«Well, my dear, I'm afraid you are very uninteresting, palm-wise. It says you'll be happily married, your children will turn out okay and you'll live longer than I will.»
«Seriously, Eliot, do you believe in occult things?»
His face said yes before he did. «Without any question, Cullen. I've seen too many things _not_ to believe it.»
«Then will you promise not to tell anyone if I tell you something? Especially not Danny?»
«Cross my heart, Mrs. James.»
I took a deep, deep breath and for the fourth time in one year, launched into the story of Rondua.
Eliot chewed his lip and looked at his fingernails while I spoke, but I knew he was paving attention.
«And Danny knows all about it?»
«All but the recent parts. Not about the racing driver and Alvin Williams being in there too. It worried him enough before; he thought something was going wrong with me.»
«But the shrinks said you were all right, right? Not that those dunces know what they're talking about! I once went to a psychiatrist who told me I'd get better if I painted my apartment green.»
«No, both of them said it was a little _abnormal_ for the dreams to go on in such perfect . . . order, but it was nothing to really worry about.»
We dropped the subject a while later when Mae woke from her nap and started complaining. But later that evening, he called and said he had talked with a friend of his who owned a bookstore. This friend was a big Doris Lessing fan and she had once told Eliot something about Lessing that rang a bell in his head when we talked.
«Cullen, you're insane, but you're not at _all_ original. According to my friend Elisabeth Zobel, Doris Lessing has what she calls 'serial dreams.' Here, listen to this: it's a quote from an interview Doris did in London: 'I had serial dreams. I don't mean to say necessarily the same story. But when I have a certain dream, I know it is the same area of my mind. . . . But it is not like a film which ends at a certain place or event. What happens is, I dream in the same area, like the same landscape or the same people, but above all the same feeling, the same atmosphere.'»
I closed my eyes and sighed a big deep sigh. It sounded so familiar.
«It sounds similar, Eliot, but not exactly the same.» I looked around the room to make sure Danny wasn't within earshot. «How come Alvin Williams and that racing driver were in there too?»
«Because they're part of your _life_, dumbie! Cullen, I'll bet you a million dollars Doris Lessing has her Alvin Williams too. All of us take things from our everyday life and stick them right in our dreams – and usually crookedly too. You and Doris make a lovely pair. Good night, Mrs. Norman Bates. Say hello to your husband for me.»
Early one morning we came up over a soft rise and below us, a mile or two away, was a wide paved road that stretched all the way to the horizon.
I was sitting on top of Martio's high hump, holding Pepsi in front of me. Mr. Tracy stood next to us, our Bones of the Moon walking sticks stuck in the black silk band of his enormous hat.
«Should I know about that road, Mr. Tracy?»
«No, I don't think so, Cullen. It was built after you left. Some of the machines on the plain just started up and began working on it. They kept at it until they had made a road that crosses all of Rondua. None of us know what it's for, but it does get you places twice as fast. If you want to go and visit Jackie Billows in the Conversation Bath some day, just get on that road and you'll be there a week earlier than you first planned.»
«Well, does anyone ever use it?»
«Not that I know of.» He stopped and looked at Martio and Felina, who both shook their heads.
Martio raised his head and turned to face us as best he could around his hump. «Once in a while they'll have a party on it, depending on which Stroke you're in. It's a very good surface to dance on.»
Although we were far from the road, I could see something moving toward us from the horizon very quickly.
«Look, there's something coming our way!»
«Yeah, look, Mom! What's that, Mr. Tracy?»
«That? That's just the speed of sound. Sometimes, if you're very lucky, you'll be able to see the speed of light go by too, but that's rare. Sizzling Thumb likes to keep as much light as he can in his Stroke. But the speed of sound is so common, and there's so much _of_ it. . . . Most of us just ignore it if we're near. If you wait a minute, you'll hear it and know what I mean.»
The sound from the road arrived a few seconds later. It was the noise I had known all of my life – cars, whistles, people talking, footsteps – everything smashed together in a big bunch. For a moment, the air around us was thick with it, but it passed.
Pepsi turned and looked at Mr. Tracy, his small face serious and adult. «Where are we going now, Mr. Tracy?»
«We have to find the second Bone, Pepsi. _You_ have to find it. And before that, we have to go and meet Sizzling Thumb. Do you remember him, Cullen?»
The boy and the three animals looked at me. I felt so stupid looking back and shaking my head. _Sizzling Thumb_?
Eliot knocked gently on the door of the suite. I had never seen him so nervous. He'd invited me to go with him to the Pierre Hotel to interview Weber Gregston, whose new film _Sorrow and Son_ had everyone talking. I'd seen it and liked it very much, but people really paid to see what this Gregston character was going to do next.
He was a strange man who had made only three films in ten years and paid little attention to what either Hollywood or the public wanted. A decade before, he had been an obscure young poet who had abruptly come into the public eye when he _1_. won a MacArthur Fellowship and then _2_. used most of the money to make a low-budget black and white film about a man who was convinced he was his own wife. It won a special award at the Berlin Film Festival and purportedly caused a riot in St. Louis, Missouri. One of the things I liked about the movie was its title – _The Night is Blond_.
But the thing I liked most about his movies was the photography. Weber Gregston saw things in ways that either rang bells in your subconscious (hey, I never thought of it _that_ way before! . . .) or else amazed you with new angles and color combinations and visions of life that were not only unique and compelling, but also utterly recognizable and understandable at the same time.
While we waited, Eliot shifted his briefcase from hand to hand and made faces at me. Gregston rarely gave interviews and had allowed this one only because he thought what Eliot Kilbertus had said about his last picture, _How to Put on Your Hat_, was «offensive and interesting.»
When he finally opened the door, neither Eliot nor I knew what to do, so we just stood there and waited for Gregston's first move. But he didn't move; he stood there and looked at us coolly. The first words that came to my mind were «Scotland» or «Wales.» If his ancestors hadn't come from that part of the world, I would have been very surprised. He was a handsome man in his late thirties, but handsome in a rugged, burly way; he looked like a rugby player or an athlete who liked to jump in the mud and mix it up with the boys. His deep-set green eyes were quiet and reserved, his red-brown hair could have used a good brushing. He was wearing a T-shirt that said «AIDA COFFEE AND TEA RESEARCH VIENNA, AUSTRIA» and a pair of leather pants, the color of a candy bar, which must have cost as much as a Mercedes-Benz. He had on white gvm socks and no shoes.
«You're Kilbertus?»
«Yes. Hello.» Eliot put out his hand to shake, but Gregston ignored it and looked at me.
«Who's your friend?» He gave me an amazingly cold onceover. Well, I thought to myself, Fuck _you_, Weber.
«This is my friend, Cullen James. If you object to her being here, then I'm not interested in interviewing you.»
«Wowie Zowie!» Gregston smiled sunnily and whipped one of his hands down in a pretend-karate chop. «Tough guys! Come in, _both_ of you. Cullen, huh? What kind of name is that?»
He didn't wait for an answer. As he turned back into the room, Eliot gave him the finger and blew me a silent kiss. We followed him into a livi
ng room where the remnants of someone's breakfast lay unattractively on a side table.
While Eliot set up his tape recorder, Gregston flopped down on a couch and looked me over again. «You didn't answer my question. Where does 'Cullen' come from?»
I shrugged and wanted to go home. He had already popped my hero-worship balloon and I wasn't about to let him get to any others. I felt like a drowning person who's going down for the last time – only it was Gregston's life that raced through my mind rather than my own. Here was a prime example of a nasty, lucky son of a bitch who had probably got every woman he'd ever wanted by spitting in her eye. How many sad, sappy women had let him do that, then felt «privileged» to say they had spent a night or two under Weber Gregston . . . in every way?
Yet once the interview began, he opened up and showed both a brilliance and an insight which made it clear where all of those good movies had come from. Most of the time he spoke in a quiet, indifferent voice; later, Eliot said it was the kind you hear giving the stock prices over the radio. In the same tone he would talk about an old lover of his who had recently committed suicide, or a dwarf-throwing contest in Australia. I didn't know if he was putting on an act, but judging from both his initial rudeness and this distant tone of voice, I got the feeling he didn't give much of a damn what we thought of him.
About halfway through, Eliot excused himself to go to the bathroom. As soon as he was gone, Gregston asked if I would like to spend the rest of the day with him.
«No, thanks.»
«How come?»
«Well, partly because I don't like you, but mostly because I do like my husband and daughter.»
«Sticking to your guns, huh?» I think he was taken aback, but there was a faint stench of mockery in his voice. He rubbed his knees and nodded to himself. «Now you can go home and tell your husband you said 'No'. He'll like that.»
«Look –« I was about to say something, but decided to leave instead. As I got up, I asked him to tell Eliot I'd gone home and would meet him there.
«Maybe I should ask _Eliot_ to blow me, so it won't be a total waste.»
«He wouldn't be able to _find_ it, Weber.»
My back was turned when I said that, so I didn't see him get up. But faster than hell, I felt his hand on my shoulder, wrenching me around to face him. No man had ever touched me like that. Up close, he looked ten feet tall and as mean as a snake. Terrified, I flung up my arms to protect my face.
He drew back his hand to slap me, I think. I stuck one of mine out to block him and even at that ferocious moment, I thought how ridiculous it must have looked – like a cop directing traffic.
A giant arc of purple light flared out from the middle of my palm. I knew that light – I'd seen it in the dreams: Rondua light, Bones of the Moon light.
«Stay away!»
The light struck Gregston square in the chest and knocked him back across the room.
My hand, the light now gone, stayed extended toward him.
The baby-sitter had left and I was on the couch with Mae held tight to my chest when the doorbell rang. I got up and let in a wildly grinning Eliot.
«Cullen James, what did you do? I went out of that room for five minutes! When I got back, you were gone, Gregston was on his ass and he was looking at the door like Hitler had just left. What _happened?_
«Nothing. He's a hateful, horrible, _horrible_ man.»
«That's why you left? Why, I'm horrible and you like _me_.»
«Eliot, please just shut up. Could you leave me alone now?»
Mae patted my cheeks and it was hard for me to keep from crying.
«Cullen –«
«Just _go_, Eliot! Okay? I'll call you later.»
«Stop it! Calm down. Do you want some tea?»
He looked at me worriedly and walked into the kitchen. Half of me hated him for staying, the other half was grateful for his company. Being alone at that moment would have been bad.
The scene in the hotel room kept replaying in my mind in slow motion. My raised hand and open fingers, the blast of wavy purple light, Gregston catching it in the chest and flying away. It reminded me of watching Lopez's car crash on television: replay after slow replay until you couldn't help memorizing the worst. But this time it was my own mind that kept rerunning the film and not some hot-shot television producer in a control room. Raised hand, open fingers, shot of light. . . .
«Eliot!»
He ran into the room with a cup and saucer in his hands.
«Eliot, please sit down and let me tell you this. Don't say _anything_ until I've told you every little bit.»
I told him everything. And when I was done, what made me love him very much was that he didn't ask me one skeptical question. He believed me, thank God.
«Okay, Cullen. Let me call Mary. She'll tell us what's up, one way or the other.»
«Who's Mary?» The last thing I wanted was another person, a stranger, in my living room. It felt like my whole life was in the middle of the worst earthquake in ages.
«Mary's a good friend of mine who's probably the best palmist in New York. If anyone can tell what's happening to you now, it's her. You have to trust me on this one, Cullen. All I can say is that if the same thing had happened to me, I'd call Mary first and wait to hear what she had to say after she looked at my hand.»
«Oh shit, I hate this. I can't tell you how much I hate this whole damned thing.»
An hour later the doorbell rang and Eliot went to answer it. I wasn't any calmer, but being at home and having a friend there who knew the whole strange truth made it more bearable.
Eliot came back in, followed by a good-looking thirtyish woman with short hair, large soft eyes and a confident smile. I liked her looks.
«Cullen James, this is Mary Miller. Mary, we want you to do a complete reading. The total works, okay?»
«Sure, Eliot. Hi, Cullen! Have you ever done this before? No? It's real easy and you don't have to be scared or anything.»
She sat down next to me and, to my surprise, took out the kind of rubber roller you use to make linoleum blockprints, a tube of black ink and some sheets of white paper.
Opening the tube, she took my hands and squeezed a sizeable blob onto both palms. Eliot hadn't told me about this part, so I looked up at him to see what was going on.
«Some palmists do it this way, Cullcn. They don't even look at your hand – just the print on the paper when it's done.»
Mary rolled the jet-black ink evenly over and over my palms, then turned them down on to the paper for a print. She was dissatisfied with the first two, so we did the whole thing again. I felt as if I had been arrested and was being booked and fingerprinted.
«Okay, Cullen. I've got it now. These last two will be fine. You can go and wash your hands; that ink comes right off. While you're in there, I'll have a good look at these prints. Take your time.»
I left for the bathroom, followed closely by Eliot. While I scrubbed away in the basin with soap and a pumice stone, he reminded me not to say a word to Mary once she got started. To let her do all the talking and not give her any hints about myself or what had just happened. Outside information could contuse or distract her and that would badly affect things.
When we walked back into the room I was scared, but the expression on her face was okay. She was looking at Eliot.
«I don't know what happened, Eliot, but from everything I can see here, she's absolutely fine.» She looked down at the pieces of paper in front of her and nodded.
«Cullen, I can give you a life reading or a crisis reading. But it sounds like you want a crisis reading?»
«Yes, I guess I do.» I looked at Eliot, who nodded and put his finger to his lips.
«Okay, then I'd say you have nothing to worry about. In tact, I'm very surprised you're having any kind of trouble. Everything in your hand says you're all right. Your marriage is balanced, but you already know that. Sometimes you wish your husband was a little bit more exciting and zippy, but besides that . . . Your children h
ave inherited that healthy balance. They also trust you, which is extremely important.»
«You mean my _child_. I have only one.»
Eliot shushed me and wiggled his finger for me to be quiet.
«If you believe in reincarnation, it says you've lived several very interesting lives and have learned from them. What's most important in a reading like this, a crisis reading, is that there's no death in your hand now, Cullen.» She looked at me and smiled reassuringly. «Your father was very ill recently, wasn't he? Anyway, you're still worried that he'll die soon, but he won't. He has a few years to go yet and having you around has made both him and your mother tremendously happy. They're both in seventh heaven about having a grandchild; it makes them feel stronger and necessary again. Your husband had some kind of trouble a few months ago – Something to do with his body, but also his work. Anyway, he's completely recovered and likes the path his life has taken. And by the way, he loves you very much. That's all over your hand.» She pointed to a few lines here and there and I looked at them as if I knew what she was talking about. «When I do a crisis reading, people are usually worried either about death or some kind of disaster. Neither thing is _anywhere_ on your hand now.
«Just the opposite, actually! It's sort of difficult to describe this, but it's as if your life is at peace now. I've seen this kind of pattern before in people who are terminally ill, but who have overcome their fear of death. Don't get me wrong though – there's not a sign of death in or near you now, but you seem to have resolved something that is very hard for most of us to resolve. Like accepting our own deaths, or something else like that.
«When you were younger, you tore yourself apart with contradictions, like so many of us do. You were distant from everyone, but then you turned round and gave yourself to a man who ate you alive. It was a big disaster, right? It was like the Push Me-Pull You in _Doctor Dolittle_, remember? One half went one way, the other the other? Well, that was you then. But you're not that way now. Your feet are on the ground because subconsciously you know you're both needed and loved by a number of people, and those are the two things everyone wants most out of life. You want to be loved and you want to know there are a bunch of people who need you, specifically _you_. If you had asked for a life reading, I'd have told you you're a very lucky woman. You _are_ a very lucky woman! There's a great deal of love both in and toward you, if you get what I mean. I haven't seen so much in a person's palm for a long time. It radiates right out of there in all kinds of directions. It's your base, it's like your main ingredient. There is _no_ crisis here, Cullen. I can guarantee that, and I don't usually say things like that unless I'm absolutely sure.»
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