Dr. Phibes in The Beginning

by William Goldstein

  Phibes had his glove on now. The eagle took a few steps along the barrel and then short-hopped onto the man's wrist. Lifting his head, the great bird extended the piece of quartz in his beak. Phibes turned it in his hand watching the play of light on its crystal planes and nodded his approval.

  They took delivery six months later after a long and detailed negotiation. Phibes’ specifications were precise: a solid block of rose quartz with no blemishes and no streaking. Never had such an order come into the Pitangui Mine! Most of their customers were middlemen in the jewelry business, where quartz was a prized but not a precious stone. They bought in small lots and weren’t particular about the streaks.

  The sheer size of this order posed another problem because the veins in the mine were small - delicate even - with diameters in the 1’ or less range. A 6’x6’x8’ block was unheard of; blemish and white streaks free - an impossibility!

  But the customer was willing to pay; the sense of urgency in his cable quite convincing. Sensing a big payday, the mine foreman announced a bonus to the first crew who struck pay dirt.

  Miners are a savvy lot. Working in extremely dangerous conditions, they don’t allow themselves to become inured to the hazards. Those that do don’t last too long. A seasoned miner is a calculating miner. Every move he makes from the time he goes into the mine to the time he leaves is a calculated move. Everything he takes out - by pick and shovel or by blasting – is factored into his estimate of the cohesive strength of the surrounding ground mass. Cave-ins are fatal.

  It took crew # 3 all of eighteen hours to find the big vein. It lay next to the tracks in a spur off the main tunnel, so out in the open that anyone could find it. But this spur led into a network of tunnels that’d been producing for years and the rubble that’d built up around the tracks was packed hard, Still, Diego Soares knew exactly where to look. The normally close-mouthed crew leader wasn’t about to open up now. After the prize money - 10,000 reals - was divvied up with his crew, he brought his share home to his wife, Hilda.

  That weekend he invited his crew over to celebrate with his family. It was late afternoon and the east-facing back yard was beginning to pick up some of the breezes that came off the hills out back. Except for the scrub, not much grew there so these were cooling breezes that didn’t spread a lot of dust like they did out on the pampas.

  Diego's wife and daughters had been up all-night making empanadas so that now there were three platters piled high with beef, spinach and cheese treats on the big plank table. Washtubs full of Brahma beer and Guarana Antarctica were parked nearby. Some of the crew brought their instruments and after the first round of eating, they collected in the far corner of the garden to make their music. The ground there was bare from when the kids were learning to ride their bikes. Diego had hooked up a paper globe to give the area a dance hall look. After the players warmed up - banjo, mandolin, two horns and drums - a few couples came out to dance.

  Diego kept a close eye on his daughters. Isis was the oldest and the plainest. Diego didn’t have to worry about her. Isis’ sharp tongue and boney elbows kept the boys in line. It was the middle girl, Yolanda, who got all the attention. She was just 15 but her juggs just kept on outgrowing every blouse her parents bought. Despairing, her mother cut half a dozen serapes for the girl.

  Yolanda didn’t like to wear them because they made her look fat. But modesty is one of the pillars of simple households like the Soares’ so she dutifully acceded to her parents’ wishes. She was wearing one now, white with orange trim. The size of a small tablecloth, it covered but could not conceal the girl's thoracic bounty, Isis’ whispered admonishments to the contrary. But how can you keep your hands still when the music is playing?

  The rhythmic heavings in Yolanda's serape was catnip to the miners. Out of deference to Diego, their lustings were imaginary but strong enough to work up a sweat. That apprentice kid Umberto finally screwed up enough courage to approach the boss’ daughter who, having been consigned to the sidelines all evening, was happy for his attention and politely accepted his invitation.

  Stiff and formal at first, they warmed up when the horns went up-tempo. Umberto was a miner, not a dancer but here he was with a very pretty girl in his arms. Strong feelings were beating in his chest and what he felt pounding through the serape made Umberto think that he might have a chance with his host's daughter.

  The glowing orb overhead seemed to drape them in affirmation's warm blanket. Yielding to the most natural of impulses, Umberto pressed ever closer so that he could know the truth in Yolanda's heart.

  The perfumes rising from her bare skin sent him into a swoon. He almost fainted and save for the iron grip about his shoulders he would have fallen. Yolanda was staring at him. Was something wrong? Something was wrong! He was being moved away from her like a magnet. Fear in her eyes. The grip tightening.

  Babaca! Her father hissed in his ear. Babaca!

  TO THE

  CANARY DOCKS

  Phibes loved driving the truck! In a life shredded of all pleasures, it was a new pleasure, unexpected but with possibility.

  This morning he was going to the docks. The quartz block was due to arrive at noon and he wanted to be there to take delivery.

  The big truck was surprisingly agile in traffic. Its chain-driven wheels with their solid rubber tyres gave it a firmer grip on the roadway than ordinary trucks. Its high profile let the other drivers know what's coming. But it was by sheer weight that the Longobardo Drayage truck intimidated. It swept up the rest of the traffic in its wash, sent shivers through the nearby buildings and dazzled the pedestrians with the impressive geometry of blacks and greens and reds on its sides and the bright gold lettering stretched across them: Longobardo Drayage Company!

  Vulnavia was in the cab next to him, both of them in denims. He wore the loose fitting jacket of a working man; hers was a trimmer, more tailored look. The musicians occupied the rear of the cab. They looked like a bunch of stevedores which, this morning, they were, sitting in tight formation on two parallel benches.

  Phibes, as always, had attended to every detail. The move from the docks had to be perfect. His crew was at the ready.

  For several blocks now they’d been watching the cranes working above the rooftops. The big truck pulled in just as the halyards were being secured to the quartz block on the ship's main deck. The block itself was wrapped in heavy batting and strapped to a palette. Two of the largest cranes had been assigned the task of moving it from ship to shore, one crane to do the heavy lifting while the second crane kept a steel mesh safety net positioned beneath the block at all times during its transit.

  Looking like a pair of mating mantises, these two great cranes towered over the river traffic with mechanical purpose: so graceful, so powerful. Flights of gulls kept weaving in and out of their steel spines, one of them sweeping down to snatch a herring from the Thames and then streaking into the dockyards for some cover before the others could descend upon her. A few of the hungrier gulls did try to chase her down, sending up a raucous cry that overrode the river traffic. Seen up close, these birds were remarkably clean given the permanent pall that drapes over the English capital.

  As soon as the block was lowered into position by the crane operators, whose feat was the talk of the dockyards for weeks afterward, the stevedores swarmed all over it, nudging, tugging, pushing it into the truck, their movements cadenced by Sophie‘s call-out.

  Finally the block was loaded into the van, the truck sinking 6” when the halyards were removed. Then, starting up with a chug-chug, the truck lumbered off.

  The stevedores sat on their benches in stoic silence. Their hooded sweats, dark grays and blues, couldn’t conceal their tiredness. Most hung their heads but a few of them kept glancing through the rear window at the cargo in the center of the van, its green canvas cover unrevealing, the truck's heavy rumblings more noise than not, a few sharp jolts swaying them to the cobbles.

  After what seemed like too short a ride, they pulled into
a large work yard cluttered with packing cases. Stacks of empties three-deep bordered the scrub. Boxed angels and wild animals were scattered about the interior as if dropped there by their transmitters, who hurried away without signing off on the paperwork.

  They’d parked on a scales and a man was coming out of the adjacent kiosk with a clipboard in his hand. Vulnavia climbed down from the cab to meet him. The manifest showed only one item: a stone block weighing 8475 pounds. The scales confirmed the weight. She paid the tariff with some bills in her purse.

  Inigo Barnes was the last in the line of stonecutters dating back to the 13th century. Their business thrived during the crusades because the English, like so many other societies, did a lot of killing in God's name. Barnes’ memorials populated large neighborhoods of Knightsbridge, that premier British cemetery that grew up in parallel to the Industrial Revolution it served.

  The 1890's saw a building boom amongst its mausoleums where the theme, ‘together in life, together in death’ blossomed into full flower as exemplified by the horses’ plumes that grew so outsized that they obscured the hearse itself.

  But Inigo Barnes was a scrappy disgusting man whose asides about the sarcophagus were given short shrift. Brushing the man aside, Phibes signaled Vulnavia to present the design portfolio.

  Dead dust, dead dust is all they are, Barnes kept yammering in his thick accent. You put live stone around them to make it worthwhile. Give the family something to look at else they ain’t gonna come. The master stonecutter pulled a heavy red rag from his pants pocket and honked into it for emphasis.

  But Phibes knew and respected the man through his work. His Unknown Soldier frieze at the Battle of the Isonzo Memorial drew visitors from all over Italy. And his Doves and Vultures aerial at the League of Nations Headquarters gave a measure of respect to that hapless gathering. Respect or no, when Barnes saw that he was making no headway, he shoved his hands into his pockets and nodded over to the big truck.

  On Phibes’ signal, the stevedores slid some heavy planks from underneath the truck's chassis. Then, with rope and rollers, they inched the huge stone down the ramp much the same way that the Egyptians moved the 5-ton diorite blocks into position during the building of the Great Pyramid.

  Finally the block was on the ground. Phibes lifted the tarp to check for damage. And then, signaling his approval, he and Vulnavia climbed back into the truck followed by the crew. Then the Longobardo Drayage Truck moved off with a chug, its brightly painted sides swaying in rhythm to the navigational effort.

  BOOK TWO

  THE

  SHRINE ROOM

  THE GOOD-MORROW

  By John Donne

  I WONDER by my troth, what thou and I

  Did, till we loved ? were we not wean'd till then ?

  But suck'd on country pleasures, childishly ?

  Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers’ den ?

  'Twas so ; but this, all pleasures fancies be ;

  If ever any beauty I did see,

  Which I desired, and got, ‘twas but a dream of thee.

  The words were conversational and not poetic, spoken and not recited, a moment multiplied a million times over by lovers who, stymied by the lady's silence, try to tell her the way things are. Of course it's a miscalculation but a glorious one at that. All or nothing! Win her hand or her disdain!!

  Not now and not Phibes. This is a resuscitation not a recital of this great love poem. Phibes is talking to his beloved across the void - an enterprise of the heart usually met with silence.

  His voice trembles. Even with the amplification his words are lost in the candles’ flickering. Nobody reads poetry anymore and when they do it's mere rote, the poet's barrage notwithstanding. And so this greatest love poem in the English language wavers while the candles flickered down to their stubs. Can this grieving husband be excused for wooing his lady anew? The dead leave us little to say and yet we persist in talking to them.

  Victoria's pictures were all over the walls. He’d put them up right after he got back from Spitsbergen. There had to be something of Victoria in the house for him to remain there. And so he collected photos from her album - like all Americans, Victoria would always be an adventurer outside her own country - and had them blown up at the photographer's. His favorite was Victoria standing at the Hispano just before their trip to Dover. The cloche angled across her forehead, the collar of her leopard skin pulled up against the wind - Victoria was always at the ready.

  Now this and her other images hung in what would soon be Victoria's room. He’d been coming here for months, showing up at all hours from sunrise to late at night. Time didn’t matter in this windowless room. The Shrine Room. Victoria's Room!

  A person's belongings are just that: they belong to that person. And a little bit of that person belongs to them. The built-in closet along one wall was filled with Victoria's garments, all neatly hung and arranged by color. Her comb and brush, perfumes and lotions were carefully arrayed on the make-up table. The beveled mirror was polished to a fine finish.

  Death, the final loss, baffles us. Angers us. Defeats us. We pray to stupefaction and seek out mystics and other charlatans.

  Not Anton Phibes. He and Victoria were together in this room. He could go to her anytime. Call out her name when he was at her door. Chat with her again. She could come up with the most surprising things.

  This room squared away his loss, gave him a reason for getting up in the morning. Got him through the days and weeks and months with some semblance. It sparked his purpose and put some intent back in his stride. He breathed better in this room and, immersed in her images, heard Victoria's lusty laughter every now and then.

  Her leopard skin coat hung in the wardrobe. It still carried the scent she wore on the day of their trip to Dover. ‘Can time go backwards?’ was a powerful question for the physicists of that era. And just as powerful for this husband who had lost his wife.

  Phibes resolved to answer it.

  The sarcophagus glowed in affirmation, its rose hues dancing with life. It had arrived from the stonecutter's earlier that day. And not wanting to attract any unnecessary attention, Barnes’ deliveryman was routed down into the subterranean garage where the musicians off-loaded the heavy cargo in privacy and then wrangled it up five flights of stairs - all four tons of it - to the Shrine Room.

  Phibes was pleased with the handiwork. Its clean lines were blemish-free, a rarity for stones of this size. Despite its bulk, it had an airy feminine presence. Victoria's initials, VRP, had been etched into the lower left-hand corner.

  Tomorrow, its interior would be readied for her arrival later in the week. Jolted by the thought, Phibes contracted the same sudden withdrawal that throttles us in moments of great danger. Can we get through them? Besieged by doubt, we rebel against this test. Too soon! Too soon! We stumble drunkenly about as if life is fair. Able-bodied till now, do we suddenly need a cane? How else to stop from falling?!

  We grasp at the familiars. The way things are supposed to be. Night and day. Red and white. Hot and cold and life and death. The way things are supposed to be. We live and we die and then we wonder why!

  Phibes looked at her images on the walls: Victoria on the tennis court…standing at the Steinway watching him play…getting ready for their trip to Dover, her scent still hanging in the air.

  He bid her good morrow and stepped outside. The expectant lover, intensified!

  THE

  BALLROOM

  The ballroom was puffed with confetti when he got there. Up on the bandstand the Wizards were driving home ’Clarinet Marmalade’. Sophie was shaking it up at the mike. Sad Sax (the sax player) was putting his eyes all over her.

  The crystal ball circled dreamily overhead, speckling the black marble dance floor with just enough light to preserve the romance. A scatter of tables and their violin-shaped chairs implied the cabaret.

  Vulnavia was seated at one of them, a bottle of Veuve Cliquot chilling in the ice chest at her side. Two tulip glasses waited
on the table before her.

  Phibes came to collect her and lead her out onto the dance floor. He’d had a busy day and his bottle green suit wasn’t quite up for the occasion. Vulnavia more than made up for it in her black and white sequined three-piece and a neat four-in-hand tied close to the collar of her starched shirt, a large ruby stuck in its center. Her pillbox chapeau spiked with black and white jeweled needles signified the moment.

  Victoria Regina Phibes was coming home! This was a preview of the great day to come.

  After a few turns she and Phibes returned to the table. While he was filling their glasses for the toast, Sophie came down from the bandstand on Sad Sax’ arm. They launched right into the Charleston as soon as they hit the dance floor, Sophie showing a sturdy leg and giving as good as she got from the wiry Sax Man.

  The pair was well-matched, the crystal ball softening and then brightening their pairings. Phibes watched them closely applauding their athleticism. But just before the end, something in Sophie's rhythm caught his eye. She seemed to stiffen. Her movements were less fluid. Sad Sax noticed it too. Suddenly he wasn’t just holding Sophie, he was holding her up.

  Phibes signaled to the Wizards to stop playing. Sophie was brought over to their table. She was limp, listless. The light in her eyes was gone!

  THE

  DIFFERENCE ENGINE

  It was a lovely day and even though winter was less than a month away, these late fall days still retained much of the early season warmth. The air was unusually clear thanks to the sparse mid-morning traffic and so Phibes decided to walk. The Science Museum was five stops away from the Bermondsey Station, which meant that the underground would get him there in half the time that a motor car would take.

  Sophie's failure made this trip an urgent one. Like the rest of the band, she’d been built with the aid of the Difference Engine whose inventor, Charles Babbage, is considered to be the Godfather of modern computing.