The Great Book of Amber - Chronicles 1-10

by Roger Zelazny

  The back office contained a desk, a couple of chairs, cartons of books. He seated himself behind the desk and nodded toward the nearest chair. I took it. He switched on a telephone answering machine then, removed a stack of forms and correspondence from the blotter, opened a drawer and took out a bottle of Chianti.

  “Care for a glass?” he asked.

  “Sure, thanks.”

  He rose and stepped through the opened door of a small lavatory. He took a pair of glasses from a shelf and rinsed them. He brought them back, set them down, filled both, and. pushed one in my direction. They were from the Sheraton.

  “Sorry I tossed the Bible at you,” he said, raising his glass and taking a sip.

  “You looked as if you expected me to go up in a puff of smoke.”

  He nodded.

  “I am really convinced that the reason she wants power has something to do with you. Are you into some form of occultism?”

  “No.”

  “She talked sometimes as if you might even be a supernatural creature yourself.”

  I laughed.

  He did, too, after a moment.

  “I don’t know,” he said then: “’There’re lots of strange things in the world. ’They can’t all be right, but . . .”

  I shrugged.

  “Who knows? So you think she was looking for some system that would give her power to defend herself against me?”

  “That was the impression I got.”

  I took a drink of the wine.

  “That doesn’t make sense,” I told him.

  But even as I said it I knew that it was probably true. And if I had driven her into the path of whatever had destroyed her, then I was partly responsible for her death. I suddenly felt the burden along with the pain.

  “Finish the story,” I said.

  “That’s pretty much it,” he answered. “I got tired of people who wanted to discuss cosmic crap all the time and I split.”

  “And that’s all? Did she find the right system, the right guru? What happened?”

  He took a big drink and stared at me.

  “I really liked her,” he said.

  “I’m sure.”

  “The Tarot, Caballa, Golden Dawn, Crowley, Fortune, that’s where she went next.”

  “Did she stay?”

  “I don’t know for sure. But I think so. I only heard this after a while.”

  “Ritual magic, then?”

  “Probably.”

  “Who does it?”

  “Lots of people.”

  “I mean who did she find? Did you hear that?”

  “I think it was Victor Melman.”

  He looked at me expectantly. I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know the name.”

  “Strange man,” he mused, taking a sip and leaning back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his neck and bringing his elbows forward. He stared off into the lavatory. “I’ve heard it said—by a number of people, some of them fairly reliable—that he really has something going for him, that he has a hold on a piece of something, that he’s known a kind of enlightenment, has been initiated, has a sort of power and is sometimes a great teacher. But he’s got these ego problems, too, that seem to go along with that sort of thing. And there’s a touch of the seamy side there. I’ve even heard it said that that’s not his real name, that he’s got a record, and there’s more of Manson to him than Magus. I don’t know. He’s nominally a painter—actually a pretty good one. His stuff does sell.”

  “You’ve met him?”

  A pause, then, “Yes.”

  “What were your own impressions?”

  “I don’t know. Well . . . I’m prejudiced. I can’t really say.”

  I swirled the wine in my glass. “How come?”

  “Oh, I wanted to study with him once. He turned me down.”

  “So you were into this, too. I thought—”

  “I’m not into anything,” he snapped. “I tried everything at some time or other, I mean. Everybody goes through phases. I wanted to develop, expand; advance. Who doesn’t? But I never found it.” He unbent and took another gulp of wine. “Sometimes I felt that I was close, that there was some power, some vision that I could almost touch or see. Almost. Then it was gone. It’s all a lot of crap. You just delude yourself. Sometimes I even thought I had it. Then a few days would go by and I realized that I was lying to myself again.”

  “All of this was before you met Julia?” He nodded.

  “Right. That might be what held us together for a while. I still like to talk about all this bullshit, even if I don’t believe it anymore. Then she got too serious about it, and I didn’t feel like going that route again.”

  “I see.”

  He drained his glass and refilled it.

  “There’s nothing to any of it,” he said. “There are an infinite number of ways of lying to yourself, of rationalizing things into something they are not. I guess that I wanted magic, and there is no real magic in the world.”

  “That why you threw the Bible at me?”

  He snorted. “It could as easily have been the Koran or the Vedas, I suppose. It would have been neat to see you vanish in a flash of fire. But no go.”

  I smiled.

  “How can I find Melman?”

  “I’ve got it here somewhere,” he said, lowering his eyes and opening a drawer. “Here.”

  He withdrew a small notebook and flipped through it. He copied out an address on an index card and handed it to me. He took another drink of wine.

  “It’s his studio, but he lives there, too,” he added. I nodded and set down my glass.

  “I appreciate everything you told me.”

  He raised the bottle.

  “Have another drink?”

  “No, thanks.”

  He shrugged and topped off his own.

  I rose.

  “You know, it’s really sad,” he said.

  “What?”

  “That there’s no magic, that there never was, there probably never will be.”

  “That’s the breaks,” I said.

  “The world would be a lot more interesting place.”

  “Yeah.”

  I turned to go.

  “Do me a favor,” he said.

  “What?”

  “On the way out, set that sign for three o’clock and let the bolt in the door snap shut again.”

  “Sure.” I left him there and did those things. The sky had grown a lot darker, the wind a bit more chill. I tried again to reach Luke, from a phone on the comer, but he was still out.

  We were happy. It had been a terrific day. The weather was perfect, and everything we did had worked out right. We went to a fan party that evening and afterward had a late dinner at a really good little place we’d stumbled upon by accident. We lingered over drinks, hating for the day to end. We decided then to prolong a winning streak, and we drove to an otherwise deserted beach where we sat around and splashed around and watched the moon and felt the breezes. For a long while. I did something then that I had sort of promised myself I would not. Hadn’t Faust thought a beautiful moment worth a soul?

  “Come on,” I said, aiming my beer can at a trash bin and catching hold of her hand. “Let’s take a walk.”

  “Where to?” she asked, as I drew her to her feet.

  “Fairy land,” I replied. “The fabled realms of yore. Eden. Come on.”

  Laughing, she let me lead her along the beach, toward a place where it narrowed, squeezing by high embankments. The moon was generous and yellow; the sea sang my favorite song.

  We strolled hand in hand past the bluffs, where a quick turning of the way took us out of sight of our stretch of sand: I looked for the cave that should be occurring soon, high and narrow . . .

  “A cave,” I announced moments later. “Let’s go in.”

  “It’ll be dark.”

  “Good,” I said, and we entered.

  The moonlight followed us for about six paces. By then, though, I had spotted the turnoff
to the left.

  “’This way,” I stated. “It is dark!”

  “Sure. Just keep hold of me a little longer. It’ll be okay.” Fifteen or twenty steps and there was a faint illumination to the right. I led her along that turning and the way brightened as we advanced.

  “We may get lost,” she said softly.

  “I don’t get lost,” I answered her.

  It continued to brighten. ‘The way turned once more, and we proceeded along that last passage to emerge at the foot of a mountain in sight of a low forest, the sun standing at midmorning height above its trees.

  She froze, blue eyes wide. “It’s daytime!” she said.

  “Tempus fugit,” I replied. “Come on.”

  We walked through the woods for a time, listening to the birds and the breezes, dark-haired Julia and I, and I led her after a while through a canyon of colored rocks and grasses, beside a stream that flowed into a river.

  We followed the river until we came, abruptly, to a precipice from whence it plunged a mighty distance, casting rainbows and fogs. Standing there, staring out across the great valley that lay below, we beheld a city of spires and cupolas, gilt and crystal, through morning and mist.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  “Just around the comer,” I said. “Come.”

  I led her to the left, then down a trail that took us back along the face of the cliff, passing finally behind the cataract. Shadows and diamond beads . . . a roaring to approach the power of silence . . .

  We passed at last into a tunnel, damp at first but drying as it rose. We followed it to a gallery, open to our left and looking out upon night and stars, stars, stars . . . It was an enormous prospect, blazing with new constellations, their light sufficient to cast our shadows onto the wall behind us. She leaned over the low parapet, her skin some rare polished marble, and she looked downward.

  “’They’re down there, too,” she said. “And to both sides! There is nothing below but more stars. And to the sides . . .”

  “Yes. Pretty things, aren’t they?”

  We remained there for a long while, watching, before I could persuade her to come away and follow the tunnel farther . . . It bore us out again to behold a ruined classical amphitheater beneath a late afternoon sky. Ivy grew over broken benches and fractured pillars. Here and there lay a shattered statue, as if cast down by earthquake. Very picturesque. I’d thought she’d like it, and I was right. We took turns seating ourselves and speaking to each other. The acoustics were excellent.

  We walked away then, hand in hand, down myriad ways beneath skies of many colors, coming at last in sight of a quiet lake with a sun entering evening upon its farther shore. There was a glittering mass of rock off to my right. We walked out upon a small point cushioned with mosses and ferns.

  I put my arms around her and we stood there for a long time, and the wind in the trees was lute song counterpointed by invisible birds. Later still, I unbuttoned her blouse. “Right here?” she said.

  “I like it here. Don’t you?”

  “It’s beautiful. Okay. Wait a minute.”

  So we lay down and love till the shadows covered us. After a time she slept, as I desired.

  I set a spell upon her to keep her asleep, for I was beginning to have second thoughts over the wisdom of making this journey. Then I dressed both of us and picked her up to carry her back. I took a shortcut.

  On the beach from which we’d started I put her down and stretched out beside her. Soon I slept also.

  We did not awaken till after the sun was up, when the sounds of bathers roused us. She sat up and stared at me. “Last night,” she said, “could not have been a dream. But it couldn’t have been real either. Could it?”

  “I guess so,” I said. She furrowed her brow.

  “What did you just agree to?” she asked.

  “Breakfast,” I said. “Let’s go get some. Come on.”

  “Wait a minute.” She put a hand on my arm. “Something unusual happened.

  What was it?”

  “Why destroy the magic by talking about it? Let’s go eat.”

  She questioned me a lot in the days that followed, but I was adamant in refusing to talk about it. Stupid, the whole thing was stupid. I should never have taken her on that walk. It contributed to that final argument that set us permanently apart.

  And now, driving, as I thought about it, I realized something more than my stupidity. I realized that I had been in love with her, that I still loved her. Had I not taken her on that walk, or had I acknowledged her later accusation that I was a sorcerer, she, would not have taken the route that she took, seeking power of her own—probably for self protection. She would be alive.

  I bit my lip and cried out. I cut around the braking car in front of me and crashed a light. If I had killed the thing I loved, I was certain that the opposite was not going to be true.

  3

  Grief and anger shrink my world, and I resent this. They seem to paralyze my memory of happier times, of friends, places, things, options. Squeezed by the grip of intense, unsettling emotion, I grow smaller in my single-mindedness. I suppose it is partly because I have discarded a range of choices, impairing in some measure my freedom of will. I don’t like this, but after a point I have small control over it. It makes me feel that I have surrendered to a kind of determinism, which imitates me even more. Then, vicious cycle, this feeds back into the emotion that drives me and intensifies it. The simple way of ending this situation is the headlong rush to remove its object. The difficult way is more philosophical, a drawing back, the reestablishment of control. As usual, the difficult way is preferable. A headlong rush may also result in a broken neck.

  I parked in the first place that I saw, opened the window, lit my pipe. I vowed not to depart until I had grown calm. All of my life I have had a tendency to overreact to things. It seems to run in my family. But I did not want to be like the others. They made a lot of trouble for themselves that way. The full-scale, all-or-nothing reaction may be all right if you always win, but that way also lies high tragedy or at least opera if you happen to be up against something extraordinary. And I did have indications that this was the case. Therefore, I was a fool. I told myself this till I believed it.

  Then I listened to my caliper self as it agreed that I was indeed a fool—for not having seen my own feelings when I could have done something about them, for having displayed a power and denied its consequences, for not having at least guessed at the strange nature of my enemy in all these years, for my present simplification of the coming encounter. It would not do to seize Victor Melman on sight and try to beat the truth out of him. I resolved to proceed carefully, covering myself at all times. Life is never simple, I told myself. Sit still and gather, regroup.

  Slowly, I felt the tension go out of me: Slowly, too, my world grew again, and I saw within it the possibility that S really knew me, knew me well, and may even have arranged events so that I would dispense with thinking and surrender to the moment. No, I would not be like the others . . .

  I sat there and thought for a long while before I started the engine again and drove on slowly.

  It was a grimy brick building situated on a corner. It was four stories in height, with occasional spray-painted obscenities on the alley side and on the wall facing the narrower street. I discovered the graffiti, a few broken windows and the fire escape as I strolled slowly about the place, looking it over. By then a light rain was just beginning to fall. The lower two stories were occupied by the Brutus Storage Company; according to a sign beside the stairs in a small hallway I entered. The place smelled of urine, and there was an empty Jack Daniels bottle lying on the dusty windowsill to my right. Two mailboxes hung upon the flaking wall. One said “Brutus Storage,” the other bore the legend "V M.” Both were empty.

  I mounted the stair, expecting it to creak. It did not. There were four knobless doors letting upon the second floor hallway, all of them closed. The outlines of what might be cartons were visible t
hrough several of the frosted panes in their upper sections. There were no sounds from within.

  I surprised a black cat dozing on the next stairway. She arched her back, showed me her teeth, made a hissing noise, then turned and bounded up the stairs and out of sight.

  The next landing also had four doors—three of them apparently nonfunctional, the fourth dark-stained and shellacked shiny. It bore a small brass plate that read “Melman.” I knocked.

  There was no answer. I tried again several times, with the same result. No sounds from within either. It seemed likely that these were his living quarters and that the fourth floor, with the possibility of a skylight, held his studio. So I turned away and took the final flight.

  I reached the top and saw that one of the four doors there was slightly ajar. I halted and listened for a moment. From beyond it came faint sounds of movement. I advanced and gave it a few knocks. I heard a sudden intake of breath from somewhere inside. I pushed on the door.

  He stood about twenty feet away beneath a large skylight and he had turned to face me—a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark beard and eyes. He held a brush in his left hand and a palette in his right. He wore a paint-smeared apron over his Levi’s and had on a plaid sport shirt. The easel at his back held the outlines of what could be a Madonna and child. There were a great many other canvases about, all of them facing the walls or covered.

  “Hello,” I said. “You are Victor Melman?”

  He nodded, neither smiling nor frowning, placed his palette on a nearby table, his brush into a jar of solvent. He picked up a damp-looking cloth then and wiped his hands with it.

  “And yourself?” he asked, tossing the cloth aside and facing me again.

  “Merle Corey. You knew Julia Barnes.”

  “I don’t deny it,” he said. “Your use of the past tense would seem to indicate—”

  “She’s dead all right. I want to talk to you about it.”

  “All right,” he said, untying his apron. “Let’s go downstairs then. No place to sit up here.”