Fractal Paisleys

by Paul Di Filippo

  Pia sniffed with hauteur. “Mate with you, Ignatz? Why, I’d sooner screw a human! And besides, neither you nor your horrid father are the real king, despite all the tricks you and he have employed. That Bobo! One day—”

  The man sneered. “One day the Lost Son will return? Don’t tell me you believe that fairy tale? Face it, he’s dead—”

  Then the noise swelled up, and Pia’s rejoinder was lost.

  By the time I reached the table, the man had released Pia. His arms folded across his massive chest, he was sulking like a child. She was unconcernedly chafing one wrist.

  When Pia saw me she brightened, sending a jolt of dizzying energy through me.

  “Wally! What a sweetheart you are! It’s too bad we didn’t know this person would be joining us. I guess he’ll just have to serve himself.”

  I set the drinks down. “I don’t believe I caught your name—?”

  The man continued to pout. Pia spoke for him. “This is Ignatz Lagerkvist, Wally. He’s a cousin. On my father’s side.”

  I extended my hand, and he reluctantly took it.

  Ignatz exerted a measure of bone-crushing power that I succeeded in partially returning. But the really odd thing about our shake was how it made me feel. Emotions of mingled attraction and repulsion, as if Ignatz were my brother, but his name was Cain.

  The feeling had the same intensity as my attraction toward Pia.

  We broke our clasp and I sat. Ignoring me and any reciprocal vibes he might have felt, Ignatz turned back to Pia.

  “Will you end this farce now and come with me?”

  “I have no intention of going anywhere with you, Ignatz,” said Pia curtly Then, sweetening her tone, she said the words that took my breath away. “Wally’s my date for this evening.”

  Pia took my hand and squeezed it. It might as well have been my heart.

  That was the final straw for Ignatz. He shot to his feet.

  Ignatz was perhaps three inches taller than Pia. He would have had a bit more height, except that his muscled legs were bowed like those of an old cowboy. His nose was on a level with my midriff.

  Nothing had really prepared me for Ignatz’s stature, and while I found it seductive in women, it only looked ridiculous on him. I laughed out loud before I could contain myself.

  He swept me and Pia with a smoldering glare. “You’ll pay for this insult, Pia. You and your ‘date!’ One way or another, you’ll pay. And perhaps sooner than you think!”

  Then he stalked out.

  The rest of those hours in the bar passed in a haze. I couldn’t get Pia to tell me any more about Ignatz, and the talk turned to personal matters. Her mother, who had raised Pia alone after her father had apparently deserted them. (Although Pia seemed to accept his desertion as a matter of no import, harboring no ill will toward him.) Her childhood, her college days. Reluctant to delve into my own strange upbringing and the way it had molded me, I let her carry the conversation.

  By the time we found ourselves on the stoop of her apartment building, my mind was whirling.

  Pia stood on tiptoes and I instinctively bent down for a kiss. I smelled the cinnamon tang rising off her skin, received a tiny peck on my cheek, then heard her whisper, “Thank you, Wally, you’re a lot of fun and very kind.”

  Then she was gone inside.

  I turned to descend the steps, which bore a distinct resemblance to an escalator of clouds.

  There was an unlighted service alleyway on the side of Pia’s building, the dim bulk of a dumpster lurking within the gloom. I suspect that was where they were hiding. But I can’t be sure, for when the blow descended on the back of my head I went instantly out.

  3. Mister Gulliver, I Presume

  Ropes secured both my wrists and my ankles to the arms and legs of a heavy chair. Another stout cord went around my waist. I sat beneath a dangling twenty-five-watt bulb, no other furniture, with or without occupants, within my limited vision. I had tried rocking the chair across the empty, shadowy, windowless room, toward the doubtlessly locked wooden door set in one dank wall. No go. So I just slumped. And waited. And fumed. The knot on my skull throbbed like my heart had when Pia kissed me. The inverse of that pleasure.

  But somehow, I had a distinct feeling, not unconnected.

  When the door eventually opened, my suspicions became instant fact.

  In walked Ignatz Lagerkvist, behind him a procession I could only call a royal entourage. His followers consisted of half a dozen small men nearly identical to him: bandy-legged and broad-chested, with coarse hair of various shades, and uniformly rough features. They trailed him dutifully with such silly deference that I would have laughed if I hadn’t been so angry.

  The exception to this general air of servility were the two oldest members of the party. Each man had gone partially bald, tufts of white hair prominent above their ears, and both their faces were heavily wrinkled. But beyond that, they couldn’t have been more different. One carried himself with utter pompousness, while the other trudged reluctantly along, as if he’d rather be anyplace else. The pompous one’s piggy expression told of an egotistical, self-indulgent nature, while the trudger wore a hangdog, long-suffering look.

  As they drew closer and spread out in a semicircle before me, I realized with a start that the pitiful look of the latter oldster derived in part from the milky-white blindness of his eyes.

  Then Ignatz was confronting me. I spoke before he could.

  “No need for introductions, thank you. I spotted you as Dopey right away. And this must be Sleazy.”

  I nodded my head toward the pompous old gnome, who scowled furiously

  Ignatz thumped me solidly on the chest. “Very funny, human. You may joke all you wish, but we hold the upper hand. And if you ever wish to see the light of day again, you’ll show proper respect to my father, King Bobo.”

  The old man puffed up his barrel chest, which was unfortunately outclassed by his barrel belly.

  “King? And I suppose that makes you a Prince. King of what, Prince Ignatz? This cellar?”

  Ignatz assumed a dignity then that I hadn’t suspected he possessed, and said, “King not of any land, but of a race older than yours, human. King of the Imps.”

  Despite myself, I was impressed by his absurd air of solemn pride in an impossible claim. Ignatz seemed to recognize this reaction, and to capitalize on it he assaulted me with a string of questions.

  “What’s your connection to Queen Pia? Has she mentioned where the Pixies are meeting, or how sentiment is running toward my plan? Are they willing to try the new drug? There have been no trials aside from the lab animals, naturally, but the researchers all feel it will be safe and effective. God knows, I’ve paid those damn scientists enough for them to be sure! I would insist, of course, on maintaining a parity between Pixies and Imps, if the drug should produce an imbalance in the sexes. Would they agree to any additional births, as necessary?”

  “Ignatz, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Pia and I work in the same office together. We were out for the first time tonight for an innocent drink. It s that plain and simple. If you want to know the answers to your crazy questions, why don’t you ask her?”

  Ignoring my explanation, Ignatz narrowed his eyes and thrust his ugly face closer. Whether it was my fatigue and the strange circumstances, or something more substantial, I was suddenly taken with the notion that I was looking into a distorting mirror.

  “I believe you know more than you’re letting on. It’s not unprecedented for a Pixie to confide in a male human—even to take one on as a pet and lover, if she’s perverted enough. Why, the Queen practically admitted as much to me tonight.”

  That bit of dialogue I had overheard in the club flashed back to me. Why was the word “human” an insult to Ignatz? Did Pia feel the same way? Did that mean there was no hope for any romance between us?

  Before I could ask any of these questions, Ignatz made his final threat.

  “We want the cooperation of the Pixies in our pla
ns. It would make things much easier, of course, and honor the old ways. But we will not let them stand in our path. We’ll use force against them if need be. And if we’re willing to do that, then you can just imagine what we’d do to a mere human, if he had information we needed. You could end up deader than Randy Newman’s career.”

  Straightening up, Ignatz said, “Give him a sample, boys.”

  The younger gnomes—Imps, I supposed, was what I should call them—crowded around me then and began to cuff and buffet me. It wasn’t very painful—their hearts seemed almost not in it—and I was reminded of the rather ridiculous punishments the Goblins in the George MacDonald story Aunt Itzie used to read me would hand out. The old Imps held back until the end. Then King Bobo stepped forward and gave my nose a vicious, cowardly tweak.

  I waited for the last Imp, the blind one, to administer a token blow. He fumbled closer, plainly reluctant to conform, and delivered a feeble open-palmed slap that was more like a caress. When he connected, his hand lingered for a few seconds, and I could feel a palpable shiver run down his arm.

  Ignatz seemed proud of his troop. “We’ll let you sit a while until you’ve had a chance to reconsider. Maybe then you’ll even be allowed some water, say, or a trip to the toilet.”

  They left me alone in the room with my various minor contusions and bruises. I tried to settle down for whatever indefinite period awaited me.

  It must have been only an hour or two until I awoke out of a semi- doze with a start, as the door creaked open.

  In came the elderly blind Imp.

  Carrying a knife.

  He was next to my chair in a second, slicing at my bonds.

  “Oh, my King, I’m so very sorry. Please forgive old Rufus. Once I had some stature in the court. Was I not your father’s most loyal retainer, after all, his most trusted adviser? But poor Rufus has fallen far since the old days. Now he’s just kept around as a symbol of the old order, something to kick and abuse and humiliate.”

  I stood up, stretching and then chafing my limbs. Rufus ran a trembling hand up my arm, just barely able to reach my shoulder.

  “How tall the King has grown! No Imp has ever reached such heights! That’s what kept your identity a secret from the others. That, plus the fact that they never held you as a babe, as I did. Without eyesight to mislead, old Rufus recognized you at first touch.”

  I looked down at the strange little fellow. If there was any recognition between us, it flowed strictly one-way.

  “You knew my father? Who was he?”

  Rufus sighed. “Good King Jad. One of the best Kings the Imps ever had. Poisoned by the treacherous Bobo! Oh, not that feeble-witted Bobo ever would have dared to on his own, weak pleasure-seeker that he is! No, it’s all his ambitious son’s doing! He put his father up to it, and now rules in all but name.”

  “Ignatz had my father poisoned? Why?”

  “It’s a long, sorry story, my boy. And it’s hardly safe to tell it here. Go to the Queen. Tell her Rufus proclaims you the Lost Son. She’ll have your answers for you. But you must warn her of what Ignatz is planning. And you must escape now, before they discover you’re free!”

  We began to hasten through cellar passages until we stood at the foot of a staircase.

  “Will you be okay?”

  Rufus sighed. “What more can they do to me? They won’t even let me out of their clutches long enough to go to a doctor for these damn cataracts. And it wouldn’t even cost the cheap bastards anything. Old Rufus is a veteran after all. I’ve got complete coverage.”

  I was interested in anything Rufus could tell me about my history or parentage. “Did my father fight in World War Two along with you?

  Rufus laughed. “World War Two? It was the War Between the States! Your father and I nearly bought the farm at Chickamauga. Now, run, boy. Run!”

  4. It’s a Small World, After All

  The stairs had debouched onto a unlit alley, open at both ends. Night still held, although I thought I could see a kiss of pastels in one quadrant of the brick-framed sky-slice. I randomly darted left (wincing and revising my notion of the dawn into a bruise of colors, rather than a kiss), and ran to the street.

  Water licked hungrily at the pilings of the piers extending out into the black river, on the far side of the oil-spotted cobbled boulevard. I was in the meatpacking district, many blocks south and west of where I had been abducted.

  I wasted a few seconds by turning around to eyeball the warehouse where I had been held.

  NAPOLEAN BRAND SARDINES

  “FISH FOR A KING”

  There were no taxis at this hour or place, of course, so I began to jog for the nearest subway.

  I was going straight to Pia’s. For answers.

  I made it to the nearest underground station without any signs of pursuit. The wait for the train was interminable. I filled the minutes by turning the same speculations over and over fruitlessly in my brain.

  Rufus had deemed me the fabulous Lost Son, a role that seemed to make me heir to the title of King of the Imps. Whatever that job might involve. I had a hunch that it was more like the ceremonial role of King of the Gypsies, rather than King of England. Down and dirty rather than high and mighty. But in any case, that assertion would seem to mean that I had to be an Imp. But if they all looked like Ignatz and his brethren, then how could I be one? The only family resemblance I could see was in my rough-hewn face. After all, I wasn’t bandy-legged or short—

  The rattle of the approaching train cast me back in time.

  The clattering of my childhood leg braces and canes—

  Those doctor visits and mysterious shots through adolescence—

  My Thumbelina Complex—

  I was an Imp. An Imp whose identity had been stolen from him, for his own protection.

  Hastening onboard the train, I ran my hands compulsively over my face, my whole sense of who I was vaporizing like a drop of Joan of Arc’s sweat.

  I had to know everything. Only Pia could help me.

  Pia the Pixie.

  At the outer door to her apartment, I leaned on the bell, number 312. Pia’s sleepy voice soon sounded.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s me, Walter! Pia, you’ve got to let me in! I’m an Imp!”

  There was a pregnant pause. Pia’s voice was stern when it returned.

  “Wally, if you’ve stumbled onto that silly word somehow and are trying to use it only to get in here for some reason, I just want to warn you that I won’t look kindly on it.…”

  “No, it’s true! Ignatz kidnapped me! And Rufus says I’m the Lost Son!”

  The doorlatch buzzed instantly, and I was in.

  Up two flights I raced.

  Pia stood in the doorway to her apartment. She wore a shimmering translucent gown like something from the private and unexpurgated edition of the Victoria’s Secret catalogue. Her unbound russet hair tumbled down over her shoulders like a roan’s mane. Her feet, small as a child’s, with crimson nails, were shod in feather-topped, high-heeled mules.

  Before I could say anything, dumbstruck by her alluring beauty, she grabbed me by the wrist and yanked me inside. Not letting go, she scrutinized my face intently. At last she spoke.

  “You say you’re an Imp. Then kiss me.”

  It was a test I had no hesitation in taking.

  When our lips locked, the sensation was electric. Nuclear. It was as if someone had filled my veins with molten gold. No frustrating experiments with any big girl had ever produced this head-swirling excitement. And best of all, I could feel Pia responding the same way.

  When we finally broke apart, she said, “That—that was quite convincing. But there’s only one way to be completely sure.…”

  Off came my clothes, followed by her gown.

  I could almost encircle her incredibly narrow waist with my two hands.

  But her heavy breasts skittered and spilled out of them.

  In the bedroom, we fitted together like a rusty key and a well-oiled
lock, despite our disproportions.

  All my years of unease and distress dissolved when Pia squealed in climax and I bellowed my own release.

  When we had stopped panting, Pia said, “It’s true. Somehow you’re an Imp in human form. One who’s been cut off from our community. And that can only mean you must be the Lost Son. My King, my mate, my brother.”

  5. Little Women

  My whole body stiffened like a timber in a kiln. I made ready to spring up from the bed, trying to picture where I had left my clothes. But Pia quickly clambered atop me and pinned me down, her breasts weighty on my lower ribs. She thrust her face as close to mine as she could get it and said, “Don’t go all human on me now, Wally. You have to trust me. I know a lot more about everything then you do. And I would never do anything to hurt you.” She began to grind her hips, producing implacable sensations down below where we were joined. “Is this at all unpleasant, for instance?”

  I could have easily thrown her off, of course, and gone away forever.

  But somehow it no longer seemed like such a good idea.

  After the second finish, we lay silent for a time. Then Pia said, “Tell me first all about yourself. Then I’ll hear what that rat Ignatz is up to.”

  So I told her my whole story, up till the time I had met her.

  By the time I was done, Pia was sniffling. I had recounted my sad tale while gazing at the ceiling, cradling her in one arm. Now I turned to her in time to see her wipe tears away with two small perfect hands. I was touched that she could show so much feeling for my strange fate.

  “Poor Lady Fritzie,” Pia said. “Spending all those years cut off from her sisters. No Pixie-ish companionship. Nor Impish sex either, the only thing most of those jerkoffs are good for! Sorry, Wally, present company excluded, I’m sure. What a sorry way to spend one’s last decades. Still, it was a noble sacrifice, since she succeeded in keeping you safe from Bobo and his faction.”

  “How old would Aunt Itzie have been when she died?”

  “Oh, about a hundred and eighty, I believe.…”