For another, Father Phinean would surely be against it. I heard him deliver himself on the subject one time. Mr. Seamus Callaghan, our general merchant, had visited the metropolis of Dublin on a buying mission. When he returned to Kilkee he took himself to St. Padraic’s Church and told the Father that he’d been to the metropolis and gone to the Bijou Opera and seen a wondrous show with costumes and singing and great dramatic battles acted out right before your very eyes, and he wondered if Kilkee might be a good place to have such a thing as a theater of its own. There might not be enough actors and musicians in Kilkee to put on much of a performance, but there were companies that traveled around putting on their shows, Seamus Callaghan said, and they might come and put one on in Kilkee.
Father Phinean got red in the face. I saw this with my own eyes. I’d been hiding in the chancel and Father didn’t know I was there. He smote Mr. Callaghan a thwack aside his head. I was astonished. This was not some troublesome lad who stumbled over his catechism or made improper noises during Mass. This was Mr. Callaghan, an important citizen of Kilkee.
But Father Phinean was so angry, he dealt Mr. Callaghan that blow to the ear and Mr. Callaghan just stood there, getting as pale in the phiz as Father was red.
Then Father said, “Ye’ll do penance for a month for that, me lad.”
Mr. Callaghan is old enough to be Father Phinean’s parent, but Father called him “me lad” and Mr. Callaghan stood there and took it.
“We’ll have none of those wicked strumpets painting their faces and showing off their bosoms in this town, and filling our innocent faithful with lustful ideas! If we need music we’ve got the heavenly sounds of the Mass and if we need drama we’ve got the Passion of Our Lord. Now get on your knees, Seamus Callaghan, and bow your noggin and pray to the Virgin that she may intervene with her Son to forgive you for making that wicked suggestion and to clean your mind of the filth you have filled it with!”
That was long ago, back when I was a strapping lad and my darling Maeve, Maeve Corrigan, was still alive. Ah, I can see her now. A mere fifteen she was, but a woman already. Her hair was as black as Satan’s heart, her eyes as green as Ireland’s fields, her skin as white as New Year’s snow, her lips as sweet as bright red cherries, her breasts as soft and dear as heaven’s clouds.
A lass of fifteen, and I her swain and barely older, as deep in love as two can be. Once she was in the ground Kilkee held no charm for me, and hence I came to the New World’s shores.
But you see, now, why there are no theaters in Kilkee. You see the reason now. But we are in Kilkee no longer. We are in the City of San Francisco between the lovely bay and the broad Pacific Ocean, and San Francisco has theaters aplenty! The first time I saw an opera it was at the Golden Nugget Opera House on Kearney Street. It cost me a day’s wage just to get inside the hall, but it was worth the price.
There were glittering chandeliers with candles in them and paintings on the walls that I took to be scenes from famous operas, pictures of Greek gods and heroes and Egyptian pyramids and Roman Senators and battles at sea. There were seats so comfortable you thought you might never want to get up once you settled into one. But even before you got to those seats you could stop at a bar and buy a drink as tasty as any you could get in a Barbary Coast saloon, and no danger of being shanghaied onto a clipper ship bound for Asia.
There was a grand play with music and costumes and even horses on the stage. The name of the opera, wait, I wrote it down so I wouldn’t forget it, was called Le Roi d’Ys, which a kind citizen seated beside me whispered in my ear, was French and it means The King of Ys, Ys being an old city in a country called Carnouaille, of which I will confess I never heard. But there are a lot of countries in this world of which I’ve never heard, I’m sure. It was written by some Monsieur named Edouard Lalo.
It was a wonderful story. There was a King Gradlon who had two daughters, Margared and Rozenn, each one more beautiful than the other. I could see now why Father Phinean was afraid of Seamus Callaghan’s building an opera house in Kilkee. The costumes were glorious and the two princesses did indeed have painted faces and lovely bosoms that they were not a bit too shy to show. The singing was all in French but it wasn’t hard to follow the story and my neighbor told me what the hard parts meant.
Oh, there was a talking statue of a saint. Imagine, a stone statue coming to life before your very eyes there on the stage in the opera house. It was a statue of a holy man wearing a bishop’s mitre. He was called Saint Corentin of Quimper. He jumped off his pedestal and strode around on the stage and talked and even sang, all in French. I never heard of a Saint Corentin but Father Phinean could probably preach a whole sermon about him and scald any lad who slept through it and couldn’t pass a test when it was over. There was a Prince Karnac and a knight in armor, name of Mylio, and the king’s two daughters were squabbling over who would get her pick of husbands and who would have to marry the other sister’s leavings, and by the end of the story there was a giant flood that washed away the city.
Oh, never will I forget that show should I live as long as Methuselah. Nor forget that night, neither, thanks to my kindly neighbor. She was a fine woman, did I think to tell you that, and she showed me some parts of the city that I never would have dreamed about back home in County Clare. Indeed, indeed, she did show me some parts that I never would have dreamed about back home in County Clare.
But enough of that talk. I want to tell you what happened later on, after I went to work for Mr. Abraham ben Zaccheus, the secret King of All the Jews in the World, although he is too modest to call himself that. I had not been in this city for very long when I spotted a notice in the local newspaper. It said:
INVESTIGATOR seeks secretary, amanuensis, and general assistant. Something is happening in the Earth. Something is going to happen. Applicant must exhibit courage, strength, willingness to take risks and explore the unknown. Keen olfactory and kinetic senses vital. Room, board, and salary provided. Apply in person only.
Being in need of gainful employment, I applied in person, thinking that I met at least some of the requirements of the job. I had courage, strength, and the willingness to take risks and explore the unknown. I might add that I am not bad looking, neither, or so a good many lady friends have told me over the years. I thought I could be a secretary and general assistant. I didn’t know what an amanuensis was, but when the gentleman who had placed the advertisement explained it to me, I told him I could handle that job, as well.
After all, if Johnson had his Boswell and Sherlock Holmes had his Dr. Watson, then King Abraham ben Zaccheus could use an amanuensis too, and I was happy to become that.
I had some glorious adventures working for King Abraham, and some frightening ones, as well, but a finer man than Abraham ben Zaccheus I’ve never known, aside from being the very first Hebrew I had ever been honored to encounter.
But this day, ah, I remember it too well indeed, this day was a Monday. King Abraham and I had returned from an adventure in the Islands of Farralones in the cold Pacific Ocean, where Abraham waded into the ocean stark naked, carrying just his gold-headed walking stick, and disappeared beneath the water for three days and three nights while I built campfires on the rocky shore to keep myself warm and cook the meals that Madame Chiang had packed for us. Then the King of All the Jews walked back out and said to me, “John O’Leary, I hope you remembered to bring the warm towels and the bottle of good whisky because it was mightily cold down there and I need to be warmed up both outside and in.”
Now I was helping King Abraham to sort his papers and answer his mail, his help and advice being solicited by suffering and needful parties in every corner, it seems, of the globe.
He sat behind a grand desk of dark mahogany wood, stroking his devilish looking beard and opening the letters that had arrived during our absence. Our housekeeper, Madame Chiang Xu-Mei, was busily preparing our repast and delicious odors wafted from the kitchen.
King Abraham opened the next letter in the pile, ga
ve a sound such as I’d never before heard him make, and jumped to his feet. King Abraham, in case you did not know that, is not exactly slim, nor what you would call a lithe athlete, and seeing him jump to his feet is an experience not to be missed.
“He’s in San Francisco!” King Abraham said. “He’s been here for a week, and we were busy with those ruins off the Farralones and never knew it! And we’re invited for tomorrow evening. Ah, John, this will be a treat indeed!”
He looked at me. “Aha! You wonder about whom I am talking, John O’Leary, do you not?” King Abraham talked that way sometimes.
It took me a moment to figure out what he meant. Then I said, “Yes, Your Majesty.”
The King of the Jews shook his head. “Please, John, you know I prefer to be called Abraham. Simply that.”
I nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
He gave a sigh and sank back into his big desk chair. He waved the letter at me. “This is from Robert Chambers. My friend Robert Chambers.”
I waited for him to continue.
“I don’t suppose you know who he is. You do not read many books, do you, John O’Leary?”
I conceded that I did not.
King Abraham stood up and strode to one of the bookshelves that filled just about every inch of his study, except where he’d saved space for a painting of some great and famous person. He picked up his favorite gold-headed walking stick, inscribed with Hebrew letters of which I could not tell you the meaning, and he pointed with it to a row of books in bright paper wrappers.
“Robert Chambers wrote these books, John. I met him in Paris when his first book had just been published and he was working on his second, a collection of stories to be called The King in Yellow.”
He reached up and took a book down from the shelf. He turned the pages, then handed it to me to examine. It was a handsome thing. The cover bore a picture of that king, his yellow robe more tattered than glorious, and strange crimson wings growing from his shoulders. What must it be like to write a whole book, I wondered, no less a shelf full of them. I handed the book back to King Abraham.
“It was not long after I had banished a P’an Hu that had terrifying wedding parties in the Chinese province of Jiangsu. While there I confess that I became addicted to the local cuisine, in particular to their salted dried duck.”
A faraway look came into King Abraham’s eyes. My employer is a modest man, a quality which he shares with me, of course. He does not tell stories of his cases very often, but when he does I have learned to listen carefully and note them down, as I am paid, of course, to be his amanuensis.
“Authorities in France had heard of my success, and a group of Parisian financiers had pooled their resources to engage my services in ridding the Bois de Boulogne of a pack of vicious loups garous. That was 1895, a year in which France forever disgraced herself by condemning the innocent Captain Dreyfus and stripping him of the honors he had earned in the service of his country.”
I could tell that the King of All the Jews in the World remained angry after a decade’s passage. He pounded his fist on the top of his desk, then drew a deep breath and resumed telling me his story. It seemed to calm him, to be telling his tale.
“Once my task was completed, I found myself wandering the back alleys of Montmartre. I had not realized how hungry I was until I detected the tantalizing aroma of a Jiangsu style kitchen. Can you imagine, John? I was two continents from the City of Wuxi, where last I had savored that fine cuisine, only to discover it again in a tiny restaurant on the Rue Lamarck, virtually in the shadow of Basilisque du Sacre-Coeur.”
His story was interrupted by the banging of pots from Madame Chiang’s kitchen. That was a sign that our dinner was very nearly ready, and a signal to Abraham ben Zaccheus to bring his story to its close.
He tapped himself alongside his beezer with a blunt fingertip. “She’ll wait for us,” he said. “This won’t take very long.”
He had laid The King in Yellow on his desk, and reached now and petted the book as if it were a living thing. He said, “I followed my nose and soon found myself in a tiny, dark establishment. Everyone in the place was obviously Chinese except for one man, a tall, distinguished looking fellow wearing a high stiff collar and heavy, dark moustache. He spotted me as I came in and lifted a hand in greeting. He called, ‘Ho there, are you an American?’
“ ‘No, I am Austrian. But I know your language a little.’
“He invited me to join him at his table. I could see he appreciated Jiansu cuisine. He was dining on a dish that the natives of the region call Farewell My Concubine. It involves the meat of the soft-shell turtle, chicken, mushrooms, and Chinese wine. How the proprietors of that Parisian establishment were able to obtain all the ingredients is a greater mystery than that of the terrifying P’an Hu. It requires the efforts of a supreme chef to prepare properly.”
He sighed.
“My impromptu host and I introduced ourselves. The American said that his name was Robert Chambers. ‘But call me Bob,’ he said. He said that he was working on a book to be called The King in Yellow. I gave him my address here in San Francisco and he promised to send me a copy when the book was published. And I invited him to visit, should he ever find himself in this city.”
He rose to his feet. He said, “Come along, John, Madame Chiang will scold us if we come late to her table.” He put his arm around my shoulder as we made our way to the dining room. “Chambers is in San Francisco. He is staying at the Palais d’Or on Market Street. He says that he has another new book, one with the intriguing title, Tracer of Lost Persons, and wishes to present me with a copy. And he has a special treat in store for us tomorrow night!”
I spent the next day attending to my duties, awaiting word from King Abraham that it was time to descend from our home on Rooshian Hill and meet the famous Robert Chambers at the Palais d’Or. “We’re invited for a midnight supper, John O’Leary,” King Abraham had told me.
A midnight supper it was to be, I thought. A midnight supper. How could a man wait until midnight for his evening meal? By the time the sun sank into the evening fog my stomach was growling and I suspect that my face was showing my hunger as well. Madame Chiang, bless her Oriental heart, took pity and fixed me up with a fine steaming bowl of stew. Delicious bits of brisket, carrots, and potatoes swam in a lovely broth. She added hew own Chinese touch of hot oil and soy sauce, and reminded me of my own dear Ireland with a kindly pouring of Jameson’s.
Now, says I to myself, now I am ready to wait for this promised midnight supper.
~*~
The light of day was long gone when Abraham ben Zaccheus and I climbed into Abraham’s Superba Modern Electric Phaeton. I had ridden in this buggy before with Abraham at the tiller, as it rolled at a terrifying speed of up to fourteen miles per hour. I pride myself on my courage, as my past achievements have surely proven, but I cannot deny that I held on for dear life as the phaeton approached the broad thoroughfare that spans this city.
King Abraham navigated us straight down Lombard Street, through the Barbary Coast and on to Market Street where the Palais D’Or blazed with lights like a merry tyke’s birthday cake. King Abraham and I were decked out, the both of us, in soup and fish, black suits and white boiled shirts and bow ties. We were a picture in what Abraham called cheery rusty coo, or something like that, His Majesty always taking the time to teach me words I’d never have heard in Kilkee, save for Abraham’s vest embroidered all in Hebrew magical signs in gold and blue.
Mr. Chambers was waiting to greet us in the lobby of the Palais d’Or. There was no mistaking him, from Abraham ben Zaccheus’s description, and from the way that the two men grinned and clasped their hands. I could tell from Mr. Chambers’ looks that he and King Abraham were of an age and pleased as could be to see each the other after some ten years.
Our gracious host led us to a private dining room which had been reserved for us. Waiters as dressed up as the three of us served food and wine. A little orchestra sat in the corne
r sawing away at their fiddles. We started off with a glass of champagne and some dainty bits of food that Mr. Chambers said were called little fours in French. I don’t know why they were called fours but they were certainly little!
But soon came a cold soup, a sort of yellowish-brown, that bounced and quivered in its bowl like fresh-made jelly. The taste wasn’t too bad, a little bit like a weak chicken broth, but I thought it would have been better if the chef had remembered to keep it hot before he sent it out to us. Then came some green thing shaped like a child’s hoop, all soft and quivery like the soup, with little chunks of chewy vegetables stuck in it like miniature surprise toys in a birthday cake.
The big treat, I suppose, that Mr. Chambers called the piece de resistance, was something that looked like a big red spider cooked in a hard shell. It was served with nutcrackers and a kind of white slippery sauce, and it was surely the strangest thing that I ever had to eat. Mr. Chambers said that it was called a long goose, which made no sense to me as it was not very long and it certainly was not a goose. But I will confess that the taste was not bad at all.
During the whole meal, while waiters kept bringing dishes and pouring wine and the little orchestra in the corner kept sawing away, Abraham ben Zaccheus and Bob Chambers kept up their chatter. I mainly concentrated on the wine, which was very good, and the food, which was all cold. I suppose that was because we were eating it so late at night. The chef must have fixed it up for us and gone home hours ago.
I didn’t have much to say but I kept my ears open while Abraham and Robert swapped stories. I heard of adventures of King Abraham that I’d never heard of before. The time he went to Yucatan to consult the spirit of a Mayan priest. The time he flew to far Australia to retrieve a lost tablet that had stood on top of something called Uluru Rock for ten thousand years. This was years before those brothers built their flying machine and flew it in North Carolina. The time he brought a lost explorer back from a great stone city buried beneath the ice at the South Pole.
A Season In Carcosa Page 17