by John Crowley
An aged bawd who mistook his idling over this fascinating notice came close and made to speak to him; Will, startled, moved quickly away, stumbling over his feet, and a knot of lawyers watching for clients at their accustomed pillar laughed together, perhaps at him. Quickly he went out, back into the sun.
There was another world there: Paul’s churchyard was London’s book market, and in stalls sheltered amid the buttresses, under the sign of the Hart or the Compasses or the Dolphin, books were offered that Will could not buy but could look at: Holinshed’s chronicles in enormous folios, Joyfull News Brought Out of the Newe Worlde. And amid and among the stalls went the ballad-and-broadside sellers, with news of their own: Spanish plots and double murders, rules for love and rules for chess, stories new-brought out of the Italian, all true, all true.
Past Blackfriars then the traffic was all for the water, the greatest thoroughfare of London. Will was chivied down the water stairs with all the others, to contest with them there for the watermen’s services, and only made his way onto one after being shouldered aside by an alderman and his servant for the first boat to stop; and then down the river. Clouds scudding fast beyond the crowded steeples outpaced the fast river traffic, the eelboats and wherries and other light craft bobbing with bellied sails and the towering merchantmen. Will hugged his knees in his cramped space aboard the boat, and listened and saw and tasted the whole September day, seeming to have all of it inscribed on his heart for good.
Late now, and hurrying, he climbed the water stairs at Mortlake and asked the women washing for Dr. Dee’s house, and asked again at the church, and again at a gate leading into a garden, where a woman leaned, her cheeks blushed like September apples and so plump they narrowed her smiling eyes.
—Dr. Dee is it. And who might you be.
—I am sent by Master James Burbage of the Theatre in Shoreditch.
—A player.
—I am.
She studied him, amused and good-natured, and at last opened the gate she leaned against.
—The doctor is in the garden, she said. This is his house. And this is his wife.
She curtseyed slightly, mockingly. Will bowed.
—Go quietly in, she said. He is busy there, with I know not what. But then he ever is. Busy. With I know not what.
Will went where she pointed, into a well-kept garden now pillaged and gone yellow with autumn. There were knots of herbs and a carp pool and two, no three sundials of different kinds; and in the center something that didn’t belong to a garden. A sort of small house or tent, rigged up on poles with heavy cloths hung around it, and on the front of it a panel, painted black, in which there was a glass, a lens, a small round lens that caught the sun.
The curtains fluttered and bellied, and out from the little house came stooping a long man, made longer by a long sad-colored robe and a long narrow beard going gray. He glanced at Will and raised his eyebrows, but took no further note of him; he took from his clothes a little round lid, and with it he covered the glass eye in the black panel. Then he went back within.
Will stood, shifting from foot to foot.
When he came back out, Doctor Dee wore a pair of black-rimmed spectacles with claw-ends that fitted to his ears; they made his round wide eyes even more surprised, even more round, than they had been. He motioned to Will.
—Come here.
Will went to him, and the doctor took his shoulder. He led him to stand in front of the tent house, facing the blinkered glass; then he bethought himself, and moved Will back some feet from it.
—Master Burbage, sir, sends you his duty, and …
—Now what you must do, said the doctor, holding up a long finger in warning, is to stand perfectly still. Bat not a single eyelash till I tell you so. Do you hear?
Will nodded. He was growing alarmed. Was he to be charmed? Best to do what he was told. Doctor Dee went back to the black house, stood by it, and again warned Will with a skinny finger.
—Still. Still as the dead. Now.
He snatched off the little lid that covered the glass eye, and seemed to count or pray under his breath. Will, motionless, stared at the glass eye as though from it, as from a basilisk’s, killing rays might shoot. Then the doctor covered it again; he breathed deeply, and disappeared within.
Will stood frozen, hearing his heartbeats, tears gathering in his unwinked eyes.
At last Doctor Dee came out again, and seemed to see Will for the first time.
—I beg your pardon, sir! You may move, move, leap and dance.
He carried something, something flat like a plate, wrapped in black velvet.
—Come, he said. Come along, and tell me what my friend Burbage wants of me.
The house Doctor Dee led him into seemed to be more than one house, several thrown into one, with doors broken through walls and passages made to lead from barn to kitchen to still-room to washhouse; Will followed along after the doctor’s billowing robe and slipslop slippers, into a large long room, windowed on both sides with small mullioned windows, and stuffed full of more things, in greater disorder, than any room he had ever been in or dreamed of.
It was a wizard’s den for sure. What made it so wasn’t only the brass armillary sphere, bones of the whole heavens in small, which any wizard might have; it wasn’t only the two parchment-colored globes standing together like different thoughts about the world, or the astronomer’s staff marked in degrees, which Will couldn’t understand the use of but that was surely more marvelous than any lignum vitæ. It wasn’t exactly the clutter of objects rare and common, the yellow-toothed skull (sal cranii humani), the gems, prisms, crystals, and bits of colored glass gathered together in earthenware pots or scattered on tabletops or hung in windows to color the daylight; or the manuscripts tied up with string or the slips of paper written on in three or four different languages and tacked up here and there as though to remind Doctor Dee of secrets he had concocted but might otherwise forget; it was all these things, and the convex glass on the wall that reflected it all, and the black cat that sniffed at the remains of a plate of supper there (pigeon’s bones and a rind of cheese), and even the feather duster protruding like a shabby bird from the pocket of a coat hung on a nail. Most of all it was the books: more books than he had ever seen gathered in one place together, books in tall cases, books piled in corners, books leaning wearily together on shelves, books bound and unbound in this room and in the passage beyond and rising to the ceiling on shelves in the next room; open books laid atop other open books on tables and in the seats of chairs. In the houses of his Arden relatives, Will had seen many books, dozens together, locked up in cupboards, silent. These hundreds—thousands it might be—he could almost hear them whispering together, whispering to each other of their contents.
Doctor Dee, hearing Will’s footsteps slow and halt, came back from the passage.
—Are you a lover of books?
Will couldn’t answer that.
—There are books here a player might study, he said. I have Æschylus. Euripides. Do you read Greek? No. Well, here are histories too, Leland and Polydore Vergil. I have bought Holinshed’s new chronicle, but it has not yet been brought me. Plutarch, Englished by North. Those are fine tales.
—Have you read them all? Will asked, not quite in a whisper. Doctor Dee lowered his strange spectacles and smiled at him.
—If you like, he said, you may come back, and look into them. Read what ones you like. There are many who come here to find this or that. Tales. History. Knowledge.
For a moment he waited for the boy to say something, a thankee sir at least for politeness’s sake, but Will only stared.
—Come along then, he said, and tell me what my friend Burbage wants of me. Come.
He led Will out of the room and down a twist of corridors and into an odorous still-room where there were jugs and bottles, retorts and cucurbites like great fat birds, corked jars full and empty; he pushed the boy before him through a door and a heavy curtain into a darkened shuttered room
in which a single candle burned.
—Come, he said. Your business, sir.
As best he could Will stammered out what it was that Burbage wanted to know, about the brazen vessels, which after all he hadn’t really understood; Doctor Dee nodded and hummed in his throat, going on with his work, which must, Will thought, be magic for sure.
—And cast back, throw back the voice, over, under …
—Mm. Mm-hm.
He had taken out from the folded velvet a square of thin metal, blackish, which he took carefully by its edges. He slipped it into a small basin full of fluid, where it sank, turning brown, then reddish brown. Doctor Dee studied it carefully. Black streaks began to appear on its surface, a dapple of marks coming forth, making shapes.
—Ah, said the doctor.
With a tiny pair of tongs he lifted out the square of metal, turning it this way and that, letting the fluid run off it. Then he took it and the stub of candle to the end of his workbench, and slipped the candle under a little pot on a tripod.
—Mercurius, he said. Smiling, he pressed his finger to his lips.
When the mercury in his pot was hot enough, he held the metal square over it, at an angle, fumigating it, peering at it now and then with satisfaction. At last he pushed open the shutters, daylight flooded the little chamber, he held out the metal plate to Will.
Will took it and looked. On its surface, as on an engraver’s plate, but far clearer, there was a picture: a boy, solemn, rigid, standing in a garden, a sundial behind him. Himself.
Himself, these clothes he wore, this old hat on his head; his face. Will was looking into a mirror: a mirror he had looked into a quarter of an hour ago, and still stood looking into. Forever.
Doctor Dee saw him speechless, and with two fingers took the picture from him by an edge.
—A toy, he said, and tossed it into an open box there of other stained plates. There are greater things. There are even greater toys.
He put his arm around Will’s shoulder.
—Now, he said. We will look into Vitruvius. And into your nativity too, is that not it? And see what we can see.
“What’s the book?” said a large shadow that had come between Rosie and the window light.
“Hi,” she said to Spofford’s bulk above her. “Pretty crazy. This sort of magician character just took a photograph of Shakespeare.”
“No kidding.”
They looked at each other for a silent space, smiling.
“What are you in town for?” Rosie said.
“Brought my friend Pierce in to catch the bus. Picked up some stuff. And you? Mind if I sit down?”
“Well sort of. Yes and no. Oh heck sit down.”
He slid carefully into the booth opposite her, watching her lowered face. “What’s up?”
She huffed out a sigh, cupping her cheek in her hand and staring down at her book as though still reading it. Then she closed it. “I’m going to see a lawyer this morning,” she said. “Allan Butterman, up the street.”
Spofford said nothing, and the wary smile he had retained from his greeting didn’t alter, but he seemed to expand in the seat; his long legs stretched out under the table and a brown arm hooked over the booth’s back.
“There’s something I want to say,” Rosie said, folding her hands as in prayer. “I like you a lot. A lot. You’ve been great. Swell.”
“But.”
“I don’t want you to think I’m doing this for you. ’Cause I’m not.”
“Nope.”
“I’m not doing it for you or anyone. I’m just doing it. The whole idea is that I’m doing it alone, it’s something that makes me alone. Whatever happens later on.” She drummed her fingers on the table between them. “That’s why I sort of didn’t want you to sit down. Why I sort of don’t want you to say anything about it.”
She meant she refused to have him as a reason. If other and larger things, more desperate things, could not be reasons, then Spofford, a good thing, could not be one. It was only fair: to her and everyone.
“I won’t,” he said. He crossed his arms before him. There was a pale fish tattooed on the back of his left hand; sometimes it was invisible. “The black dog’s day is not yet.”
“What?”
“That’s from a story. Seems this lord had a black dog, a good-for-nothing hound, ate him out of house and home, didn’t do anything but lay in the doorway to trip over, useless. Wouldn’t hunt, couldn’t track. People kept telling the lord to get rid of the dog, and he says, ‘Uh-uh. The black dog’s day is not yet.’”
“Where did you get this story?” Rosie said laughing. Spofford—it was a thing she liked about him—was always showing himself to be full of surprising nooks and crannies where odd items like that were stored.
“Well,” Spofford said, “that story, I would guess, comes from Dickens or from Scott, one. My folks had two humongous sets of these books. Works. Dickens, and Scott. It’s about all the books they did have. And I don’t say I read them all, but I read a lot of both. I got them sort of spelling each other, you know, so I can’t always remember whose stories are which. I would say that story is Wally Scott. And if it wasn’t Wally Scott it was Chuck Dickens. Who would know, probably, is my friend Pierce.”
“And that’s the whole story?”
“Heck no. The black dog has his day. Saves the guy’s life. That’s the end.”
“Every dog has his day.”
Spofford said nothing further, only grinned so that the dead tooth showed in his mouth, so insolently self-satisfied that she had to look away not to grin back.
“So by the way,” she said, gathering up purse, book, and change from the table purposefully, ready to go and changing the subject, “how did your friend—Pierce?—how did your friend Pierce enjoy his visit?”
“He liked it,” Spofford said, not rising with her. “He’ll be back.”
He had liked it. He would think of it often, in different ways and in different contexts; he had already begun to think of it in the frigid airless bus passing away. And—on city streets, still violent with summer, foul with loathsome summer; in his tower apartment, grown too large now as the suit of a wasted starveling; or when steeling himself for the task he now knew lay ahead—he would sometimes feel those scenes he had visited lying just behind him, a pool of golden light, so close that he was uncertain just how he had traveled from there to here: to here where he supposed he must now be for good, or as nearly for good as made no difference.
TWO
Sorry, sorry, sorry,” said Allan Butterman, tearing into the office where Rosie had been put. “You were waiting for hours, right? I am really terribly sorry.” He detached from his arm a black band that was pinned there, and dabbed at his face with a large and handsome handkerchief. In a vested black suit and tie, he looked chic, his somehow French features (sharp nose, black eyes and glossy hair, white smooth skin) emphasized, his plump cheeks supported by the starched tall collar. “Oh God,” he said; he sighed greatly, and stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket.
“Was it somebody you knew real well?” Rosie said carefully.
“Oh no,” Allan said. “Oh no. No. Just an old old client. Old as Methusaleh. Very very old client of the firm. Oh God it’s really just too bad.” He bit the knuckle of his forefinger, staring out at the river and the day; he sighed again, and composed himself.
“Now,” he said. “First of all, how are you, would you like a cup of coffee? I’m Allan Butterman, Allan Butterman Junior, I’m not really sure your uncle has entirely understood that it’s me who’s been answering his letters and so on lately, my father passed away about two years ago. So.” He smiled wanly at Rosie.
“Did Boney tell you?”
“He sort of hinted. A divorce. Or at least a separation.” “That’s right.”
Allan huffed out his breath, shook his head, stared down at his desktop. He seemed to be keeping one step ahead of awful grief, and Rosie was almost afraid of embarking on details for fear of delivering h
im up to it. “I’m already separated. I mean I left anyway.”
He nodded slowly, regarding her, the lines of his brow contorted. “Kids?” he asked.
“One. A three-year-old girl.”
“Oh God.”
“It’s sort of been in the works for a long time,” Rosie said, to comfort him.
“Yes?” Allan said. “When did you guys decide?”
“Well,” Rosie said. “He didn’t, really. I sort of did.”
“He’s not in on this?”
“Not exactly. Not yet.”
“When did you tell him you intended to seek this?”
“Well, day before yesterday.”
Allan spun in his swivel chair. He put the tips of his fingers together, and regarded the day again, but as though it could give him no joy. He laughed, shortly, bitterly. “Well,” he said. “I’ll tell you what. I don’t actually really handle divorces much. Mr. Rasmussen said you had a problem, and I said of course, come in, let’s see what we can do. But actually there might be other guys who would do a better job for you than me.
“Okay. Having said that. Even if I were to handle this eventually for you, I would ask you right now just to think very seriously about it, and see whether you’ve thought it all through. Marriage is real easy and cheap to get into, and real complicated and expensive to get out of. I don’t suppose you and, and …”
“Mike.”
“Mike, you and Mike had any kind of marriage contract or prenuptial agreement about this?”
“No.” She’d read about people doing that; it had seemed the kind of grotesque idea only other people thought of, like getting married in an airplane, or buying a common burial plot. Now she wondered. An escape clause: fingers secretly crossed, I take it all back. “No.”
“Okay,” Allan said. “Let me explain this. It used to be, not long ago, even when I first went into practice, that for two people to get a divorce one of them had to have done some pretty serious wrong to the other. Adultery. Habitual drunkenness. Drug addiction. Mental cruelty, which was no joke then, and had to be really established. Okay? That meant that if two people just didn’t want to stay together anymore, no particular reason, then they had to arrange for one of them to lie in court about the reason—and for the other not to contest the lie. And if the court suspected that that kind of collusion was going on, the divorce didn’t get granted. It was a very nasty business all around, husbands wives attorneys all lying through their teeth.
