Dr. Phibes in The Beginning

by William Goldstein

  The horses are also armored – with chainmail to give them freedom of movement. During this particular Faire, Timothy Thrilby was the leader after a week's worth of competition. Thrilby, 34, was a stockbroker at ------------- and a Faire regular for several years. A former collegiate wrestler, Thrilby had a reputation for wrecking his opponents on the first pass. He and his Percheron, Vercingetorix, were inseparable.

  It was late in the afternoon when Thrilby entered the lists. The turf was tufted and worn in several spots because the jousting had been going on since dawn.

  Thrilby, in full Lochnivar armor, galloped out across the turf to the stands opposite where he pulled up his mount and tossed a rose to his Fair Ellen in the benches to claim her.

  Friends later confirmed that Thrilby and the lady had been seeing one another since the first of the year (and here it was November already).

  But another knight cantered out to throw down the gauntlet just as Thrilby tossed the rose. Vercingetorix snorted the alarm even while Fair Ellen caught the bloom and was clasping it to her bosom.

  Thrilby quickly impaled the gauntlet on his lance and the battle was joined. Lances, battleaxes, swords crashing their shields, the two men went at it as only true rivals can. The joust was over in a few minutes, the judges declaring their verdict with the traditional bells: the Interloper.

  Thrilby sulked off the field; but with the jeers of the crowd ringing in his ears, he did an abrupt volte face and burst right back on to it again. Long lance in hand, he charged his snickering rival who reined his stallion aside just in time.

  Thrilby's lance slammed into the heavy oaken door beyond, unseating Thrilby and sending him to the ground with deadly force. The Fair Ellen fainted while people rushed from the stands to help their quivering metallic hero, among them a physic armed with various poultices and a jar of leeches. In the confusion, Thrilby's conqueror rode off unnoticed.”

  The reporter was a freshman at Spuyten Duyvil High School, one of the oldest schools in the South Bronx’ educational establishment. Built in 1903, its glazed red brick walls and sulfated copper roof have aged well. Today, the venerable structure enjoys an anchor-like status in this crumbling section of the Bronx known as Riverdale.

  Riverdale boasts a slight elevation over the surrounding tracts. This altitudinal advantage provided its residents with an unobstructed view of Yankee Stadium (the Original): for those privileged few, it meant a season's pass to the New York Yankees’ home games.

  ‘Watch the World Champions for free’ was a business card staple amongst the local real estate agents.

  Spuyten Duyvil was a tough school. Geometry and algebra, chemistry and physics, American history and civics were all required to graduate, plus one foreign language - German, Spanish, French - take your pick: three years of Latin were offered to the more adventurous souls.

  The usual extracurriculars – music, the arts and journalism – were also available and it is in the latter where the young freshman is toiling toward a career.

  Willow had always been a nosy kid, asking interminable – but well-directed – questions of family, friends, and strangers.

  She believed that you could be a better person if you knew what you were doing.

  This quest for the facts was hammered into Willow by her two brothers, Stoddard and Gamelin (their parents had an independent streak), who teased her mercilessly early on.

  They liked to needle her with puns and circular arguments. Counterpunching their jabs turned the little pigtailed sister into a young lady who, at age 13, knew exactly what she wanted to say, and do!

  Staff reporter for the Intelligencer was the first step toward a career that would lead to national syndication. Willow truly believed this in her secret heart.

  Pulitzer Prize, watch out!

  THE

  CRIMINAL MIND

  Standing in front of New York's Museum of Modern Art is a larger-than-life statue of Honore de Balzac. Cast by Auguste Rodin, Balzac is seen as that writer thought himself to be (and what he really was) – Secretary to the Human Race.

  Balzac, who lived one step ahead of the debt collector (bad debt was a felony in 19th century France) knew the criminal mind like no other. His description of the Spanish Priest is worth the thousands of learned tomes that have since accumulated on the subject.

  Balzac believed that great criminals were great lovers who turned to crime to provide for their ladies. Robbery, fraud, and embezzlement were their vocations; work was for lesser souls.

  Criminals make up but a small portion of the larger population: master criminals’ share is even smaller still. But this tribe of malefactors has been with us ever since humans first walked the earth. Why do they do what they do, given the arsenal of punishments that the modern criminal justice system can mete out – and the enormous sums spent in doing so – remains unanswered (and unknowable) except to the Balzac's among us. If you can‘t do time, don’t do crime.

  So what is the criminal mind?

  The first inkling of what Inspector Pretorius (Acting) might be in for came in a second letter from Willow Weeps. In it she pointed out that even though that death at the Renaissance Faire looked like an accident, it might well not have been. The deceased was an experienced ‘knight’, was ahead in the jousting competition and had owned his horse for half a dozen years. Have you identified the other ‘knight’? she wondered.

  He started to scribble a thank-you note but then, thinking better of it, balled it up and tossed it into the trash basket. If the department followed up every suggestion that came in, they’d never get any work done. He made a note to himself to find out who this other knight was sometime in the future.

  What Valor Pretorius didn’t know is that the Future, as it is for many of us, was already upon him.

  Nine months earlier in the autumn of the previous year, the streets of Gramercy Square shuddered with resentment for several long moments before their tormenter finally hove into view. It was a large – a very large – truck, chain-driven from the engine to its rear wheels, these thick steel circles wrapped in an inch and a half of solid rubber.

  Trucks like this flourished in the 1920's, connectors between the cross-town docks in Hell's Kitchen and the blocks and blocks of factory lofts south of 23rd Street.

  Notions 3 cents up…imported flatware…Men's’ shoes: new, $3; used, 75 cents, were the signs in the upper-floor windows of these broad-shouldered buildings, none of them taller than 8 storey's and all of them made of brick, whose fresh colors – red, ochre, grey – had long since faded into the dinge of car exhaust streaked by rain.

  Sabrett's All Beef…Pina Colada…2 Cents Plain, the ground floor signs were more welcoming. No windows on these food shops, just a drop board that doubled as a counter. The jars of straws and mustard in a crock, its cover caked with the aged yellow stuff. Napkins in one of those chrome holders with the spring to keep the napkins in place. The chrome always had its shine and the napkins were really white.

  New Yorkers never went hungry as long as they had the Sabrett's Red Hots and the 2 Cents Plain with a kick of seltzer.

  But that was a long time ago and here was this relic pounding the clean asphalt streets (swept daily) of Gramercy Square. ‘Longobardo Drayage Co.’ scrolled in gold along its sides, the truck looked as if it had just come off the showroom floor.

  Today's Gramercy Square, sedate and autumnal, is an island timeless in its assurances. All of its buildings are placid to the outside world, their red-tinted brownstone facings quite robust and ready for come-what-may. The black-enameled fencing offered a flawless background to the polished brass doorknobs. Calm, calm, calm, Gramercy Square is the quintessential island within an island.

  The drayage truck left as quickly as it had come. After a few minutes, Gramercy Square settled back into itself.

  THE

  PONCE DE LEON SOCIETY

  The room had the air of weighty decisions for indeed that is where they were being made right now at this ultra exclusive blac
k-tie affaire whose 80-some guests, already giddy with champagne, were swooning over the quarter-million they’d just been asked to pungle up.

  These folks certainly were not paupers, but $250k was a pretty big chunk to chew on during these testy economic times!

  They were gathered on the uppermost storey of a modest (by New York City standards) office building. This floor, the 8th, was a mere half the size in area of the floor beneath it. An all-glass cube, it glowed like some regal crown, throwing out shafts brighter than the sun – a modern Versailles that displayed all the preeminence of its namesake. Were Louis Quatorze to suddenly appear, he would find it worthy of his glittering court.

  Its myriad mirrors and solid glass walls imparted a spaciousness far beyond the room's actual geometry. A source of both emanations and reflections, this Versailles possessed one feature that its namesake did not have: an Infinity Lake. (How the architect got this past the building inspector remains a mystery). This lake cannot be ignored: it is right there on the rooftop, a shimmering green expanse 5’-6’ deep in some places. Far from lifeless, it inexplicably shows tidal action. Whitecaps roil its surface during the stormy season.

  Green/blue, blue/green – to look upon this lake is to see forever. And ‘forever’ is the subtext of tonight's presentation being given by PDL Director Missy Bramwell. She is extolling their newest acquisition when, with a flourish, she sweeps away the curtain behind her to reveal the youthful-looking Lady Phibes (sic) ensconced in her rose quartz sarcophagus. The crowd ogles and twitters as their hostess informs that this regal creature has been dead for more than 80 years; not really dead, she's been hibernating.

  Ms. Bramwell is a perfect woman. Speech, poise, proportion – all measured to the Greek ideal – made her confident of her perfection. Were we to consider people as a collection of spring works contained within a flexible membrane, then the Missy Bramwells of this world are stretched to the limit. With their days spent in an exquisite tautness and their nights in a morass of manufactured sleep, this elite group lived the life of the rubber band.

  Missy knew that she was not pretty so she meant to be respected, revered even! Decorum was her passion.

  A product of the Pennsylvania State College System, Missy's carefully plotted academics drew the attention of the Keystone State's Chamber of Commerce. Their Future Leaders Award (along with its $5000. check) allowed Ms. Bramwell to make her great leap forward - right into the MBA program at Nittany.

  At that same time she bought her first blue single-breasted two-piece, the same cut and style that she has worn ever since.

  Just how she acquired her current position is unknown. New York City is a far cry from upstate Pennsylvania; and although landing a six-figure CEO slot right out of an MBA program is not unheard of, more than humble networking would seem to have been in play in this lady's case.

  The fuzz off a peach or the snake out of a virgin's trousers, Missy Bramwell's persuasive powers were vividly demonstrated when she concluded her presentation with a challenge: Does she (Lady Phibes) hold the key to the Fountain of Youth? The Society is going all out to unlock her secret, Ms. Bramwell quells, and to make it available to the members.

  Twohunnertnfitythou!

  Duncan Karp's voice crackled with dollar signs. Karp, an inveterate miser who made no bones about it, was by far the oldest trustee of the PDL Society. At an age where most of us happily drift into self-permission, Mr. Karp was always at work.

  He lived in a modest two-bedroom wood frame in Astoria, Queens, whose furnishings were worn and the carpeting worner still. Frayed and worn and old, the house was clean thanks to Mrs. Hough, the one luxury Mr. Karp permitted himself. Mrs. Hough was a ‘Professional Cleanstress’, according to her card, and had assumed a majority position in the Karp household ever since Mrs. Karp passed on some seventeen years earlier.

  In addition to cleaning and laundry, Mrs. Hough prepared Mr. Karp's meals on her service days. ‘Plain’ aptly describes her culinary style which was just fine with the lord of the manor whose tastes ran to smothered chicken and beef stew (she called the latter, beef burgundy).

  Mr. Karp was miserly in all things. He bought his groceries only when they were on special. His older model car was serviced by mechanics, who brought their tools to his garage out back. His garments, when he purchased them, came from Goodwill. Handymen kept his house from falling apart (it was part of a 1940's tract) but just barely. To cover up their more egregious efforts, Karp did his own landscaping. He was especially proud of his begonias, all of them grown from cuttings filched from the local park.

  Duncan Karp's hobby, bricklaying, was spared his normal frugality. He bought his bricks new and by the pallet, which he had delivered to his back yard. He liked to think of himself as a modern-day Winston Churchill (a fellow bricklayer) and secretly maintained a binder filled with half-written speeches and scraps of brilliant phrases, just in case he was called to politics.

  With a portfolio valued at a cool billion, Duncan Karp was ready for the fray, his political mettle proven out once again this evening when the others fell right into line as soon as he declared. And just like that, $20 million was pledged to the new project that Missy Bramwell had spun out moments ago.

  Ms. Bramwell is in her third year at the helm of the Ponce de Leon Society, a stickler for security, she quickly implemented an iris-recognition system (modified for live-tissue verification) at all access points to the Society premises, including the helicopter pad on the roof. She also mandated that PDL staff keep an electronic log of their activities throughout the workday.

  “Efficiency = Production” is the first entry in Ms. Bramwell's Haiku for Business Solutions, now in its 3rd printing.

  She has doubled the membership and secured R&D funding through the rest of the decade. And she has just announced the breakthrough PDL members have all been waiting for.

  In this overcrowded world of ours, there's a burgeoning market in longevity. Cryogenics, gene therapy, rejuvenating creams, etc. all have their place but those who can afford to pay want something more.

  They want to know that the best is yet to come, guaranteed. Catering to this affluent clientele is the Ponce de Leon Society, a group of white coats, forensic historians and venture capitalists who, like their namesake, have embarked on a high-tech quest for eternal youth. Guiding this collection of colossal egos is a Board of Trustees whose seven members believe – and perhaps rightly so – that they’ve cornered the Immortality market.

  But in a most profound Mosaic incompletion, some of the trustees have been dying on the threshold of their quest. Mortality before Immortality!

  ***

  MONSTER WAVE CLAIMS SURF CHAMP OFF MONTAUK.

  From the Montauk REGISTER, 7/19/09.

  “Surfing lost a rising star when Chip Peck was swept away by a fluke wave off Hemlock. Peck, 18, had just captured the tournament top spot and was taking a victory turn with his trophy when a monster wave swept him away. Lifeguards pegged it at 40’ but it was closer to 50’, according to spectators...

  The family asks that you respect their privacy. His girlfriend, Jill, is in seclusion. ‘He was my Big Kahuna’ she tweeted to her friends.”

  SURFER’S BODY FOUND,

  From the Montauk register, 8/12/09.

  “The body discovered by a fisherman lodged in the boulders of a nearby jetty was that of Chip Peck. The popular surfer's remains were identified by dental records. A coroner's investigation determined that the body belonged to a man 40 – 45 years of age and will remain open until the true identity of the victim is determined.”

  THE

  VELOCITY ROOM

  A fictive silence hung over this building where violence raged one short week ago. No one heard anything, certainly not the neighbors in this august enclave and there were no passersby to pierce their discretion. People rarely walked these streets after a certain hour and this violence erupted after that certain hour.

  So it came and went this enragement so volcanic that it
would have pulled down all the towers of heaven had it gone on much longer. But like that tree that fell in the forest, it didn’t make a noise, not here in Gramercy Square at any rate.

  An Island within an island, Gramercy Square earned its designation honestly. It's the place where the very well-off (and those who would like to be very well-off) put down roots on Manhattan Island to be close to their jobs.

  What could be simpler than that, and yet 99% of the national workforce spends a big slice of their work day working to get to work. And so the Gramercy Square Well-Off avoided that fatal trap by trading in the freeway for the subway.

  Given Gramercy Square's low turnover rate, good neighbor welcoming baskets were unheard of in this zip code but should any of the stay-at-home husbands – or wives – venture up the stoop of the newly-occupied #14, they would not be surprised at the main floor décor: Heritage Henredon with travertine marble accents, batik carpeting and the neatly spaced artwork on the walls limited to copies of copies, pretty standard hereabouts except for #9 which boasted a Mark Rothko print and something by Kitaj.

  #14's main floor is recently tended and whisper soft. The leather Eames near the fireplace is slick with use, like an Arabian saddle. The visitor could go upstairs but it would be rude and really there was nothing remarkable on the upper floors save for the sleeping suites.

  The top floor is the exception. There, big black block letters above double glass doors announce the VELOCITY ROOM. We can’t go inside now but the mechanical whirring that thrums in our ankles demands further exploration.

  The stairs are covered by a thick brocade runner the color of ferns. It's been there much longer than the batik on the main floor, a sign of the changing tastes of the building's inhabitants. Vacancies are rare in Gramercy Square. People tend to come and stay, keeping their homes in the family from generation to generation.

  No one was about when we came in but now that we're ready to leave, we see that someone is in the small study off the parlor on the main floor. He is tall and rather handsome, with a working man's shoulders, the kind that tailors need very few patterns for because of their symmetry. He uses his hands well and from that you could tell that he's a careful man, a precise man. He walks with a slight limp, so slight that it's almost unnoticeable but a limp nonetheless.