by Lori Lebow
Ike was playing peek-a-boo with Blake and finally succeeded in getting the child to squeal with delight. Matilda and Frank automatically glanced in terror at each other and then at Morris, who shrugged again. “Don’t panic,” he reassured them. “It’s in the script.” He opened the synopsis and flipped deftly to one of the opening pages where the words. “BLAKE SQUEALS WITH DELIGHT” were clearly printed in the stage directions. Morris turned the volume so Frank and Matilda could read the rest of the scene:
IKE: I’ll be leavin’. See you around. [NODS TO MORRIS. EXIT]
FRANK: Thanks, Mr Golden. We’ll just go and collect Blake’s script. [TO BLAKE] Come on, Little Fella, we’re walking over to get your big part in this play. [HOISTS BLAKE ONTO HIS SHOULDER. TO BLAKE] Wave good by to Mr Golden.
BLAKE: Bye bye. Baa baa. Bye bye.
FRANK: [TO MATILDA] I hope that is in the script! [EXIT WITH BLAKE]
MATILDA: [TO MORRIS] I hope so, as well. Blake is only two. He can’t even read the script. [EXIT]
Morris leaned back in his chair, “The sooner Blake learns to read, the better.”
§ § §
Emma had a strange expression on her face as she put down the book. Greg also had a strange expression on his face. Marcel was watching them in the rear view mirror. “So what is your reaction?” he prompted.
Emma shook her head. “It’s a sad, scary, weird story. I don’t know what to think of it, or you!”
Greg had picked up the book and was looking at the cover. “So is Marcel Dante your name?”
“Pen name,” Marcel answered.
“I saw you at the dinner — and at the ceremony. You were not invited. You gate crashed!” Greg was becoming agitated. “Now you’re driving the limousine that was hired — hey, what is this?”
“Don’t alarm yourself,” Marcel’s voice was soothing and gentle. “The original driver had a little incident that detained him, so I stepped in to assist.”
“Who are you?” Emma demanded. “What do you want?”
“Just think of me as your good Samaritan,” Marcel suggested. “You have already helped me immeasurably by reading my book.”
“You better stop here and explain,” Greg was nearly standing.
Marcel smiled calmly. “In the novel, the young couple is becoming disturbed because when Larry, the young man, goes out at dawn to see if the rain has stopped and check the condition of the road, he sees the hotelier, Florian Gothik, carrying a DETOUR sign under his arm. Larry realises that the reason their host was soaking wet when they went to dinner was because he was probably placing the sign deliberately to catch travellers and redirect them to his hotel.”
“I meant,” Greg fumed through set teeth, “you better explain why you are driving this limousine!”
“I just phoned the Limo Company and told them about the change of driver” Marcel continued. “I will leave the car at their despatch centre after I drop you at your hotel, and I have already contacted the driver about the change of arrangements. Everything is under control, and your wedding night will proceed without further incident.”
“What becomes of the young couple in your novel Read for Your Life?” Emma heard herself asking.
Marcel made eye contact with her in the rear view mirror. “They escape unharmed.” His tone was a mixture of irony and disappointment. Emma couldn’t decide if the irony was because the couple escaped, or because Marcel felt their escape was a disappointment. He nodded, “Look, there is the Hilton.”
Emma eased Greg down to a sitting position and patted his hand as they leant to glimpse the glittering circular entrance drive to the prestigious hotel. Both newlyweds were so relieved to reach their destination safely they silently enjoyed riding in style. When they were off-loaded with their luggage at the entrance as the doorman helped them, Greg started to say something to Marcel, but Marcel spoke first, “Thanks for your patience. It was a lovely wedding dinner. Best wishes.” With that he pulled away from the curb and drove off.
CHAPTER 4
The limousine despatch centre was not far from the Hilton. Marcel drove directly to the office and parked the limo, leaving the keys in a drop box since the office was shut. It was just ten o’clock, and Marcel felt inclined to party, so he walked through the main streets of town to a popular night spot called The Haunt frequented by young and old who enjoyed good food and good music.
The Haunt was in the basement of what used to be an old warehouse that had been converted into offices, some boutique shops upstairs, and the nightclub below. It was crowded, as usual. The tables were small, and crammed so tightly together that everyone seemed to be at each other’s elbow and involved in each other’s conversations. A modern jazz group was playing while waitresses somehow threaded their way between the tables and delivered food and drinks or took orders. Candles in little pots threw some feeble light, but except for the lights on the band and a few wall sconces imitating candles, it was dark. To read a menu it was necessary to incline the page toward whatever source of light seemed brightest.
Marcel was shown to a table near the wall, some distance from the stage. He ordered a screwdriver and surveyed the dark crowded scene. There were couples of every age facing the band and sometimes turning to each other to comment. People were being led to the few remaining vacant tables. When the waitress presented Marcel with his drink, the hostess pointed a young couple to a table beside Marcel. Another young woman was behind the couple, and she took a seat at Marcel’s table after gaining his approval. “Oh I’ve heard this band down the coast,” she said to the young man. “They are good. Are you two getting a meal or just snacks?”
“I’m not hungry,” the other woman replied.
“I feel like a sandwich,” her partner announced.
“I’ll just get a cappuccino,” the girl at Marcel’s table decided. “And maybe a piece of mudcake.” She was straining to read the menu. When she made fleeting eye contact with Marcel, he smiled. The band had stopped playing and the noise of the audience bursting into conversation seemed even louder than the music had been.
“Do you come here often?” Marcel asked the girl.
“Not really,” she said. “But I like the music.”
The other couple was ordering. The girl at Marcel’s table tried to make the waitress aware that she was ready to order, too. But the waitress turned abruptly. Marcel called out to the waitress and half-stood to get her attention. “Miss, this young lady would like to order, if you please,” he said. The other young couple looked embarrassed. The young lady at Marcel’s table looked relieved as she ordered, and Marcel just grinned.
“Sorry, Tricia,” the man said. “I should have given your order to her with ours.”
“No problem,” Tricia replied. She noticed the book on the table. “Thanks, Mister, for helping a lady in distress.”
“No problem, Tricia,” Marcel smiled. “My name is Marcel.”
“Oh, did you write this book?” Tricia picked it up. Marcel explained briefly, and then asked her the usual question.
Tricia was flipping through the pages. “It’s too dark in here to read.” She shook her head and put the book back down. Marcel turned and grabbed the candle from the empty table behind him. He placed it near Tricia.
“Pick out a short story, if you like,” he prompted. “It is romantic to read by candle light.” He took the candle from the other couples’ table and placed it next to the first. “Tricia will just borrow this for a couple of minutes,” he told her friends who were surprised but impassive. “Go on, Tricia,” Marcel coaxed. “Two-candle power is one-hundred percent better than only one candle.” Tricia hesitated, then opened the book near the conclusion and began the story:
Mind Reading
Brett was a very full-figured young man. His excessive size was ungainly and poorly packaged. He smiled nervously and stepped into Ms Kizmet’s small consultation room which seemed suddenly to shrink. Ms Kizmet indicated the little chair for clients and she stood gazing at him for a
moment. She was skinny, gnarled and slightly stooped. Her face looked like the bark of an elm tree: etched with deep creases. She had large, watery eyes. Her grim expression suggested a humourless existence, but when at length she took her seat, her expression softened to appear kind and patient. “You want me to tell you what is on your mind,” she said as though for the millionth time.
Brett looked surprised and impressed. “You knew!”
“It’s my job,” Ms Kizmet shook her head, an unspoken comment on his innocence. “How did you find me? I know: you saw the ad in the personal column that said: ‘Ms Kismet knows all: past, present and future. Come for a reading’.”
“Yes. I did see your ad!” Brett could hardly conceal his admiration. “You do know everything!”
“You want to date a young lady at your place of employment: an IT company where you are in the call centre. Her name is Jordie. She is working in the Customer Services and Accounts section. She is taking night school courses in Management because she wants to rise through the system. You see her in the cafeteria and occasionally you chat, but you just don’t know if she would be interested in a guy like you.”
Brett was silent with suspense. He stared hard at Ms Kizmet, not daring to breathe lest he miss a single syllable. Ms Kizmet saw his intense attention and pulled her crystal ball closer. She saw her own reflection inverted on the glass sphere. She could see her room, and her black cat sitting on the only soft chair.
The cat was thinking: “That is only part of the story. The girl is an attempt to create a romance in a soul-destroying workplace. Brett wants to run away and join a circus. It must be nearly time for my dinner. I will go remind my friend. In a little while. When she is busy. That newcomer is really nervous. He needs to chill out. He needs to lose weight. He would feel better if he lost lots of weight. He might be comfortable to sit on. But he is too nervous. I will upset him if I approach. If my friend doesn’t get my dinner soon, I will jump into that other’s lap.”
Ms Kizmet sent a telepathic message to the cat: “If you disturb this client, I will postpone your dinner for four hours. What opportunity would this client have to join a circus?”
The cat blinked its amber eyes once, very slowly and sighed a purr. It thought: “He will leave your reading and walk to the pub across the street to have a meal at the counter. He will meet a tattooed lady from the visiting circus troupe. She will convince him to apply to replace the Fat Man who lost so much weight on a reality television program he had to give up his job with the circus.”
Ms Kizmet sat back and looked at Brett. He was still holding his breath in anticipation. She smiled briefly and then said: “Jordie will only take an interest in you when you have tidied yourself: you need to get your weight under control. You will ask her to a film for your first date and you both will have a good time.”
The cat sighed again and thought: “Wrong.” You will talk about many things while discovering you have a lot in common. Jordie will buy a membership in a health club and you two will begin to work out together. Eventually you will both undertake retraining. You will form a successful business in the IT sector, where your complimentary skills contribute to its financial viability. You will marry and have two children.” Brett was grinning and waiting for more but Ms Kizmet grew silent.
“Anything else?” he was thrilled.
“How much do you want to know? You think you want to know everything, but then what would be the point of living if you know what is going to happen next — forever?”
“But you can tell!” he was desperate.
“I can’t stop myself from knowing. It is so exhausting. Every person I meet, even animals: I can read their minds. I feel like a receiver with no OFF switch.”
“That’s rich,” thought the cat. “Be careful. Your crystal ball is going to smash.”
Brett was puzzled. “That must make you feel very powerful.”
Ms Kizmet shook her head and glared at the cat. “Most people are very much alike in what they want, and what they want from me. People like to be told that their wishes will be granted; that they will find suitable and happy relationships; that their futures will be secure and gratifying. If they come to me in bad times, they want to know good times will follow. If they come to me in good times, they want reassurance that the good times will last.”
“But everyone is unique,” Brett tried to comfort her.
“Only superficially,” Ms Kizmet replied. “The sameness is tediously predictable. The world has become so mercenary, so commercialised, so globalised in culture that very few people retain any vestige of originality. They all seem more interested in making investments that will generate wealth so they can accumulate more expensive junk, or attract more affluent partners.”
“Do you see any important change of jobs in my future?” Ms Kizmet drew the crystal ball closer to the edge of the table and studied her reflection. “Perhaps some circus employment?” he coached.
“Nothing more.” She shook her head wearily. “That will be forty dollars,” she told Brett, as she wrote out a receipt and accepted his cash. When she saw his palm, she went pale and gasped. His lifeline was so short it took her breath.
“You have made me very happy,” Brett told her as he rose to leave. “Maybe you are ready for a change,” he suggested.
“You are a prophet!” Ms Kizmet pronounced. “Good bye.”
When he was gone, she turned to the cat who had jumped onto Brett’s vacated seat. “If he goes to the pub, I resign as of this moment,” she decided. She peeked through the café curtains to see Brett loitering at the curb like a hot-air balloon waiting for weather conditions to improve. Then, he swung into the street toward the pub. The cat gave Ms Kizmet a knowing look as it jumped onto the table, knocking the crystal ball from its stand. It rolled along the table, and then dropped to the floor where it smashed into thousands of fragments.
§ § §
Marcel was awaiting Tricia’s comment about the story but she handed the book back to him just as the band started playing. She returned their candle to her companions then adjusted her chair so she could more easily ignore Marcel. He sat back and listened to the music for a few minutes, noting that every now and then Tricia seemed to be checking to see if he was watching her. Eventually Marcel leaned forward and put his mouth close to Tricia’s ear where he whispered, “Thanks for reading my book.” She was startled and turned fully toward him as he rose to leave. He winked at her and began to make his way through the crowded nightclub. She saw him nod at a couple seated near the exit. The man jumped to his feet and exchanged some heated words with Marcel. Tricia saw the woman who was with him reach over, grasp his arm, and pull him back to his chair. Some other words were exchanged and then Marcel was gone.
Outside, the air was cool and humid. It smelt of the city: car fumes, sea salt, occasional food and cooking odours. Traffic noises, commercial air conditioner motors, crowds milling about and music blasted from speakers in some of the other restaurants and discos contrasted to the liquid blues music and jazz of The Haunt. But quickly the one world melted away into the reality of a Twenty-First Century metropolis at night. Lights cast confusing shadows and sometimes cancelled each other in the perpetual twilight under the neon signs and streetlamps. Car head lights blasted their double explosions of blinding beams when the traffic moved between intersections in the slow conga line of stop and go congestion. Buses nearly fell onto pedestrians as they careened around corners built to accommodate nineteenth century horse and carriage traffic. Marcel walked block after block toward his home in the centre of the old high street central park area. He passed partygoers, drunks, homeless men and women, streetwalkers and other workers, but as he left the nightclub district there were few pedestrians and the traffic thinned.
He reached the harbour and turned through a broad open area of parkland. Beyond the trees the city skyscrapers rose like a backdrop from a stage musical. Commuter trains roared along their elevated rails, adding their metallic cries t
o the surreal nightscape of the midnight city. Marcel continued to stride home, swallowed by the eerie constructed wilderness of towering buildings, road and rail links, trees that never stood in complete darkness because of the street lights, and the water features whose ripples cast the rainbow of neon reflections from advertising marquis that rose above the treetops in every direction.
Once through the park, Marcel made his way next to a multi-lane highway where dust and noise swirled along with each cluster of racing cars. Finally he entered a laneway and climbed the stairs of a dilapidated Victorian house. He collected the mail, his newspaper, unlocked the front door and stepped into the quiet seclusion of his own home. Lights from the street threw enough illumination into his windows for him to navigate. He tossed his coat over the back of a sofa, and then flipped on the light in the kitchen. There was a note and the spare key along with a copy of Read for Your Life. Marcel poured himself a glass of port from a handsome decanter, and opened the most interesting envelope in his mail. It was from Ms Shirley Keene. The letter said:
Laslow Hope, Editor
Skulldug Press, Ltd.
4 Centennial Park Lane, Sydney NSW 2000.
2 February 2006
Dear Mr Hope,
In response to your advertisement, I would like to submit my short story “See No Evil” for your consideration as a possible inclusion in the anthology of stories by unpublished writers which is being prepared. I understand that you will contact me if my story is to be published, and that I will be paid $50.00 when the final collection is compiled. Your advertisement indicated that Skulldug Press is especially interested in short stories by unknown writers who have been unable to find mainstream publishers. I certainly fit into that category. Thanks for reading my story. I look forward to hearing your response.