Right Hand Magic (14 page)

The elderly oracle gestured for me to enter ahead of him. Upon opening the door, I was greeted by the smell of moldering paper, yellowing newsprint, and fading ink. Mr. Manto’s apartment was as large as my own, possibly even bigger, but it was hard to tell since virtually every square inch of space was given over to the printed word in all its various forms.

Bookshelves not only lined the walls but divided up the room, creating narrow corridors that zigzagged back and forth like livestock chutes in a stockyard. Every table and chair was covered by a jumble of old magazines, comic books, and newspapers. Stalagmites of stacked books as tall as a man dotted the remaining open floor space.

As Mr. Manto closed the door behind us, he called out in a surprisingly high-pitched, almost girlish voice. “Daddy’s back, my babies! Daddy brought you some delicious cream, just as he promised!”

There was the sound of books toppling and newspapers being scattered as the members of a horde of previously unseen cats emerged from their various hiding places within the overflowing shelves and teetering stacks. Mewling piteously, they hurried forward to greet Mr. Manto, running in and out between his shins like little furry eels. Within seconds, six felines were gathered at his feet.

“Now, now—don’t be such a bitch, Isis,” Mr. Manto said, wagging an arthritic finger at the Siamese as it arched its back and hissed at one of its fellows. “There’s plenty for everyone.” He turned to me and smiled apologetically. “Gracious! Where are my manners? Allow me to introduce you to my little family. These are the twins, Comus and Momus,” he said, pointing to a pair of black Persians. “The tabby over there is Bacchus. You’ve already met Isis—that Oriental shorthair is her son by Bacchus, Endymion. ...”

“So you named your cats in honor of the gods?”

“Gracious, no!” he laughed. “They’re all named after Mardi Gras krewes. I lived in New Orleans for a while before relocating to Golgotham.” He bent down to pat the head of the massive Maine coon rubbing against his leg. “And this fat rascal is Rex. Say hello to the nice lady, Your Majesty.” The tomcat meeped in response, its voice surprisingly tiny for what had to be a thirty-pound feline. “Once I get you settled in the receiving room and feed my babies, we can get started with your reading.”

As I followed Mr. Manto and his furry entourage, I glanced at the bookcases I walked past, curious as to their contents. I expected to find them lined with antique books bound in leather with metal hasps and gold leaf pages. Instead, the shelves were crowded with cheap paperbacks, cookbooks, self-help manuals, outdated encyclopedias, and top-ten bestsellers.

Eventually we reached what Mr. Manto referred to as his “receiving room,” basically a couple of easy chairs arranged about a coffee table, the surface of which was lost under a drift of loose papers.

“Please make yourself comfortable, my dear,” he said, gesturing to one of the chairs. “I’ll be back in a minute.” Mr. Manto promptly disappeared behind a chintz curtain that separated his kitchen from the rest of the living space, his cats following after him, their tails held erect in anticipation of a fresh treat.

I moved a pile of dictionaries out of the chair and sat down, staring at the stacks of books that surrounded me. If there was any system as to how they were shelved, it was beyond my ability to recognize it.

A few seconds later Mr. Manto returned carrying a tray on which rested a plain white ceramic teapot and a single cup. Seating himself in the chair opposite mine, he unceremoniously pushed the mound of paper off the coffee table and onto the floor.

“You may have noticed that my tea service has only one cup. I assure you it’s not because I’m an absent-minded old man or a bad host,” he said drolly. “It’s because this particular tea is the trigger for my visions. It is brewed from diviner’s sage.”

“You have to trip to see the future?” I frowned.

“I am not doing anything unethical, I assure you. It has always been necessary for human oracles to be intoxicated before they prophesize,” Mr. Manto explained. “Unlike Kymerans, human soothsayers cannot pierce the veil of the supernatural without help, no matter how great our Sight. The sibyls of Delphi breathed the ethylene fumes that arose from a crack in the temple floor and chewed laurel leaves in order to see their visions. I merely follow in the footsteps of my ancestors.”

He lifted the teapot and carefully poured a greenish brown liquid into his cup. “I knew from my own vision that you would be coming, so I brewed some earlier.”

“It must be handy to know things like that in advance,” I said.

Mr. Manto looked at me over the rim of the cup, his eyes filled with unwanted wisdom. “Tell that to Cassandra,” he grunted.

Having downed his special tea, the soothsayer leaned back in his chair. The deep lines about his mouth gradually relaxed as his eyes lost their focus and grew cloudy. He fished around in the pocket of his cardigan and pulled out a Nano in a bright pink Hello Kitty case, which he popped into a portable iPod dock sitting on the table. Within seconds Mozart’s
Lacrimosa Requiem
filled the room.

As if on cue, Mr. Manto rose from his easy chair, eyes still fogged, and walked over to one of the bookcases from which he pulled out a paperback romance. He opened the novel without looking at it, ripped out a page, and then returned the book to the shelf. He then went over to another bookcase and grabbed a cookbook and did the exact same thing. He repeated his actions five more times, defacing a children’s book, a porno mag, a back issue of
Cat Fancy
, a Stephen King novel, and a volume from a set of encyclopedias.

The soothsayer returned to his chair and tore the individual pages in half, then ripped the halves into quarters, and then tore them again into eighths. He dumped the shredded pages into a small metal wastebasket and stirred the contents with one gnarled hand.

Muttering under his breath, he closed his eyes and reached into the trash can, pulling out individual scraps of paper, which he placed on the recently cleared surface of the coffee table. After several minutes of arranging the bits of paper, his eyes still closed, he fell back into the arms of his easy chair, a look of exhaustion on his long face.

“Is it done?” I asked.

Mr. Manto nodded his head wearily.

“What does it say?”

The aged oracle fished a pair of horn-rimmed glasses from the pocket of his cardigan and slid them onto his nose. He leaned forward, peering down through his bifocals at the cut-up prophecy arranged before him.

“Rise shall a fire-born army forged of woman to the bestiarii free,” he read aloud in a stentorian monotone. “Drown will the streets the usurped in blood no mercy for his flesh show. From two will be one turned three. The hand is in the mind.”

“What the hell does
that
mean?”

The soothsayer looked up from his reading, a surprised look on his face. “You don’t understand it?”

“Of course not! Why can’t you just tell me what you saw?”

“It’s not that simple, my dear.” He sighed. “I can remember the visions that involve me, such as the one where I saw us meeting upstairs. But once the trance is broken, I cannot recall what I beheld in the future of others. Don’t worry—I’m sure it will all become clear to you when the moment arrives. Whether you understand it in time for it to do you any good is another matter, though.”

I bid the old soothsayer good night and left him to his cats. I returned to my room and went to bed, but I had a hard time getting to sleep. While I wasn’t entirely confident in Mr. Manto’s skills as a fortune-teller, I couldn’t help but be concerned by the prophecy he had pieced together. I definitely heard him say “fire,” “army,” “drown,” and “blood.” Those were not words
anyone
wanted to hear in regard to his or her future.

“ Just hold that pose a couple of more minutes,and I’ll be done,” I said, glancing up from my sketchbook at Lukas. I was busy drawing my newest housemate au naturel—in his four-legged form, not the nude, that is.

Being chased through the garden maze by a humanoid cat hadn’t simply been a traumatic personal episode and an unlikely introduction to a new friend. It had also proved a source of inspiration for my art.

I had finished two of the three new pieces I had agreed to deliver to Derrick for the opening. The first two were individual sculptures that combined to re-create Rodin’s
The Kiss
. But when it came to the third sculpture, I found myself stumped. I
knew
I wanted it to be a female form, but I was leery of offering up yet another reinterpretation of the Venus de Milo.

After my midnight run through the garden maze, it occurred to me that I should do another “paired” sculpture, like
The Kiss
. This time, though, instead of simply doing two human figures, one of them would be that of an animal. That was how I came to re-create von Dannecker’s
Ariadne on the Panther
using transmission parts, steel tubing, and sheet metal.

Lukas agreed to serve as my live model, as he saw it as a way to make up for the less than ideal circumstances under which we first met. I saw it as an unparalleled chance to get an up-close and personal look at the musculature of a big cat like a panther without dealing with zoo personnel or certain death. While watching Lukas transition from outwardly normal teenager to mountain lion and back again was unnerving at times, it was considerably less terrifying than having Scratch pose in his demon aspect.

“Okay, you can turn back now,” I said.

Lukas grunted in relief and reared back onto his hind legs. He snatched up his house robe and wrapped it about himself before he finished his transformation.

“Let me see,” he said eagerly. “I’ve never had anyone draw my picture before!”

“I’m not that great when it comes to line drawing,” I explained as I showed him my sketchbook. “My real skill is with the welding torch. Wait until you see the finished product. You’ll actually be able to move the hip joints, and the tail will be fully articulated. ...”

“I think you draw beautifully,” Lukas replied as he studied the sketches of his cat form.

“No offense, kid, but you’ve never seen
real
art before.”

“That may be true,” he admitted, “but it still doesn’t change my opinion of your work. I can’t wait to see the finished piece!”

“Me, too. But first I have to find the materials to make it. I normally order parts from this guy I know in Williamsburg who used to play in a punk band. I called him yesterday to put in my order, and I found out he’s sold his auto repair business to go on tour. The new owner said it’s going to take three weeks just to get the transmission. I can’t wait that long.”

I spent the next couple of hours making calls to various automotive supply houses, but kept running into brick walls. Most of them refused to deal with an individual, as opposed to a licensed mechanic, or they only handled rebuilds. I tried to explain that a rebuilt transmission was of no use to me, as I had to be sure it was in perfect working condition before I disassembled it for my own use. You could literally hear the crickets chirping on the other end of the line as I told them what I wanted to use the transmission for. I finally tracked down a supplier in Red Hook who was willing to sell me what I needed, but he balked when he found out it had to be delivered to Golgotham.

By the time I finished with that last call, I was so mad I could spit nails. I decided the only thing left for me to do was drown my sorrows in some ice cream. I stomped downstairs and took the brand-new half gallon out of the freezer and fished a tablespoon out of the dish rack. I contemplated spooning the ice cream into its own bowl, then said, “Screw it,” and started eating it right out of the carton.

Hexe entered the kitchen a few minutes later, only to halt upon seeing me attacking a helpless carton of chocolate-strawberry-cheesecake.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“What makes you think something’s wrong?” I mumbled around the tablespoon in my mouth.

“You’re eating ice cream. You eat ice cream only when you’re pissed off.”

“I’ve lived here long enough for you to notice that?” I asked, surprised that he’d picked up on that particular quirk so quickly. It took Roger six months to make that connection.

“Time flies, doesn’t it? So what’s the problem?”

“I’m having trouble finding a transmission to use for my final sculpture. I put in a call to my previous supplier, but he’s out of business and everyone else is either giving me the runaround or refuses to deliver to this part of town. I’ve got to get my hands on one ASAP.”

“Have you tried the Fly Market?”

“Why would I go there?” I frowned. “It’s just weird food, magical stuff, and tacky tourist crap.”

“The Fly Market is more than a place to buy centaur tack and cow brain tacos. If you know where to look—and whom to ask for—you can find anything you might possibly need underneath its roof.”