Merlin of the Magnolias

by Gardner Landry

  As the towers of downtown loomed, Merlin heard a high-pitched squeak from the passenger compartment. He turned to look toward the curtain and saw something sharp jab forward at its center. He then heard the sound of something hitting the floor of the compartment. He looked down and saw a woman’s stiletto heel pump slide out from beneath the curtain. He speculated that Captain Kajerka and Miss Slahtskaya must be craning their necks to see some distant landmark, maybe the illuminated San Jacinto Monument near the bay.

  Jetlagged, but focused on the day’s business, Tite Dûche perched in a chair too large for him behind his baroquely filigreed desk carved from an endangered species of tropical hardwood at the corporate headquarters of Dûche Ovens. The family business had grown since the time of its founding by Tite’s grandfather, N. Teitel Dûche III, as with a burgeoning global population and desirable cemetery plots becoming increasingly difficult to procure, cremation had become a more reasonable option for many bereaved families. And Dûche Ovens enjoyed a near monopoly on the design, manufacturing, and distribution of high-end cremation furnaces and their attendant chambers. Although Tite’s interests now ranged from real estate to oil and gas to a line of golf apparel, Dûche Ovens remained the cornerstone of his commercial livelihood and viability.

  With what he believed to be his heightened aesthetic sensibilities, Tite had recently spearheaded the rolling out of a line of sleek, high-tech, high-efficiency chambers. Unaware no one in the undertaking business cared what a cremation furnace looked like or whether it had automatic features to make its operation as hands-free as possible, Tite was still gloating over the debut of the Super Dûcherator 5000. He had made a special point to hire particularly good-looking and well-spoken models to showcase the new product at the big annual funeral directors trade show. Tite looked across his office at an easel holding a photo of himself with hired models showcasing what he called “the 5000” at the convention in Florida. He approved of the sanguine smile he sported standing between the poised young women who towered over him in their high heels.

  His mobile phone rang, and he answered it with “Hello, junior partner.” He listened and a half smirk scratched itself onto his face as he said, “Good. Good work.” He listened for a few seconds longer and closed the call with a curt directive: “Do it again.” The half-smirk widened as he thumbed the red button to end the call.

  • Sixteen

  A thick haze met Merlin’s view as he fumbled with his big fingers to get the sandman out of his eyes after a particularly satisfying sleep. Still in bed, he put on his fingerprint-smudged, round-lensed glasses to get a better look at the close enveloping nothingness surrounding the top floor of the observatory in the form of an unseasonably dense fog. Fog, Merlin felt, was a fitting symbol of the energy he often sensed in his hometown. Its density and weight bespoke the nearby yawning Gulf of Mexico. Merlin thought of the coastal bay system as straws the gulf used to suck the energy out of Houston. Even though he knew the vast gulf and the littoral waters of the bays teemed with life, and even though he greatly relished his saltwater fishing experiences, his conviction that the big gulf’s energy gyre was largely responsible for draining energy from the Greater Houston area remained. Houston’s vaunted status as the energy capital of the world made the whole experience worse, like some kind of cosmic joke told by a capricious and relentlessly cruel water deity. But fog, he conjectured, could also be considered benevolent, like an enveloping and comforting cloud blanket.

  Satisfied with his reflection on fog, Merlin bounded toward the bathroom. After finishing there, he went into the observatory’s galley. He selected a small silver bowl he had carefully polished and dried the day before and filled it with highly alkaline mineral water. He believed the pH value of the water he used to wet his fingers to play the glass armonica was important; the more alkaline the water, the better it wet the glass surfaces to produce an optimally mellifluous sound.

  He placed the bowl next to the instrument near a far window of the observatory and flipped a switch to get the glass discs of the armonica moving. He looked skyward in contemplation, then with a resolute nod, touched his fingertips to the spinning wheels and began to play Albinoni’s Adagio in G Minor. After eliciting a few bars of the soul-woundingly poignant classic, he heard his mobile phone buzz with a text message. It was from marketing director Sukhova. “Because of fog, no work at blimp base this a.m. Come in after lunchtime.” “Roger,” responded Merlin with what he deemed appropriate aeronautical aplomb. Relishing the prospects of his free half-day, he returned to his armonica with increased vigor and focus, interpreting the Baroque dirge with more emotion than, he was sure, it had ever been played on this instrument so suitable for the production of mournful tones. He was so taken with his playing that he decided to crack open a window to allow the notes to escape through the thick neighborhood air.

  As he unlatched one of the observatory’s casement windows, he thought he smelled something strange. He looked outside the window onto the tower’s walls and saw it. The building’s surface was plastered with eggs, and although he couldn’t take it all in from his vantage point, it seemed the volume of egg splatter was considerably greater than it was the first time the observatory endured such a shameful defacement.

  Merlin stood still and silent as he registered this most egregious affront to his abode, and by extension, to himself. He seemed to actually feel his heart sink, and reaching down inside for a thread of resolve, he decided that, before starting the clean-up process, he would play the adagio in its entirety.

  He returned to the silently spinning glass of the armonica, and with even more interpretive motivation, wet his fingertips and played the time-honored piece to its conclusion. His performance became an act of defiance against the continued thwarting of his tower-home’s dignity at the hands of shameless nighttime hoodlums. For an instant, Merlin saw himself standing head and shoulders above the pettiness of his home’s assailants as he deftly touched the spinning glass to play the final heart-wrenching notes.

  He still had the power washer Lindley had lent him. He also had plenty of white vinegar left over to blend the cleaning concoction. As he looked at the observatory from ground level outside, he counted some three dozen eggs smashed against the observatory’s street-facing side.

  On finishing the job, Merlin had worked up a considerable appetite, and given that it was early midmorning, he decided a proper brunch was in order.

  He showered and dressed to greet the slowly unfogging day, choosing an off-white and celadon green ensemble to complement the season. The fog of his uncertainty concerning breakfast had also lifted, and he directed himself resolutely down the steps of the observatory and out the door toward the sidewalk, where he awaited the Alles car to spirit him to Tellicherry, a favorite neighborhood spot serving an inspired nouvelle version of Indian cuisine. It was a short ride to the place with high glass windows framed by rectangular steel interstices, one set of which functioned as the restaurant’s front door. Merlin liked that the big heavy door seemed size-appropriate for him, and there was something about its transparent aspect that appealed to him too, although he couldn’t really say what it was.

  He reasoned that, since the restaurant didn’t have a separate brunch menu and because brunch was a combination of breakfast and lunch, it was only fitting that he should choose from both menus. This time of morning he could stage his orders, getting his breakfast first and asking the staff to put in the order for his lunch items at eleven when the midday menu items became available. Merlin led off with a railway omelet stuffed with aromatic greens, paneer, and spicy ground lamb keema. He rose from his spot on a banquette along one of Tellicherry’s walls to retrieve house-made ketchup from a shelf in front of the kitchen to add even more complexity and dimensionality to the savory keema in his omelet. When he turned to return to his table, he heard “Hey, Merlin.” Lindley Acheson was getting water from the same shelf.

  “What’s going on?” Lindley inquired of the ketchup-toting gian
t.

  “I got egged again. I mean, the observatory was egged last night.”

  “Again?!”

  “Yes. It was particularly disturbing because when I became aware of it, I was having a very productive musical session on the armonica.”

  “I bet it was disturbing! And it happened again? That’s terrible!”

  “Yes. It seemed like three times as many eggs this time.”

  “That’s bizarre, Merlin.”

  “I used your power washer and the vinegar mixture and cleaned as much of it as I could this morning.”

  “I’m not attempting to foretell the future, but why don’t you just keep the power washer for a while. I don’t need it right now.”

  “Okay, thank you, Lindley.”

  “You know, now that this has happened twice, you might want to consider installing one of those security cameras with night vision.”

  Merlin was taken aback for a moment and uttered a surprised “Oh! I guess you’re right! Maybe I should.”

  “I would,” Lindley offered. She looked at Merlin for a silent moment and then said, “Take care of yourself, Merlin.”

  Merlin looked almost forlorn and offered a quiet “Thank you, Lindley.”

  Lindley returned to her breakfast meeting and Merlin headed toward his place on the banquette by the window. His breakfast had arrived, and before attacking it with knife and fork, he delicately held the little squeeze bottle of spicy ketchup between his right thumb and first two fingers and squirted his signature design atop the center of the stuffed omelet. The orange-red galactic whorl was set off nicely against the yellow of the egg mixture and its enfolded greens. Thinking the whorl seemed isolated and alone, he decided to flank it with two lesser whorls on either side, creating a more balanced visual mise-en-scène. Merlin didn’t consider that the three whorls might reflect a situation in his airborne life, but he did pause and regard the addition to the top of his omelet with approbation. He even took a picture of it with his mobile phone. After his unsettling early morning, it was as if the railway omelet had redeemed the universe of eggs. Then his hunger sprang like a bear trap, and he devoured the plate’s contents with workmanlike vigor. He found a copy of the New York Times and began to work the crossword puzzle, but after only a few of the squares were full, the first of his lunch items arrived.

  He led off with a South Indian dosa, a rice, lentil, and ragi crepe filled with chili-laced shrimp, peanuts, and bell pepper. There was a small metal bowl of turmeric soup, too, and Merlin picked it up in one of his big paws and downed its contents in two or three gulps. (He had heard turmeric had healing powers, so he made a special point to prioritize the soup.)

  Just as he finished the dosa, a plate containing naan, jasmine rice, and a dish of Goa pork curry with caramelized onions and a host of aromatic warm spices arrived. His fork remained in the air from his final bite of the dosa and landed without pause in the middle of the curry dish. Sides of tamarind chutney and eggplant with walnut raita also arrived to Merlin’s chomping and nodding approval.

  On finishing this main event of the lunch phase of his brunch, Merlin decided that, since he had been judicious in not ordering any samosas or pakoras before lunch, he would allow himself the indulgence of a dessert. He returned to the ordering counter and asked for pistachio kulfi ice cream, a mango lassi, and a couple of flat triangles of chocolate besan mithai, a pumpkin and sesame seed–topped chickpea fudge with a density reminiscent of the early morning fog, and so flavorful it sent his taste buds into meal-concluding orbits of bliss. The wide-eyed register attendant nodded and uttered a kind of amazed and dubious “okay” before ringing up the order. Merlin decided eating the Indian pistachio ice cream first was the strategic thing to do, as the lassi could be placed in a go-cup if necessary, and, as it was already in liquid form, it would not melt. Additionally, the besan mithai triangles were portable in a small paper bag, should he exercise enough control to save one for the afternoon. He ate the kulfi, savoring each bite of the delicately flavored cold dessert, and then, looking at the time, realized he needed to go. He called for the Alles driver on his mobile phone and asked a lithe young tattooed woman behind the counter to transfer his mango lassi to a plastic cup and the besan mithai to a container to take with him.

  Satiated, Merlin gathered his things, rose, and headed for the door. Still astonished at his intake, the dining room staff watched him leave. Even the cooks behind the high counter separating the kitchen from the seating area stood on crates, silent and wide-eyed, to witness the man who had eaten enough for three people as he waddled toward the exit.

  • Seventeen

  The next morning, Merlin sat at his desk in his small windowless office at the blimp base. Several lines of thunderstorms were moving through the area, and blimp flights were canceled until the base’s weather service gave the all clear. Merlin was normally quite fastidious in sticking to his work during business hours, but Lindley’s strong suggestion that he install a camera on the exterior of the observatory had stayed with him, and he was now scouring the internet for a suitable device.

  He decided on a model reputed to have excellent night vision capabilities, short between-shot intervals, and very high resolution (for zooming in on specific areas when reviewing video). Although the camera he chose was rather pricey, he justified the expenditure as a service to the justifiable cause of self-defense. Also, if any more eggs marred the observatory’s surface, this souped-up security camera might give him a fighting chance at unmasking the perpetrators. He thought the whole thing over once more then entered his credit card information and clicked purchase. Resolution was firming up somewhere in the neighborhood of his spine, and as he saw the “Thank you for your purchase” message, he sat up straight as if receiving electronic orders from a military superior.

  He chose the quick delivery option, and within a couple of days, he found himself unboxing and inspecting the surveillance camera. It was tiny, so he could hide it in a strategic place on or near the observatory. He picked a spot and installed it with screws specially made to hold in stucco exteriors like that of the observatory. He had enjoyed the trip to Southland Hardware to purchase necessary odds and ends for the installation. The funky old store was a neighborhood holdout against the big-box retail onslaught that had swept the nation. Its employees were quirky, yet mannerly, like Merlin himself.

  With the passage of a mere three or four days, it happened again, and Merlin’s stealthy new night-vision camera performed as advertised. Deep sleeper that he was, Merlin was unable to catch the offenders in flagrante delicto. He reviewed the act in high-definition clarity on one of his large monitors, and he was astounded at the brazenness of the egg-hurlers. The number of ovate projectiles had at least doubled or maybe tripled over the volume of the previous attack—so much so the offenders had lined up cartons just inside their SUV’s rear tailgate. They even backed the vehicle into the McNaughton driveway to launch eggs with slingshots fashioned from medical tubing. His amazement unabated, Merlin watched the whole thing several times from start to finish before he settled down to focus on specific aspects of the video.

  Although their faces were somewhat obscured by ball caps, the egg flingers seemed to be young. Additionally, their all-terrain vehicle—with a jacked-up suspension and knobby mud tires—was the kind favored by the privileged young bucks of Bayou Boughs. Although this egging had wounded his sense of self-sovereignty worse than the previous two combined, Merlin counted it a distinct fortuity that the young rogues had been so shameless as to back their vehicle up the driveway in the direction of the camera’s lens. The camera captured the vehicle’s license plate letters and numbers twice: before the tailgate’s lowering and after the delinquents closed it for their getaway.

  Although Merlin was not the most self-aware of thirty-somethings in greater Houston, he recognized that many people gave him a kind of bemused look when he spoke to them; being taken seriously by authority figures—from the neighborhood patrol all the way up to
the local constabulary and Houston police—might pose a challenge, even with his video evidence. He thought and thought about the best course of action, and he finally reasoned that, regardless of his past rebuffs, Mickey McNaughton was the individual to whom the evidence should be sent first. Merlin risked being ignored by his globetrotting young uncle, but he believed Mickey had a basic sense of fairness. He knew a phone call would not be the best option because Mickey had a way of hitting him with a barrage of words instead of listening—always deflecting whatever it was about which Merlin was inquiring. He chose to e-mail his uncle.

  Dear Mickey,

  I trust life is treating you well, wherever on this largely blue orb you may find yourself these days. I’m not writing to bore you with local happenings or to implore you to communicate with Trust Officer Bumpers on my behalf. My missive is of a completely different timbre and nature, concerning a series of property assaults that affect both of our residences. Several days ago, I returned home on a pleasant Saturday morning after a particularly satisfying Tex-Mex-influenced brunch at the club. On arrival at the side gate leading to the observatory, I noticed strange yellow streaks on its street-facing exterior. I tried to think of any local blooming flora that might jettison biota of such a hue and consistency and came up empty-handed. As I approached my residence, I noted that next to the yellow spots there were dried clear translucent daubs into many of which were encrusted tiny white shards that I quickly determined were the shrapnel of exploded eggshells. Confused and alarmed at this realization, I was grateful that a friend happened by on the sidewalk who had the equipment and proper non-home-exterior-harming liquid solution recipe for removal of this unsightly, tenacious, and odoriferous effrontery to a dwelling place whose grounds, structures, and improvements have been sacrosanct for many years—at least for me.