Father Lucas asked, ‘You really can’t tell me where you found these, or where the remaining pieces might be?’
Martin thought about it for a while, but then he shook his head. He wanted to know more about Boofuls’ monthly meetings at the Hollywood Divine before he let Father Lucas get involved. He wanted to know more about Boofuls himself. He had a feeling that if Father Lucas realized who Boofuls was, he would be back at the house within the hour with a busload of exorcists; and that their chances of getting Emilio back whole and undistorted would be put at serious risk.
What would be worse, the slightest hint of an exorcism would bring out the newspaper reporters and the television cameras, and Boofuls’ appearance would be turned into a three-ring media circus.
Maybe there was another reason why Martin didn’t want to divulge everything to Father Lucas just yet, a selfish reason. Maybe he wanted to see through this proposed remake of
Sweet Chariot
. If it could ever be filmed, it would be the sensation of all time – the only motion picture to star a reincarnated murder victim – and Martin would have his name on it. There would be no stopping his career after that. He would become a movie legend. Notorious, perhaps, but never forgotten.
Father Lucas cut himself a slice of polenta and ate it thoughtfully. Martin found it rather dry, with too many pine nuts in it. At length, wiping his hands on one of Mrs Capelli’s best white embroidered napkins, Father Lucas said, ‘That boy upstairs; your grandson’s friend, Lejeune. Does he have anything to do with this in any way?’
‘What makes you say that?’ asked Martin before Mr Capelli could answer.
‘He has a
presence
about him, that’s all. I can’t quite put my finger on it. Perhaps it’s nothing more than a freshness of youth.’
‘He’s a very bright young boy,’ said Martin.
Father Lucas looked at him challengingly for a moment; and Martin looked back at him and steadily held his eye but gave nothing away.
‘You’re asking me to help you, yet you won’t tell me the whole story,’ Father Lucas told him. He turned around to Mr Capelli. ‘Isn’t that so, Mr Capelli?’
Mr Capelli looked embarrassed. But Martin said, ‘Father – let’s just say that we’re hedging our bets a little. We’re not quite sure what we’re up against yet; and it could be dangerous if we go storming in with bells, books, and candles, trying to exorcise something that may not even
need
exorcising; or may not even
respond
to being exorcised.’
He paused for a moment, and then he said, ‘We’re not trying to be obstructive, Father. It’s just that we’re very worried about Emilio. One wrong step and we may never see him again; not whole, anyway; and not the way he was before. We need your help very badly. If there’s anything you can find out about mirrors and worlds beyond mirrors – well, we’re looking for anything, anything at all. But Emilio is at serious risk; and if we lose him forever simply because we weren’t careful enough … well, I don’t think
our
souls are going to rest, either.’
Father Lucas frowned. ‘What do you mean by that? Your souls aren’t going to rest,
either
? Who else has a soul that isn’t at rest?’
Martin was almost tempted to tell him; but then he shook his head and said, ‘Please, Father. Let’s just take one step at a time.’
Father Lucas stood up and brushed crumbs from his coat. ‘I really have to go now,’ he said. ‘But – all right – I’ll accept your word that you can’t tell me everything about the mirror. After all, Emilio’s safety should be our first concern.’
He reached across the table and picked up the black-tissue package. ‘Let me take these, however. I have a friend at St Patrick’s who may be able to throw some light on these, and may even be able to tell us what the
other
safe-deposit box contains, before we risk opening it.’
Martin took hold of Father Lucas’ hand and grasped it firmly. ‘Thank you for having faith in all this,’ he told him.
Father Lucas gave him a wry smile. ‘I am regularly required to believe in the impossible, Mr Williams. It’s not so hard for me to believe in the outrageous.’
Out on the landing, Father Lucas said good-bye to Mr and Mrs Capelli and thanked Mrs Capelli for her coffee and her cake. He was just about to go down the stairs when Boofuls appeared at the doorway of Martin’s apartment. He stood there silently, staring down at Father Lucas with undisguised contempt.
‘Good-bye, Lejeune,’ Father Lucas called out, trying to be cheerful.
‘Good-bye, Father,’ Boofuls replied.
There was a moment of awkward silence. ‘Well, then,’ said Father Lucas, ‘I must be off.’
‘Father Lucas!’ said Boofuls in a clear voice.
‘What is it, my boy?’
Boofuls smiled at him. Then he said, ‘Take care of your teeth, Father Lucas.’
Father Lucas laughed. ‘Don’t you worry, my boy. I brush them three times a day!’
Boofuls laughed, too; and then turned and disappeared back into Martin’s apartment.
Martin looked serious. ‘Take care of your teeth?’ he said. ‘What on earth did he mean by that?’
Father Lucas grasped Martin’s arm. ‘You just take care of yourself, Mr Williams. I’ll call you if I find out anything about these relics. You work at home, don’t you?’
Martin nodded. He stood at the head of the stairs watching Father Lucas go.
‘I don’t like this,’ said Mr Capelli, rubbing his chin. ‘I don’t like this at all.’
Martin clapped him on the shoulder, and then slowly went back upstairs to see what Boofuls was doing.
Nine
THE FOLLOWING MORNING
was dull and humid; one of those overcast Hollywood days when all the buildings look tawdry and unreal, like a low-budget movie set. They drove up to Morris Nathan’s house shortly after eleven o’clock. Morris had told Martin on the phone that he was too busy that morning to see anybody, but Martin had persisted. In the end, Morris had agreed to wedge him in between Joe Willmore and Henry Winkler. ‘But four minutes only –
four
– no more.’
Because the day was so gray, there was nobody in the pool. Alison’s inflatable sunbed circled around on its own, speckled with flies. Martin could see Alison herself in the sun-room, wearing a white silk caftan. Her manicurist was sitting at her feet like a religious supplicant, painting her toenails the color of 1956 Cadillacs. Alison waved as Martin and Boofuls walked across the patio to the front door.
Inside, Morris was saying good-bye to Joe Willmore. There was a strong smell of cigar smoke around. ‘Come on in, Martin,’ said Morris as Joe Willmore nodded to Martin, winked at Boofuls, and left. Martin followed Morris into his huge oak-paneled office with its sage-green shag-pile carpet and its framed photographs of Morris arm in arm with everybody who was anybody, from Frank Sinatra to Ronald Reagan.
‘It’s one of those days, you know?’ said Morris. ‘That
fonfer
David Santini has been arguing about the percentages on
Robot Killer III
; and don’t ask me what Fox is trying to pull over
Headhunters
.’
‘What
is
Fox trying to pull over
Headhunters
?’ Martin inquired.
‘I said don’t ask,’ said Morris. ‘Believe me, if I told you, you wouldn’t want to know.’
Martin laid a hand on Boofuls’ shoulder. Boofuls had stayed quiet all this time, looking around. Today, he looked very much like any other small boy: Martin had taken him out yesterday afternoon and bought him shirts and T-shirts, shorts and jeans. He had stuck his hair down with gel, too, so that he didn’t look quite so girly and ringleted.
Boofuls was still pale; and there was still something about him that wasn’t quite ordinary; but at least he wasn’t quite so obviously quaint.
‘This is Lejeune,’ said Martin. To avoid complications, they had decided to stick to the name that Boofuls had given to Father Lucas.
‘Oh, yeah?’ said Morris, leafing through a red-jacketed screenplay on his desk. ‘Pleased to meet you, Lejeune. Don’t tell me you’re unlucky enough to have this
letz
for an uncle?’
‘We’re not related,’ Martin explained. ‘Lejeune here is my choice to play Boofuls.’
Morris slowly raised his eyes and stared first at Boofuls and then at Martin.
‘Martin,’ he said, ‘I can spare you four minutes to talk about anything except Boofuls.’
‘Will you listen for just
one
minute?’ said Martin. ‘I’ve decided to shelve my original idea. Instead, I want to put together a remake of Boofuls’ last movie – the movie he never finished.’
Morris lowered his eyes toward the screenplay again. ‘Martin,’ he said with exaggerated patience, ‘how long are you going to keep on
mutshing
me about Boofuls? Can’t you take some advice? It’s a loser. It’s a dead duck. It’s deader than a dead duck.’
But now Boofuls took one step forward and said in a high-pitched voice, ‘No, sir. It’s not dead at all.’
Morris looked at Martin in displeased surprise. ‘Who’s the
mazik
?’ he wanted to know.
Mazik
was Yiddish for a mischievous little devil. It was less insulting than
mamzer
, the way Morris said it, but not very much less insulting.
Boofuls lisped, ‘The picture was called
Sweet Chariot
. Maybe you don’t remember it.’
‘Remember it?’ Morris protested. ‘Of course I remember it. And if I hadn’t remembered it, this uncle of yours would have reminded me, in any case, as if he wouldn’t.’
‘He’s not my uncle,’ Boofuls corrected him. ‘He’s my script editor, that’s all.’
Morris couldn’t believe this. ‘
He
is
your
script editor?’
Boofuls nodded. ‘We’re going to make this picture, Mr Nathan, and you’re going to help us.’
‘Martin, is this some kind of a practical joke?’ Morris demanded. ‘I’m a busy man, can you come to terms with that? I just can’t stand here listening to all of this –’
He stopped in midsentence, with his mouth open. Because – without any further hesitation, and with stunning grace – Boofuls lifted both his arms, and began to dance slowly around Morris Nathan’s office. His head was held high, his eyes were penetratingly bright, his arms and legs flowed through one complicated dance movement after another. Martin stepped back so that Boofuls could twirl past him, his toes scarcely touching the carpet as he went. He seemed to be unaffected by gravity – light and soundless, keeping perfectly in time with some unheard music. One-two-
three
-four, one-two
-three
-four, around and around and around.
Morris stared in fascination as Boofuls completed his dance, and bowed, and paused; and then clasped his hands together and stared up at the ceiling with an expression of pathos.
‘I never saw
anybody
–’ he began, but Martin shushed him, because Boofuls had started to sing. Martin had never heard this song before, although he had read the score. It came about halfway through
Sweet Chariot
, when the dead-end kid rises from his body as an angel.
Boofuls’ voice was clear and sweet and penetrating. It sounded inhuman, as if it had come from the silvery throat of some long-forgotten musical instrument, rather than a child’s larynx. It was so moving that Martin couldn’t believe what he was hearing – and nor could Morris, from the expression on his face. There were tears in his eyes, and Martin had never ever seen tears in Morris Nathan’s eyes before, and (except for his mother, when he was a tiny baby) neither had anybody else.
Like the dew, rising
To kiss the morning sun
I’m rising, I’m rising
To kiss the ones I love
Like the light, dancing
Where the river waters run
I’m dancing, I’m dancing
To that joyful place above
Boofuls finished the song and then stood with his head bowed and his eyes closed. There had been no music; no accompaniment; and yet Martin was almost sure that he had heard a sweeping orchestra; and that when Boofuls had finished singing, a single melancholy violin had laid his last note to rest. As for Morris, he dragged out a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly and looked toward Martin and lifted one hand as if to say,
Amazing, I take it all back, whatever I said about Boofuls, whatever I said about anything
.
Boofuls opened his eyes and smiled a sly little smile that only Martin saw.
‘Well?’ said Martin. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think I should shoot myself,’ Morris told him, shaking his head in admiration. ‘Then I should talk to June Lassiter.’
‘You really like it?’
Morris came around his desk, beaming. He laid his arm around Martin’s shoulders and gave him an affectionate squeeze. ‘Let me tell you something, Martin, there’s a world of difference between concept and product. If you’re talking
concept
, the idea of reviving Boofuls totally stunk. I told you it stunk, didn’t I, how many times?’