MAGICATS II

by Gardner Dozoi

  The younger man confessed himself already fascinated. He looked the Khedivial colonel in the man’s slightly bulging, slightly blood-shot, entirely blue eyes, and said, “Tell me about it.”

  He listened without a single interruption until Col. Brennshnekkl got onto the subject of hunting in the Southern Provinces of H.H.—the southernmost boundaries of which evidently did not, as yet, exist. “—at least not on any official map; we intend to push ’em as far south as we can push ’em; now where was I? Ah yes! Hippo! Ah, you need a champion heavy ball for hippo! Say, a quarter of a pound. Same as elephant. Same as rhino.” Perhaps indecisive which of the three to talk about first, Brennshnekkl paused.

  Dr. Eszterhazy heard himself asking, “What about tiger?”

  “Tiger, eh. Well, you would naturally want a lighter rifle for soft-skinned game. Say, a .500 . . . or better yet a .577 Express—a Lang or a Lancaster or any of the good ones.”

  Eszterhazy stroked his beard, trimmed closer than in the mode of fashion. “But are there tigers in Africa?”

  The colonel appeared to be trying to say Yes and No simultaneously. To aid him he sipped his wine. Then: “Well, strictly to speak, no: there are no tigers in Africa. However, lots of chaps call them tigers. Am I making sense? I mean, leopards.”

  Something somewhere jingled. Or perhaps there was a ringing in the doctor’s ears. He repeated, dully, “Leopards?”

  Colonel Brennshnekkl explained that in some way leopards were more than tigers. Tigers, like lions, went along the level ground; leopards sometimes hid up trees. And pounced. Carefully setting down his wine, he bared his teeth, turned his hands into paws and his fingers into claws, and gave something in the way of a lunge which was nevertheless certainly intended to imitate a pounce. It seemed to his younger comrade that people for some reason had lately begun to imitate leopards for him. Was it a trend?

  “What else do they do up trees? Besides prepare to pounce? Do they have their, no, one would not say ‘nests,’ do they have lairs—?”

  No. No, leopards did not have lairs in trees. Well. Not precisely. In the manner of colonels the world over since the beginning of time, this one began to tell a story. “—recollect one day my native gun-bearer, chap named Pumbo—Pumbo? Yes. Pumbo. Faithful chap. Pumbo. Came running over to me and handed me my .577 Express. Said, ‘Master, tiger,’ which is to say, of course, leopard, said ‘tiger up tree, look-see, shoot-quick!’ ” He raised an imaginary leopard-gun at an angle. “And as I was sighting, sighting, damn me! What did I see? A bloody young zebra or was it an antelope, bloody leopard had killed it by breaking its neck, as they do, and dragged it up into the upper crutch of the tree where I suppose it could hang, you know, all that galloping the wild game there does, making it muscular and tough—’nother thing,” temporarily lowering his nonexistent rifle, the colonel got his wine back, looked at Eszterhazy over the rim of the mug; said, “ ’nother thing. Hyenas can’t get to it. Once it’s up a tree. You know. Well—”

  But that was the last which Eszterhazy was to hear of the matter, for at that moment a whistle sounded to signal a return to the duties of the twenty-five hours and twenty-five minutes; a whistle? It was the sort of nautical whistle called a boatswain’s pipe and it was traditional to sound it at this point. No one at all knew why. That was what made it traditional.

  ###

  In what had been the oldest and smallest schloss in Bella, long since escheated to The Realm, was the chamber of a gentleman whom rumor connected with the Secret Police. He was called by a number of names. Eszterhazy called him Max.

  “Engelbert Kristoffr.”

  “Max.”

  Segars and decanters. “How is the great plan for the education going?”

  “Engelbert Kristoffr” said that it was coming along well enough. He supposed Max knew that he already had the M.D. and Phil.D. Yes? And the D.Sc. and D.Mus. were likely next. Of course degrees were not everything. Right now he was not taking a schedule of courses for any degree, but he considered that his education continued daily nonetheless. Max hummed a bit in this throat. “You shall certainly become the best-educated man in the Empire. I hope you begin to think of some great reforms. Everyone thinks that old Professor Doctor Kugelius is our best-educated man. Why? Because each year he gives the same lecture on The Reconciliation of Aristotle and Plato and it is actually fifty lectures and he delivers it in Latin and what is his conclusion? That, after all, Aristotle and Plato cannot be reconciled; you did not come to hear me talk about Aristotle and Plato.” Said Max.

  The guest shook his head. “I came to hear you talk about Mr. Melanchthon Mudge,” he said.

  There was indeed a file on Melanchthon Mudge and Engelbert Kristoffr read it and then they began to talk again. Said Max: “You well recall a Cabinet decision to hold the laws against witchcraft in abeyance. It simply would not do, in this day and age, for our country to start a prosecution for witchcraft. And as we prefer to believe that the matter is confined to harmless old women living in remote villages, there is really no mechanism to handle a latter-day sorcerer.”

  An ash was flicked off a segar with impatience. “I don’t want the man burned or hanged or shackled, for heaven’s sake. We have experts in the sophistry of the law. Can’t they simply get an excuse to get the man out of our country?”

  Max very very slightly poured from the decanter to the mug. “Not so easily. Not when he has a lot of powerful friends. One of whom, are you not aware, is the aunt of your cousin Kristoffr Engelbert, of the Eszterhazy-Eszterhazy line; you are not aware? Ah, you were not, but are now. Having read the file.” The file reminded him of the Sovereign Princess Olga Helena of Damrosch-Pensk; she was of course not sovereign at all, she was the widow of Lavon Demetrius, whose status as one of the once-sovereign princes of the Hegemony had been mediatized while he himself was yet a minor: the family retained titles, lands, money, and had nothing any longer to do with governation at all; was this a good thing? If they were under the spell of Mr. Mudge, probably.

  “Nor is she the only one. Not every name is in the file; listen.” Max repeated some of the names not in the file. Engelbert Kristoffr winced. “Is it that they are so immensely impressed because he makes the spirits blow trumpets, move tables, ring bells? In my opinion: no. They are so immensely impressed because they are weak in character and he is strong in character and he is very, very bad in character and his performances are merely as it were items chosen off a menu. Melanchthon Mudge, as he calls himself, has a very long menu, and if he did not impress the credulous by doing such things, well, he would impress them by doing other things. Was it only because Louis Napoleon and Amadeus of Spain and Alexander of Russia believed the spirits of the dead were at this fellow’s command, lifting tables and sounding trumpets and ringing bells, that they gave him jewels? I don’t think so. And I might ask you to look at what happened afterwards: Louis Napoleon deposed, dying in exile; Amadeus deposed and in exile; Alexander of Russia fatally blown up by political disaffecteds.” Max banged his mug sharply on the scarred tabletop. “And another thing. If he has such powers, why does he employ them lifting tables and tinkling bells? Why does he content himself with gifts of jewels from kings and emperors?”

  Engelbert Kristoffr Eszterhazy thought of another question: Why is he—via the thought of him?—tormenting me? But he said, suddenly, aloud, “Because the mind of a demon is not the same as the mind of a man.”

  Said Max, “Well, there you are. There’s your answer.”

  But, wondered Eszterhazy, to which question? Having left the old, small castle to Max, its present master, Dr. Eszterhazy long wandered and long pondered. Was it indeed his fortune to have become involved with a Count Cagliostro, a century after the original? Was Melanchthon Mudge really “Melanchthon Mudge”? Could anyone be? And if not, who then was he? The learned doctor did not very much amuse himself by conjecturing that perhaps Giuseppe Balsamo had not really died in a Roman dungeon ninety years ago, but—

  ###

&n
bsp; Of the so-called Pasqualine Dynasty [a learned correspondent wrote Dr. Engelbert] few literary remains exist, and almost without exception they are very dull remains indeed. Only one reference do I find of the least interest, and that is to a so-called Pasqualine Ring. Do your old friends know about it? Legends for a while clustered thick, stories that “it had been worn upon the very thumb of Albertus Magnus,” is one of them; I cannot even say if thumb-rings were known in the day of good Bishop and Universal Doctor—you may also have heard it assigned to the thumbs of two anomalous Englishmen named Kelly (or Kelley) and Dee—and one of the innumerable editions of the Faustusbuch—but enough! Do think of me when you see your old and noble tutor, and ask him . . . whatever [and here the learned correspondent passed on to another subject entirely]. Why had not Engelbert Eszterhazy, Ph.D., M.D., long since removed his old and (perhaps, who knows) royal tutor and wife to a comfortable chamber in the house at 33 Turkling Street? He had offered, and the offer had with an exquisite politeness been declined. Why had he not bestowed a pension? To this question: the same reply. He had, then, to relieve the burden of want, done nothing? No, not nothing. One day he had encountered the owner of the tottering tenement in which lodged the King and Queen of the Single Sicily in Exile, herself (the owner) a widow incessantly bending beneath the burden of many debts, herself; part in sorrow, part in shame, she said that she would shortly have to double their rent: Dr. Eszterhazy easily persuaded her to mention no such thing to them, but to apply instead to him quarterly for the difference: done. So. There he was one day, visiting, and presently he asked, “And the ring of Duke Pasquale?”

  “We have it, we have it,” said ‘the Queen.’ In her haggard, ancient way, she was still beautiful. “We have it. So,” she said. “It is all that we have. But we have it. So.”

  Eszterhazy sat silent. “I will have them bring you a cup of chocolate. Clarinda?” she raised her voice. “Leona? Ofelia?” As, not surprisingly, none of these imaginary attendants answered the summons, the Queen, murmuring an apology, rose to “see what they are all doing,” and withdrew into a curtained niche behind which (Eszterhazy well knew) reposed the tiny charcoal brazier and the other scant equipment of their scant kitchen. Politely, he looked instead at the King.

  The general outlines of the face and form of him who, with infinite sincerity, called himself ‘King of the Single Sicily,’ would have been familiar to, at least, readers of the British periodical press; for they were the form and features of Mr. Punch (himself originally a native of The Italies, under the name of Signor Punchinello); though the expression of their faces was entirely different. His lady wife did not in any way resemble Judy. The King now said, “I shall have the Lord Great Chamberlain bring it.” As Cosimo Damiano’s former pupil was wondering what piece of gimcrack or brummagem the, alas, cracked imaginations of the pair would work on, the King said, with a gesture, “The view of the hills is remarkably clear today, my son. We are high here. Very high. See for yourself.” Eszterhazy politely rose to his feet, went to the window. The window was now graced with a single curtain; there had at one time been two; and some might have seen a resemblance to the other in the garment which the Queen now wore wrapped around her ruined silken dress rather in the manner of a sari.

  Clear or not, the view was so restricted by the crumbling walls of the adjacent tenements as to consist of an irregular blur a few feet tall and a few inches wide. Behind him he heard a soft scuffling, shuffling sound. He heard the King say, “Thank you. That is all. You may go.” After a moment Eszterhazy felt it safe to say that the view was indeed remarkable. In reply, he was informed that his chocolate was ready. He withdrew slowly from the view, homeopathically of the hills of the Scythian Highlands, and otherwise and very largely of goats, pigs, washing, dogs, children, chickens, nibbishtips, and other features of the always informal great South Ward; and took his seat. And his chocolate.

  It was very good chocolate. It should have been. He had given them a canister of it a while ago, and some, with a vanilla-bean in it to keep it fresh. As, each time he visited, there was always a cup given to him, either the canister—like the pitcher of Philemon and Baucis—was inexhaustible, or the royal couple never drank any at all. Well, well. It gave them pleasure to give, and this was in itself a gift.

  “And this,” said the King, after a moment, “is the ring of Duke Pasquale.” And he produced an immensely worn little box not entirely covered anymore with eroding leather and powdering velvet. And, with a dexterous push, sprang up the lid. It made a faint sound.

  Eszterhazy with great presence of mind did not spill his hot chocolate into his lap.

  Evidently the tarnished band was silver, as—evidently—the untarnished and untarnishable band was gold. They were intertwined and must have been the very devil to keep clean, whenever the task was still being attempted. Though somewhat misshapen—perhaps something heavy had rested on it, long ago? while it was being perhaps hidden, long ago?—the width hinted that it might indeed have been a thumb-ring. Long ago. And set into it was a diamond of antique cut, more antique certainly even than the ring-work.

  “There were once many,” said the old man.

  “Oh yes,” said the old woman. “The wonder of it, as it must have been. The Pasqualine Diamonds, as they were called. Who knows where the others are. We know where this one is. He besought us to sell. So, so. Conceive of it. Sell? We did not even show.”

  Eszterhazy brought himself back to his present physical situation, drank off some of the chocolate. Asked, “And do you wear the ring? Ever? Never? Often?”

  The old woman shook her mad old head. “Only on appropriate occasion.” She did not say what an appropriate occasion would be; he did not ask. He observed that the ring was on a chain, one of very common metal. His finger touched it. He raised his eyes. “It is the custom to wear it on a chain,” she said. “When one wears it, it should be worn on a chain, like a pendant. So, so, so. My late and sainted father-in-law wore it on a silver chain, and his late and sainted father wore it on a golden one. Thus it should be so. Or,” the pause could not be called a hesitation, “almost always so. So, so, so. One does not wear it on a finger, not even on the thumb; certainly not on the finger; on the thumb, least of all. It would be a bad thing to do so. So, so, so. Very bad, very bad. It is ours to be keeping and ours to be guarding. As you see. So, so. So, so, so.” She coughed.

  Her husband the King said, “I shall take it now, my angel.” Take it he did; it was done so deftly and swiftly that Eszterhazy was not sure what was done with it. He had some idea. He was not sure.

  Need he be? No.

  It was madness to think of these two mad old people living in poverty year after year, decade after decade, when a fortune lay ready to be redeemed. It was made; it was also noble. Turn the ring into money, turn the money into silk dresses, linen shirts, unbroken shoes, proper and properly furnished apartments; turn it into beef and pork and poultry and salad fresh daily, into good wine and wax candles or modern oil lamps—turn it as one would: how long would the money last? Did the ‘King of the Single Sicily’ think just then in such terms? Perhaps. He said, as he accompanied his former pupil to the worm-eaten door, this is what he said: “Today’s fine food is tomorrow’s ordure. And today’s fine wine is tomorrow’s urine. Today’s fine clothes are tomorrow’s rags. And today’s fine carriages are tomorrow’s rubble. And after one has spent one’s long and painful years in this world, one wishes to have left behind at least one’s honor unstained. Which is something better than ordure, urine, rags, and rubble. Something more than urine, ordure, rubble, and rags. Be such things far from thee, my son. Farewell now. Go with the Good God and Blessed Company of the Saints.”

  One must hope. Eszterhazy went.

  Thus: the Pasqualine Ring.

  ###

  There had been a meeting of the University’s Grand Ancillary Council, to discuss (once again) the private-docent question; and, Eszterhazy being a junior member, he had attended. The conclusion to w
hich the Grand Ancillary Council had come was (once again) that it would at that specific meeting come to no conclusion. And filed out, preceded by dignitaries with muffs and ruffs and chains of office and maces and staves and drummers and trumpeters. About the necessity of all this to the educational process. Dr. Eszterhazy had certainly some certain opinions; and, being still but a junior member, kept them to himself.

  The Emperor, who was ex-officio Protector, Professor-in-Chief, Grand Warden, and a muckle many other offices, to and of the University, did not attend . . . he never attended . . . but, as always, had sent them a good late luncheon instead of a deputy: this was more appreciated. Eszterhazy found himself in discussion over slices of a prime buttock of beef with a Visiting Professor of one of the newer disciplines, “Ethnology” it was called. Older faculty members regarded an occasional lecture on Ethnology as a permissible amusement; further than that, they would not go.

  “Where did your last expedition take you?” asked Eszterhazy. Professor De Blazio said, West Africa, and asked Eszterhazy to pass the very good rye bread with caraway seeds. This passed, it occurred to the passer to ask if there were leopards in West Africa. “Although,” he added, “that is hardly Ethnology—”

  De Blazio said something very much like, “Chomp, chomp, gmurgle.” Then he swallowed. Then he said, “Ah, but it is, because in West Africa we have what is called the Leopard Society. I believe it to be totemic in origin. Totem, do you know the word totem? A North-American Red-Indian word meaning an animal which a family or clan in primitive society believes to have been its actual ancestor. Some say this creature changes into human form and back again.—Not bad, this beef.—Is it Muller who sees in this the source of heraldic animals? Can one quite imagine the British Queen turning into a lion at either the full or the dark of the moon? Ho Ho Ho.” Each Ho of Professor De Blazio was delivered in a flat tone. Perhaps he felt one could not quite imagine it. “Mustard, please.”