The Miser's Dream

by John Gaspard

  “By no means, but it’s not really in the discussion phase yet…”

  “That’s right, there are phases, and we aren’t—”

  “Not you two, you baboons,” he said, cutting us off sharply. “It’s not a wedding present for your wedding. It’s a present for our wedding.”

  Franny and Harry clasped their free hands together and then, like clockwork, each blew on their tea to see if it was properly cooled yet. They then leaned into each other and Harry gave her a kiss on the forehead. Franny returned the gesture with a loving touch on the end of his nose.

  “Franny claims she predicted it months ago, but didn’t want to bring it up,” Harry explained.

  “You can’t do that. No psychic worth her salt would do that. You can’t exert influence.” She nodded at Megan, who nodded vigorously in return.

  “Wow,” I said, still processing. “This is quick.”

  “At our age, who has time for a long courtship?” Harry said. “When it’s right, it’s right.”

  “It’s right,” Franny said, nodding in agreement.

  “So, the store is now yours and Franny and I are free to get out a bit. Do some traveling.”

  “You’ve traveled a lot already,” I pointed out.

  “No, I worked a lot and went to a lot of different places to do it. That’s different.”

  “This time,” Franny added, “it’s strictly as a tourist.”

  “And what better way is there to travel,” Harry said, putting an arm around Franny, “than with someone who can predict tomorrow’s weather with one hundred percent accuracy?”

  I was about to lean in and hug him, but then a thought occurred to me. I stepped back. “You’re not just giving me the store to get out of doing inventory, are you?”

  He smiled up at me, his eyes twinkling. “Not as far as you know, Eli.”

  Epilogue

  I am beginning to think I am, truly, the least observant magician in the world.

  I have no idea how long the car followed me as I ambled down Chicago Avenue, because I was deep in thought about a new way to conclude an ace assembly trick I was tearing apart and rebuilding. The new approach would include a ballsy top change, but I was worried it was a sleight for the sake of a sleight and it wouldn’t really increase the impact of the effect.

  I stopped for a moment to picture the effect in my mind, and noticed out of the corner of my eye a black shape was hovering in my peripheral. I turned and recognized the dark sedan immediately, my heart taking a sudden and involuntary leap straight down into the very pit of my stomach.

  The front passenger window, which was tinted to near blackness, descended and I leaned down to peer into the front seat. Harpo sat straight-backed behind the steering wheel. He turned his head stiffly, and gave me his traditional deadeye stare. With the least possible amount of physical exertion, he jerked his thumb toward the backseat and a moment later I heard the snick of the door unlocking.

  The backseat was, mercifully, empty. I slid into the seat and pulled the door shut. At the same instant, the car began to move forward. Whatever was going to happen had already started and I was—literally—just along for the ride.

  * * *

  During my last experience in this car, Mr. Lime had made it abundantly clear that if the idea was to harm me—and he assured me it wasn’t—then it would have already happened. I took a very small amount of solace in this memory and watched out the window as we made our way east, across town, in the general direction of the Mississippi River.

  About ten minutes later, we pulled up in front of a nondescript one-story building on Minnehaha Avenue. A small sign above the door read “Trylon,” but before I could consider the implications of that, my door jerked open and Harpo was ushering me out of the car and into the building.

  The front part of the space was dark, but Harpo moved through it confidently to a lit area in the back. He rounded a corner and by the time I caught up to him, he was standing behind a small candy counter, filling a popcorn box from the popcorn machine. He pushed the box into my hand and then came out from behind the counter, going around me to open a door into an even darker room. With popcorn in hand I stepped through the door and felt a small rush of air as Harpo shut the door behind me.

  I had been in the Trylon once before and had often thought about coming back. It’s what’s called a micro-cinema, which means it’s like a regular movie theater in miniature form. In this case, the room held about fifty theater seats, all which appeared, in the dim light, to be empty. And then I saw Mr. Lime, nearly swallowed up in a seat in the dead center of the theater. He held up his popcorn box in lieu of a wave.

  “Mandrake, welcome. Have a seat.”

  There was no time to respond, because the next second the lights flicked out, plunging the room into true darkness. The only light came from a hole in the back wall, through which I could see Harpo leering down at us. I could just see a portion of his face, and then he turned away. A moment later, I heard a projector start up and the screen was filled with light.

  I groped for a seat and by the time I looked up I could see a very old, black and white version of the MGM logo, with the lion roaring soundlessly. It faded out and a moment later a title faded up, filling the screen.

  The title onscreen read London After Midnight.

  There we sat, the two of us, in utter silence as the movie unspooled quietly before us onscreen. The opening titles were in English, but all the dialogue title cards throughout the movie were in German, one of the multitude of languages I don’t speak. I recognized a word here and there and was able to pick up the gist of the story, but I’m sure many of the subtleties were lost on me, as subtleties usually are.

  Several times, when nothing of particular interest was happening onscreen (which, to be frank, was often), I would sneak a peek over at Mr. Lime. He sat rapt, looking up at the screen, his mouth hanging open just the slightest bit. Occasionally he would pick at his popcorn, seeming to eat it one small piece at a time, never taking his eyes off the screen. The light flickered off his face, making him look paler and more semi-translucent than ever.

  The story, such as it was, finally came to an end, but he continued his vigilant observation right through the final credits. The screen then went black and a moment later the lights in the tiny auditorium popped on to full brightness. We both squinted, adjusting to the light, as we turned to each other.

  “You had a print of London After Midnight all along,” I said, jumping right to the obvious.

  “Yes,” he said, smiling widely, showing off two rows of sharp, yellow teeth. “I’ve had one for years. In fact, I was convinced, with good reason, that I did in fact own the only extant copy.”

  “So when you heard someone had a copy to sell, it piqued your interest.”

  He nodded. “Piqued. Yes. A good word.” He gestured toward the empty screen. “What did you think?”

  I considered the question, wondering how diplomatic I actually needed to be. “Well,” I began, “It’s an interesting artifact...”

  “No,” he said, waving a bony finger at me. “What did you really think?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s kind of dull.”

  He nodded and chuckled. “Yes, it’s no one’s best work. If we didn’t know it was lost, I doubt anyone would miss it.”

  “It certainly caused quite a stir, at least for a couple weeks, around here.”

  He turned in his seat and set one arm on the armrest. I turned to mirror his position and for a fleeting moment, I felt like slimmed down Ebert to his skeletal Siskel.

  “I think it was the idea of the movie, more than its physical manifestation, that was so appealing,” he said. “I can speak from personal experience: there is an undeniable thrill in possessing something which no one else can have.”

  “I can see that,” I conceded. “Randall Glendower said
, if he had been able to buy it, his plan was to donate it to the National Film Registry.”

  “Very magnanimous of him,” Lime said. “I have a similar plan in place, when—and if—I should shuffle off this mortal coil.”

  From where I sat, it looked like that could happen at any second. Or might have happened already in the recent past.

  “I thought you might enjoy seeing what all the fuss was about.”

  “Thank you for that.”

  He looked up at the screen for a long moment. “Yes,” he finally said. “With the exception of the makeup design, it really is no one’s best work. If it weren’t missing, it would hardly be remembered.” He turned and looked at me, giving me his most penetrating stare. “But isn’t that always the way—the moment you can’t have something, it becomes oh so desirable. I suspect there’s a valuable life lesson in there somewhere, although I must admit I would be at a loss to articulate it.”

  “Perhaps you just did.”

  “Perhaps I did.” He pivoted in his seat and waved up at the projection booth. “I’ll have Harpo give you a ride home. I just need him to start another feature for me before he goes.”

  “Another lost masterpiece?” I asked as I stood up, my legs grateful for the stretch.

  “Do you really want to know?” he said, his smile morphing into a playful leer.

  “No, probably not.”

  “As you wish.”

  I stepped out into the lobby and a moment later Harpo stepped down from the projection booth, heading toward the front door without a word. I could hear music playing behind me and I turned toward the sound. I looked at the door which led into the auditorium and—for a brief moment that seemed to go on forever—I almost reached for the door handle to peek back in and see what was being projected onscreen.

  But my better angels prevailed, and several seconds later I was once again in the backseat of the dark sedan. It was snowing, once more, and we were just on this side of dusk.

  The ride home was, as one might expect, a quiet one.

  About the Author

  In real life, John’s not a magician, but he has directed six low-budget features that cost very little and made even less – that’s no small trick. He’s also written multiple books on the subject of low-budget filmmaking. Ironically, they’ve made more than the films. His blog, “Fast, Cheap Movie Thoughts” has been named “One of the 50 Best Blogs for Moviemakers” and “One of The 100 Best Blogs For Film and Theater Students.” He’s also written for TV and the stage. John lives in Minnesota and shares his home with his lovely wife, several dogs, a few cats and a handful of pet allergies.

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