Read Online Fata Morgana by William Kotzwinkle - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William Kotzwinkle
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Picard’s sombre mood dissolved as he entered Am Hof Square, finding it had been given over to a toy fair. The booths offered various enchantments—music boxes and banks, mechanical animals, farmyards, fortresses, oriental pagodas, miniature buildings of every kind. His childhood rose; he had lived in this magic land of dreaming toys, when Paris itself had been one of his toys. On the golden boulevard of memory he saw the secret of the lamps once more, that they were brightly dancing souls. A child’s mind—the child sees all things as living—the streetlamps, the statues, and most of all his toys. His toys are living creatures. Ah god, what divine dreams.
He peered into a miniature townhouse, three stories high. In the cellar a tiny servant was reaching toward a wine rack. On the main floor a dinner party was in progress. The tiny women wore tiny gowns, the men perfectly tailored little tuxedos. The crowded parlor was supported by small Grecian pillars.
Picard nearly fell into the miniature gathering, removed himself with an apology to the creator of the dollhouse. It was of course only vaguely similar, was not Lazare’s salon—one so easily projects an obsession. But the little figures are so well-made, so magically alive.
The next booth sold board games of every sort—in which dice were rolled and markers moved around wheels and squares, producing races between a shoe and a bell, a dog and a goat, other little objects which served to distinguish the players. We’re on the wheel together, Lazare, somewhere through here. I know that I am near you.
He smiled at the elderly woman who ran the booth; she began speaking a dialect he couldn’t follow. He nodded as if he understood, and picked up one of the markers—a silver hound which he moved toward a hare who was turning a corner of the board.
The woman rattled on, he thanked her and walked away, trying to remain clear and open to the influence, the hidden genie of the chase who was swirling and smoking in his bottle, seeking release.
Very well, come out, come enchant me, I know you’re there, deep in my mind, know that you see what I cannot see. What is it?
At the next booth Noah’s Ark sailed on a sea of glass; then a three-layered carousel turned, carrying a bright array of wooden animals. Picard felt his mind fuming with an insight, something perceived, yet not perceived.
“Wooden soldiers, sir? Something for your young lad—we’ve a marvelous cavalry here, and here the artillery...”
The toy seller moved the bright troops about, hauling cannon into place. Picard had to struggle against the fascinating little war staged before him, had to try and maintain himself as a student of the chase, rather than yield to the child who sought to live again in him, the lost boy of Parisian streets, the boy who’d played with such toys long ago, and wished to play with them again.
“No, no, thank you—but they are wonderful.” These memories are sweet, but I have no need of you just now, little boy. Go away, go away...
He felt a tug in his heart, a sad little tug, as the boy dove back down into the darkness where he’d slumbered so long. Picard stood silent in the midst of the square, coldly observant, enchanted no longer, and still no wiser about Ric Lazare.
He circled the fair, through the flags and banners of fairyland which flew from the tops of the toy makers’ tents. His mind was clear, with a discernment he wished were always his—every detail of the square seemed bathed in a mysterious light. I’m at the intersection of my case, I’m the fat wizard of toyland, but I don’t see Lazare!
Where are you—you’re hiding from me here, I’ll bet all I own. The old hound knows a hare’s track when he sniffs it.
The sun retired behind the stone walls of the city, and the toy makers lit their lamps. He was hungry, and nervous. Am I so stupid? It must be here, else why do I stay on, going in circles, like that mechanical duck there, on little
Picard’s sombre mood dissolved as he entered Am Hof Square, finding it had been given over to a toy fair. The booths offered various enchantments—music boxes and banks, mechanical animals, farmyards, fortresses, oriental pagodas, miniature buildings of every kind. His childhood rose; he had lived in this magic land of dreaming toys, when Paris itself had been one of his toys. On the golden boulevard of memory he saw the secret of the lamps once more, that they were brightly dancing souls. A child’s mind—the child sees all things as living—the streetlamps, the statues, and most of all his toys. His toys are living creatures. Ah god, what divine dreams.
He peered into a miniature townhouse, three stories high. In the cellar a tiny servant was reaching toward a wine rack. On the main floor a dinner party was in progress. The tiny women wore tiny gowns, the men perfectly tailored little tuxedos. The crowded parlor was supported by small Grecian pillars.
Picard nearly fell into the miniature gathering, removed himself with an apology to the creator of the dollhouse. It was of course only vaguely similar, was not Lazare’s salon—one so easily projects an obsession. But the little figures are so well-made, so magically alive.
The next booth sold board games of every sort—in which dice were rolled and markers moved around wheels and squares, producing races between a shoe and a bell, a dog and a goat, other little objects which served to distinguish the players. We’re on the wheel together, Lazare, somewhere through here. I know that I am near you.
He smiled at the elderly woman who ran the booth; she began speaking a dialect he couldn’t follow. He nodded as if he understood, and picked up one of the markers—a silver hound which he moved toward a hare who was turning a corner of the board.
The woman rattled on, he thanked her and walked away, trying to remain clear and open to the influence, the hidden genie of the chase who was swirling and smoking in his bottle, seeking release.
Very well, come out, come enchant me, I know you’re there, deep in my mind, know that you see what I cannot see. What is it?
At the next booth Noah’s Ark sailed on a sea of glass; then a three-layered carousel turned, carrying a bright array of wooden animals. Picard felt his mind fuming with an insight, something perceived, yet not perceived.
“Wooden soldiers, sir? Something for your young lad—we’ve a marvelous cavalry here, and here the artillery...”
The toy seller moved the bright troops about, hauling cannon into place. Picard had to struggle against the fascinating little war staged before him, had to try and maintain himself as a student of the chase, rather than yield to the child who sought to live again in him, the lost boy of Parisian streets, the boy who’d played with such toys long ago, and wished to play with them again.
“No, no, thank you—but they are wonderful.” These memories are sweet, but I have no need of you just now, little boy. Go away, go away...
He felt a tug in his heart, a sad little tug, as the boy dove back down into the darkness where he’d slumbered so long. Picard stood silent in the midst of the square, coldly observant, enchanted no longer, and still no wiser about Ric Lazare.
He circled the fair, through the flags and banners of fairyland which flew from the tops of the toy makers’ tents. His mind was clear, with a discernment he wished were always his—every detail of the square seemed bathed in a mysterious light. I’m at the intersection of my case, I’m the fat wizard of toyland, but I don’t see Lazare!
Where are you—you’re hiding from me here, I’ll bet all I own. The old hound knows a hare’s track when he sniffs it.
The sun retired behind the stone walls of the city, and the toy makers lit their lamps. He was hungry, and nervous. Am I so stupid? It must be here, else why do I stay on, going in circles, like that mechanical duck there, on little
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