Fata Morgana

by William Kotzwinkle

  Albert nodded slowly and sat down on the straw, rubbing his face, brushing off sleep. “Who is it?”

  “Ric Lazare, the society fortune-teller.”

  “Why is he after you?”

  “I shadowed him and found too much.” Picard walked to the window, looked down toward the street. “Maybe he’s bluffing.”

  “The last fellow who called Lazare’s bluff had an ice pick driven through his head.”

  “Has he hired someone to kill you?”

  “I don’t know. But I can’t afford to wait around and find out.”

  “Is tonight convenient?”

  “Yes. He doesn’t retire until very late.”

  “That’s fine. I’ve got a little job to do first. Can we meet at your place? Around midnight?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Albert got up from the straw mat and padded to the bird cage in his bare feet. “What’s his address?”

  “Eighty-seven, rue de Richelieu.”

  “I’ll have a look at it this afternoon.” Albert opened the nightingale’s cage, took the bird out on his finger, and murmured to it lovingly.

  Picard turned and went to the door; the hallway received him with its bad smells and rubbish heaps. He was nearly asleep on his feet, and the crisp winter air of the street did nothing to revive him. He headed back toward his own neighborhood, vaguely hoping to meet the bread girl again.

  He rose from a sleep that seemed to have lasted only a moment. Yet it was already dark, the gas lamps lit on the street below, and he was rested, and ferociously hungry; he thought of the Restaurant Widermann, for a meal of grand proportions.

  He washed in cold water, dug out his last clean shirt, and transferred his pistol to the hopsack jacket. The Baron’s cane called to him as he was tying up his black cravat, and he believed in listening to his weapons when they spoke, for they too had a fate to fulfill, and who knows, slender friend, perhaps you will be the instrument of Lazare’s demise. One thing is certain, it happens tonight.

  He took his top hat, his gloves, extinguished the light, and descended the stairs. A winter wind had begun to blow off the river. He hailed a carriage and sank into its cold cushions. I must contain myself to some degree at this restaurant and not eat myself into extinction. There’s work to do tonight. I’ll avoid the cabbage steeped in ten layers of lard.

  * * *

  He ate enthusiastically, but did not fully abandon himself, as was his custom with Herr Widermann’s cuisine. Indeed he felt his new resolution taking firm hold in him, to always eat this way, less like a savage and more like a sage. When it was time to order dessert, he bypassed the enormous and delightful apricot Knödel, settling for a humbler dish of almonds, wine, and currants.

  Nonetheless, he was forced to unbutton his jacket, and in doing so slipped his hand to the leather pouch inside, touching the handle of his revolver for luck. Ten grains of black powder in each cartridge, Lazare. You’ll laugh out of the other side of your mouth tonight. You’ll die laughing in your bed.

  He rose, and took his cape from the attendant near the door.

  “And your gloves, sir.”

  He slipped his hands into the fine leather, made specially thin for men who bear arms. Conflicting in no way with the quick firing of a pistol, Monsieur Lazare, as Baron Mantes will testify to when you meet in hell.

  He stepped onto the boulevard Bonne Nouvelle. Men’s lives are cheap: thousands, millions, billions, gone, gone. One more going tonight.

  On the boulevard du Temple he paused before the windows of the old clothes shop, but the windows were dark, casting no reflection. I’ve killed men and it changes nothing. They don’t creep around my bed at night.

  The sound of circus music drew him on, the rolling of drums, the blare of trumpets. The doors of the Cirque d’Hiver promised “Equestrian Performances, Accompanied by Acrobatic Feats, Pantomime, Etc.” He looked at his watch; until midnight, then.

  The red gates admitted him, and he passed beneath the carved golden horses, going into the crowded auditorium. The magic of the place took him immediately—the smell of the African animals, a bareback-riding girl in spangled red tights, dark-haired; her heavy thighs and muscular calves were formidable, charming.

  As she rode past him, he saw that the smile was frozen on her face and her eyes didn’t blink. Completely concentrated. Would make a fine killer. And what are all these society women doing here tonight?

  He moved his eyes slowly along the front row of the audience; the gowns were expensive, and the faces were not those usually seen at the circus, were rather the sort one saw in the box seats at the opera, the concert hall— Princesse Mathilde, Mademoiselle de Galbois, Princesse d’Essling.

  “...from the Persian Gulf, ladies and gentlemen, we are proud to present the Strongest Man in the World— the Great Harid!”

  A ferocious-looking thug stepped into the ring. His dark greasy hair and olive skin gave him an exotic appearance, but his tattooed arms contained the usual ships, anchors, and indecent phrases of the common French sailor. Picard leaned against the railing of the arena and watched the strong man pick up a hundred-pound horse weight in his teeth and fling it over his head; it descended with a loud crash onto a metal plate laid on the floor.

  Princesse Mathilde gasped, applauded, and the Great Harid looked at her with scornful lust in his eyes.

  “Now the Great Harid will lift ten men! Ten men! May we please have volunteers...”

  Picard stepped aside as the gate to the ring was opened and the volunteers passed through, ten men who climbed on a board suspended between two wooden blocks. The Great Harid stooped beneath the board, brought his shoulders up to it, and lifted men and board up and down, and up again, as if it were all no more than a sack of potatoes. Mademoiselle de Galbois squealed with delight and once again the Strongest Man in the World bowed to the court ladies, with a look that said he would lift them up too, if they so desired, on the end of his prick.

  “...and now the Great Harid will lift an elephant!”

  The trumpets sounded, and a baby elephant came lumbering forth, to whom the roustabouts attached a set of chains leading upward to a metal platform. The Great Harid climbed to the top of the platform, put his body into a harness attached to the chains, and proceeded to lift the elephant two feet off the floor, where it swung back and forth.

  “The Great Harid, ladies and gentlemen!”

  Harid bowed for the last time, his greasy hair hanging over his shoulders, his eyes lasciviously bright.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen—” The ringmaster cracked his whip. “—our magnificent master of the high wire—Léotard!”

  A young mustachioed man in black tights came bounding out, climbed up the ropes like a monkey, and swung on a trapeze, flying from it to another one across the arena, leaping about, slipping forward over the depths. He spun, he sailed, drew shrieks of terror from the ladies, and when he finally descended the guide rope the ringmaster announced that photos of the Great Léotard in thirty-five aerial poses were available in the lobby.

  The handsome young acrobat walked around the ring, bowing this way and that, and then spying some friends in the audience he made his way to the edge of the ring and called the ringmaster over to him. Snapping his whip nervously, the ringmaster walked with a brisk militaristic stride to where Léotard stood. The audience craned their necks, trying to see whom he’d singled out, and the ringmaster, after conferring with Léotard for a moment, satisfied everyone’s curiosity with an announcement:

  “Ladies and gentlemen, Léotard has informed us that two great circus performers are with us tonight, colleagues of his from early days of adventure on the high wire. They are two people you have all read of, the couple who have become the sensation of all Paris, the dazzling, the fabulous—Ric and Renée Lazare!”

  Picard moved slowly around the arena, trying to mask the excitement in his body as he fixed his eyes on Lazare’s heart and quickly removed the rubber tip from the pistol-cane. Perf
ectly accurate at thirty yards. A quick flick of the wrist is all that’s necessary. Lazare will fall, as I merge with the crowd. Fate leads me to you, Lazare, the wandering night has its own design, and you and I are appointed to meet in a puff of smoke, which will be gone in an instant, and so will I be gone, along that railing, and out that doorway.

  The ringmaster was between him and Lazare, beginning another announcement, cracking his whip again for attention. “Léotard has persuaded his friends to perform for us, ladies and gentlemen, in a rare exhibition of high-wire excellence. Give them just a moment, please, to change into suitable costume...” The ringmaster and Léotard flanked Ric and Renée Lazare as they descended to the ring, and Léotard showed them toward the dressing room.

  “...In the meantime, while we’re waiting for our brave couple to rejoin us, I am happy to present to you the world-renowned Nadine Hatto and her performing doves!”

  Picard took a seat near the dressing-room door, and watched the bird woman bring doves out of her sleeves, out of an assortment of empty boxes, after which she made them disappear into her handkerchief and into thin air. The doves, ragged-looking from being stuffed into one small escape hatch after another, were faithful and intelligent. They landed on Nadine’s shoulders, on her head, on her arms, and at the end of the performance she was covered with white doves, and walked out with them all over her, as Ric and Renée Lazare made their entrance.

  Lazare wore white satin trunks, studded with jewels in arabesque shape. His sleeveless shirt was also white and similarly adorned; his slim muscular body looked as comfortable in the circus ring as it did in the salon. Renée was in black, her brief costume clinging to her with revealing tightness. Her long hair was tied up in a severe chignon and she climbed the guide rope with quick, sure strength, Lazare following her.

  The society ladies in the front row were standing, as the Lazares stood upon the trapeze platform, accepting their applause. The drums rolled again and Ric Lazare untied the trapeze bar and swung out in the air. Picard cocked the hammer on his pistol-cane. You’re a fine and talented lad, Lazare, and you’re going to die in style.

  Lazare spun on the trapeze bar, releasing it for a moment and sliding down it, hooking it at the last moment with his feet. The audience cheered and he bent himself back up to the bar, swinging with it to the opposite platform, where he landed gracefully, still clutching the bar.

  With the applause ringing out, and the drums rolling, Renée Lazare swung into the air, back and forth, gaining altitude. Again the trumpets sounded and Ric Lazare swung from his side of the ring. She released herself from her bar and floated toward him. Their hands met in the air, wrists locking.

  Picard stood, watching the two graceful beings above him, as they sailed over the heads of the crowd, riding the bar together, their right arms outstretched in triumph.

  The whole of Paris is theirs now. They’ve captured everyone from the Emperor to the ice-cream vendor. Captured all hearts but one, and mine they shall never capture.

  For I’m like the Great Harid—a hulking brute who can never enjoy the finesse of the heights. Harid and I remain below, in the sawdust, while you, monsieur and madame, climb to the clouds. I should like to try and lift that elephant. Steady now, here’s the moving target.

  They descended the guide rope, gliding down and leaping to the center of the ring as the crowd rose to its feet, applauding wildly. Picard edged forward, closer to the dressing-room door. The noise will not be heard. The crowd will only see Lazare clutch his chest and sink to the floor. All eyes will be on him.

  Ric and Renée Lazare were approaching slowly, smiling at the crowd and waving to their friends. The ringmaster cracked his whip and three clowns rushed into the arena, a whirlwind of rags and flapping shoes. Picard took one step closer as Ric Lazare came into range. And now, Lazare, you die...

  “Oh, monsieur, it is you! I’m so grateful...”

  A hand clutched his arm, and he found himself suddenly embraced by a young woman. Desperately he struggled with his cane, trying to turn and fire, but the young woman thrust her face before him, blocking his view completely.

  “Do you recognize me, monsieur? You saved my life in Nuremberg. He was a murderer, as you said, the man you shot down at the skating rink. I’m so grateful—we’re visiting Paris, my family and I. You must meet them, they will be so pleased. I never thought I’d see you again...”

  Picard craned his neck, trying to find Lazare’s back, but a clown jumped in front of him.

  “You’re dead!” shouted the clown, firing a small rubber ball from the end of his popgun. It sailed toward Picard and struck him lightly on the forehead, then recoiled on the end of a string, as Ric and Renée Lazare passed out of sight into the dressing room.

  From the trunk of the solitary tree that graced the rue de Nesle, a shadow disengaged itself and Albert came forward soundlessly. Picard met him at the curb. “Were you waiting long?”

  “I enjoy waiting,” said Albert. “I listen to the houses.”

  “They talk to you?”

  “The stairs, the windows, the doors—always.”

  Picard led the way through the hall of his building. From within the concierge’s room low voices came, calling the cards. The cat jumped on the staircase. They climbed to Picard’s floor, and he opened the door to his apartment. “We have a brief wait... I have some food.” He lit the lamp on the living-room wall, where the little acrobat still hung, caught in the holy thread.

  “You’re collecting toys?”

  “Yes,” said Picard, turning to Albert, in order to show him the hanging acrobat more closely. But Albert was staring at another toy, upon the living-room table, a toy of the same size as the acrobat but with a different costume and a different face. The costume was evening wear—top hat and cloak. The face...

  “A perfect likeness of you,” said Albert. “Where did you pose for it?”

  Picard went to it slowly and picked it up. The workmanship was extraordinary, as if made by elves, by tiny carpenters and tailors. But he wasn’t charmed.

  The toys can work evil... The voice of Appel Meisterlin came to him as he held the miniature being in his hand, and his heart was racing.

  “Does it move about?” asked Albert, in a voice from childhood, fascinated, hopeful.

  “I expect it does,” said Picard, handing it to Albert, his hand faintly trembling.

  “There must be a key...” Albert investigated beneath the cloak.

  “In the back,” said Picard. “There should be a key in the back...” Just a toy. Nothing more than a toy.

  “No, there’s no key... wait a moment, I’ve got it.” A clicking sound drew Picard back to the toy. Albert was turning the head around and around. “Here’s the key—the whole head. Like wringing someone’s neck.”

  Albert set the miniature Inspector on the table; the toy walked forward slowly, like a bear, then toppled over on the tablecloth, the legs kicking clumsily in the air.

  “Imperfectly balanced,” said Albert. “Still, what a remarkable resemblance.”

  The key unwound and the tiny Inspector Picard lay still, face down on the table. Picard picked it up, then went to the wall and took down the hanging acrobat. He carried both of them to the kitchen and threw them into the coal stove. The tiny figures lay unmoving on the smoldering bed, as their clothes caught fire. Then the acrobat jumped, his spring expanding in the heat, jumped and tumbled on the flames which rose up as Picard opened the draft on the stove.

  His toys, said Appel Meisterlin, had little souls.

  The top-hatted toy, the miniature Picard, kicked its legs and rolled slowly over as the flames devoured its body. A sound of springs echoed in the hollow chamber of the stove, the metal cries of the little creatures in their death anguish. Picard tossed a few coals on top of them and closed the stove.

  He slid a pan over the heat and sliced in vegetables and a piece of fish. Albert joined him at the stove as the food sizzled. The thief took a newspaper from his pocket and
handed it to Picard, pointing at a column in the center of the page:

  PROWLER IN PALACE

  Monsieur Hyrvoix, Chief of the Palace Guard, said that a prowler entered the Palace last night, avoiding capture and making his way through many of the Imperial rooms. According to Hyrvoix, nothing was stolen, but an officer of the Elite Cavalry Corps was knocked unconscious. It is believed the prowler was an Italian spy. Entrance was made through the cellar. Hyrvoix has called for additional guardsmen and renewed vigilance during this time of political tension...

  Picard handed the paper back to Albert. “You?” Albert opened his shirt collar and withdrew a gold chain from around his neck. On the end of it dangled a dark dried piece of wood.

  “The True Cross?”

  “I replaced it with a perfect replica. No one will ever know the difference.”

  “You said you had a buyer...”

  “I was to have met one of the Pope’s emissaries today, but I’ve decided to keep it for a while.” Albert took the chain back from Picard and put it around his neck. “If it is the True Cross, what power is in it.”

  “Do you feel any different wearing it?”

  “Not at all.”

  Picard laid out two plates and slid the sautéed food onto them.

  * * *

  They took to the street together, going slowly, allowing time for Paris to pass into its slumber. Lazare has been on the high wire; he must be tired now, tired and drifting into sleep. Sleep, Lazare, sleep deeply. Have beautiful dreams.

  The Seine flowed peacefully; the night was windless and still. They walked beneath the lamplight of the bridge, their shadows long and their footsteps silent. “There are others in his house—servants—I would rather not hurt them.”

  “At most,” said Albert, bringing a leather-covered blackjack from his pocket, “a rap on the head.”

  They left the bridge and walked along the rue du Pont-Neuf. At the intersection ahead of them a peculiarly rotund figure appeared, stepping from the doorway of a townhouse on the rue de Rivoli.