Little, Big Part 37

"All right," he said, "all right," and took Lilac's hands, and lifted her up, or tried to, but that wouldn't work; so he linked his hands like a stirrup, and bent down, and she put her small hare foot into his hands, and her hands on his shoulders, and so he hoisted her up.

"Kind of crowded in here," she said as she made her way within. "Who are all these people?"

"Doesn't matter, doesn't matter," he said.

"Now," she said, settled in, her voice already faint, more his than hers, as it had always been, after all, after all; "nowwhere do we go?

He drew out the key the old woman had given him. It was necessary to unlock the wrought-iron gate in order to leave, just as it was in order to enter. "Home, I guess," Auberon said. Little girls playing jacks and plucking dandelions along the path looked up to watch him talk to himself. "I guess, home."

Despising, for your sake, the City, thus I turn my back: there is a world elsewhere.

a"Coriola.n.u.s Hawksquill's powerful Vulpes translated her back to the City in a near-record time, and yet (so her watch told her) perhaps still not under the wire. Though she was now in possession of all the missing parts of the problem of Russell Eigenblick, the learning of those parts had taken longer than she had expected.

Not a Moment Too Soon All along the road north she had planned how she might present herself to the heirs of Violet Drinkwater in such a waya"as antiquarian, collector, cultista"that the cards would be shown her. But if she had not herself been predicted in them (Sophie knew her at once, or recognized her very quickly) they would certainly not have been yielded up to her at all. That she proved to he as well a tenuous cousin of Violet Bramble's descendants had helped too, a coincidence that surprised and delighted that strange family as much as it interested Hawksquill. And even so days went by as she and Sophie pored over the cards. More days she spent with the last edition of The Architecture of Country Houses, whose peculiar contents none of them seemed to be very familiar with; and though, as she studied and pored, the whole storya"or as much of it as had so far happeneda"gradually came clear under her c.o.c.katoo scrutiny, still all the while the Noisy Bridge Rod and Gun Club advanced toward the fateful meeting with Russell Eigenblick, and still Hawksquill's loyalties remained unplaced, and her path obscure.

It was obscure no more. The children of the children of Time: who would have thought? A Fool, and a Cousin; a Journey, and a Host. The Least Trumps! She smiled grimly, circling around the mammoth Empire Hotel in which Eigenblick had installed himself, and decided on a charm, a thing she rarely resorted to.

She inserted the Vulpes into the cavernous parking garage beneath the hotel. Armed guards and attendants patrolled the doors and elevators. She found herself in a line of vehicles being checked and examined. She stilled the car's growl, and took a Morocco-leather envelope from the glove-box. From this she extracted a small white fragment of bone. It was a bone taken from a pure black cat which had been boiled alive in the tenement kitchen of La Negra, an espiritista for whom Hawksquill had once had occasion to do a great favor. It might have been a toebone, or part of the maxillary process; certainly La Negra didn't know; she'd hit on it only after a whole day's experimenting before a mirror, separating the bones carefully from the stinking carca.s.s and putting each in turn into her mouth, searching for the one that would make her image in the mirror disappear. It was this one. Hawksquill found the processes of witchcraft vulgar and the cruelty of this one especially repellent; she wasn't herself convinced that there was one bone among the thousand-odd bones in a pure black cat that could make one invisible, but La Negra had a.s.sured her that the bone would work whether she believed it or didn't; and she was glad to have the gift just now. She looked around her; the attendants had not yet noticed her car; she left the keys in the lock, thoughtfully; put the little bone into her mouth with a grimace of disgust, and disappeared.

Extracting herself unnoticed from the car took some doing, but the attendants and guards paid no attention to the elevator doors opening and closing on no one (who could predict the vagaries of empty elevators?) and Hawksquill walked out into the lobby, going carefully in the company of the visible so as not to brush against them. The usual unsmiling raincoated men stood at intervals along the walls or sat in lobby armchairs behind dummy newspapers, fooling no one, being fooled by no one but she. At an unseen signal, they began to change their stations just then, like pieces on a board. A large party was coming through the swift-bladed revolving doors, preceded by underlings. Not a moment too soon, Hawksquill thought, for this was the Noisy Bridge Rod and Gun Club proceeding into the lobby. They didn't gaze around themselves inquiringly as ordinary men might on entering such a place, but, spreading out slightly as though more fully to take possession here, they kept their eyes ahead, seeing the future and not the transitory forms of the present. Under each arm was the glove-soft case, on each head the potent homburg long ridiculous on any but men like these.

They sorted themselves into two elevators, those with the highest standing holding the doors for the others, as ancient male ritual dictates; Hawksquill slipped into the less crowded one.

"The thirteenth?"

"The thirteenth."

Someone punched the b.u.t.ton for the thirteenth floor with a forceful forefinger. Another consulted a plain wrist.w.a.tch. They ascended smoothly. They had nothing to say to one another; their plans were made, and the walls, they well knew, had ears. Hawksquill remained pressed against the door, facing their blank faces. The doors opened, and neatly she sidled out; just in time too, for there were hands thrust forward to take the hands of the club members.

"The Lecturer will be right with you."

"If you could wait in this room."

"Can we order anything up for you. The Lecturer has ordered coffee."

They were shepherded leftward by alert suited men. One or two young men, in colored blouses, hands clasped behind them in an uneaseful at-ease, stood by every door. At least, Hawksquill thought, he's wary. From another elevator a red-coated waiter came out carrying a large tray which bore a single tiny cup of coffee. He went rightwards, and Hawksquill followed him. He was admitted through double doors and past guards, and so was Hawksquill at his heels; he came up to an unmarked door, knocked, opened it, and went in. Hawksquill put an invisible foot in the door as he closed it behind him, and then slipped in.

Needle in the Haystack of Time It was an impersonally-furnished sitting-room with wide windows looking out over the spiky city. The waiter, muttering to himself, pa.s.sed Hawksquill and exited. Hawksquill took the fragment of bone from her mouth and was carefully putting it away when a farther door opened and Russell Eigenblick came out, yawning, in a blackish, bedragoned silk dressing-gown. He wore on his nose a pair of tiny half-gla.s.ses which Hawksquill hadn't seen before.

He started when he saw her, having expected an empty room.

"You," he said.

Without much grace (she couldn't remember ever having done quite this before), Hawksquill lowered herself onto one knee, bowed profoundly, and said, "I am your Majesty's humble servant."

"Get up," Eigenblick said. "Who let you in here?"

"A black cat," Hawksquill said, rising. "It doesn't matter. We haven't much time."

"I don't talk to journalists."

"I'm sorry," Hawksquill said. "That was an imposition. I'm not a journalist."

"I thought not!" he said, triumphantly. He s.n.a.t.c.hed the spectacles from his face as though he had just remembered they were there. He moved toward an intercom on the phony Louis Quatorze desk.

"Wait," Hawksquill said. "Tell me this. Do you want, after eight hundred years of sleep, to fail in your enterprise?"

He turned slowly to regard her.

"You must remember," Hawksquill went on, "how once you were abased before a certain Pope, and were forced to hold his stirrup, and run beside his horse."

Eigenblick's face was suffused. It grew a bright red different from the red of his beard. He rifled fury at Hawksquill from his eagle eyes. "Who are you?" he said.

"At this moment," Hawksquill said, gesturing toward the farther end of the suite, "men await you who intend to abase you in just such a degree. Only more cleverly. So that you will never notice being clipped. I mean the Noisy Bridge Rod and Gun Club. Or have they presented themselves to you under some other name?"

"Nonsense," Eigenblick said. "I've never heard of this so-called club." But his eyes clouded; perhaps, somewhere, somewhen, he had been warneda . "And what could you mean about the Pope? A charming gentleman who I've never met." His eyes not meeting hers, he picked up his little coffee and drank it off.

But she had him: she saw that. If he didn't ring to have guards eject her, he would listen. "Have they promised you high position?" she asked.

"The highest," he said after a long pause, gazing out the window.

"It might interest you to know that for some years those gentlemen have employed me on various errands. I think I know them. Was it the Presidency?"

He said nothing. It was.

"The Presidency," Hawksquill said, "is no longer an office. It's a room. A nice one, but only a room. You must refuse it. Politely. And any other blandishments they may offer. I'll explain your next moves latera ."

He turned on her. "How is it you know these things?" he said. "How do you know me?"

Hawksquill returned his gunlike look with one of her own, and said, in her best wizard's manner, "There is much that I know."

The intercom buzzed. Eigenblick went to it, looked thoughtfully at the array of bottons on it, finger to his lips, and then punched one. Nothing happened. He pushed another, and a voice made of static spoke: "Everything is ready, sir."

"Ja," Eigenblick said. "Moment." He released the b.u.t.ton, realized he hadn't been heard, pressed another, and repeated himself. He turned to Hawksquill. "However it is you've found out these things," he said, "you have obviously not found out all. You see," he went on, a broad smile on his face and his eyes cast upward with the look of one confident of his election, "I'm in the cards. Nothing that can happen to me can deflect a destiny set elsewhere long ago. Protected. All this was meant to be."

"Your Majesty," Hawksquill said, "perhaps I haven't made myself cleara ."

"Will you stop calling me that!" he said, furious.

"Sorry. Perhaps I haven't made myself clear. I know very well that you are in the cardsa"a deck of very pretty ones, with trumps at least obstensibly designed to foretell and encourage the return of your old Empire; designed and drawn, I would guess, some time in the reign of Rudolf II, and printed in Prague. They have been put to other uses since. Without your being, so to speak, any the less in them."

"Where are they?" he said, suddenly coming toward her, avaricious hands like claws held out. "Give them to me. I must have them."

"If I may go on," Hawksquill said.

"They're my property," Eigenblick said.

"Your Empire's," she said. "Once." She stared him into silence, and said: "If I may go on: I know you're in the cards. I know what powers put you there, anda"a littlea"to what end. I know your destiny. What you must believe, if you are to accomplish it, is that I am in it."

"You."

"Come to warn you, and to aid you. I have powers. Great enough to have discovered all this, to have found you out, needle in the haystack of Time. You have need of me. Now. And in time to come."

He considered her. She saw doubt, hope, relief, fear, resolution come and go in his big face. "Why," he said, "was I never told about you?"

"Perhaps," she said, "because they didn't know about me."

"Nothing is hidden from them."

"Much is. You would do well to learn that."

He chewed his cheek for a moment, but the battle was over. "What's in it for you?" he said. The intercom buzzed again.

"We'll discuss my reward later," she said. "Just now, before you answer that, you'd better decide what you will tell your visitors."

"Will you be with me?" he said, suddenly needful.

"They mustn't see me," Hawksquill said. "But I'll be with you." A cheap trick, a cat's bone; and yet (she thought, as Eigenblick punched at the intercom) just the thing to convince the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa, if he remembered his youth at all, that indeed she did have the powers she claimed. With his back to her, she disappeared; when he turned to face her, or the place where she had been, she said, "Shall we go meet the Club?"

Crossroads The day was gray, a certain pale and moist gray, when Auberon descended from the bus at the crossroads. He had had words with the driver about being let off at this particular place; had had difficulty at first in describing it, then in convincing the driver that he actually pa.s.sed such a spot. The driver shook his head slowly in negative as Auberon described, his eyes not meeting Auberon's, and said "Nope, nope," softly, as though lost in thought; a transparent lie, Auberon knew, the man simply didn't want to make the slightest variation in his routine. Coldly polite, Auberon described the place again, then sat in the first place behind the driver, his eyes peeled; and tapped the driver when the place approached. Got out, triumphant, a sentence forming on his tongue about the hundreds of times the man must have pa.s.sed this place, if that was the level of observation to be found in the men the public was urged to leave the driving to, etc.; but the door hissed shut and the long gray bus ground its gears like teeth and lurched away.

The fingerboard he stood by pointed as always down the road toward Edgewood; more haggard, leaning at a more senescent angle, the name more time-erased than he remembered or than it had been when he had last seen it, but the same. He started down the looping road, brown as milk-chocolate after the rain, stepping along cautiously and surprised by the loudness of his footfalls. He hadn't understood how much he had been deprived of during his months in the City. The Art of Memory could make a plan of his past where all this had perhaps a place, but it couldn't have restored to him this fullness: these odors, sweet and moist and vivifying, as though the air had a clear liquid texture; the constant low nameless sound filling up the air, whispering loud to his dull ear, p.r.i.c.ked out with birdsong; the very sense of volume, of far distances and middle distances made up out of lines and groups of new-leaving trees and the roll and heap of the earth. He was able to survive outside all this well enougha"air was air, after all, here or in the Citya"but, once plunged down within it again, he might have felt returned to a native element, might have uncurled within it, soul expanding like a b.u.t.terfly sprung from its confining cocc.o.o.n. In fact he did stretch his arms out, breathe deeply, and quote a few lines of verse. But his soul was a cold stone.

As he went along, he felt himself to be accompanied by someone: someone young, someone not in a lank brown overcoat, someone not hung over, someone who tugged at his sleeve, reminding him that here he'd used to pull his bike over the wall to return by secret ways to the Summer House and the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa, there he'd fallen out of a tree, there bent down with Doc to hear the mutter of closeted woodchucks. It had all happened once, to someone, to this insistent someone. Not to him a The gray stone pillars topped with gray oranges rose up where and when they always would. He reached up to one to touch the pitted surface, clammy and slick with spring. Down at the end of the drive his sisters awaited him on the porch.

Now for G.o.d's sake. His homecoming was to be no more secret than his leavinga"and as he thought this, he realized for the first time that he had intended it to be secret, had supposed himself able to slip back into the house without anyone's noticing he had been gone for some eighteen months. Foolis.h.!.+ And yet the last thing he wanted was a fuss made over him. Too late, anyway, for as he stood by the gate-posts uncertainly, Lucy had spied him and leapt up waving. She pulled Lily after her to run and greet him; Tacey more regally kept to the peac.o.c.k chair, dressed in a long skirt and one of his old tweed jackets.

"Hi, hi," he said, casual but suddenly aware of the figure he must cut, unshaven and bloodshot, with his shopping bag and the City dirt beneath his nails and in his hair. So clean and vernal Lucy and Lily seemed, so glad, that he was torn between drawing back from them and kneeling before them to beg their forgiveness; and though they embraced him and took his bag from him, talking both at once, he knew they read him.

"You'll never guess who came here," Lucy said.

"An old woman," Auberon said, glad that once in his life he could be sure he guessed right, "with a gray bun. How's Mom? How's Dad?"

"But who she is you'll never guess," Lily said.

"Did she tell you I was coming? I never said it to her."

"No. But we knew. But guess."

"She is," Lucy said, "a cousin. In a way. Sophie found out. It was years ago a"

"In England," Lily said. "Do you know the Auberon you're named after? Well, he was Violet Bramble Drinkwater's son a"

"But not John Drinkwater's! A love child a"

"How do you keep all these people straight?" Auberon asked.

"Anyway. Back in England Violet Bramble had an affair. Before she married John. With someone named Oliver Hawksquill."

"A swain," Lily said.

"And got pregnant, and that was Auberon. And this lady a"

"h.e.l.lo, Auberon," Tacey said. "How was the City?"

"Gee, just great," Auberon said, feeling a hard lump rise in his throat and water spring to his eyes. "Great."

"Did you walk?" Tacey asked.

"No, the bus, actually." They were silent a moment at that. No help for it. "So listen. How's Mom? How's Dad?"

"Fine. She got your card."

A horror swept him as he thought of the few cards and letters he had sent from the City, evasive and bragging, or uncommunicative, or horribly facetious. The last one, Mom's birthday, he had found, oh G.o.d, unsigned in a trash can he was examining, a bouquet of smarmy sentiments; but his silence had been long and he was drunk and he sent it. He saw now that it must have been to her like being stabbed cruelly with a b.u.t.ter knife. He sat down on the steps of the porch, unable just for the moment to go further.

An Awful Mess "Well, what do you think, Ma?" Daily Alice asked as she stood looking into the dank darkness of the old icebox.