In a somewhat calmer voice, he said, “I offered some money to this little impostor, who claims to be my daughter—”
“You did?”
“Well, not personally, of course! I told my nephew to give a hundred dollars to her, on condition she stays away from me, and what did my generosity bring me, other than trouble? All of a sudden I find myself in the middle of a police investigation.”
“Why would they suspect you, if you did nothing wrong?”
“Why? How can you ask that? They need to show some results, to the public first and foremost, which means they need to accuse someone, anyone. I suppose you told them what she wrote—”
“No,” said Michael. “I didn’t.”
“Now that,” said Mr. Armstrong, “I don’t believe!”
Fuming in anger, he turned around abruptly and stomped out of the office, the envelope crumpled in his fist.
❋
The moment his footsteps faded away down the corridor, Michael clicked the chat icon, this time calling Ash.
Her face came to the fore, and despite the slight blur, he relaxed at the sight of her smile.
“Morning,” she said. “You look tired. What happened?”
“Oh, nothing important, just a little exchange with Mr. Armstrong.”
“Really? Tell me about it.”
“I will, sweetheart. Tonight.”
He noticed the blue glow on her face and the blue walls in the background behind her. Realizing she was now in his garage, he wondered out loud, “What are you up to?”
“Let me show you.”
Ash put on her tiara and connected a cable to it, so he could see the simulation just the way it appeared to her. Out of the blue, a wire figure appeared behind her. It was wearing the head of the beautiful ballet dancer. Lace.
The snorkeled heads of First Diver and Second Diver appeared opposite her. They advanced chunkily, rattling apart from each other so she may pass in-between.
Lace gave them a mechanical nod. Then she went down the slope, her high heels pressing into their fin traces.
How peculiar, thought Michael. You could virtually bring a ghost back to life. Here she was. Here walked Lace.
“You listening?” asked Ash.
To which he replied, “Of course.”
“Let’s look at deviations.”
“Deviations? What d’you mean?”
“See, the divers went up the trail, following precisely along its curve—except here, where they met her. Now, what if... Somewhere, down the line... There!” A victorious note rang in her voice. “That’s what I was looking for! Now you tell me—how do you explain that?”
At first, Michael failed to see it.
A short distance below, the fin traces changed course. There was no apparent reason for them to do so. There was no bend in the trail, but both pairs of fins strayed off its centerline, in unison. They went out all the way, off and beyond its right side.
“See?” she asked. “Now that’s a deviation.”
There must have been something there, some hidden obstruction on the left side.
What was it?
He looked closer, only to see nothing amazingly close.
Flailing its limbs in the simulated wind was a small bush. Discarded underneath it was a broken bottle of wine.
Michael tried to recall. He listened to the sounds, the voices in his memory. On their way up, he realized, the divers must have stopped. They must have seen someone waiting down there in the dark.
Why else would they ask Lace, “Why the hurry? Late for a date?”
Her wire feet grated one step after another until, coming to a sudden stop, they pointed directly at the bottle of wine. Startled, she took a quick step backwards, then turned away and started running, sadly unable to reach any farther than her own traces.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” asked Ash.
“I am.”
She dimmed the simulation and at once, the blue glow on her face melted away. With it, melted all doubt.
“Someone was waiting for her,” she whispered, “out of sight, on that left side of the trail. One way or another, we must figure out who it was.”
Chapter 13
Rain washed across the windshield. In spite of the slippery condition of the road, Michael made an abrupt U-turn amidst the cars swerving, horns honking, and headlights blaring all around him. Despite being eager to meet Ash after work, he made the mistake of heading to Bull’s place first.
Michael was sure that stopping there was going to take just a couple of minutes. He was sure there would be no real delay, and even if he was wrong about that, she would understand.
Or so he thought.
This time, the answers he needed had nothing to do with props, virtual reality, or any other work-related issues. It was his insight that made him curious. Hours before the so-called suicide, Bull had said, “I can see the future, see it vividly. The old man’s about to die.”
His premonition should have been taken seriously, especially when he had followed it up with, “And that, my boy, is what happens to fools, old fools who gaze into lost horizons and don’t mind their own business.”
Did Bull have some special intuition? With his artistic bend of mind, could he really foretell the future? If so, could he be persuaded, somehow, to guide the murder investigation in the right direction?
“I bet he knows I’m coming,” Michael said, trying to ignore his unease. “He’ll be expecting me.”
❋
But nobody answered the doorbell.
Out of frustration, Michael found himself grinding his teeth. He should have set a time, well in advance, for his visit, but having decided to come here on a whim, he had neglected to do so.
By now, the rain was starting to ease up. Shining over the silvery outline of scattering clouds, there it was, the crescent of a pale moon.
Michael knocked at the door, then he knocked once more. Should he leave? He went up the crooked stairs leading back to street level. Then he went down again, determined to knock at the door one last time.
“Hello!” he called. “Anybody Here?”
Years back, he recalled, Bull had rented the storage space under this shaggy apartment building and turned it into his den, which he had been using to this day. Hadn’t he mentioned his new art piece, just recently? Hadn’t he invited him to come here? “I’m carving in stone now. It’s a new idea for a sculpture. You ought to come down one day and see it.”
Michael lifted his hand and was just about to ring the doorbell one last time, when he spotted, out of the corner of his eye, someone crouching overhead, at the landing of the upper flight of stairs.
The boy flung himself over the metal railing and landed next to him. “Hey, Mister,” he said.
Michael had heard that voice before, but couldn’t quite remember where. “Hey. I’m looking for Bull. You know where he is?”
“No—I live over there, see?—the apartment building across the street, around the next corner,” said the boy. “And I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“You know who lives down here?”
“Think I saw him, once or twice. Keeps to himself. My Ma says he’s weird. She says, never talk to strangers.”
“Clever she is, your Ma.”
“There’s light inside.” The boy pointed at the faint glow that seeped under the bottom of the door and fell upon the threshold, highlighting its cracks. “You his friend?”
“Yes.”
“Then, why don’t you just push it open?”
❋
Michael laid a hand against the door. Its lacquer finish failed to protect the wood stain from fading, after years of exposure to the elements. He pressed down the rusty handle. With a screech of its hinges, the door swung open.
“Hello! Anyone home?” he called, feeling awkward for invading a private space, but crossing the threshold all the same.
A damp sensation crept around the corners and over the moldy walls. Shadows stirred
, yet when you turned to look back at them, they seemed to freeze. Every now and then there came a sound, like that of a finger scraping against a stone floor. Was it a lizard slipping back into a crack? A bug crawling underfoot?
A mound of small clay models appeared in one corner, and a few finished sculptures in another. One of them was a bronze piece, depicting a figure twisting around itself. Its sleek lines deformed—one muscle after another—into a horned head. From its empty eyes came a look, an intense look that seemed to tell volumes, but of what exactly it told, Michael could not even begin to guess.
For no good reason, a shiver went down his spine. Against his better judgment he went on, turning around one partition and closely behind it, around a second one. They were covered with soot, and with one drizzle of thinned oil paint over another.
The third partition had small sketches nailed to it. Behind it, a small wooden stage came into view, lit by a small flame that was flickering in spasms.
Bent over the thick wax candle, with his back turned to him, was a short man. He cast enormously distorted shadows that were knotting all around him on the walls and partitions.
“Bull?” asked Michael.
Raising the collar of his cowhide jacket, the artist seemed to stiffen at the sound of his voice.
Annoyed at his silence, Michael took another step toward him.
“Didn’t you hear the doorbell?” he asked. “I rang and rang. Why didn’t you answer?”
Keeping his back to him, the artist began rearranging paintbrushes in a metal container. “I’m in no mood for visitors,” he muttered, over the clamor. “Go away.”
“You’re the one who invited me,” said Michael. “Don’t you remember? You promised to show me your latest sculpture—”
“It’s not here.”
“Where, then, is it?”
“Outdoors. There’s no light out there now. And without light, you cannot begin to appreciate darkness.”
Trying to restart the conversation in a different way, Michael said, “You promised to teach me how to break stone—”
“You? Breaking stone?” Bull picked up a wide blade tool. “That’s an act of love, my boy—or else, an act of hate. You’re unprepared for either one of them.”
“I don’t know what you mean—”
Bull cast the tool into Michael’s hand. “Here, my boy. Chisel away!”
“At what?”
“At me!”
Michael was taken aback. “Oh well.” He turned to leave. “No need to say any more. I know when I’m not wanted.”
“Quite the contrary.” The artist raised a hand to stop him, while picking up a bottle from the floor. “Let’s drink, for the sake of the good old times.”
“No,” said Michael. “I don’t feel like it.”
Bull set a stool in the center of the wooden stage, which was surrounded by splashes and splotches of red paint, tinged with brown. “Here,” he said, this time with an inviting gesture of his hand. “I want you to sit for me.”
“No. I’m leaving.”
“It’ll be quick, I promise. No more than an hour.”
“I don’t have the time to spare—”
“Make time, then. It’ll give us a chance to renew what’s left of our friendship. Don’t you think?”
At that, Michael had no choice but to relent. “Fine. An hour, no more.”
Bull squeezed black oil paint on his palette. “Sit straight now.”
“I’m trying.”
“And damn it, don’t move.”
“OK. I’ll do my best.”
Becoming an object to be drawn produced mixed feelings in him. On one hand, it gave Michael a sense of domination. There he was onstage, seemingly taking up all the oxygen in the room. On the other hand, it made him feel overpowered. With each brushstroke, the artist took something out of him—not just his likeness, but something more essential, something Michael could not define—and imparted it, by some magic, to the canvas.
For the sake of art in the making, Michael forced himself to succumb to this new duality in his feelings. He was determined to muster the patience needed to sit still, when all of a sudden, the cellphone in his pocket started buzzing.
Exasperated, Bull threw his hands up in the air. “Don’t even think of answering that!”
Over his objection, Michael said, “Hi, Ash.”
“Where are you?” she asked, in a worried tone. “I’ve made dinner for us, and by now, it’s getting cold—”
“So sorry, sweetheart. I’m on my way—”
“No, he isn’t,” said Bull, not only cutting in but also grabbing the cellphone from his hand.
Flabbergasted, Michael leapt off to yank it back.
But Bull gave chase. Cracking up in laughter, he hopped offstage. And like a true prankster, the only thing he gave back was a devilish wink.
“What?” said Ash, in a startled voice. “Who’s this?”
“It’s me.”
“Who?”
“Bull.”
“Oh.”
“Now, now,” the artist said, “don’t be irate.”
And she said, “I’m not.”
“And don’t wait up for Michael.”
“Why?”
“He’s in my place now. Care to join us?”
She held her breath, saying nothing.
“My last model was beautiful,” said Bull. “Just like you. But she stopped coming. I can always use a new one.”
“Not me.” said Ash.
Once she hung up, the artist leaned into Michael and shoved the cellphone back into his hand. “And where d’you think you’re going?”
“Out!” said Michael. “I’m been here too long.”
“Tell me the truth. Why did you come?”
“To ask a question.”
“Ask away, my boy!”
Michael took a deep breath. “Remember what you said, about that old fool? You said, he was doomed to fling himself off the cliffs—”
“Oh, that.” Bull raised the bottle to his lips. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
Michael gulped. “How on earth did you guess?”
“That, my boy, is for me to know, and for you to agonize over.”
“Just give me a clue.”
“No.” Bull flinched. “You’ll figure it out by yourself, sooner or later.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because.”
“Because what?”
“Because, we have more in common than you think.”
“I doubt we do.”
“You shape reality in your virtual world.” Bull set up a new canvas on his easel. “I shape mine in art. But that, my boy, is just the surface of things.”
Michael stepped off the stage. “You’re talking in riddles again. Stop it. Stop torturing me.”
In place of an answer, Bull bent down and with a wink, blew at the candle. The flame still flickered for a while, until finally it turned into a spiraling thread of smoke.
“You better go now,” he said, darkly. “I’m in no mood for you.”
With another blow, the smoke looped into nothingness.
Without saying a word, Michael turned on his heels and traced his way back to the entrance. No longer did the occasional scraping sound across the stone floor arrest his attention. This time he thought he knew his way.
After only a two or three mistakes, he found the door. It was still partially open, swaying noisily on its hinges.
Chapter 14
Climbing back up to street level, Michael skipped two stairs at a time. His heart thudded against his breastbone with the full impact of anger. He directed it at himself, knowing that he had miscalculated time. No, he had wasted it, and for what? For getting no answer from Bull, other than evasion! How that crazy artist had predicted the fate of the old man remained unclear.
Michael texted one frantic message after another to Ash. He told her he was sorry, he hadn’t meant to miss dinner with her, but something had just come up. Reali
zing that this sounded like a lame excuse, he added that it was a question of life and death, and unfortunately it was left unanswered, but now he was heading home, so please wait.
Michael considered writing, “Let me make it up to you,” but decided against it. He held these words in reserve for the moment they met face to face. If she replied with, “You can’t,” there would be only one way to stop their fight from starting: sweep her off her feet and kiss her till she loses herself in his arms.
Meanwhile, he called and called, but to no avail. There was no answer.
Dead tired. That’s what he was. Down below, from Bull’s place, the sound of a door banging shut rattled the stairs. It compounded his frustration over missed signs, mistaken clues, blocked paths. He prayed that by some magical spell, another door might soon open.
Rain sluiced, sheet after sheet, over his Tesla. Its door opened, sensing his presence. Nearly slipping over the muddy pavement, he got into the car. Its all-electric power was known to deliver unparalleled performance in all weather conditions, so Michael trusted it blindly. But tonight, because of his utter exhaustion, he barely paid attention to its rear, side and forward-facing cameras. To an alert driver, they provided maximum visibility. But Michael was far from alert.
As the driver-side door closed, there was a sudden flash of color in the side-view mirror, which he ignored.
Michael hit the Start button, and unlike the old combustion engines, the car began moving with no sound other than classical music. His favorite, Eine kleine Nachtmusik, combined with the continuous pouring of rain to produce a soothing effect on him. For a moment, Michael nodded off.
Wiping his eyes to awaken himself, he realized—all too late—that a teenage boy was walking there on the left side, the same boy he’d met earlier, on his way in. The car swerved to the right to avoid hitting him. In the process, it plowed through a puddle of water, drenching him from head to toe.
Michael leapt out.
“You all right?” he cried.
“Do I look like I’m all right?” wailed the boy. Water dripped from the wet bangs hanging over his eyes.
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