The Supernatural Enhancements

by Edgar Cantero

  MATSUO: I am still coping with the idea of you visiting a club in Ibiza, Cutler.

  A.: Me too. If I get over that image, the Eye will hold no surprises for me.

  [Plural chortle.]

  KNOX: But Edward, you know the audience has nothing to do with it. Remember the Genius in New Zealand.

  FORD: [Aside.] A few years ago the Genius was a teenager writing a poem in her diary; we never found it or her.

  KNOX: She was alone in her room and probably no one has ever read that poem to this day. What made it the best work of art of that year? It can’t be the public’s reaction. It must be the poem itself. Its beauty, its technical perfection. Same goes for the deejay.

  STILLWALL: [New voice: old male, Southern accent.] Oh, please. Are you seriously implying that an electronic beat with stolen notes from here and there can make a perfect musical composition?

  MATSUO: What’s wrong with that notion?

  STILLWALL: What’s wrong? Would you compare Mozart to a note borrower?

  MATSUO: Yes! Please, times they are a-changing!

  FORD: [Whisper.] Here we go.

  MATSUO: Do you know what it takes to compose that? The only difference is that a classical composer tells the orchestra what to do, whereas she has to use prerecorded instruments. They call their workplaces “labs”!

  STILLWALL: Ken, Ken, please, you’re thirty-eight. Stop playing the young rebel of the table.

  MATSUO: And you’re only sixty-nine; stop acting like you met Mozart! Let me tell you one thing about Mozart: He played to be listened to. If he were born today, he wouldn’t be writing symphonies; he’d be on MTV. Music evolves!

  STILLWALL: Oh, so now you have to be old to appreciate Mozart!

  MATSUO: Well … yes!

  [Hollering.]

  FORD: Gents, gents, you’re proving the basic axiom of music: Every generation believes that what their children listen to is garbage.

  A.: Well, my parents would be right; I do listen to Garbage. [Matsuo laughs, all alone.] Sorry: next-generation joke.

  MATSUO: You are the youngest at the table; what do you think?

  A.: Uh … well, I’m sure the Eye chose Mozart … sometime in sixteen whatever.

  KNOX: I don’t think so.

  MATSUO: That would be too mainstream for the Eye.

  KNOX: I bet it picked Salieri.

  FORD: Please, I don’t think you saw our host’s point. The thing is that art evolves, and so does the Eye’s taste. But that’s what it is: taste. The fact that it likes a song doesn’t mean we have to like it. The Eye is always looking into the present as it flows. So it is aware of the latest trends; hence it evolves like us. That doesn’t make it objective truth. It’s just some very well-informed opinion.

  A.: But you said the Eye was a godly object.

  FORD: Well, gods can be wrong.

  A.: Oh. Really? Can your God be wrong, Niamh?

  NIAMH: [One knock on the table, close to the mike.]

  A.: Okay. Didn’t know that. Slow down; you’re the cook; you’re not supposed to enjoy yourself this much.

  [Laughter.]

  CUTLER: Everything is delicious.

  MATSUO: I wager this is better than the noodles in Kuala Lumpur.

  KNOX: I agree.

  A.: Noodles in Kuala Lumpur?

  FORD: The Wizard this year? Cook in a stall in Kuala Lumpur?

  MATSUO: The cook’s reading a magazine while a customer is eating noodles at the counter and he drops his chopsticks in bliss after trying his meal.

  A.: Oh, yeah. With, like, wooden spoons clopping above him.

  MATSUO: That’s the one.

  A.: I hardly remember that one. It wasn’t very remarkable.

  MATSUO: Actually, Wizards are easy, right, Knox?

  KNOX: It’s the second-most-found after the King.

  CUTLER: Sage, Genius, and Wizard, that’s the lucky trio; they’re always pleasant to work on.

  FORD: The Wizard is almost always a cook, allegedly authoring the best meal in the world.

  KNOX: And he’s never British. [Laughter.]

  FORD: [Through a smile.] The historian should know.

  KNOX: Stats can’t lie.

  A.: How do you all know it was Kuala Lumpur?

  MATSUO: You could see the Petronas in the background. Petronas Towers? With the bridge across? They were behind the customer on the right. Yeah, you had to look for them. It’s okay; you’ll get the hang of it.

  VASQUEZ: [Far from the mike, young baritone.] As of tonight, Miss Connell will be the new Wizard!

  CUTLER: Toast to that!

  [Glasses jingling.]

  A.: [Whispering.] Who is that again?

  FORD: Who? Long hair? Vasquez; he found the Twins.

  A.: Oh, yeah. That explains the mood.

  MATSUO: [Loud.] Hey, Vasquez, you in for a dive in the pool after dinner?

  A.: I’m sorry; we emptied it last week. The freeze could damage the structure.

  MATSUO: Oh, pity!

  VASQUEZ: [Far.] I would do it!

  KINGSTON: [Farther, dry, raspy voice.] You’d freeze to death the second you touched the water.

  VASQUEZ: On the contrary, the cold would preserve me long enough for the paramedics to perform CPR, like that Bones in ’ninety-two.

  KINGSTON: Who said we’d call the paramedics?

  [Laughter and clapping.]

  A.: [Whispering.] That was … Charlie?

  FORD: Kingston. Coroebus. Sent you a postcard.

  A.: Right.

  CUTLER: [Loud.] Who gets the last stuffed egg?

  FORD: Well, let’s see; who spent eight months in Africa chasing a Phoenix? Oh, it was me. Thank you.

  [Amused protests.]

  MATSUO: Oh, come on!

  CUTLER: He’s going to brag like this all year.

  KINGSTON: Let’s appoint him Phoenix for life, since he’s so good at it.

  FORD: No, that’s against the rules.

  CUTLER: Or Asterion, let’s see how you manage.

  VASQUEZ: Hey, where is Philip, by the way? I can’t believe he’s missing this, of all people!

  A.: [Aside.] Why is it against the rules?

  FORD: You can’t get the same role twice in a row.

  KNOX: It would be unfair: some roles are consistently harder.

  NIAMH: [Warning whistle.]

  A.: What? Oh. Telephone. Excuse me.

  [A chair screeches on the floorboards; steps run outside.]

  I answered it in the office, just to check that Help was okay.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello, I’d like to speak to Mr. Ambrose Wells, please?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Is this Ambrose Wells’ house?”

  I saw no reason not to come clean. “Ambrose Wells passed away last summer. This is his cousin.”

  He took an almost intolerable pause before continuing.

  “Sir, this is Corporal Lowe, working with the sheriff of Pennaniket, Louisiana. Sir, do you … Are you acquainted with a Philip Beauregard?”

  Swallow.

  “Yes, he’s a friend of my cousin’s.”

  “I’m afraid I have some very bad news for you, sir. I am calling because the owner of the Dixie Motel here in Pennaniket found your number among the unclaimed luggage of a Philip Beauregard who went missing after checking in. We … we just found his body,” he stuttered. “I am very sorry, sir.”

  “How did he die?”

  “We found him outside town, in the woods—”

  “How did he die?” I insisted.

  “He was murdered, sir. He was in a common grave in an old farm. It is … hard to tell; we think he’s been there for three months; but …”

  “How?”

  “He had a pitchfork driven through his chest.”

  And I fall. And my rib cage collapses in an explosion of blood.

  Either I said, “God,” or I gasped; I couldn’t make it out myself. The corporal’s voice quavered with fear or shame.

 
; “Apparently, it’s been going on for some years. Old Asa has been murdering hitchhikers and burying their bodies there. We’re now contacting—”

  “Is he dead?”

  “What?”

  “The murderer, did you kill him?”

  “Yes,” he answered. I pictured the man in uniform on the phone pulling a tear back into his eye, holding his head high. “He fired a shotgun at the arresting officers, so they shot back.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  After a now intolerable pause, he replied, “You’re welcome.”

  We hung up soon after that.

  VASQUEZ: Hey, we could be before the first British Wizard!

  NIAMH: [Short, protesting double whistle.]

  MATSUO: She’s not British, Vasquez; she’s Irish!

  CUTLER: [Aside.] Irish? Where from exactly?

  [Footsteps approach the mike.]

  A.: Caleb. We need to talk.

  A.’S DIARY

  * * *

  We decided to break it to the members after dinner.

  Their faces were beyond description. The death of a friend is always a shock. But a nightmare come true—that’s devastating.

  No one said anything, beyond the early muttered swearing. Not even Caleb. He froze right after releasing the news.

  About a minute later, Daniel Vasquez, the Puerto Rican, softly uttered the impertinent thought that had been hesitating at the tip of his tongue.

  “We broke the record.”

  Other guests stared at him. He was a handsome man in his early forties, suave, with chin-length hair, and the only person in the room not wearing a tie, save myself.

  “Philip found the Monster. That makes seven,” he explained. “Did you get a name?”

  “Yes. Old Asa,” I said, and the multitude savored the name like a forbidden word.

  “That’s it. We broke the record.”

  “Who cares!” cried out Silas Long, aka Prometheus, the one who quit by letter in early November. He was a short man sitting on the other end of the table; he hadn’t raised his voice until now. “God, Beauregard is dead, and all you can think of are stats?”

  No one rebutted the accusation.

  “This game is destroying us!”

  “This was another accident,” argued Knox.

  “Oh, shut up!”

  “No, I won’t.”

  That took us by surprise. He showed remarkable authority without raising his voice. “Philip fell victim to a serial killer. An indiscriminate psycho. The game has nothing to do with it.”

  “He wouldn’t have gone into the lion’s den if the Eye hadn’t showed it—if we hadn’t told him to!”

  Caleb intervened. “Silas, we’re not responsible for this.”

  “Oh, yes, I know; it was luck. Any of us could have taken his place had we gotten the wrong ball a year ago.” He scanned the room for reactions. People at his end of the table did not seem to disagree. I then noticed that most of the winners this year were sitting by my end. Vasquez was the only exception.

  “So what, we keep drawing lots this year?” Long ranted. “See who gets to meet the next Monster?”

  “Actually, we can’t,” said Eli Kingston, the one who sent the postcard from California. “There’re nineteen of us.”

  Vasquez pointed at Niamh. “What about the cook?”

  “A woman?” complained someone.

  “It would be about time!” Vasquez insisted.

  “Christ, listen to yourselves!” cried Long. “You’re racing to your own death!”

  At least two people agreed with him aloud. One of them was Jeff Stillwall, one of the oldest in the bunch. He came from Tennessee and had been Anchises this year—the one after the lesbian schoolgirl scurrying along the snowy roof. I remembered that because I had considered him lucky: That was a vision I wouldn’t have minded focusing on.

  “You can’t see what the Eye is doing to you,” Long resumed. “I too was blind, but now I see. I am not ready to continue this game for another year.”

  “We should vote,” said Stillwall.

  Caleb replied, “Why not let the host decide what to do?”

  “Who made him the new host?”

  “Certainly not you,” I spat out.

  No one said a word. Hey, if Knox can stun people into silence, so can I.

  “Look, you can fight over rules and morality as long as you want. But in four hours the Eye is speaking again, and you can’t prevent that. Now, as it will be my first showdown, I personally have decided not to miss it. Gentlemen, you are all free to do as you please. My hospitality does not bind you to any game, neither to one man’s rules nor to democratic decisions. The vault opens at twelve thirty a.m. My house is your house.”

  With that I left, Niamh following.

  —You the alpha male!

  —Shuddup.

  VIDEO RECORDING

  * * *

  KITCHEN THU DEC-21-1995 23:46:45

  A plethora of dirty dishes and leftovers fills every horizontal surface in the room.

  Two Victorian gentlemen: CUTLER (sixties, stocky, balding), sitting on a stool, and VASQUEZ (early forties, long hair, Vandyke beard), standing across the counter. Vasquez is staring at something that just came out of Cutler’s mouth. Possibly a word.

  For a long time.

  VASQUEZ: No way.

  CUTLER: Way.

  [A second later, Vasquez chuckles, unbelieving.]

  SMOKING ROOM THU DEC-21-1995 23:47:05

  Three Victorian gentlemen playing pool: STILLWALL (oldest, white muttonchops), REDBY (fat, bearded), KINGSTON (forties, Caesar haircut). A fourth (Silas LONG) sits with his right flank to the fireplace, a glass in his hand.

  STILLWALL: At least I didn’t do badly this year. [Leans over for the shot, slowly; he’s the oldest of the lot.] I had mine located.

  [He shoots. One striped ball is pocketed.]

  REDBY: It wasn’t difficult. Probably Norway, or Finland.

  STILLWALL: No. Arkhangelsk, Russia.

  [He shoots again. No score.]

  LONG: How did you find out?

  STILLWALL: I spotted the building. Whose turn is it?

  KINGSTON: Wait a minute. You had the building? The one with the tomboy capering along the roof?

  STILLWALL: Yes. See, judging by the time the girls were put to bed, the sun, and the snow, I decided it had happened somewhere along the Arctic Circle. So I just ordered photo books on cities near the sixty-sixth parallel, hoping to recognize the skyline: Fairbanks, Reykjavík, Tromsø, Murmansk … It was Arkhangelsk. Saint Ursula, a boarding school for girls.

  LONG: [Very interested.] And then what?

  STILLWALL: Nothing. That’s as close as I got.

  KINGSTON: You had the name of the school, and you gave up?

  STILLWALL: What did you want me to do?

  KINGSTON: Man, you go to the school, check the class photographs, browse through student files, and you get their names!

  STILLWALL: I can’t just go to a boarding school in Russia and say, “Hello, tovarich, give me your files!” Let alone, “Oh, I hope it has pictures of the little girls!” And it was autumn! Do you want me to go to northern Russia in autumn for a damn picture?

  REDBY: I would have tried.

  LONG: Me too.

  STILLWALL: Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you; I’m sixty-nine!

  KINGSTON: God, and to think I was stuck with a surfer in the middle of the ocean and no point of reference whatsoever. I traveled for two months through the hot spots of Southern California, hoping to come across a face, while you had everything!

  STILLWALL: God, two months on the coast of Southern California! My heart bleeds!

  [Kingston stares at his sarcasm for a solitary second.]

  [Then they all burst into laughter.]

  LONG: [Amused, exiting with an empty decanter.] I’ll go get more brandy.

  MUSIC ROOM THU DEC-21-1995 23:48:54

  Caleb FORD, Curtis KNOX, Ken MATSUO, NIAMH, and A. sit at the
corner table, near the liquors. Other Victorian men gather in duos and trios at the far end of the room. Scattered glasses and conversations all over the place.

  A.: The cops wanted to mail Beauregard’s luggage. Doesn’t he have any family?

  FORD: [To Knox.] Didn’t he have a sister in Boston?

  KNOX: [Exhales a drag from his Egyptian cigarette.] I’m not sure they spoke to each other.

  MATSUO: Wasn’t he dating a psychiatrist in—

  KNOX: They broke up. [A second drag.] Philip was a high roller.

  A.: [After a brief pause to give somebody time to explain.] Meaning?

  KNOX: He lived for the game. No time for long-term relationships.

  FORD: He was quite young, had money … Traveled almost every year … He’s been in for ten years, and he won … three times?

  KNOX: And came really close twice. Playing this hard is incompatible with a family.

  [A third drag. The smoke drifts in baroque curls.]

  A.: Can’t you share the burden?

  KNOX: It’s not just that. It’s a stance. Long exposure to the Eye turns you into a cynic. Shows the best and the worst of mankind, but has a definite taste for the worst.

  FORD: [Beaten.] Damn, Curtis, you’ll make me pour myself another drink.

  KNOX: [Oblivious, to A.] Did you know the Eye doesn’t believe in marriage?

  MATSUO: Oh, boy.

  KNOX: Ever notice that the Twenty are actually twenty-one? Because the Twins are two. It is the only plural category. The Lover, however, is singular. The Eye focuses on one member of the couple. So the greatest lover is only one of the two. No matter how well he does, he’ll never be fully requited.

  [Caleb Ford raises up.]

  FORD: Bourbon, anyone? [Checks the ice bucket.] We’re out of ice.

  [He starts for the door, but Niamh gestures him to stay and leaves for the kitchen.]

  A.: [To Knox, after checking that Niamh is gone.] Is the Lover more often a man or a woman?