by Sam Munson
Hob pulled his handkerchief out of nowhere. Again. “With similar ease, I will transform this creation of canvas and oils into a very portal,” he said. Red with white spots, clean and creased. His bloodstains gone from the cloth. He dusted the wall and whipped the handkerchief through the air. Then: nothing. Erzmund calls this a vanish. You can do it with cards, too. “You should actually watch this, you want to learn precision, Wood,” she said. I was already watching, however. Hob produced (the technical term) the handkerchief again. Placing his palms together and whipping them apart. The cloth held between his pincered indexes and thumbs. Spread to its full extent. Kept on spreading. I stared. It grew in width. Three times its initial size. Four times. Hob kept pulling. No visible effort. Smiling lightly. When the cloth had exceeded the width of the ocean painting, Hob gave it a violent shake, and it unfurled. About the area of the canvas, I estimated. He stretched his arms, held the cloth before the painting. Frowned, swallowed, let the cloth flutter to the earth. “Holy fuck,” I said.
Instead of the ocean painting, the frame now held an interior. Not a painting. Or if it was it was executed with such perfection as to be indistinguishable from reality. We were looking into a hall, its floor covered by a slab of lamplight. About the color of a ripe pear. “All right, let’s do it,” Hob said. “Conquering hero,” said Alabama. She was holding her gun with the barrel pointed straight up. They say it’s safer. And then she stepped through. Hob followed. I waited. I couldn’t muster the will. My feet: leaden. Like the beige floor was exerting beige gravity. “Come on, Wood,” said Alabama. She didn’t have to look. “Michael, don’t worry,” said Hob. I lifted my shoe. I brought it to the surface of the painting. Or where the surface had been. It passed through. Empty air. Nothing else. I could smell the corridor. It smelled like a library. I didn’t see any books. It smelled like old paper and ink. Walls paneled in rich red wood. The carpet silent and soft under my soles. When I looked behind me, I saw: a blank wall. No painting. No portal. Identical black sideboards spaced every two feet. The lamps stood on these. Darkened cubic lamps swung on chains from the vaulted ceiling, too, covered in wood a shade darker than the walls. Hob was breathing deeply. Calmly. The painting maneuver hadn’t taken that much out of him. “I mean, not to be distracting, but you guys could rob banks with that,” I said. “We’re not a gang of criminals,” said Alabama. “It didn’t,” said Hob, “look this big on the outside.” He was right. The room we were in was two or three times the area of anything that the gray house could have contained. To say nothing of the ceilings. Twenty feet at least. The room, or corridor, or foyer, or antechamber, or whatever it was went on and on. Black sideboard supporting lamp, blue-painted door, paneling, black sideboard, blue door, paneling. “Now, this makes it looks like where they send fuckups,” said Alabama, “my brother went to Choate and it looks like Choate. Sort of. It’s fancier. But he’s a fuckup for sure.” She slipped her gun back into her waistband and swigged from her flask. “He lives in Austin now,” she said, “which is like fuckup paradise.”
A hotel hall. Silent, carpet-baffled night. The near-silent hum of machines. That was the whole gestalt of Mountjoy House. Gestalt is an expression I learned from my father. I admit it confused me. I took the concept of the war Mr. Stone had mentioned literally. We crept along. Alive to every sigh and crack from the building. “This doesn’t look like enemy headquarters,” I said. “What’s your point,” said Alabama, “I bet the inside of the Gestapo was a regular office building. Cabinets and pens.” Could not argue. We seemed to have entered a basement-level corridor. A short stairway at one end terminated in a white, stone-looking door. The long one at the other end seemed more promising. I ran up it first, before Alabama. To show my bravery. Hob was still panting, just lightly, in third place. They had crimson runners of carpeting on the stairs. The indoor air was freezing. The banisters too. That no one had yet interfered with us filled me with literal delight. At the top of the stairs, another long hallway. Identical to the first, in that it seemed far too large to be contained within the gray town house.
We tried the blue doors. All open. The first room Hob opened was biggish and moonlit. A reddish rug, one corner curled up. A made bed. Light stink of sweat. Wheeling dust motes in the pale light. It looked clean. It looked empty. It looked packed up. “Just a dorm room,” said Hob. “You don’t even want to look,” I said. “Would you keep anything valuable in your room over break, if you had a room?” said Alabama. She had a point. One of the doors I’d failed to open had four copies of the Times in front of it. “I think we’re alone,” I said, “and I also think they get more vacation than we do.” “What a world,” said Hob. “Big readers,” said Alabama. At that age I found my contemporaries who read newspapers pretentious. So the presence of the Times made sense. I kicked the short pile. Broadsheets scattered. “There ya go,” said Alabama.
At the end of the hall a bigger, bluer door. “Promising,” said Hob. “Easy,” said Alabama. The door swung. We were staring into an enormous room, about the length of a football field. Nonathletes use that as a vague large measurement. I use the phrase with knowledge of what it means in concrete terms. “You could play sports in here,” said Alabama, “it makes you want to run drills.” She was literally correct. Close to four hundred feet long, almost two hundred wide. The ceilings thirty, forty feet high. Walls clad in that rich, reddish paneling. From the strip of wall immediately beneath the ceiling dozens of metal shields hung, each covered with different symbols. Six golden beehives. A green serpent eating its own tail. A fox and a hawk perched on a black battlement. A blue key on a silver field. Bound yellow sheaves of wheat. Three orange circles interlocked in a dizzying way. “That’s called a Borromean knot,” said Alabama, gesturing with her gun barrel. “Mr. Stone didn’t say anything about coats of arms,” I said. “It’s probably just scenery,” said Hob. The smell of paper and of ink I’d smelled before was almost choking here. Hob and Alabama inhaled it gustily. Huge windows, divided into small panels of glass. Through them came moonlight. From niches set into the walls between the bookcases, what appeared to be fireflies flickered in jars. Five or six amber points to each vessel, dodging and looping.
Hob took the wrapped bag out of his mirror and smiled into it. “Hey, asshole,” he crooned. I heard it vibrate. Alabama was scanning book spines. I had to bite my tongue about the whole size issue. I mean its obvious impossibility. It bothered me. In a way that the snakes in the whiskey didn’t. Or the crows. Or the fireflies, or whatever they were, enslaved in their jars. It was just so obviously a violation. I said nothing. I didn’t want to make myself into even more of a bungler. The fireflies, or whatever they were, provided a rich, warm, and inconstant glow. Ladders on wheels. Study tables: I counted thirty. Also empty. Also clean. No rustlings from the building, no singing of pipes. We walked on, into the flickering light. Our shoes scraped the bare floor. I took down a book. I could not read it. It was written in Greek. I recognized the characters. I put the book back. I didn’t want to pretend it was meaningful. I looked through one window and then the next. All framed the icy moon and constellations. None of which I recognized. The earth below the stars: not the city. A lap of green grass. A tangled-looking forest. The trees strangely shaped. A night-colored river bisected the lawn. Where it flowed into the woods, a cairn squatted. “Where are we,” I said. That I could not keep silent about. “Come on, Michael, it’s just trees,” said Hob.
The main point of the mission—which is how I thought of it; no shame—we’d forgotten. Surrounded by all this grandeur. All the power of the throne. That’s what it was. The mirror in which Quinn Klayman was trapped lay on its plywood back on a table carved from ebony. We wandered the length and breadth of the great library. In the alien starlight. All our concerns forgotten. No worry. No hurry. We owned the place. “Damn,” said Alabama. “They have a sixteenth-century edition of the Amphitheatrum.” “Taking that,” said Hob, shoving a ladder, “would make what I did
look smart.” “Yeah, but still,” she said. And then: “I don’t even know anyone I could actually sell it to anyway. Personally. Mr. Stone does.” “Is there a market for antiquities,” I said. “Are you kidding,” said Hob. “You could get a million for this, easy, or like eight, nine hundred thousand. You just have to know the right people. It’s how Mr. Stone makes his living. I think. Trading. Selling.” I pondered this. You don’t necessarily think about how impressive old men with underground lairs earn their living. Or that they need to. “Can’t he just,” I said, and waved my hands. “Just what,” said Alabama. The ladder Hob had shoved rolled and squeaked until it hit the opposite wall. Past the moon-filled windows. “Is that bothering anyone else,” I said, “the whole forest thing.” “Perpetual motion, look at that,” said Hob. “Doesn’t bother me,” said Alabama, “I think it’s a nice aesthetic touch.” That’s when I saw it. As she said the word aesthetic. I knew: We have to take that. “Look,” I said. “Holy moly,” said Hob. “Really? Are we really,” said Alabama, “at the golly-jeepers stage of language still?” She stopped scoffing when she noticed what I was looking at, though. Just looming there. Between two bookcases. Glowing a bit with the copious moonlight.
We were not going to steal anything major. No books. No furniture. None of the shields hanging from the walls between windows. But we had to take something. To diminish their magnificence. Even just by a fragment. And owls are impressive. Stuffed owls doubly so. Find one in a moon-flooded, vast library and you’re bound to be bowled over. It was perched on a dead, leafless, shellacked-looking tree standing in a metal bucket. Glass eyes. The color of honey. Or lightning. “Insects, huh,” said Alabama. “No one likes to be called an insect,” said Hob, “not even insects, probably.” “Is it their mascot,” I said. “Yes,” breathed Hob. “And all we have are those lousy copperheads,” I said, “plus you’d think that they’d stay away from snakes given the whole Garden of Eden thing and everything.” The owl gray-feathered. Tones of purple and blue. Crimson talons. “She’s named Irmgard,” said Hob, “or so I’ve heard.” He stroked the bird’s feathers. “Guys, try it,” he said. We did. Subtle electricity. “Do you think it’s alive,” I said. No nails. No pins. Hob pulled at a bluish breast feather. It came loose. “Amateur hour,” he said, “look at this janky workmanship.” “No wanton defacement,” said Alabama. The bird’s crimson feet gripped the crooked branch. I grabbed the tree and lifted: not as hard as I’d thought. Though the bucket was full of cement. The owl heavy and light at the same time. Birds have hollow bones. I learned that from watching nature shows with my parents. “My vote is,” I said, “that I think we should take this.” “Sterling,” said Alabama. “Sterling,” said Hob, “it’s unanimous.” Alabama stroked its staring, yellow eyes. “You can’t just touch eyes,” I said. “They’re glass,” said Alabama. “I’m confident we can get her out of here in one piece,” said Hob.
13
The owl proved a major contributor in terms of interior décor. It made me understand the whole mount-your-kill’s-head-on-a-wall-plaque theory of design. Antlers and the like.
Hardest part: finding a cab that would take us downtown. A bus seemed too exposed. The train out of the question. A lumbering slow learner, a small kid with a freshly bandaged ear and bloodstain remnants on his face, a huge stuffed bird, and Alabama, who defied categorization. Four cabs sailed past us down Second, their roof lights arrogantly lit. “They’re not even pretending to be off duty,” said Hob, “that is blatant racism.” “Against the race of jackasses,” said Alabama. One stopped. The driver leaned out and asked, “Where you go?” He talked the whole ride about his brother in Tbilisi, whom he said was the most famous bass guitarist in Georgia. We carried the owl across our laps. The bucket holding the base of tree branch stuck out one window. We set her up in the back of the basement, near the couch where Alabama sat to play the violin.
Vincent was gone when we returned. We yelled and yelled for him. Sunflower dust still adrift. No answer. Hob’s ear: fascinatingly gross, under the bandage. Which we of course undid. Using the pretext of changing it. His blood going black as it dried. He had a bruise on his cheek. Could have been a smudge of coal. I couldn’t stop staring and neither could Alabama. We caught each other looking and she grinned over Hob’s brown hair. A real grin. Hadn’t seen her actual smile before. “Please don’t,” said Hob in a phlegmy, constrained voice, “please don’t look.” “Sorry, man,” said Alabama, “but you look like such an urchin. Like a chimney sweep.” “Of course Vincent isn’t here. He could fix this,” said Hob, “or maybe I should just go to a doctor.” “You’d have to come up with a really good lie,” I said. Hob sucked down the rest of his goblet of whiskey. “I’m happy to try,” I said, “I mean with your ear.” “No offense, but I’ll take my chances,” said Hob. I didn’t blame him. His voice wasted. Droplets of sweat sliding from his forehead to the floor. Like all the pain and fear were hitting him now. After the adrenaline had dissipated. I sympathized. Alabama said, “Easy. You need help just say so.”
At times it’s simpler to keep your mouth shut. I can say, now, that the teachings of experience are largely identical with the wisdom to know when to keep your mouth shut. I had to ask him. I didn’t want to. I had to. “Hey, Hob,” I said. “What can I do for you,” he said. “How did you know that guy was an orphan.” “What do you mean,” he said. He was still shut-eyed and sweating. Voice hollow and sententious: that’s a lie. Confused and modest: that’s the truth. “You called him an orphan,” I said, “you didn’t suggest you knew him all that well before. You kind of made it seem as though he was a rando interloper who took your cigarette case. So how did you know.” “That’s actually a good point, Wood,” said Alabama, “painful as it is to admit.”
Hob didn’t say anything. “How well do you know that guy, Hob,” said Alabama. Her voice dead-even. She was starting to get pissed again. “Is there history there or was it just he stole your cigarette case,” she said. Hob was rocking back and forth, back and forth, his forehead muscles working and his lips white with pressure. “Well,” said Alabama. “Look, he could have killed us all,” said Hob, “seriously. If he’d had that thing.” “That wand, you mean,” I said. Hob nodded. He looked miserable. Carsick. “Jesus Christ, Hob.” This was Alabama, waving her arms. She was on her feet. I hoped she would be too angry to remember her gun. Then again, she was probably just as dangerous without. My tattoo twinged. “Do you think he’s dead,” whispered Hob. “I’m not an emergency physician,” said Alabama, “so I don’t know.” “He took my spot,” said Hob. His voice breaking. He sounded as though he was about to burst into tears. I didn’t blame him. When you’re not used to defending yourself, you feel guilt about hurting people. This has never been a problem for me. “Your spot,” said Alabama. “Quinn Klayman,” said Hob, “took my spot.” “What spot,” I said. “I didn’t get in,” said Hob, “and I met him during the test. Damnation Day. What the fuck ever. That’s why. That’s why. Okay?”
“So you did,” I said, “that whole certification thing Mr. Stone was talking about.” “Certamen,” said Hob. Pronouncing the c like ch, as in the second syllable of concerto. “You have to perform for a board of auditors. They decide.” “Does Charthouse know about this,” said Alabama. “I never told him,” said Hob. “He told me all about his life, sort of. Quinn, I mean. About his parents being dead. He’s like two years older. Three years older. It was his last year of eligibility. I remember that. And who tells a total stranger about his orphanhood. I think he was high.” Taking tests while high or drunk was a custom, I admit. I never engaged in it myself. I was a weak enough student without impediments. “He just kept talking on and on. The proctors overheard. The auditors. You weren’t supposed to talk. Like any test. They pretended to ignore him.” Hob still looking carsick. The eels writhed in their jars. “Isn’t the school going to be pissed,” I said, “or their board of directors. Or whatever.” “I’m sorry,” Hob blurted out, “but Quinn
is just such a little bitch. No offense, Alabama.” “You have offended me already to the point of no return,” said Alabama. (Also, side note: there’s no point in living, at all, if you have to kowtow to orphans.) “And I kicked ass at the Certamen,” said Hob. This I believed.
Hob opened up after that. He just needed to get over the hurdle of the first question. That’s how interrogation goes: everyone wants to confess; you just have to give them a reason to. He told us about his application to Mountjoy. You only got one shot, you had to be under eighteen, and you had to be able, first of all, to read instructions that to most people appear to be ad flyers for a laundromat. These lay out the guidelines for your test, different for every applicant. They explain the goals and standards of the public performance required to get in. “I did this thing with owls. Because I knew about Irmgard. It was great. Swooping and scaring them. I made them out of paper and cloth. Dust and light. Stuff that was around in the room already. I made them fly. I wish you could have seen it. The audience wore these robes,” he said, “like actual robes, purple trimmed with gold. Behind a wooden table, drinking water and making notes.” Verner Potash himself had been in the audience at Hob’s test. Hob described him as resembling this actor who’s in everything but you never can remember his name. Pudgy and brown bearded. “I still see his fat face, just all stony,” said Hob. After he got the news of his rejection, which came to him via a postcard from Cairo, Egypt (or so it had seemed to his parents, who asked him why he was getting correspondence from the Middle East), he tried and failed to kill himself. Vincent had stopped the bleeding, closed the wound in his wrist. “My parents still don’t know,” he said, “and Vincent told me I hadn’t even done it the right way. You have to go up and down the vein, not across.”