The Horologist Page 9

  With disgust at having lost the game, the miscreant slammed his fists on the foldout table, and when he peered up, the boys were exiting the cabin. Now that they were leaving, he wanted to think of a way to make them stay. He sat with his clenched fists on each side of the chessboard and watched them go. How badly he wanted to call to them and spill his soul, to confess, to someone, anyone, even if it was to these two boys without the slightest idea of the laundry list of felonies he had committed. He was writhing inside. The vile poison of guilt was gushing out of his ears. Confess! Confess!

  But he couldn’t. He just sat there. Cold, and alone.

  Oliver and Leo stepped onto the platform and zigzagged their way through a new hive of commuters buzzing about the dead, immobile air.

  Minutes later, the miscreant wriggled out of the train.

  He wormed his way to a newsstand and scanned the spider web of prints. His face wasn’t on any of the covers—and this disappointed him.

  The miscreant was experiencing the reality that despite all that is going on in your own life, the world goes on about its business. His story was not a ticket-selling, box-office attraction; it was a draft crumpled up by a screenwriter and lobbed into the trash.

  The owner of the newsstand was a calm woman with hazel eyes. She leaned forward on her backless stool and watched the miscreant deviously search her shelves. Observing his angst, she tried to help. Her words came out calmly.

  “Sir, do you need anything?”

  The miscreant looked at her pleadingly. He needed support, but he was scared. Then his defensiveness kicked in and he saw her as a government agent. Her eyes were digging into his, her face looking for his concealed answers. The miscreant flashed that devious smile and put his finger to his lips. His secret would remain with him forever. He turned, blended into the crowd like a snake in the forest, and disappeared.

  His silver bullet would not be far behind.

  THE SHEPHERD

  THE CLOCK RADIO clicked on at 7:15 AM. Oliver and Leo grabbed their packs and headed out.

  The boys had planned to visit a museum, but the line outside was packed, so they moved on.

  It felt great outside. The boys were strolling along a large park when Oliver noticed a trail of ants at his feet. Someone had dropped half a banana on the sidewalk, and these little creatures were farming the fruit to return to their pantries. Oliver decided to follow the trail. The single-file row crossed obstacles and scaled debris as they passaged home, and when Oliver saw their hill, he paused and thought about how one gust of wind, one sheet of rain, or one whip from a lawn mower could start an avalanche and destroy all that the colony had built. But now, the hill stood strong. It didn’t matter how long or rocky their road had been; what mattered was that they were in it together, and together, they had made it home.

  Oliver rose from the hill and found himself at the head of the lawn. He stood and listened to the quiet that comes in the early morning, until the he heard a laugh coming from the pitch. Frolicking around the lawn was a magnificent beast with a pale face, brown ears, and a black neck. The shepherd dog ran along the grass, looping in circles and chasing different scents.

  Leo came over with his water bottle and instructed Oliver to scoop his hands into a bowl-shape. Oliver felt the water drip through the cracks of his fingers as he knelt and whistled the shepherd over.

  Her brown ears straightened before she galloped across the lawn and dipped her head for refreshment. As the water bowl emptied, a man ran onto the lawn holding an empty leash. He was panting as he removed his khaki Homburg and rubbed the back of his neck, staring at the pooch as if he had been chasing her for weeks. “Mavi! Mavi! Thank you for finding her.”

  Oliver and Leo laughed. “We just offered her water and she came right over.”

  The keeper smiled at the shepherd as he began to perspire. “I’ve been running all over. She ran across the street and I lost her . . . should’ve checked the lawn first. She’s always been a runner.”

  This man had wavy blonde hair, a prognathous jaw, and prominent eyes. His appearance suggested that of a cultured fellow, maybe someone who had been bred into aristocracy but never found a way to escape it altogether. Maybe he was like many young men who thought having a degree from a decent school automatically rewarded him with vast riches. Maybe it was this reality which flustered him so much.

  His pearly white teeth stuck a smidgeon over his lip when he said, “Well! You saved me, boys. Mavi means everything to her owner.” He linked the leash to the shepherd’s gold collar. “Come, come, Mavi. Let us introduce your rescuers to Mr. Moses.”

  He motioned for the boys to follow, then turned with a brisk walk. The boys shrugged at each other and followed.

  When they reached the perimeter of the park, Mavi began to race ahead. Twelve long leaps took her and her keeper into a charming little tobacco boutique. The boys shuffled in after them.

  The tobacco house harkened back to the era when smoking was king, and all business was conducted over an ashtray. It was full of dark work, friendly counters, and a lingering haze of crop. That was the first thing that the boys noticed—the delicious smell of aged tobacco.

  The shop had no occupants except for two gentlemen across the room. Mr. Moses, Mavi’s owner, was in a tweed sports coat and leather riding boots. One would not call him tall or heavy, but his presence radiated an unchallengeable aura. He resembled a noble conqueror who ruled with an iron fist in a velvet glove, a man who had no intention of placing his fate with anyone other than himself.

  Moses stood on the other side of a display case from the shop’s owner, who had a warm hatchet face and was dressed in a crimson quarter-zip pullover and a plaid Jaxon hat. Both these men held ivory Meerschaum pipes in their hands.

  Moses, seeing Mavi, set his pipe on a padded sheath, then knelt to scratch behind her ears. Oliver now noticed his face. Moses had vulpine good looks, crystal-white eyes, and a chin of invincibility. He was the man from the magazine and the paper. Some sort of overlord from America who was buying up assets left and right. Oliver was sure of it, but he kept quiet.

  Moses tried the keeper. “All is well, I trust?” There was a soft undercurrent of tension, as if he was astounded that everything seemed to be alright.

  The keeper brushed past the incident with a steel voice. “Mavi made some friends.”

  Moses studied the boys and thanked them for playing with Mavi, who was wagging her tail with joy. Moses trusted her judgment more than anyone, and whatever doubt he may have had about these boys was trumped by her approval. He then motioned to the keeper, who straightened and drifted out into the street.

  Moses addressed Oliver and Leo. “Familiar with this part of the world?”

  Shrugs.

  “Ever been to a horse track?”

  Same result.

  “Up to watch a few races with me?”

  The boys nodded.

  Moses escorted Mavi and the boys out to a regal black limousine. The keeper reached through the window and handed Mavi her bone. Moses thanked him, hit the window up, and snatched the bone from Mavi’s jaw. He tossed it to the other end of the limo bay. “It’s the repetition she loves. As much as each run is similar, none of them are the same.”

  On the ride to the track, they occasionally played Mavi’s game, but mostly just idled in a symphony of traffic. The boys guessed Moses would be irritated at the lines of cars, but he spoke of the delay with an even keel. He had Mavi’s bone in his hand while looking out the window.

  “Things never happen the way you want. Diversions come every day, and they come objectively. It’s always your decision how these inconveniences weigh on you . . . and complaining never lightens the load.”

  Their excitement grew when they arrived. The horse track was nearly the size of a stadium. Cars were parked along dozens of rows and a long entry line of people curved around the gate. Moses’ caravan rolled to the front and entered through a private gate.

  He winked at the boys over h
is shoulder. “I just bought this place. We’ve got great seats.”

  “Nothing is won on the first turn. If there’s one thing jockeys should know, it’s when to slow down.” The next set of horses were led to the starting gate.

  And sure enough, halfway in, the highbred out front toppled over in a geyser of muddy sand. “See, boys, discipline and intelligence win the race, not the heaviest foot.”

  They enjoyed the races from a suite with three rows of seats, bar food, drinks, and cigars. By the second race, the foxhole was roaring as everyone began drinking and smoking their ears off and babbling about the conditions of the track and betting strategies. Moses, Mavi, and the boys had the front seats. Moses removed a gold lighter and gold cutters from his sports coat, then snipped the end of his stick. The lighter’s shiny jaws snapped shut, and he drew his first wreath. He pointed to a black thoroughbred proudly modeling in the winner’s circle.

  “That horse’ll never make it to the big leagues.”

  Oliver asked, “How do you know, sir?”

  “It’s not because the horse isn’t capable. He’s a powerful specimen. It’s not because he isn’t capable. That horse is a powerful specimen. It’s not because of the jockey either. The problem is the owner. The owner takes too much pleasure seeing his prized stallion win. He enters him in these easy races for the ceremonial ribbon, not for the betterment of the horse. And you know what happens? The stallion never gets any faster. And why should he? He runs how he runs and he always wins.

  “The only way that horse’ll start to post better times is if the owner puts him in a competitive race. Of course, the horse would probably lose at first, but his time would be faster. The horses around him—more trained and more experienced—would push him, and in the long run, he’d be better because of it. It’s a shame to waste such talent.” His cheeks narrowed as he pulled in another drag, and he smiled as smoke drifted across his teeth. “Maybe I’ll buy him.”

  As the afternoon burned on, Moses grew blunter, reminiscing on his early days.

  “My mother was a humble, hard-working woman. She raised me herself. A blue-collar job by day, and a parent by night. One evening, she says to me, ‘I work my life away doing things I don’t want to, all for you. And eventually, you will do have to do things you don’t want to, all for me and your future family. That’s just life.’ I patiently listened to my mother, but what she didn’t realize was that I already was doing things I didn’t like. I didn’t like listening to adults who hadn’t accomplished much. I hated our pygmy lifestyle. I hated feeling guilty that she had to do things she didn’t like, for me. It was then and there that I packed up, left her a note, and took off. I wanted to do things for her, things for my future family, that I loved. It may sound ironic, but I knew I had to go far from home to make that happen.

  “I knew I had to get out of my bubble. I knew it because while everyone around me was distracted by the outcome of a football game or the weight of some insecure actress, people kept telling me that I worked too hard and that I needed to relax a bit. I couldn’t disagree more. Relaxing is for after you’ve accomplished something, after you’ve added value to the world. I knew I needed to go because I saw how everyone was sucked into a myth, glued to their televisions, stapled to the headlines . . . sheep who are told what to do, who to hate, who to love, how to live. I just didn’t want my life to be like that, so I insulated myself from the culture I once cherished. And I knew no one would understand. I knew no one could see that there was something innate driving me, something thicker than opinion, and I knew that not even my own mother could see that I was different.

  “So, I said screw it. Screw what they think. Because I knew it didn’t matter. I knew myself, and I knew what I needed to do. So I left everything and everyone, and I went across the world and didn’t look back. I wanted to see it all. I wanted to see who was happy and why they were that way. I just kept thinking that I didn’t want to say the same things at eighty that I had at twenty. And now, even with everything I’ve done, I value those early years the most. Plus, my mother doesn’t have to do stuff she doesn’t like anymore.”

  Moses took a long draw of tobacco, then waved his hand to everyone in the suite, instructing everyone to clear out. Everyone zippered their teeth and left in a fast fade. The suite was an empty canyon of smoke. Moses exhaled and rotated towards the boys.

  “A man’s disposition is shown by many things, but certainly by the way he handles his smoke. The anxious man taps his finger to the wrapper to force the ash; the tranquil man lets it be. The anxious rip through the smoke and never allow it to breathe; the tranquil nurture it but never let it fade.”

  Moses set his stick on the table. “I’ve noticed that you each relish your flame. You each avoid premature action. And that is rare, especially at your age. It tells me that you are neither senselessly frightened nor recklessly optimistic. These are intangibles I value, and they are very hard to teach.”

  The boys sensed that something else was on the table here.

  “Funny thing. I see myself in you boys. I see your confidence and ambition. I see that you possess many irreplaceable assets.”

  He took another draw. “It is through the influence of certain individuals that the development of our world is directed. And it is the duty of the current guard to source the next set of leaders.” Moses rubbed Mavi’s back. “Would you two consider coming to work for me? I’m very interested to see who you might grow up to be. Besides, how long can you really keep up this adventure?”

  Mavi thumped her tail against the floor in approval. Moses and the boys spoke of terms, of duties, of life in America while their sticks burned. When an agreement was reached, they laid their sticks across the ashtray and let them fade out naturally.

  The following morning, Moses and Mavi scooped up the boys on the way to the airport. They drove past security, up on the tarmac, and parked next to a leviathan of an airliner. Their chauffer, with his grey suit, solid black tie, cap, and gloves, handed their luggage directly to the airline mechanic. Moses took note of the boys’ minimalism in their packs, and spoke over the idling engines.

  “Light travelers. I like it. You two sure are going to start fresh!”

  The stewardess escorted them to the first-class section of the transatlantic flight. Oliver nestled himself in the window seat, and as they began their taxi, he spotted something out the corner of his eye, something hovering over the metal wing.

  He shook his head and looked again. There was no evidence that the mirage existed, but from his seat, Oliver thought it looked like a butterfly. It fluttered hither and thither, inking substance into his head. His vision was clear and bright and even a rip sharper than usual, but as he tried to focus, the impression of the phantom overlapped on itself.

  He tapped Leo and pointed out towards the wing. But when he turned back, only sunlight reflected off the aluminum spoiler. The butterfly was a dissident renegade stalking the boy. Oliver closed his eyes and willed himself to think of nothing; he had to avoid losing his grip. But he could neither confirm nor deny what he had just seen.

  The turbines churned faster and faster, and the airplane began to climb over the clouds.

  The sun always sets in the west.

  THE PIANIST

  THE PIANIST RIPPLED soothing notes beside the crystal staircase. He had always admired the nouvelle atmosphere of the Bel Étage. Set over his shoulders was a white dinner jacket with a long tailcoat, and beneath his jaw was a black satin bowtie.

  The pianist was a wizard with the keys. He sat with a stiff posture and tapped the foot pedals as his hands alternated along the white-and-black board, integrating sharp bagatelle plots into the broader range of his one-man symphony. The pianist was a supreme brain, and anyone who had the pleasure of speaking with him could see the calculus of electromagnetic activity behind his eyes. So, for the pianist, this soft morceau was nearly subconscious.

  The beveled glass stairwell next to him rose like a three-cornered ruler with
a quarter turn in the middle. If you stood beside the pianist, climbed the first flight of steps, turned left, rose the second flight, and followed this path once more, you’d find yourself well above the dining room. Oliver was up on this level, standing in a seven-fold tie and virile suit, looking out into the Bel Étage when he met H.B.

  “Sir, your water . . . please!” H.B. called up to Oliver. He was sprawled out on the elegant stairwell in filth-green clothes, with dirt on his face, and stinking like a dumpster. He looked drunk, like the kind who woke up on the bottle and only let go of it once he fell asleep. Oliver could never truly learn how H.B. fell that low, because even if the drifter wanted to tell, this was a man who lived to forget.

  Oliver couldn’t ignore this sight. H.B. was a blight in this domain of chandeliers, epicureanism, and general excellence. How did such a lowlife get in? Oliver grimaced; his mind flooded with impurities.

  “Sir, please! Water,” H.B. pleaded again. Oliver checked his hands for a bottle, but they were empty. What is this brainchild looking at? Oliver turned up the flight of steps to see the horologist descending from the unmarked door. He was well-coiffed and baronial in his tux.

  The horologist held a murky bottle of half water and half mud as he walked down and greeted Oliver, stretching out his hand. “This is all I have, Oliver. Here you go.”

  Before accepting the bottle, Oliver looked at the contaminants floating in the water, then turned on the landing and scanned the fine restaurant. On each table were glasses of clean water. A young, male attendant carried a fresh pitcher around for refills. This didn’t make sense. He began to descend the bevel staircase. Surely the kitchen could spare a glass. Oliver led himself down the diaphanous levels. He took a tight turn to the right and continued down the next flight. Then he repeated this same action, and froze. Oliver was now above the horologist and H.B.