Bridge: Picard located it on his map and then with his eye, a humble bridge like all the others which crossed the little stream, except that here men had dangled over the water at the end of a rope. Not an ordinary bridge, mein Herr, not ordinary at all. A bridge leading across a vast and unknown water, to places only the hanged men know. And leading as well to a row of shabby houses on the water, one of which is Robert Heron’s.

  The porches were built over the water, supported by long naked poles; the dooryards were a jumble of rotted shingles and trash barrels, and stiffened wash hung on the open porches. Picard circled around to the front of the row houses, finding the door of Robert Heron at once—the frame was carved into an arbor, with faces of gnomes and elves peeking from the leaves, mischievous smiles on their faces. He took hold of the brass knocker and rapped solidly.

  Receiving no answer, he rapped again. Footsteps slowly approached from inside, and the door opened. An old woman stood before him, her body frail and white as a porcelain doll.

  “I’m looking for Robert Heron,” said Picard.

  “He’s dead.”

  “Dead? When did he die?”

  The woman looked at him, hesitation in her eyes. “Who are you?”

  “I’m from the Paris police,” said Picard, showing his shield.

  “Very well,” said the woman. “But come inside. We’re letting the cold in, and it’s cold enough.”

  He followed her to her parlor, where she sat down in a rocking chair beside a window, looking out onto Hangman’s Bridge. “He died two months ago,” she said, slowly rocking back and forth, staring at the celebrated bridge.

  “How did he die?”

  “In a ring of broken toys.” Robert Heron’s widow was a small woman, made still smaller by old age, her feet hardly touching the floor as she rocked, a withered doll who rocked through a secret eternity.

  “A ring of toys? I don’t understand.”

  “He gathered all his toys around him and smashed them one by one,” said the woman, without emotion. “They were the most wonderful toys on earth, and after he smashed them to bits, he lay down and died amongst them.”

  Picard sat in silence with Heron’s widow, she seeming not to care if he sat there forever.

  “Did your husband have any assistants?”

  “No.”

  “No ap
prentice, no pupils in the art?”

  “He worked alone. Only he knew the secret of his toys, and he took it with him.” The old woman pointed to a door. Picard went to it and entered the toy maker’s studio. On the floor was a pile of broken springs and wires and wheels and tiny arms and legs and lovely heads and torsos. He knelt before the ruin of little bodies, touching them gently with his fingertips. The sadness of his childhood overtook him again, and he stood, not wishing to open that wound. But the sunlight moved, extending a beam into the heart of the scattered toy kingdom, where a bit of sequin suddenly glittered. Picard knelt again, drawn to the sparkling waistband of a circus acrobat, in white and black tights, with gold cincher and wristbands. The acrobat had somehow been spared in the final destruction of the toys. Picard picked the figure out of the fragments. Then, looking closely at the face, he felt a sudden vertigo, as if he were the acrobat, falling from the high wire into a bottomless abyss. The face on the toy was that of Ric Lazare.

  * * *

  He stood upon a sheltered wooden bridge, staring at the stream below. Snow was still falling, touching the water for a moment and disappearing. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the circus acrobat. While he was not in the habit of stealing from old women, it could not be helped; when the case is over, I’ll send it back to her, wrapped in an appreciative note from the Prefecture and lined with German marks.

  The acrobat was perfectly made; a tiny key was folded almost invisibly in his back. I hold Lazare; he has been in Nuremberg.

  Picard wound the key a few turns, and released it. The acrobat squirmed in his hands, arms and legs kicking powerfully, but unable to go anywhere.

  Picard smiled and returned the acrobat to his pocket. He continued across the bridge, toward a promontory of land on which a weeping willow drooped over the water. Were I to be hanged in Nuremberg, I would choose this bridge, for the sight of the willow as I dangled.

  He walked past the tree, and into a street that rose sharply upward to the northwest, toward Castle Rock, the pinnacle of the city’s skyline. It was a long, slow climb, through ever-narrowing lanes and up stone steps. He huffed onto Am Olberg, the winding street that lay in the shadow of the great Tower. At number 31, he rapped on the door of Hermann Wilderstein, toy maker.