Dei Ex Machina

by Kim Fielding

  Apparently reaching a decision, Lulić leaned forward and dropped his voice slightly. “My mother is… I do not know English word. She can talk to, ah, duhovi. How you say….” He scrunched up his face as he tried to remember.

  “I don’t understand,” Mason said.

  Like many Croatian men, Lulić carried a man-bag. He rummaged in it for a moment and then pulled out a phone. He poked at it as he said, “I have translation app. Ah! Spirits. My mother talks to spirits.”

  Well, that was a surprise. “Mom sees dead people?”

  Unexpectedly, Lulić grinned. “Sixth Sense! Bruce Willis. I am fan. Die Hard.” Then he grew serious again. “My mother is like this. She talks to spirits. She has done this since she was young. She says it is like turning radio to right station. Most of us cannot get this station, but she can.”

  Hands down, it was the weirdest conversation Mason had undertaken in years. He wondered if he should check Adam’s copy of Rick Steves’s guidebook to see if this was some local scam. But Viktor seemed earnest enough, and he hadn’t yet asked for a thing. And, well, at least Mason would have a good story to take home with him.

  “That’s an interesting hobby your mom has, but I don’t see how it helps me.”

  “Maybe she can talk to your husband. Say good-bye for you. This will give you some peace.”

  Mason felt as if his heart were bathed in acid. “Carl died six thousand miles from here.”

  “Yes. But maybe this does not matter. My mother’s spirits are from everywhere.” He chuckled. “She understands only those who speak Croatian or German, though.”

  “Carl only spoke English. And ancient Latin and Greek.” Because if you taught classical history, you pretty much had to. Sometimes Carl would recite ancient poetry to Mason, who didn’t understand the words but was always turned on by them.

  “I can translate,” Viktor said. “If she can find him. I cannot promise she will, but she can try.”

  The guy’s entire story had to be bullshit from top to bottom. This was not an M. Night Shyamalan movie, and nobody could tune in the dead. Viktor was either crazy or a slick scam artist. People who were shattered by loss made the perfect marks. Mason knew all of this. But God, it was so tempting to believe! Just the idea of a few final words with Carl, a chance to let him know how much Mason loved him, how much he missed him….

  “I don’t have the money to pay for anything like this,” Mason said with a sigh. It was true. On Adam’s insistence, he’d invested most of the money from Carl’s life insurance in a retirement account, because Mason was self-employed and wouldn’t have a pension. The remainder had gone to paying down the mortgage so the bills would be less tight on a single income. The European trip had been a splurge that ate up a lot of his savings account.

  “This is not for money,” Viktor said.

  “Then why?”

  “Because… you are so sad. In Dalmatia, you should enjoy sea and wine and delicious food. You should not be sad.” He smiled and waved his hands to indicate the entire square, as if he were saying, How can anyone mourn in a beautiful place like this?

  “You don’t even know me.”

  “True. But in one year I will end my job—I am mechanic for trains—and I will start tourist company. This is why I practice English. And you will be so happy with me, you will send many friends to Split. I will be rich.” Viktor grinned widely. It was really hard not to like him.

  “Fine. Send my message to your mother, and if she dials up Carl, you can text me to let me know.”

  “She will have to see you in person. Because he was your husband. You will be like….” He poked at his phone again. “Like antenna for radio.”

  “Thanks, but—”

  “Tomorrow. Now she cooks dinner, I think. Tomorrow I meet you here, and I will take you to her. It is not far. Ten?”

  Although it was insane, Mason found himself nodding. Hell, at the very least he was curious to know what the scam was. Probably nothing violent. Despite a recent civil war, Croatians were a lot less likely to kill people than Americans were. He was willing to bet not a single Croatian professor had been murdered while walking from his office to the library.

  “Okay,” Mason said. “Ten o’clock.”

  3

  “You are out of your fucking mind,” Adam said with complete conviction.

  They’d picked up a prosciutto pizza for dinner—Croatians were very fond of the stuff and made it as well as the Italians—and brought it back to their apartment, where the five of them sat around a dining table that looked as if it came from Ikea. In fact, all the furniture looked to be products of an umlaut-riddled warehouse, which was a bit incongruous with the apartment’s ancient stone walls, curved archways, and hand-hewn ceiling beams. The building itself was about a block from one of the palace entrances, in a part of town that had been built around the time Columbus was looking for India. It was a comfortable apartment, with three bedrooms and two baths, located above a street-level bar and an ice cream place.

  Mason took a bite of pizza, chewed, and swallowed. “Probably,” he admitted.

  “So you’ll come with us to Hvar in the morning? We’re taking a catamaran.” Adam navigated his pizza slice through the air as if it were a boat.

  “Nope. I’m going to meet Viktor at ten.”

  “But that’s nuts! We’re going to be exploring a beautiful island while you’re having a séance with a serial killer.”

  Chewing thoughtfully, Mason tilted his head. “I wonder if serial killers would attend séances. Would it bother them to chat with their victims, or would they get a kick out of it?”

  “Mason!” When Adam got exasperated, he sounded remarkably like their father. Mason considered telling him so.

  “I think you should go with Viktor,” Pete said quietly, and everyone swiveled their heads to stare. Pete was brilliant but spoke little outside the classroom. He was the kind of guy who watched everything, missing nothing. When he did offer advice, his words carried a lot of weight. Plus, Mason reminded himself, this trip had been organized on Pete’s behalf too. That same sunny morning eight months earlier, Pete had walked across the quad just in time to see a kid with a gun mow down two students, the Dean of Humanities, and the man who was one of Pete’s colleagues and closest friends.

  “Why do you say that?” Doug asked, resting his hand on Pete’s shoulder.

  “Because it’s pretty unlikely this Viktor guy really is a serial killer. And because maybe whatever his mother does will help Mason feel a little better. Help him heal.” He offered Mason a small, apologetic smile.

  Adam snorted dismissively. “Don’t tell me you believe in that crap!”

  “Spiritualism? I’m neutral on the subject. The null hypothesis has never been disproven to my satisfaction, but that doesn’t mean there’s no afterlife, or that communication with those who’ve passed on is impossible. I’ve been studying the human mind for almost twenty years, and it’s an astonishing phenomenon. It wouldn’t surprise me if it transcended and even survived the physical self, if some part of us lasted beyond death. A spark.” He smiled at Mason again.

  The conversation moved on to everyone’s theories about life and death and heaven and hell, and Adam stopped arguing about Mason’s plans. Later that night, though, while Adam and Mason took their turn washing the dinner dishes, Adam leaned in close. “Don’t get yourself hurt, big brother. Mom and Dad will kill me if I bring you back to the States in pieces.” And he ruffled Mason’s hair with his soapsudsy fingers.

  In the morning, Nicole made a last-ditch effort to get Mason to see sense. Adam had probably put her up to it. But Mason dug in his heels, and eventually the gang left for the harbor without him. It was too early to meet Viktor, so Mason emptied his pockets of everything except a hundred kuna—less than twenty bucks—his phone, and a photocopy of his passport. If Viktor did turn out to be a robber, he wasn’t going to get anything out of the deal except a smartphone two generations out of date and enough money for a
pizza and beer.

  Mason spent over an hour wandering the old city aimlessly, stopping once for a piece of cherry strudel. As he walked, he sometimes let his fingers sweep against the palace’s stone walls, thinking about the many thousands of people who’d brushed against them over the years.

  At ten to ten, he found yesterday’s café in People’s Square. His previous table was occupied, so he sat next to it. The same expressionless waiter took his order for cappuccino.

  Viktor arrived almost fifteen minutes late. Mason had already learned that Croatians in general—and Dalmatians especially—took a more southern European approach to punctuality, rather than emulating some of their prompter neighbors to the north. That didn’t bother him. There were a million worse places to spend time than in a café a few blocks from the Adriatic, sitting and watching people stroll by.

  When Viktor finally plopped down across from Mason, he looked happy. “I did not scare you away.”

  “Not quite. My friends think you might be Hannibal Lecter, though.”

  Viktor grinned. “Not possible. I drink žlahtina, not Chianti. So you will come with me?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Good. My mother wants to meet you. She likes Americans. She says you are loud like Italians, but you are friendly and you, um, like old things very much.”

  “I’ll try to keep my voice down,” Mason said with a chuckle. Then he attempted to catch the waiter’s attention and failed spectacularly.

  Apparently realizing the problem, Viktor turned his head, and as if by magic, the waiter sauntered over with the bill.

  Impressive, Mason thought as he set a few coins on the plastic tray.

  Viktor led him out of the old city, but not far. His mother apparently lived in a nondescript socialist-era building just a few blocks from the Riva. “I live in second-floor flat with my children,” Viktor explained as he unlocked the front door. “My mother lives upstairs. Is good for children to be near their grandmother, yes? And train station is only short walk from here.”

  “How old are your kids?” Mason asked.

  “Ten and twelve. They are in school now. Too bad. They could practice English with you.”

  The building’s common area was somewhat dingy and hadn’t been updated since Tito’s days. There was no elevator. Mason was puffing slightly by the time they arrived in front of Mrs. Lulić’s door—which was actually on the fourth floor by American counting. He used to be in really good shape, but he’d let that slip after Carl’s death. The only exercise he’d been getting lately was at work, digging and planting.

  Viktor rapped twice but didn’t wait for an answer. He opened the door and ushered Mason inside. The apartment interior was bright and cheery, with modern furniture in the living room and a few abstract paintings on the walls. After the shabby common area at street level and the gloomy stairwell, Mason was pleasantly surprised.

  Mrs. Lulić, when she came bustling in, was a surprise too. Mason had vaguely expected a witchy-looking old lady wearing a babushka and lumpy sweater, but Mrs. Lulić was tall and elegant, with carefully styled blonde hair and a flattering green dress. “Hello,” she said, smiling at him and holding out her hand.

  “Uh, dobar dan, Mrs. Lulić.” Good day was almost the limit of his Croatian, but she seemed to appreciate his attempt as they shook. Then he realized that he’d never told Viktor his name. “I’m Mason Gould. Thank you for letting me come over.”

  Viktor murmured softly in translation.

  If the Lulićes were up to no good, they were certainly going about it oddly. They sat Mason in a comfy chair, and Mrs. Lulić brought him tea and some kind of custardy cake, and then Viktor translated as she asked gentle questions about the US.

  “I have always wanted to visit New York,” she said via her son.

  Mason grinned. “Me too. I’ve never been to the east coast.”

  “Yes, America is very big. Tell me, is California like we see in movies?”

  “Parts of it, sure. Not where I live. We have cows. And strip malls.”

  Viktor had to use his phone to figure out how to say strip mall in Croatian.

  She recommended a few of her favorite restaurants in Split and told him he really ought to see at least one of the islands. And, she said, if he planned to travel inland, he needed to go to Plitvice Lakes National Park.

  Viktor seconded that endorsement. “Most beautiful place on planet.”

  “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” Mason and his gang were bound for Vienna next because Doug was a cellist who thought everybody ought to be subjected to a lot of Mozart.

  Eventually the tea and cakes were polished off. Mrs. Lulić did not take out a crystal ball or Ouija board. She just sat in an armchair with her hands clasped in her lap. “Tell me about your husband,” she said softly. She didn’t wince over the words or indicate in any way that she was disturbed that Mason was gay.

  How do you summarize the man you love in a few simple sentences? Mason looked at his feet. “His name was Carl. He was smart and funny and kind. He didn’t care that he was a professor and I’m just a landscaper—he always made me feel smart too. He liked to watch boring news shows on TV. He snored really loudly. He was a terrible dancer. He cried at sappy movies and always claimed it was just allergies. He… he loved me.” Mason managed to keep his voice even, but his throat felt thick and congested.

  He waited while Viktor finished putting Mason’s words into Croatian. And it was strange, because even though he’d spent plenty of time talking about Carl over the past several months, he suddenly felt a little lighter. Maybe because these two complete strangers from a country far from the US now knew about Carl, and they both nodded solemnly over Mason’s description. They’d remember Carl long after Mason was back in California. And wasn’t that a type of afterlife—having a presence in people’s hearts and minds even when your body was ashes?

  Memory was a kind of spark too.

  Mrs. Lulić spoke quietly to Viktor, gazing at Mason during the interpretation phase. “Mama will try to talk to Carl in Latin,” Viktor said. “She is doctor and had to learn at university. But her Latin is very bad, so you should choose easy words.”

  A doctor who talked to ghosts.

  Why not?

  Mason nodded, and Viktor picked up a nearby pencil and pad of paper.

  “I don’t have anything fancy to say. Just… I love him very much. I’m sorry I didn’t tell him that more often when I had the chance. And I hope he’s happy, wherever he is. I hope someday I’ll meet him again.” Strange, how the emotions that swirled within him—which felt as if they could fill a library’s worth of volumes—could be distilled into just a few brief sentences.

  Viktor passed the paper to his mother, and she took a moment to read it. When she was done, she gave Mason a sweet, encouraging smile. She closed her eyes and murmured haltingly in something that was not Croatian. Latin, Mason supposed, although the only words he knew in the language were botanical names.

  After Mrs. Lulić stopped talking, the room was quiet. Mason heard his own heart and lungs busy working, the whir of a fan somewhere, the faint rumble of traffic wafting through an open window. Mrs. Lulić kept her eyes shut, but she cocked her head slightly, as if she were listening for something. Viktor watched his mother closely, a proud smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

  And Mason…. He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Certainly didn’t hear Carl or anyone else. But he had that itchy shoulder blade sensation, as if someone were staring at him from behind. The feeling was so strong that he turned around to look. Nothing there other than a sleek china cabinet, but the feeling didn’t go away. He smelled something too—just a whiff of dust and sweat that didn’t fit at all with the immaculate apartment.

  Power of suggestion, he told himself. But the hairs on the back of his neck stood, his breathing quickened, and the air seemed thick. He was absolutely positive that someone besides him and the Lulićes was in the room. Not Carl—Mason was sure of tha
t.

  It was like one of those stupid magic picture things. Something was right there in front of him, and if he only focused his eyes properly, he’d see it. But he couldn’t, no matter how hard he squinted and blinked.

  “Who’s there?” he whispered. He wasn’t frightened.

  Mrs. Lulić answered—“Sabbio”—but Mason didn’t know what that meant.

  Still twisted around in his chair, he slowly lifted one hand and reached forward. For an extremely brief moment, there was pressure against his fingertips. The smoothness of skin.

  Then the tension popped like a bubble, and he was alone in the apartment with Viktor and Mrs. Lulić.

  “What was that?” Mason breathed.

  Mrs. Lulić shot him a sad smile before saying something in Croatian to her son. Viktor turned to Mason when she was done. “Mama says she is sorry. She did not hear Carl. But he maybe heard her. Sometimes connection is not so good. But it is not so sad he did not come. Means he is far away, with peace, yes? Closer spirits are ones who cannot rest.”

  Mason couldn’t help but smile. “Figures. He always sucked at answering my text messages too. I’d send him, like, a dozen. He always claimed he read them, but he’d wait until he got home to talk to me.”

  “I think he knows you love him.”

  Oddly, Mason thought so too. He couldn’t explain why, but he felt much better. God, he still missed Carl, in the same way that he’d miss a severed limb. But the ache had faded to manageable levels.

  “There was…. I felt….” Mason struggled to put his question into words.

  “A spirit,” Viktor said, nodding. “Yes. It was here.”

  “It wasn’t Carl.”

  “I know. It was…. One minute.” Viktor had a short conversation with his mother. He had to consult his phone before providing an interpretation. “Some spirits do not rest. They are angry or sad, maybe. Uznemiren. Unsettled. Although Mama called Carl, unsettled spirit heard and came for visit. Do not worry. They cannot hurt you.”