The Disappearance of Anna Popov

by Gabriel Farago

  ‘I must be out of my mind,’ mumbled Rebecca, climbing awkwardly onto the saddle behind him.

  ‘Did you say something?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘Ready?’ Engaging first gear, Jack accelerated smoothly into the street.

  ‘You and your mates ...’

  ‘It’s so nice to be hugged,’ Jack said, leaning into the curve.

  To her surprise, Rebecca actually enjoyed the ride. The raw power of the bike, the throb of the engine, the speed, the noise and the fun of it all were exhilarating. But most exciting of all was holding Jack around the waist, and leaning against his muscular back as he weaved through the heavy traffic. They got strange looks every time they stopped at a red light or pedestrian crossing, with the occasional compliment of ‘great arse’ thrown in from wolf-whistling truckies. Jack was an experienced rider but it still took them over an hour to reach the hot, western outskirts of Sydney. Jack stopped several times to ask for directions.

  ‘What are we looking for?’ shouted Rebecca.

  ‘An old cemetery and an abandoned church. We should be just about there.’

  ‘A graveyard? Great. Now you tell me!’

  They almost missed the cemetery because the grass was so high it covered all the tombstones. A broken lichgate marked the entry. Jack pulled over.

  ‘That must be it,’ he said, pointing to a small church on the top of a hill. He gunned the engine and was about to take off through the gate when two bearded men on huge bikes roared up out of nowhere, blocking the way.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going, mate?’ asked one of them, spitting into the dust.

  ‘There’s no funeral today, unless you don’t turn your fancy bike around. Get my drift?’ said the other. ‘Be a good boy and piss off.’

  ‘I don’t think the Wizard would like that,’ said Jack, glancing over his shoulder at Rebecca. ‘I hear he hates to be kept waiting. Tell the Wizard that Jack Rogan tried to call in as arranged. See you later, guys.’ He started pushing the heavy bike backwards, away from the gate.

  ‘Hold it!’ shouted one of the bikies. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a walkie-talkie. After much shouting and crackling static, he pocketed the walkie-talkie.

  ‘Follow me,’ he growled, gunning his Harley and roaring up the hill ahead of them.

  The gleaming choppers lined up in a row in front of the church looked like a congregation of giant insects attending a funeral. Banished by loud music – heavy metal – booming through the open windows, hymns and piety had fled long ago. Jack parked his bike at the end of the queue and looked at the burly man standing at the church door. ‘The Reverend?’ asked Rebecca, poking Jack in the back.

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Over here, both of you. Shakedown time. House rules,’ growled the man, pointing to the landing.

  Reluctantly, Rebecca walked across. Running his sweaty hands down her tight jeans, the man was enjoying himself.

  ‘Nothing suspicious here, luv,’ he said, slapping her on the bottom. Rebecca glared at him. ‘You’re next,’ said the bearded man, looking at Jack. Jack noticed that several security cameras were pointing at them from above.

  ‘Great idea,’ whispered Rebecca, following Jack into the church. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’

  ‘I did warn you: being an author can be dangerous. You didn’t believe me,’ said Jack, taking off his dark sunglasses. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the gloom.

  Inside, the music was deafening. In the middle of the church where rows of pews had once faced the altar, a group of girls were dancing with each other. Wearing skin-tight leather pants and high-heeled boots – their long black hair streaked with red – they looked like witches waiting for a date with the devil. Some wore glittering dog-collars, others had multiple studs in their ears and noses. One of the girls spun around as Rebecca walked past. Staring at her with unseeing eyes, she leaned forward and stuck out her tongue like a snake searching for its prey.

  Standing on a dais in front of the altar, a heavily tattooed transvestite was operating a pair of turntables, cranking out audio-poison. Perched on stools along a bar fashioned out of wooden confessionals, their backs turned indifferently to the dancing girls, a couple of middle-aged bikies were drinking beer. Pungent smoke – unmistakably marijuana – curled slowly around the coloured fingers of light reaching through the stained glass windows from above.

  ‘Down this way,’ grunted the man who had frisked Jack. He pointed to a narrow set of stairs cut into the stone floor behind the altar.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ whispered Rebecca, holding onto Jack’s arm.

  ‘Too late. Come on.’

  Lit entirely by candles, the vaulted crypt below the altar was surprisingly cool. Except for a large round wooden table and twelve chairs, the crypt was empty.

  ‘Look at this,’ said Jack, pointing to a row of pictures hanging on the sandstone wall. ‘Exquisite.’ There were twenty-four pictures in all.

  ‘Do you know what this is?’

  Rebecca shook her head.

  ‘Come over here, I’ll show you. You start with this one, the Fool, and then you go anticlockwise to the next one, the Magician. Then comes the Priestess, see?’

  ‘You’re well informed. What is it?’

  ‘The twenty-four Major Arcana of the restored Tarot ...’

  ‘Exactly,’ said a deep, gravelly voice from behind.

  Jack spun around. Slowly, a dark shape separated from one of the pillars, moved a little to one side and floated into a pool of candlelight.

  The Wizard was much taller than Jack had expected. Lit up from below, his face looked quite different from the police mug shot. The long hair, now streaked with grey, was pulled back and tied into a pony tail, accentuating the slanted eyes and prominent cheekbones.

  ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Mr Rogan,’ said the Wizard, his voice echoing through the chamber. ‘Perhaps you have.’ He began to laugh. ‘You obviously know a bit about the Tarot. That’s a good start. Welcome to Wolf’s Lair. This is our round table where everyone is equal, but lies and deception are costly ...’ The candlelight lent the Wizard’s features a sinister sheen, as he pointed to the oak table.

  ‘I’m curious, Mr Rogan’, continued the Wizard. ‘Why would a famous writer like you want to meet someone like me? Please, sit down.’ The Wizard gestured towards the table. ‘You can have the Alchemist’s chair, right here, and your friend ...’ he nodded, acknowledging Rebecca for the first time, ‘can have Cassandra’s, over there. Cassandra’s the only female on our council.’

  Looking wistfully at Rebecca, he asked, ‘Can you see into the future? I think not’, he continued. ‘Cassandra can, she has the gift ...’

  The Wizard sat down opposite them and rested his huge fists on the table. Unbuttoned to the waist, his black leather vest barely covered his hairy chest. The broad shoulders and bulging biceps were the result of years of pumping iron in jail. Even in middle age, the Wizard radiated brute strength. He looked like a man who could easily crush a human skull with his bare hands.

  ‘But back to the present for now,’ he continued. ‘Why did you come here, Mr Rogan? Tell me.’

  His mind racing, Jack watched the Wizard watching him. He realised that his answer held the key to admission into the secret world of the Wizards of Oz.

  ‘Your success in rehabilitating prisoners,’ began Jack, ‘is well known in certain circles. The Parole Board, the prison authorities, even the judges are talking about it.’ He paused, letting the words find their mark. ‘I thought it was about time the public knew about it as well ...’

  ‘So that’s it,’ said the Wizard.

  Jack decided to press on. ‘Setting up a successful courier business employing only released prisoners,’ continued Jack, ‘has been a stroke of genius ...’

  ‘You really think so?’ asked the Wizard, enjoying himself.

  ‘One mistake, you get a warning. One more, you’re out
– right?’ said Jack. ‘Former prisoners understand that ...’

  ‘You’re well informed. I like that,’ said the Wizard.

  Jack took a deep breath. Dangling recognition and fame in front of the man’s ego was obviously the way to go. It was widely rumoured that the Wizards of Oz used their courier business as a front for extensive and highly lucrative drug operations. The club’s cat-and-mouse games with the police were legendary and the feuds with rival gangs never-ending and bloody.

  The Wizard noticed that Jack kept looking at the painting hanging on the wall behind him.

  ‘Do you like it?’ he asked.

  ‘I had no idea it was here,’ replied Jack.

  ‘You know what it is then?’

  Jack looked at the Wizard sitting below a portrait of himself dressed as a clown, wearing a harlequin suit and a conical hat. The resemblance was uncanny. The artist had captured the essence of the Wizard’s face with a few bold brush strokes and vibrant colour.

  ‘Oh yes. Pagliacci – Bald Archy. Four years ago, I think.’

  ‘Very good.’

  ‘This place is full of surprises ...’

  ‘So, what did you have in mind, Mr Rogan?’ asked the Wizard, rocking back in his chair.

  ‘A series of articles based on interviews. Perhaps even a short documentary ...’

  ‘I see ... I can’t give you an answer right now. Our little organisation is run by a council.’ The Wizard pointed to the round table. ‘The council will decide. But before that can happen, you will have to meet Cassandra and pass scrutiny ...’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she can recall the past and see into the future ...’ Jack glanced at Rebecca and frowned.

  ‘I can see you’re sceptical, Mr Rogan.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No need to be. That’s to be expected. I’m sure once you meet Cassandra you’ll change your mind.’

  ‘What kind of scrutiny?’

  ‘She will examine your intentions. Any problems with that?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon. You’ll be contacted.’ The Wizard stood up. ‘Next time, Mr Rogan, please come alone.’

  Turning around, the Wizard walked slowly to the back of the crypt and disappeared behind a pillar.

  The Wizard had gone, but his presence lingered. Reaching for Rebecca’s hand, Jack took a last look around the crypt and then turned to leave.

  11

  Rose Cottage, 21 February

  ‘Pagliacci and Bald Archy? What on earth was all that about?’ asked Rebecca, climbing stiffly off the chopper. She pulled off her helmet and gave it to Jack. ‘Here, I won’t be needing this again.’

  ‘Just because he told me to come alone next time? You’re sulking, admit it.’

  ‘Rubbish.’

  ‘Come inside and I’ll tell you about the Bald Archy.’

  Stretching her stiff back, Rebecca followed Jack into the house.

  ‘You keep reminding me that painstaking research is the path to success,’ said Jack, throwing a bundle of papers on the coffee table. ‘I’m listening – see? There’s a lot more to the Wizard than meets the eye.’

  ‘Oh? What’s that?’

  ‘Newspaper clippings reporting the Pagliacci incident. It happened four years ago.’

  ‘Sounds interesting.’ Rebecca raised an eyebrow and locked eyes with Jack.

  ‘Does Pagliacci mean anything to you?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes of course. It’s an opera by Leoncavallo.’

  ‘Exactly. And the main character is Pagliaccio, the clown. It was Caruso’s signature role.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You saw the portrait of the Wizard in the crypt – dressed as a clown?’ Rebecca nodded. ‘That picture has a title – “The Untouchable Clown” – and quite a story behind it. It won the Bald Archy.’

  ‘You’ve lost me, I’m afraid,’ interrupted Rebecca, shaking her head.

  ‘Let me tell you the story,’ said Jack, pointing to the newspaper clippings on the table. ‘The Wizard is an opera buff with a good voice ...’

  ‘You’re having me on ...’

  ‘I’m serious. On the night in question,’ Jack nodded towards the newspaper clippings, ‘the Wizard arrived at the Sydney Opera house with two bodyguards dressed in full Wizards of Oz regalia. If that wasn’t enough to raise a few grey eyebrows, there was more to come. It was the opening night of Pagliacci, the Wizard’s favourite opera.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Well, during the famous laughing sob of the “Vesti la giubbia” aria, the Wizard began to sing along – loudly.’

  ‘What, sitting in the audience?’

  ‘Yes. Pagliaccio stopped singing on stage, the orchestra stopped as well, but the intrepid Wizard continued and finished the aria, apparently rather well. Needless to say, this caused quite a stir. When the security guards approached – obviously to throw him out – the Wizard stood up and made a speech.’

  ‘You’re joking, surely,’ interrupted Rebecca.

  ‘No, it’s all in here,’ replied Jack, picking up one of the clippings. ‘The whole of Sydney was talking about it. But wait, it gets better.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Addressing Pagliaccio on the stage in front of him, the Wizard apologised. He said he was so moved by the aria that he got carried away and just had to sing along. He then apologised to the audience as well and promised to leave at once if they wanted him to go, but then begged to be allowed to stay.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The audience started to clap. Then someone shouted, “Let him stay!” and everyone joined in, even the orchestra.’

  Jack held up the newspaper article and began to read: ‘Meanwhile back on stage, Pagliaccio took a bow, turned to the conductor and said “Da capo, Maestro” – from the beginning – and repeated the aria.’

  ‘This is incredible.’

  ‘Sure is, but the best is yet to come,’ said Jack, reaching for another page. ‘Listen to this: Apparently while the Wizard was enjoying the limelight at the Opera House, his henchmen raided the headquarters of a rival motorcycle gang, burnt down their clubhouse and shot dead three of their members. The Wizards of Oz denied being involved and the Wizard himself, of course, had a perfect alibi. Clever, don’t you think? And that brings me to the Bald Archy and the portrait.’

  ‘What is this Bald Archy?’ asked Rebecca, looking exasperated.

  ‘It’s an art prize. Actually, it’s a parody of the Archibald Prize, a prestigious Australian portraiture prize which was first awarded in 1921. The Bald Archy began in 1994 and usually consists of cartoons or caricatures making fun of Australian celebrities. It’s an Aussie spoof which – rumour has it – is judged by a cockatoo called Maude. One of the Wizards of Oz, a painter who calls himself The Joker, entered the portrait of the Wizard in the competition under the title “The Untouchable Clown”. It was obviously meant as a joke, but he won first prize.’

  ‘How weird.’

  ‘Do you know why he called it “The Untouchable Clown”?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘The title is based on a film. Have you seen The Untouchables?’

  Rebecca nodded.

  ‘In the film, Robert DeNiro plays Al Capone. The notorious gangster is at the opera. Pagliacci is his favourite. Moved by Pagliaccio singing the famous aria, he starts to cry. Then comes the memorable scene: one of his men leans over and tells him that he’s just killed Jim Malone, the Chicago Police officer. Al Capone stops crying and starts laughing. And we have a portrait of the Wizard dressed as a clown – laughing – while his men are burning down the clubhouse of his rivals. He’s the untouchable clown – get it?’

  ‘Ridiculing the establishment.’

  ‘Exactly. And the establishment loved it. A fascinating character, don’t you reckon? Dangerous, unpredictable and ...’

  Jack’s mobile rang in his pocket. It was the Wizard asking him to come to the clubhouse at midnight – alone.


  ‘... on the phone,’ whispered Jack, as he thumbed the ‘end call’ button.

  12

  Second visit to Wolf’s Lair, 22 February; midnight

  Inside, the church was dark and silent. Gone were the lewd dancing girls, the tattooed bikies smoking dope, and the flamboyant DJ. Instead, a nauseating smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke hovered above the deserted bar littered with empty vodka bottles and broken glass. After the obligatory frisking, Jack followed a surly bikie to the stairs leading into the crypt. He was told to go down alone.

  Jack stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked around: the large round table was covered with a green pentacle-shaped cloth. The table was empty except for one item: an intricately carved wooden box positioned at its centre. A lantern made of coloured glass was the only source of light, the candles inside sending crazy shadows flickering in all directions. A cold shiver rippled down Jack’s spine as his eyes followed the shadows along the ceiling to a large hook, and then down a rusty chain to the lantern before coming to rest on the stone floor below. For a moment it looked like he was standing in a pool of blood. Someone’s dancing on my grave, he thought.

  Trying to break the spell, he walked over to the Tarot pictures that lined the walls, his footsteps the only sound, and looked closely at one of the Major Arcana images. It was The Fool, with a swag slung over his shoulder.

  ‘Do you know what The Fool is carrying in his swag?’ a voice whispered from behind. Startled, Jack turned around.

  ‘If I remember correctly, a pentacle, a wand, a cup, and a sword,’ he replied, looking at the petite woman standing under the lantern.

  Leaning on a walking stick, the woman limped closer, materialising out of the gloom. Combed straight back, her short hair was blue-black and shiny, like the feathers of a raven. Her face was pale and unlined – almost translucent – like alabaster, yet the prominent features hinted at a Polynesian origin. But most striking of all were her eyes – mesmerising and dark – like deep pools in a faun’s grotto.

  ‘And do you also know what they represent?’

  ‘His talents, I believe ... for the journey ahead ...’