by Daniel Quinn
“Exactly. The old man in your dream made it obvious he was performing a trick. And a coin showing Charon ferrying the dead across the Styx, marked ‘Good for One Crossing’ is clearly a joke. You don’t need a token to get a ride across that river—and you know that perfectly well.”
“True.”
“And what’s the point of the joke?”
“I’d rather you told me.”
“Lazy fellow. All right, here is what your Wise Old Man says, speaking with the voice of experience. ‘Okay, sure, if you break out of your self-imposed prison routine and look for a woman you can love, you’re going to be plagued with a terrible feeling of guilt. But look here, it’s not going to kill you.’”
Greg nodded, smiling. “I guess that makes sense.”
They had another round of drinks and talked about themselves and about Chicago. Greg offered to see her home to her apartment in Rogers Park.
“Very gallant of you, young man,” she said. “But I’ve been making my way alone in this city for twenty-five years, and I’m quite capable of doing so tonight.”
Nevertheless he walked her to the subway on State Street and saw her aboard a train. He could have taken it himself, but he hated that earsplitting subterranean ride. He walked back to Michigan Avenue and took a bus. In his apartment, after still another drink, he fell into bed pretty well drunk. He thought, At least I won't dream tonight.
But he was wrong.
Greg stared blankly at the inscription on the coin for a moment, then put it in his pocket. He looked up at the distant streetlight and felt like groaning. While he and the girl had been pleading with the old man, the follower had slipped past and was now lying in wait for them in some shadowed doorway ahead.
“We have to go back,” he told her.
“Back?” she whispered, her eyes wide with horror. Without explaining, he grabbed her arm and hurried her along, his mind working furiously. Everything was changed now, and there was nothing left but flight. Now that they’d acknowledged his presence, the follower could abandon his subtle game and pursue them openly. Where in this warren of locked doors could they take refuge?
Suddenly he remembered the observatory. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? He could picture it with absolute clarity. Although no such structure exists in Chicago, in his dream Greg was sure he’d seen it a thousand times: a pristine silver dome perched atop a dignified old Georgian house with a dormerless hip roof and a flat roof-deck. Its quaint history came back to him in detail, and he had to struggle to thrust it out of his mind.
“Where are we going?” the girl asked breathlessly.
“Look for a dome,” he told her.
“A dome?”
“Look for a dome,” he repeated grimly.
Would the observatory be open at this time of night? he wondered, then shook his head at the stupidity of the question. Of course it would be open; the observatory was in constant demand among amateur astronomers throughout the city, and the middle of the night was when they worked.
“Over there!” the girl said, pointing half a block ahead and across the street.
And there it was, gleaming softly against the black sky.
Greg began looking for a place to cross the street, but the cars were all parked bumper-to-bumper. Looking at them now, his heart suddenly thudded: The cars were all occupied. Open-eyed corpses sprawled across the seats, leaned brokenly against doors, pressed slack faces against windows: all victims of the creature who was following them, all somehow killed by a single, shattering blow.
They found a narrow break between cars, sidled through it, and hurried across the street. As soon as they stepped up onto the sidewalk, he saw his mistake. On this side of the street, the dome was out of sight. He’d have to hope there was a sign of some sort on the house. Soon they came to a long spiked iron fence, and Greg thought this must be it. A tall, elaborately worked gate appeared ahead. Pausing in front of it, he saw that the elaborate arabesques of the grillwork formed a name: The Celestial Mirror.
They passed through the gate and found themselves in a tangled, overgrown garden. Its neglected condition worried him: had the observatory been closed down? Ahead, he saw that the shattered cement walk led to a pedimented pavilion framed by two-story Ionic pilasters—the entrance to a country mansion.
“Christ Jesus!” the girl hissed and stopped. “We can’t go in there. This is his house.”
“It’s all right,” Greg said. “This is the observatory. We’ll be safe here.” And he dragged her up to the front door, which was standing half open.
A circular staircase just wide enough for the two of them to walk side by side spiraled to the roof. Greg couldn’t make out the construction of the place, but as they mounted the stairs they seemed to pass many landings, and on each one a painting hung in shadow a few feet from the staircase railing: Adam, Proteus, Quetzalcoatl, St. Michael, Jupiter, Thor, Ahura-Mazda . . . He didn’t recognize them all.
Finally, their legs throbbing, they came to the top and found a door that opened out onto the roof. Just a few feet before them, the observatory arose serenely majestic, like a spaceship poised for takeoff. They hurried inside, and Greg shut the door behind them. It closed and automatically locked with a comforting metallic chunk, and he shot home two massive bolts at the top and bottom.
As the echoes died away, he became aware of an awesome stillness. This wasn’t the chilling, oppressive silence of the street below; it seemed to draw friendly life from the stars that blazed through the slotted opening in the roof. An almost palpable column of moonlight stood in the center of the cavernous room. Beyond it, locked in an intricate gleaming superstructure, loomed the black mass of the telescope. The girl was standing beneath it, staring up in awe. Watching her, Greg noted again how astoundingly lovely she was. In the moonlight, her flaming hair was softened to gold, perfectly offset by her lime-green dress. He walked over to join her.
And the building shuddered as if struck by a giant fist.
He put an arm around her shoulders. “We’re safe here,” he said, and she nodded. Nevertheless they turned to stare at the bolted metal door.
After a few moments it swung open silently, as if carried on a gentle puff of wind.
IV
SINCE HE WORKED WHEN IT SUITED HIM and not according to the calendar, Greg paid little attention to the days of the week. And so, when Aaron Spaulding called at noon to remind him it was the Friday of the annual design awards show, he had to admit he’d forgotten all about it.
“But you are coming to the show, aren’t you?” Aaron demanded.
For a long moment Greg struggled to think of some engagement, some pressing piece of work, some indisposition that might excuse him, but he hadn’t the heart for it. Aaron was a young and talented graphic designer who did not as yet belong to the elite class of the profession. Half a dozen examples of his work would be on display at the show, and Greg had worked with him on three of them. In fact, Greg himself would collect a few honorable mentions as copywriter on winning projects, but these were perfunctory awards and, coming from a design-oriented show, professionally worthless to him. Nevertheless he knew Aaron would be hurt if he didn’t come.
“Sure,” Greg said. “What time do you plan to be there?”
Aaron suggested they meet for dinner beforehand, but Greg was in no mood for that. He told him he’d be lucky to get his desk clear by seven or eight.
“Oh,” Aaron said, obviously disappointed. “Well, I’ll be there all night, till ten or eleven at least.”
Greg told him he’d see him long before then.
As a matter of fact, nothing was moving across Greg’s desk. He’d spent the morning fiddling with two or three stories, and the results had as much sparkle and wit as assembly instructions for a hand truck. Gloom had settled on him like a bag of sand across his shoulders.
The trouble was he knew exactly what he felt like doing. He felt like calling Karen and taking her to lunch. She would be home; Friday and Saturday w
ere her days off. She’d be home and doing something crazy like washing walls or making new curtains for the windows. She was an intense homemaker.
He knew exactly how it would go if they met.
They’d exchange a kiss as though the hiatus of the past three weeks didn’t exist. She’d ask him what crap he’d been eating and tell him he looked lousy and his clothes were a mess. He’d tell her about the book he was working on for Ted Owens and she’d glare at him and ask him if his name was going to be on it. Of course he’d admit that it hadn’t even occurred to him to ask.
“Goddamn it,” she’d say, “you make him put your name on it. I want a copy of that book on my coffee table with your goddamn name on it, inscribed, ‘To Karen, with all my undying goddamned love.’ Hear me? I’m serious!”
He’d make fun of her motherly concern, and she’d pretend her dignity was affronted. To mollify her, he’d tell her about getting two job offers in a single afternoon, and her eyes would get wide and she’d say, “See, baby? You’re gonna be big time!”
And he’d find that his depression had dissipated like fog in the sun. By midafternoon, they’d be a little drunk and a little silly and they’d go back to her place, because, according to her, his building smelled of cockroaches. They’d make playful love on her flowered sheets, order in some fried chicken, and spend the evening in bed watching television.
It was exactly what Greg wanted. And he knew he couldn’t have it, because at some point, sure as hell, she would say something like, “You know, for what the two of us pay in rent, we could have a penthouse on the goddamned Gold Coast.”
And the disaster would begin all over again.
His spirits still lower, Greg poured himself a drink and spent the rest of the afternoon staring out at the lake.
* * *
By the time Greg arrived at the show, elegantly arranged over most of the first floor of Water Tower Place, everyone was pretty well lit with excitement and booze. It was one of the gala events of the year for the Chicago publishing world, and designers, publishers, editors, ad people, and public relations people mixed with printers, typographers, artists, artists’ reps, writers, paper salesmen, and clients of all of them. Except for a couple of edit-ors and a couple of designers, Greg would know and be known to very few of them.
Almost no one was looking at the exhibits. Those who had come to see them had already done so and were now clustered in small groups around the cash bars. Greg fought his way through to one for a bourbon on the rocks, then, plastic glass in hand, began to tour the exhibits.
Virtually anything printed was eligible for entry: packages, brochures, books, advertising posters, record jackets, magazines, stationery, logos, business cards, sign systems, annual reports, and a good many items difficult to classify in any way. In spite of their differences, all were glossily handsome, proclaiming the fact that Money Had Been Spent on them. Most were beautifully printed, and some were visually startling. And, since there were innumerable entry categories, a great many sported ribbons that were not nearly as tasteful as the objects they adorned.
Greg felt a hand on his arm and turned to look down at Aaron Spaulding, darkly handsome and elegantly turned out in a midnight-blue velvet suit and an open-necked ivory silk shirt.
“So you came,” Aaron said, sounding disgruntled.
“Of course. I said I would.”
“I’ve got some people I want you to meet. Could be some business for you.”
Stifling a sigh, Greg let Aaron lead him toward one of the bars. From experience, he knew Aaron’s clients were the sort who insist on putting a writer through four drafts of anything just to make sure they’re not being cheated.
He spent the next half hour making polite noises to a large, aggressive toy manufacturer who wanted—or imagined he wanted—a series of teacher’s manuals showing how educationally valuable his merchandise could be in the classroom. His diminutive, pop-eyed assistant tried to impress Greg with the size of their sales force and their projections for the educational market, as if he were offering him a vice presidency in the company. What they knew about education and the educational market wouldn’t be noticed if it flew into your eye, but, since designing their annual catalog was a big chunk of Aaron’s income, Greg nodded in all the right places and told them he’d look forward to working on the project.
Finally, he broke away, explaining that he’d just arrived and hadn’t had a chance to see the show. Aaron excused himself for a minute and followed Greg back to the exhibits. “Could be a lot of work there,” he said.
“Forget it. It’ll never happen.”
“You don’t think so?”
“He’ll talk about it until somebody asks him to spend the first nickel. Then you’ll never hear of it again.”
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” he said glumly.
“Where’s the hospital book, Aaron?”
“Oh, it’s over there,” he said, gesturing vaguely to his left. “I’ve got to get back. See you later?”
Greg didn’t answer, hadn’t even heard the question. He was staring openmouthed at the spot Aaron had indicated: at a girl with flaming red hair in a lime-green dress, facing away from him, toward an exhibit in a glass case.
Leaving Aaron blinking, Greg crossed the room. His heart was pounding, and he told himself not to be stupid; there are ten thousand girls in Chicago with flaming red hair. Drawing up beside her, he didn’t dare glance at her face. Instead, he looked at the exhibit, which, he was astonished to see, was the hospital book he’d just asked Aaron about: a full-color, elaborately die-cut production with intricate three-dimensional pop-up illustrations. The card beside it read:
CHILDREN’S BOOK: “A Visit to the hospital”
DESIGNED BY: Aaron Spaulding
TEXT BY: Gregory Donner
CLIENT: St. Anselm Hospital
TYPOGRAPHY: Texthouse, Inc.
PRINTING AND BINDING: Greenleaf Press
“God,” Greg said. “Can you imagine grown-ups working on such crap?” He felt a look of indignation slam into the side of his head like a brick. He turned to face her and blinked.
It was she.
Unmistakably. The same wide green eyes. The same fine nose. The same beautifully shaped lips, which were moving. She was saying something to him.
“I beg your pardon. What did you say?”
“I said, who are you to call this crap?”
“Oh.” He pointed to the card. “See where it says ‘text by’? That’s me. Greg Donner.”
She peered in at the card and then looked back at him with open puzzlement.
“And I know who you are,” Greg said solemnly. “You’re the girl of my dreams.” Her wide eyes grew wider as her brows rose into a skeptical arch. “I know that sounds like a line, but I’m not kidding. You’ve literally been in my dreams the last three nights.”
She gave him an ironical smile. “Well, it’s an original opening anyway.”
“However, in all the time we’ve spent together, you’ve never told me your name.”
“We must have been busy.”
“We were. We were being chased.”
“Oh. Well, I’m glad to hear that.”
Greg blinked, frowned, then realized that what she’d heard was: We were being chaste. “Yeah,” he said. “Well, here I am wide-awake, and I still don’t know your name.”
“You didn’t read it in your horoscope?”
“No,” Greg said slowly. “All it said in my horoscope was that I’d meet a fat woman with a mustache and take her to dinner tonight.”
“I’m not fat and I don’t have a mustache.”
“I know. That’s why I don’t believe in horoscopes.”
She laughed and held out a hand. “My name is Ginny Winters.”
He took her hand. “But it was right about my taking you out to dinner.”
“It was?” She took her hand back.
“I’m sure it must have been. Horoscopes are always half right. That’s why I
believe in them.”
She laughed and shook her head. “I can see I’m going to have trouble with you. Are you really Gregory Donner?”
“Absolutely. Relentlessly.”
Greg felt a tap on his shoulder. A tall, distinguished gentleman eyed him with a bleary smile. “Excuse me, my dears, but this is not a nesting ground. I would like to glom this exhibit.”
Ginny and Greg moved away toward the next exhibit. “You’re not tall enough to be a model,” he told her, “and you’re too glamorous to be an editor. You didn’t ask me if I buy art, so you’re not an artists’ rep. Therefore I conclude you are a photo-graphic stylist.”
“Pooh,” she said. “Wrong again. I’m a graphic designer.”
“Ah. And you have some stuff here?”
“A couple things.”
Greg said he’d like to see them, and she led him back to a set of portable wall panels that zigzagged across the floor. There she pointed out a collection of stationery that included a letter-head, two sizes of envelopes, business cards, and a mailing label, all with a logo in vibrant circus colors.
“Very nice. What do these people do?”
“They design educational games.”
“Ah. I especially like the little guy with the hoop.” Central to the logo was a boy in 1930s costume who looked out into the viewer’s eye with a knowing leer.
“Yes. I had to go to St. Louis to get him. I couldn’t find anyone in Chicago who understood what I wanted.”
He turned to her gravely. “As soon as I scrape together twenty-five dollars I’d like you to do some stationery.”
She grinned. “This little lot here—all of it four-color—set the client back over three grand in printing alone.”
“Gawd,” he said.
She led him past a few panels and pointed out a tabloid newspaper. It was called Pix, and the flag was done in raw, aggressive calligraphy. Its pages were devoted to avant-garde photography and shrieking verse, and it had an air of harshness and sneering cynicism. “It’s a bit daunting,” Greg said.