Fata Morgana

by William Kotzwinkle

  “It’s Count Cherubini,” said Picard.

  “Why is he wearing a barrel?”

  “He’s been to a costume ball.”

  The Count weaved drunkenly to the curb. His torso was clad in a large wine barrel, on which was lettered:

  Perrier Jouët

  1857

  The rest of his body was outfitted in evening clothes. Picard and Albert approached him, as he fumbled in the gutter.

  “Are you in need of assistance, Count?”

  Cherubini turned toward them, his eyes glazed, but friendly. “How kind of you. I’m attempting to get the spigot open on my barrel. It seems to have jammed.”

  “We need a glass,” said Albert, kneeling by the spigot and removing a small wrench from his sash of burglar tools.

  “Yes,” said Cherubini. “There’s a glass on the way. The gentleman in the hall...” He pointed toward the mansion. The door opened and Duval appeared in his monk’s robe, carrying an empty wine glass. He saw Picard and smiled.

  “Inspector—glad you could make it. Is the wine flowing, Count?” Duval stepped to the barrel.

  “It will flow now,” said Albert, turning the spigot as Duval placed the glass underneath it.

  “An excellent year,” said the Count. “One of the very best.”

  Albert turned off the spigot and Duval held out the filled glass to Cherubini. “I’ll go for more glasses,” said the Humble Priest, returning to the doorway of the mansion.

  “He’s an excellent fellow,” said the Count. “Right there when you need him.”

  Other revelers looked out from the front windows of the house. Albert replaced the burglar tool inside his sash. Duval came back, bearing three more glasses. Picard worked the spigot and the wine flowed. They held their glasses up.

  “Cheers, my dear fellows.”

  “Your health, Count.”

  The delicate rims clicked lightly in the still night air.

  “Shall we have another?” asked the Humble Priest, bending toward the barrel.

  “Please, let’s drink it all,” said the Count. “It will make walking lighter.”

  The glasses were passed beneath the spigot once again. Count Cherubini sipped the vintage wine, turned toward the townhouse. “Madame Valanne—do you know Madame Valanne?—she objected to my barrel. Refused to have it in bed with her.”

  “The hell with her,” said Albert, draining his glass.

  “Exactly,” said the Count.

  “Go to this address,” said Albert, scribbling on a card. “Ask to see Monique.”

  “Oh, splendid,” said the Count, taking the card. “She won’t object to...” He pointed at his barrel.

  “She’ll love it.”

  “I’m so glad,” said the Count. “I do like an effective costume.”

  “We must go,” said Picard.

  “Gentlemen, a last toast,” said Cherubini.

  “To Monique.”

  “Her health, her prosperity.”

  The glasses were emptied and Picard and Albert handed theirs to Duval, who tucked them into his robe. Cherubini stepped into the street, hailing a carriage, and Duval opened the door for him, but the Count’s barrel would not fit through it. Duval climbed in ahead and pulled at the Count’s arms, while Picard and Albert pushed from behind, finally popping Cherubini into the coach. The Count called Monique’s address to the cabman and the carriage pulled away. Cherubini opened the window, waving. “Gentlemen, the best to you... come visit me... anytime... addìo!”

  The carriage rumbled down Rivoli and turned toward the river, as Picard and Albert headed toward Richelieu.

  “A splendid wine.”

  “The Count only drinks the best,” said Picard. His spirit was bubbling from the rare vintage, and he was eager to complete the night’s work. They walked along, their shadows the only other figures on the street. It was the hour of night he knew best, when most of Paris sleeps and the underworld makes its move. Tonight I move with them.

  “I must kill him, you understand?”

  “I shall be no more than your second,” said Albert.

  They passed the Imperial Palace. The courtyard was brightly lit but the rooms of the Palace were mostly darkened. They turned onto Richelieu, passing the first few shops of the street. “My hatter.” Picard pointed to a dark shopwindow, where various top hats were displayed on faceless wooden heads.

  They stopped and studied the silk hats. “He’s slightly mad,” said Picard. “Claims that any man who wears his hats will gain distinction in the world.”

  “And you—”

  “I’m proof that he is wrong. But I’ll tell you this—the wind will not blow my hat off. It fits that well.”

  They continued up the street, leaving the shops behind. The townhouses were darkened, the courtyards empty. The black iron gatework outside the Lazare mansion was high, and the gate itself was locked. Albert nodded toward the end of the block. “There’s a passage that connects to his garden. We climb the wall and we’re in.”

  They walked on past the Lazare residence, into a cobblestone lane. On both sides of them were stables; the horses could be heard within, breathing in their sleep, stamping their hooves through galloping dreams. The lane smelled of their sweet hay and manure, and was completely dark. Lazare’s back wall formed the dead end of the lane. Albert scaled the wall, flattening himself upon it and surveying the garden. Then he was gone down the other side, dropping soundlessly to the ground.

  Picard reached up, hauling himself to the top. The bear is known to climb on occasion—he dropped to the ground beside Albert—when he is hungry enough.

  The ground was frozen, left no tracks as they crossed the garden to the back door. Albert knelt before it, closely examining the lock. He removed a long wire from his tool sash and slid it through the lock, his actions so silent that Picard thought for a moment he was going deaf. The lock yielded and they entered the darkened house. Albert lit a match. They were in a pantry off the kitchen. He led them forward through the kitchen and into a service hall on the main floor. The smell of flowers filled the air, growing stronger as they stepped into the parlor.

  Plants and vines hung in the moonlit windows, the night-blooming narcissus pouring its fragrance through the room. But where the fabulous guests had stood and whispered of their fate and fortune, there was only the carpet of Persia, its minarets and spires muffling all sound of footsteps now, as Albert pocketed a gold inkwell.

  The long-dead report of Inspector de Brugnieres flashed in Picard’s mind: ...a Chinese inkwell, ornamented with gold... returned to the said Cagliostro when sufficient evidence could not be found to hold him in custody...

  Cagliostro or Lazare, whichever you are, your hour has come. Picard moved with Albert across the moonlit rug, to the outer hall and the bottom of the staircase.

  A sudden flash of light on the landing above sent them into the shadows beneath the stairs. Soft footsteps descended, accompanied by a candle flame.

  A woman paused at the base of the stairs, directly before their hiding eyes. Her skin was milk-white, her hair blazing red, and she was magnificent, standing with a nobility which was intensified by the beauty of her dark robe and the candlelight in her dark close-set eyes. Lazare was close beside her, and they whispered in soft fluent Spanish, its sensuous rhythms expressing a strange passion between them. She gestured with her black gloves, as if presenting Lazare with a great gift, which he accepted with his cold glittering stare.

  Then the woman was quickly gone along the outer hall, and Lazare closed the door behind her, his footsteps moving off toward the west wing of the house and fading into silence.

  “Was it she?” whispered Albert.

  “Yes,” answered Picard, as they stepped out from under the staircase.

  “Long live the Empress,” said Albert with a leering smile. He stuck his tongue out and opened his mouth like a mad ape, licking the air through which she’d passed, as if tasting some last trailing bit of her radiance.

&n
bsp; Picard moved up the hallway. Lazare had made no further sound. Somewhere in the west wing...

  They glided through the dark hallway, toward the front rooms of the mansion. Upon the wall was a large painting of a serpent, rearing on its tail, an arrow through its throat. Albert stopped to peer at it, as they listened to the house, hearing only an impenetrable stillness.

  Then Albert moved quickly to a dark wooden door which opened soundlessly to his touch; the thief seemed now to be all shadow, his body swallowed in some profoundly concentrated move, which Picard attempted to match as they stepped into Lazare’s workshop.

  Upon the wall was a rack of carefully hung tools; the bench beneath it was filled with tiny gear wheels and springs. A single candle glowed on the bench, illuminating the faces of several completed toys—a Spanish dancing girl with the face of Empress Eugenie, a springing tiger, a circus acrobat with the heroic stance and features of the daring Léotard. These and others lined the shelves on every side.

  Albert brought the candle toward a display table, on which a miniature army was arranged, with cannon and musket, dressed in the uniform of Prussia. The cavalry was in close formation on both flanks and the officers were leading the charge. Picard moved toward the table.

  “Fire!” said a tiny voice, no louder than the vibrating of a hair.

  The cannons exploded and Picard reeled backward in pain, a shell bursting into his stomach, burying back in his guts.

  “Fire!” cried the little voice again, joined by others, many others, one after another, as Picard sank to the floor, bullets tearing at his chest and neck.

  He saw Albert twist crazily and fall. The thief sprawled beside him, a bullet hole in the center of his forehead, sightless eyes still open in amazement.

  uFire! Fire! Fire!”

  The room was filled with smoke, the powerful little cannon-pistols raking the air. Waistcoat soaked with blood, Picard crawled toward the table from which the tiny army was firing and pushed himself beneath it, into the maze of wires which controlled the cannons. The wires contracted into the adjacent wall and the cannons sent forth another volley, triggered by an enemy hidden somewhere beyond the wall.

  Picard rose up, lifting the table on his massive shoulders, tearing the wires loose from the wall, silencing the guns. He staggered in the acrid smoke, the table on his back, the weight tremendous, like an elephant, like the world itself, impossible to carry, but he struggled with it, knowing he had to carry it forever.

  “... ladies and gentlemen, the Great Harid!”

  The crowd roared. The roaring grew louder, so loud he couldn’t stand it, a deafening roar in his ears, in his brain, in his whole body.

  He collapsed, spilling the toy army onto the floor. Blood gushed from his wounds, forming a pool all around him, and he lay staring into the eyes of a little artillery officer. The details of the uniform were perfect. The face was that of Ric Lazare.

  Picard sighed, his whole body heaving forward and then freezing.

  Death tore him violently out of his body and wrenched him upward in a single powerful leap. An immense thunderclap sounded and Paris was below, a vapor, a chimera. Death bowed and swiftly departed, his errand complete.

  Dead, dead, dead, echoed the wind as Picard struggled against the threads which were lifting him, up out of the earth’s sparkling theatre, reeling him upward through the dark sky. He struggled, but his strength was nothing against the fine golden line.

  A terrible wind whirled him higher, whipping the golden threads, and he dangled like an empty costume flapping in the air.

  Golden threads were shining everywhere, billions of them, undulating, never tangling, connected to the earth below and controlled by secret mastery from above, whose power now reeled him faster, until he was a comet speeding upward through the heavens.

  He resisted, forced a turning in the threads and looked downward at the earth—a small blue ornament in space, one of a little cluster of ornaments around the sun. Then the brilliant sun and its cluster dropped away, becoming no more than a tiny light among countless others.

  Desperately he searched for a prayer, but his lips were sealed, sewn with golden thread. Overhead he saw the dome of existence, a curving transparency on which the lights of the universe were reflected. He struck against the dome and passed through it, into utter darkness. He was alone and the universe was below him—a great star-filled ball.

  A bell rang.

  “Your twenty-five seconds are up, Monsieur Fanjoy,” said the butler softly, opening the door of the chamber.

  Picard spun around, and the white-turbaned Hindoo bowed to him, his eyes shining darkly, a faint smile on his face.

  The telegraph machine clicked, and the Hindoo handed a slip of paper to Picard, who opened it with shaking hands and read the words:

  FATA MORGANA

  “If you’ll step this way, please...” The butler’s voice was more insistent now and Picard let it carry him out of the room.

  He went down the long hallway slowly, as if he were emerging from the land of the pharaohs, from the darkness of a gigantic tomb. His footsteps echoed behind the butler’s, and he listened with all his heart, trusting in the echoing hallway as the only certain reality.

  “Monsieur Fanjoy—” The butler bowed quietly again, admitting Picard back into the Lazare parlor, where the guests looked at him, indirectly, casually, but knowing that he had undoubtedly received a strange and perhaps shattering message.

  The candles in the chandeliers blazed with peculiar intensity, and the green vines and tendrils which surrounded the Grecian columns were the most comforting sight he’d ever seen. With trembling steps he walked toward Ric Lazare.

  Lazare was smiling faintly, as had the Hindoo. “Well, Inspector?”

  Picard stared into the uncanny eyes of Lazare, seeing in them all that he’d seen in the crystal ball—the young acrobat, the toy maker of Deep Sorrow, the murderer of Anton Romani. You are the rarest killer in the world and only a fool would oppose you. “Good night, monsieur.”

  The small clique at the doorway parted for Picard as he passed out of the parlor, into the entrance hall. A footman awaited him at the cloakroom, producing his cape and gloves. He slipped into them quickly, heard footsteps behind him, and turned. Duval was coming down the hallway toward him, and they stepped together into the courtyard. It was wrapped in fog, a light drizzle falling, the rain-mist mingling with the sudden tears that filled his eyes. Alive!

  He twirled his cane, Duval chattering beside him, his voice the echo of a thousand infinitudes of night.

  “Inspector? Did I hear him address you as a police inspector?”

  “Yes,” said Picard. “So watch your step, Duval.”

  “No one’s to be trusted these days,” sighed Duval, as they walked through the iron gate to the rue de Richelieu. Duval hailed a carriage. “Can I leave you anywhere, Inspector?”

  Picard called to the driver. “Do you know the Café Orient?”

  “Pigalle,” nodded the driver.

  Picard climbed in beside Duval and the carriage started forward, into the rue Drouot.

  “A most enlightening evening,” said Duval. “I must get myself a suite of rooms and a crystal ball. You have to be in front with something original these days.” He turned to Picard. “You look quite pale, Inspector. Did Lazare’s machine tell you something disturbing?”

  The carriage turned onto the rue Notre Dame de Lorette. The lights of Pigalle winked in the distance. Picard sat in silence, his eyes fixed on the lights.

  “I hope you don’t mind my asking,” said Duval. “One is naturally curious. Did it involve—a woman, perhaps?”

  Picard stared out the window. “As a matter of fact, it did.” He watched as the carriage rolled quickly along, and the glittering lights of the cafés came closer. Amongst them he could already pick out the Café Orient, the coiling dragons glittering on its glass doorway.

  “Here you are, monsieur,” called the driver, bringing the carriage to the curb. />
  “Do you see her there, Inspector?” asked Duval, following the look in Picard’s eyes.

  “I believe so,” said Picard, opening the carriage door.

  “Well, Inspector, remember—Eldorado Investments—”

  Picard walked through the fine drizzle toward the café and entered, crossing the terrace toward the brunette in mauve.

  “Good evening,” he said, seating himself at her table.

  “Why do you look at me so strangely?” she asked, with a smile, her earrings tinkling as she moved her head.

  “Because you’re so lovely,” said Picard, lighting the candle on the table, the dancing little flame causing her eyes to glow. He reached into his pocket, took out the bit of telegraph paper and held it in the flame.

  “A love letter?” she asked, watching it curl and burn.

  “An affair best forgotten,” said Picard.

  In the distance, from the station at the Place Roubaix, he heard the whistle of a train.

  But in Nuremberg, a few days hence, at a skating rink in the moonlight—

  You and I, my dear Baron, shall meet again.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1977, 1996 by William Kotzwinkle

  Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media

  ISBN 978-1-4976-3101-4

  This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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  New York, NY 10014

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