Fata Morgana

by William Kotzwinkle

  * * *

  “No,” said Wilderstein, “there were no assistants, nor an apprentice.” The toy maker was plump, red-faced, a good solid burgher, whose house was as carefully made and as highly polished as his toys, every latch and doorframe a masterpiece of care and craftsmanship. “Many young lads were sent to him, but Heron insisted they have complete knowledge of anatomy and geometry. May I bring you a glass of brandy, sir, you look quite pale.”

  “No,” said Picard, “the hill has tired me, it is nothing serious, please go on.”

  The toy maker called his serving girl and had the brandy brought anyway, taking one himself as he continued his reflections on the work of Robert Heron: “Yes, anatomy and geometry, and the processes of nature. In all this he was adamant. The proper making of toys could not begin without such knowledge already in the mind. His own guidebook was that of our most famous artist, Albrecht Dürer. Do you know Dürer’s Instruction in Measuring with the Compass and Ruler? A marvelous book. There was also his work on human proportion. Heron lived by these books, and expected anyone who wanted to learn the art to have such knowledge. Well, I ask you, sir, what young lad is going to come up out of nowhere with such learning at his disposal? Or, if he did have such learning, he would go on to be a painter or sculptor, where he might make a good deal more fame for himself.” The burgher finished his brandy, stared into the empty glass. “So Robert Heron’s superb gift was not passed on, and we’ll never see the likes of it again. My favorite was his miniature city: It was entirely animated. The cows walked along each morning toward their pasture, and at lunch-time the tiny church bells rang; in the evening the night watchman made his rounds, and a drunkard reeled down the street. It went continually as if everyone in it were animated by—by life. Its secret, of course, was a magnificent system of springs and balances whose intricacies would drive most men mad.”

  Picard withdrew the acrobat from his pocket, and before he could say a word, Hermann Wilderstein had reached forth his hand.

  “Ah, sir, how fortunate you are! This is a priceless find, priceless...” Wilderstein turned the acrobat over in his hands, examining every detail of it, holding it as one holds a sacred child. Finally he set it down on the coffee table, shaking his head affectionately. “And how much do you want for it?”

  “I’m not interested in selling.”

  “Quite right, quite. Keep it always, and it will bring you good luck, for I swear to you, sir, his toys are all enchanted, and this...” Wilderstein picked it up again, wound the key gently. “This is one of his best. Look at the detail, and now look... look at the action!” He set the acrobat down and the little figure performed a perfect run of somersaults, the steel-veined arms and legs carrying him end over end, across the floor. He finished upright, poised, ready to be wound again. Picard reached down to the acrobat and picked him up, setting him on the coffee table, where he stood frozen, silent, yet somehow more alive than ever.

  “Do you know who the model for this was, Herr Wilderstein?”

  Wilderstein looked at the face of the acrobat. “It’s one of a circus set he worked on for many years. Heron had an entire circus, you know, waltzing elephants, high-wire acts, all in miniature. The model for this could have been any one of a number of circus performers. Heron loved the circus, and always attended when the tents were erected in Nuremberg. I saw him there, many times, and he was continually sketching faces and details of the performance. I expect...” Herr Wilderstein touched the acrobat on the head. “...this fellow was part of some passing troupe.”

  Picard stood, putting the acrobat back in his pocket. “Thank you for your time, Herr Wilderstein.”

  “It was nothing, sir. It’s always a pleasure to meet a serious collector.” Herr Wilderstein showed Picard toward the door of the old house.

  “Where is Robert Heron buried?”

  “In the cemetery of St. John. In that direction...” Herr Wilderstein stepped with Picard into the street, pointing toward the end of it. “You must cross the wall and then it is straight on from there. But the gates have closed now...” He took out his pocket watch. “Yes, you’re too late. Tomorrow, sir, try again tomorrow.”

  Picard gave the toy maker a last salute and walked on down Am Olberg, with the shadows of evening fast approaching.

  * * *

  He found a tavern for dinner, noisy with the music of a Tyrolean band, and famous, so the menu said, for its flaming pancake. He drank a bit of dark beer, but only picked at his food, for his attention was wholly taken up by the little circus acrobat he’d set on the table. The figure stood arrogantly beside a pitcher of beer and a half-empty glass, his hands on his hips, waiting for his spring to command him.

  You’re troubled by feelings of mediocrity, said the gypsy woman in Picard’s mind, and he was forced to acknowledge that it was true. The miniature replica of Ric Lazare exercised a certain force over him, exuding, as did Lazare, cleverness and confidence. Lazare is a man of dash, a brilliant performer on the heights of Paris, and his little puppet is just like him—poised, glittering, audacious.

  While I am a bloodhound, faithful and predictable. But nonetheless, Monsieur Lazare, I am on your trail, barking at your heels.

  Picard pocketed the acrobat and left the tavern, his body as restless as his mind. The night sky was clear, ruled by a full moon which intensified the white veil of the city. He walked aimlessly, from street corner to corner, drawn by nothing more compelling than the shadow of a lamppost on the snow. Coming to a wooded park at the edge of the city, he entered it, and found a skaters’ rink. The ice was lit by lamps and lanterns and a crowd of skaters was playing rink tennis. The women’s long dresses were pinned up in sweeping folds that freed their skates from entanglement and they glided gracefully to and fro before the net.

  He stood at the edge of the rink, leaning on a wooden railing. The mood of the ice was utterly romantic, and he surrendered to its soft light, as the skaters played, and laughed, and clutched each other suddenly, to keep from falling. Carriages pulled up through the trees, landing more enthusiasts at the rink, all of whom soon laced their skates and entered onto the moonstruck mirror. Some played ice tennis, others went through dance maneuvers, and some went alone, off on speedy revolutions around the outermost edge. Yet all who were on that mirror, no matter what design their skates cut into its surface, were fabulous beings enjoying special privileges of love. For it’s clear—love has brought them here, love in all its forms; something about the ice at night, the snowy perimeter and the silently watching trees—a paradise for lovers. Even those young men who skate swiftly by themselves, who treat with disdain any lady less swift than they—even those young men are circling through dreams of love.

  Beyond the mirror, on the snowy hills which curved around the circular rink in billowing rolls, couples were sledding, holding tightly to each other, embracing through heavy clothing, cold and muffled embraces which nonetheless must burn with intense heat. For Picard remembered—a snowy hill in Paris many years ago—he and a young lady on a sled, going downhill from Montmartre, all promise and hope; they’d walked slowly through the streets, pulling the sled together, hurrying toward the fulfillment of the promise. The fulfillment was forgotten, like many other similar moments, but the sleigh ride lived on in his heart, on and on, downhill with you, darling, girl of my youth, downhill with you, the wind upon your hair and I touch your breasts through the rough wool of your coat.

  He walked slowly around the rink, stopped beside a young couple—she seated on a log bench, he lacing her skates. Picard smiled on love, as only an old and battered lover can, with a knowing smile; she’ll take him round the ice, though he thinks that he is taking her; and afterward they’ll sip hot wine beside a fire and she’ll take him round her finger, round and round, while he believes throughout that he is taking her with his boasts, his leaps, his courage, his all. And all along it’s the moon who rules, my friends, love’s power is beyond you both.

  Picard walked on, suffused with that
part of love given to those who watch from the sidelines, an ever-expanding feeling, the embrace of a lonely lover who embraces the whole night—its lamps, its skaters, its steaming wine.

  He put the rink behind him and walked slowly toward the place where the carriages were turning. One was turning there now, and stopping. Picard saw a pretty face at the window, and then the door was opened by a coachman and she descended, in a green bolero jacket and pinned-up skirt of red wool, her blond curls topped by a round little hat with a feather in it. She was a lovely creature, petite, but with an aristocratic haughtiness quite charming in one so small. He knew that she would make mincemeat of her companion’s heart before the night was out; and here was the fortunate gentleman now, coming around beside the horses, his caped figure entrapped by shadows for the moment, but Picard felt for him, whoever he was. Picard moved closer, his smile touching the couple momentarily, and then suddenly changing as the gentleman’s shadowy face was caught by the moon. His eyes met Picard’s; he raised his cane straight before him.

  Picard had already drawn his revolver, his motion swifter than the swiftest skater on the ice that night, as he discharged a fire flash toward the ivory satin waistcoat of Baron Mantes.

  The Baron’s pistol-cane returned the fire—Picard saw the bullet leap from the highly polished tip of the cane, but it had been too hastily aimed, going past Picard’s head and traveling into the trees. The Baron smiled elegantly even as Picard’s bullet entered his chest, and his ivory waistcoat burst into red.

  The young woman brought her hand to her mouth, stifling a scream. The Baron, dropping his cane and turning slowly toward her, tried to execute a last bow. His knees betrayed him, and he crumbled before her, his top hat falling in the snow and his handsome chiseled face coming to rest on her black shoe tip. His eyes were open and he was unquestionably dead.

  She fell upon him, weeping. A crowd quickly gathered, but kept their distance. Picard still held the smoking revolver, lowering it only very slowly, his body enjoying a luxurious warp, his musculature controlled down to the most minute detail.

  The young woman’s sobs brought an end to the delicate tremor in his nerves, and it was with annoyance that he looked down at her, annoyance which immediately changed to gentle concern, for her eyes were filled with love’s ruin.

  He reached into his wallet, producing his identification. “I am Inspector Picard of the Paris Prefecture. Your companion is a well-known murderer, responsible for the death of at least nine women. I assure you, he would have...”

  Her eyes fired at him, releasing black balls of hatred which left no trace upon his skin but dove deep into his spirit. “You are the murderer!” she screamed. “You’ve murdered my love... you... you...” Her expletive was strangled in hatred and sorrow and she fell once again upon the stiffening Baron, covering his bluish cheeks with her tears.

  Picard stood awkwardly by, aware of the insult he’d given to the night, here at the mirror of love, where blood was dripping slowly from the Baron’s heart onto the pure white snow. Every lover, every skater, was now certainly in shock; coldness had come over their embrace, a coldness that would not yield, not for a long while. Only later, much later in the night, would the bravest of them be able to lie together. For death—Picard saw it moving everywhere now, amongst the skaters, by the carriages, in the fluttering capes of the approaching policemen—death was the highest ruler of the night.

  The morning was bright, the sky clear. He sat in the dining room of the hotel, scribbling a message; a waiter stood nearby, ready to send it to the telegraph office. Picard looked it over one last time:

  Nailed Mantes Nuremberg—have

  Lazare’s trail—Picard

  He summoned the waiter and handed him the paper. “It must go out at once.”

  “It will, Inspector, without fail.”

  He returned to his breakfast, finishing his roll and coffee. Sunlight streamed across the table, playing upon the iron handle of Baron Mantes’s pistol-cane, which leaned against the table’s edge. You wish it as a souvenir, monsieur? Of course, of course. The Nuremberg police were very kind.

  He reached for it now, examining it more closely—Remington, .32 calibre. He had an immediate affection for the piece, rubbed the ball and claw handle lightly on the bridge of his nose, where the Baron had once so forcefully laid it. And where did the Baron find you, what tales are yours, little brother?

  Upon the ball he saw eleven tiny scratches side by side, etched into the iron. He took out his pocketknife and added a twelfth line.

  * * *

  The entrance to the St. John cemetery was marked by a stone house, and the attendant who answered the door seemed to have lately crawled from the grave—an old man with eyes expressionless as marbles. Picard received instructions to the grave of Robert Heron, and threaded his way along a snow-laden aisle. On all sides elaborate stone sepulchres marked the snowfield. Robert Heron’s grave was marked by a slab of stone only; the snow had been cleared away by a gloved hand. A low juniper shrub had been uncovered and around it childlike little paths had been dug and tiny walls of snow erected, so as to form a miniature courtyard. Picard looked at the footprints beside the grave—small like a child’s, and from the cut and impress of the heel surely a male.

  He followed the footprints through the graveyard, back to the entrance gate, and knocked again at the door of the caretaker.

  “Who has been tending Robert Heron’s grave?”

  “Appel Meisterlin, of Holy Ghost Almhouse.”

  * * *

  “Robert Heron was a saint, my friend,” said Appel Meisterlin. “He’d found the deepest secrets of nature and he manifested them in his toys. They had...” The old man stared out a high frost-covered window of the almshouse. “...little souls.”

  “No one else knew these secrets?”

  “Now that’s a strange tale,” said Appel Meisterlin. “Might we pursue it further over some soup with noodles? There’s a café down the block, if you would be my guest...”

  The pauper led the way to a restaurant, where Picard ordered a full-scale meal for himself and Appel Meisterlin. The old man dunked his bread in the soup, and talked between mouthfuls.

  “We often traveled together to the toy fairs, Heron and I, for though I wasn’t his equal as a toy maker we got along well enough to make such journeys pleasant. I learned, sir, I drank deeply from that great man’s spirit, giving in return the bit of understanding which a lonely genius like Heron needed, for at times he confessed to feeling that he’d gone completely out of the world of men, into the enchanted regions of the toys. They aren’t like men, he would say to me. They are much finer than men, and much worse. I never quite understood what he meant, but I knew he was grappling with a philosophical problem of great importance to him. From hints he let drop, I gathered that he considered his toys capable of working both good and evil.”

  “Was there an apprentice?”

  The old man’s fingers closed with difficulty around the coffee cup. He brought it slowly to his lips, and slowly set it back down. “Heron and I were in the Town Park in Buda, at the end of the long road from the inner city. We were old hands at that fair, having exhibited there since the park was first constructed. But the time I’m speaking of is not so far back, oh, maybe twenty years or so ago. We had been showing for several days when a young man came, carrying a toy that he had made—a marching soldier, beautifully carved and mechanically perfect. Heron was amazed. I’d never seen him so impressed by the work of another man. At first he was critical of the young man’s work and only I, who knew him, could see that he had at last received the apprentice he’d been waiting for. He’d often talked about this forthcoming apprentice. The toys have told me, he said. I will have an apprentice. But no, apprentice was not the word he used. It was disciple. You see? There is a difference. It was a matter of deep faith, Robert Heron’s genius, and that night after the fair was over he was almost beside himself with joy. At last, he said, here is the man who has the touch
.’“

  “It was a young man?”

  “A lad of about fifteen, I’d say, but very mature in his ways, strangely so, as if there were within him—an old man. I was continually fascinated by this aspect of his nature, and Heron told me that it was the toys which had given the look of old age to the lad’s eyes, that the toys themselves were age-old.”

  “Where was this young man from?”

  “A place along the Danube, a strange name, I have not forgotten it. Robert Heron’s disciple was from the valley called Deep Sorrow.”

  “Did you ever visit this valley?”

  “There is a lake there, quite beautiful. Unfortunately, the disciple was deep sorrow for Robert Heron.”

  “How so?... Waiter, bring us dessert, please.”

  “He was every bit as talented as Heron himself. I saw that after only a few days. His technical abilities were quite past my comprehension. He and Heron would talk of mechanical rules that were foreign language to me. The lad brought other toys he’d made, opened them up for us. Intricately designed, sir, born of that intense fascination which allows a man to go ever deeper into the secret of the craft. I had no such gift; my patience would dissolve, my hand tremble, and I’d sleep. But Heron and his disciple would work long into the night, manufacturing gears so tiny you could hardly see them with the naked eye. And then dropped those gears into place with a tweezers, with a prayer, with god knows what kind of strange passion...” The pauper stirred his coffee thoughtfully, slowly round and round. “During the weeks of that fair, they made a lute player, whose miniature instrument could be perfectly tuned. More astonishing— the wooden fingers of the lutist picked out a tune. A simple tune, to be sure, but so haunting, so sad I hear it still, a song they called Deep Sorrow.”