by Ellen Klages
“I feel like we’re packing for a long trip.”
“We are, in a way.”
“Hmm. Then make sure you have cigarettes and bourbon, and we can get raspberry rings and coffee where we’re going. Fried chicken seems to be universal, so no worries there. But maybe off in a corner, a big sack of money with a dollar sign, like the Monopoly man’s? It might come in handy.”
“That’s a lot of detail for one painting.”
“Well, you don’t have to leave room for the magazine title or the story names. You can fit a lot more things in.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Haskel turned a page, scribbled a few notes. “Please do remember that if you become too bossy, I can still skip town, change my name to Millicent, and move to Des Moines without you.”
“Pffft. Seems prudent to be quite specific when asking a magic rock for what my heart desires.” She grinned. “Which is mostly you, but—oh! Lupo’s.”
Haskel nodded and turned another page, sketching and laughing as if their lives did not depend on this.
* * *
Four days later, the painting was almost complete. Haskel had barely slept. The other women had taken turns coming over with food and beer and cigarettes—and copies of the daily papers. No news, no progress by the police in locating the mystery man. One afternoon, Polly picked up Haskel’s camera and used the last shot on that roll to capture them watching Haskel work.
“At least we’ll have something to remember you by,” Helen said, her light tone at odds with her melancholy expression. “I’ll take the film to Owl Drug and get it developed.”
It was Babs who knocked on the door Saturday morning. “I’m taking requests for supper,” she said. She looked over at the drafting table. “Is it done?”
“Almost. I need to finish our faces, and then I’ve got a few bits of—” Haskel fumbled for a word.
“Mumbo-jumbo?” Babs said. “I’ve lived with Franny for ten years. I know the routine. Still don’t have a firm grasp on what she does, exactly. Sounds like gibberish to me, but I can’t deny it works. Drives the rational part of me half mad.” She sat on the couch. “What do you need from us?”
“Is Polly done with the box?”
“She was fiddling when I went to bed last night, but I think so.”
“Good. Ask everyone to come to dinner here tonight. We’ll have a party before we—make our exit.” She turned to Emily. “Chinese food?”
“No. This all started with Lupo’s. Why break with tradition?”
“Brings it all full circle,” Babs agreed. “I’ll get two pies and bring some wine and a salad. What time?”
“Six. Make sure you have the box and any tools Polly will need to finish it up.” She looked at the bookcase. “Oh, and ask Franny if she’d like that run of magazines for her library. Or anything else you want from here. We’ll be traveling light.”
They spent the afternoon boxing up the studio, saying goodbye to familiar books and clothes and furnishings they would not see again, if all went as planned. Then Haskel spread a cloth across the table for their feast. Helen arrived first, with a pink bakery box: tiny custard tarts and sweet Chinese buns filled with sesame and red bean paste. “Fong says sesame brings good luck,” she said. “I figured we should cover all the bases.”
Franny, Babs, and Polly appeared ten minutes later, laden with parcels—some fragrant with sausage and basil, the others redolent of varnish and glue. The table was soon covered with food, the wine opened, and the sounds of women talking and laughing—and occasionally singing—filled the room, echoing out into the courtyard until well after midnight.
When there was nothing left but crusts and dregs, Haskel stood. “It’s time.” She handed Franny the key to the studio. “Come back in the morning. If we’re still here, it’s all been a fool’s errand.”
“And if you’re not,” Polly said, “I’ll put the last touches on a thaumaturgy that would impress even my father.” She grinned. “Latin. Means ‘work of wonder.’”
“Then we’ll put it where it will be safe for—” Franny’s voice shook, her eyes bright with both joy and sadness. “—for a long and wondrous adventure.”
Leaving took another half hour. Hugs and tears and kissed cheeks, smiles and more tears.
When they were alone again, Haskel took Emily into her arms. “Are you ready for this?”
“I love you,” she said. “I’d follow you to the end of the world. Any world.”
They made love under the skylight. Just before dawn, they dressed in comfortable, favorite clothes. Haskel went to the drafting table and added the last details—eyes filled with joy, smiles on the two faces and, by habit, her bold signature in the corner. With an atomizer, she dusted the entire painting with the rest of the tundérpör, giving it a kind of moonlit glow that shimmered for a moment before settling.
Carefully, she laid the art into the shallow box. It fit exactly, no room to slip or slide. She muttered words that Emily did not understand, then motioned to her. “A bit of you and a bit of me went into the pigment. To—close the circuit—we need some of the finished painting to bind us together.” She wiped a finger across the tip of one corner of the paper and touched the iridescent powder to Emily’s lips.
Emily did the same for her.
A few more arcane syllables. Haskel smiled and took her hands. “Now, kiss me, my love, and bon voyage.”
* * *
Franny unlocked the door of the silent studio at noon. The painting lay in its wooden box, the lid open. A note next to it said simply:
Thanks.
—Haskel
“How do we know it’s not a trick?” Polly looked around. “That they haven’t just scarpered off to parts unknown?”
“We don’t. But if it was misdirection, it was brilliantly done, don’t you think?” Franny pointed to the bag of tools. “Hand me that spice tin. You and I have work to do.”
Trick or Treat
It was his.
Marty Blake hung the CLOSED sign in his window and pulled the blinds down so the shop was in darkness, save for a single halogen spot illuminating the wooden box.
He went to the back room, returning with a bottle of Courvoisier and a paper cup. The occasion called for a snifter, Waterford crystal at the very least, but this was all he had. There would be more celebrations later. He poured a generous slosh and raised a toast. “Haskel’s last painting,” he said aloud.
For the better part of an hour, he stood, sipping the cognac and gaping at his treasure. He still couldn’t believe his luck. The artwork wasn’t remotely what he’d imagined, late at night in the bar with the other dealers, talking about their fantasies, their dreams. But here it was. The Holy Grail.
Who would believe it?
No one, he thought. No bragging rights without proof. He had to document it, cover his ass for the insurance company. Then he’d post the photos. He smiled, imagining the fame and notoriety, the surge in business that was sure to follow. He opened a cupboard and retrieved his camera, a state-of-the-art digital SLR.
Marty stood directly over the box and took a few shots. None of them worked. He tried again, but no matter what the camera angle, the halogen spot glared off the thick glass. He turned it off and flicked on the fluorescents recessed in the ceiling, harsh, but diffuse. Five more shots. Shit. The sides of the box cast wide shadows. He stood on a chair, but there was always a dark line across part of the image.
Frustrated, he laid a book on the table. Maybe if the box were tilted, just an inch, he might be able to get a clear shot. As he began—oh so delicately—to raise one end, a few grains of blue pigment trickled to the bottom of the painting. He quickly laid it flat again.
It was a devilish problem. Could he lift the glass off? No. Its edges were sealed beneath the frame of the lid. Break the pane? No again. The shards would fall inward, onto the chalk surface. A glass cutter and suction cups? He’d seen that in a Mission Impossible movie, but lacked both the tools and the know-how. And if the whole sh
eet of glass fell in—? Marty shuddered.
He poured more liquor and stared helplessly. Someone had sealed the box; there must be a way to open it. He focused his brightest LED magnifier on every surface. Nothing. He sat down wearily; as the light wavered in his hand, it caught an odd reflection. He squinted. Two hidden hinges, inside, cleverly painted to match the walls of the box. Aha!
Using an X-Acto knife, he scraped at the outer surface directly behind the hardware. A flake of what looked like old cellophane fluttered to the tabletop, revealing a hairline seam. Eureka! He inserted the tip of the razor-sharp knife and followed the line around two corners, wiping bits of gelatinous gum off the blade until he hit an obstacle.
Front and center, under the thin lip of the lid, invisible in its shadow, was a tiny metal bar. Its color was only a fraction of a shade darker than the surrounding wood, set so perfectly flush with the surface that his gloved fingertips had failed to register the difference.
Ingenious.
He braced one hand behind the box and leaned down to peer closely at the secret latch. His hand trembled as he pressed his right thumb onto the spot.
A muffled click sounded as the mechanism engaged. The lid sprang open with startling violence. He jerked back, screaming as his face was enveloped by a hideous, eddying blackness that stung like a thousand tiny wasps.
With a terrible, savage force, Martin Blake began to sneeze.
Acknowledgments
I fell in love with San Francisco in 1963 (I was eight). I moved there in 1976, and a year later wrote the first lines of a story that would become Passing Strange. They did not survive, but forty years later, the story of Emily Netterfield and Loretta Haskel is finally on the page. As I type this, my desk is littered with dozens of books about the city, View-Master reels of the fair, WPA guides and maps, and souvenirs from before I was born. I am especially grateful to the GLBT Archives for oral histories and photos of Mona’s; to Trina Robbins and Arthur Dong for their amazing books on the history of Forbidden City and other Chinese nightclubs; to Stephen D. Korshak and J. David Spurlock for their work on the art of Margaret Brundage; to Mara’s Italian Pastry for raspberry rings (it was research . . .); and to Grant Canfield, my poker buddy, for letting me spend hours looking through his vast collection of vintage pulps. Last, but certainly not least, thanks to Lee Harris and Irene Gallo, for founding Tor.com’s novella line, and to Jonathan Strahan, editor extraordinaire, who suggested I might want to write one for him.
About the Author
Photograph by Scott R. Kline
ELLEN KLAGES is the author of two acclaimed historical novels: The Green Glass Sea, which won the Scott O’Dell Award, and the New Mexico Book Award; and White Sands, Red Menace, which won the California and New Mexico Book Awards. Her story, “Basement Magic,” won a Nebula Award and Wakulla Springs, coauthored with Andy Duncan, was nominated for the Nebula, Hugo, and Locus Awards, and won the World Fantasy Award for Best Novella. She lives in San Francisco, in a small house full of strange and wondrous things.
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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novella are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
PASSING STRANGE
Copyright © 2017 by Ellen Klages
Cover art by Gregory Manchess
Cover design by Christine Foltzer
Edited by Jonathan Strahan
All rights reserved.
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ISBN 978-0-7653-8951-0 (ebook)
ISBN 978-0-7653-8952-7 (trade paperback)
First Edition: January 2017
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