The Festival of Bones: Mythworld Book One (5 page)

More importantly, once Galen was Rector of the University of Vienna, he would be in a position well suited to influence a number of prominent Europeans, and thereby rectify the mistake which had cost him his most regretted lost opportunity.

The Rector had influence among the directors of the operas in Berlin, Munich, Vienna, Hamburg, Stuttgart, Frankfurt, and Cologne; and the collected directors had influence on the foundation which selected the director of the Wagner Festival at Bayreuth.

He had influence over the University’s alumni, which included executives of companies such as Volkswagen and Siemens and Terminal Entertainment, all of whom were financial supporters of the Wagner Festival at Bayreuth.

The Rector had the dominant vote on the uses of any surplus from the University’s annual budget, which totaled nearly four hundred million dollars; and the election was to take place during the second summer session, just prior to the dates for the Wagner Festival in Bayreuth.

In short, someone in the position of Rector at a University as powerful and respected as the one in Vienna could do an awful lot of things—in Vienna, and elsewhere. Thus, should such a person exploit all of his resources and connections to establish a foothold in a festival with a creative and financial baseline that was shaped like a roller coaster, no one would be likely or even able to stop him.

And, if such a man were to suggest a scandalous casting choice during the preparations for said festival, who could deny him? Especially if he were signing the checks?

Granted, there was still the matter of his not being able to speak for extended periods of time, much less sing, but Galen was confident that if he could simply manage to get onstage at the Festspielhaus in Bayreuth, then somehow, he would simply be able to overcome any obstacles barring his way.

If he could just get on that stage, just once, he felt that he could rule the
world
.

* * *

Still, there was the curious matter of who had sent the mysterious invitation, and why they would have possibly chosen to address him as Rector. Galen examined the notecard and envelope closely, then turned his attention to the ticket. On its reverse was the name of the nightclub and the evening’s showtime, not an hour away. He considered it for a moment longer, then picked up his phone.

A few minutes later, a young courier, the son of the building’s manager, appeared at Galen’s door. After a brief instruction, the boy bolted down the hall and out of the building.

Trying not to be apprehensive, Galen went to the turntable and put on a recording of
Orlando Furioso
, then poured himself a drink and sat in the open window. He tried to tell himself that he was merely enjoying the evening air, but caught himself glancing at the street from time to time, awaiting the boy’s return. The first side of the record was nearly complete, cymbals clashing, horns trumpeting in a triumph of sound and energy, before he spotted the young courier hurrying up the street below the window.

Galen met the boy at the door, where he exchanged several bills from his wallet for a single yellow sheet; a promotional handbill for the club—the sort placed under windshield wipers and stapled to telephone poles. The boy left, thanking him profusely for the money, but Galen no longer knew he was there, nor did he notice as the record ended and began a static-filled skipping that echoed across the room. He was staring at the handbill, a mixed look of awe and disbelief and no small confusion registering on his face.

It bore a name he had heard, though not in this context, and was attached to a person who only added to the conundrum, as he had been a conundrum himself for as long as Galen had known of him. As far as he knew, this person had no reason to invite him to a nightclub, and perhaps less to address him as Rector. Still, the combination was intriguing enough that Galen considered whether or not he should actually attend. He glanced up at the mantel clock and noted that he still had time to walk to the club; on the other hand, if he avoided it altogether, the temptation would be past in a few hours, and he would have spared himself from whatever experience it was he’d been invited to—but also could lose the opportunity to address the person who may or may not know of his plans to become Rector, and that was perhaps a matter best dealt with as soon as possible.

Galen stood staring out the window for a long moment, then, almost as if compelled, he turned and looked at the notecard on the burnished mahogany desk.

Suddenly, in one brusque movement, he whirled about and grabbed it from the desktop. Pulling a cape off of the coat rack, he shoved the invitation and the ticket in a liner pocket and stepped out the door.

***

CHAPTER THREE
The Prestige

Rutland & Burlington’s was a multi-purpose nightclub—which is to say the space was almost wholly unfinished, and could accommodate practically anything short of a sporting event. It was situated smugly in a restaurant district which was frequented by the University’s nearly ninety thousand students. The exterior was nondescript, and the signage nonexistent; the owners apparently subscribed to the notion that obscurity equals popularity, and the fact that there was already a line of patrons stretching past the adjacent three storefronts (in both directions) waiting for admittance did nothing to dispel the theory.

Michael arrived at the club at a quarter past eight, fifteen minutes before the noted showtime, and took a spot in what he hoped was the shorter line. The expected assortment of humanity clustered around the cobbled sidewalk, inhaling or surreptitiously swallowing what could charitably be described as ‘experience enhancement aids.’ Michael recognized the joints by the smell without needing to see them, but he was at a total loss in identifying most of the pills. Years earlier, when he was traveling for several months in the United States under a teaching fellowship, he happened to have sub-let a room in Albuquerque from an artist named Mike Bomba. Bomba was a colorful fellow, and generally all that could be expected in a quality roommate: clean, considerate, and disinclined to wander around the apartment naked. He also was a big moviegoer, and frequently dragged Michael along whenever he could coerce him to go.

The first time they saw a movie together, Bomba sat alone in the car for a moment, then emerged with a broad, loopy grin on his face. He explained that he was merely partaking of a ‘movie enhancement device’, and then, concerned he had offended his roommate, offered the still-smoldering joint to Michael.

Michael had never actually used drugs—not directly, anyway; he had discovered early in his life that he had an extreme sensitivity to narcotics of any kind, and that the mere proximity of pot smoke was likely to give him a light buzz and then a shrieking headache. Still, the movie they had gone to see starred Sylvester Stallone, which meant that at best it would seem like they’d gone to see Kurosawa instead, and at worst he’d have a shrieking headache, which was always a fifty-fifty chance with a Stallone movie anyway. He accepted the joint and took a long, slow, drag.

For hours after the movie, he and Bomba sat in the car in the empty parking lot, tears streaming down their faces. “Man,” said Bomba, “I never knew Stallone could be that beautiful.”

“Neither did I,” replied Michael. “He is a beautiful, beautiful … Hey—what happened to my thumbs?”

He never smoked pot again after that—but wondered why recalling that particular memory at that particular moment gave him an odd feeling of foreshadowing.

Michael leaned away from the line and wondered when they were going to begin admitting people when he saw walking from the other end of the block an elegant, smartly dressed man whose bearing and manner belied the very neighborhood he was walking in; he was dressed in formal evening wear, with a high, starched collar and a dark trench coat that probably cost more than the annual salaries of every person he was passing. It was not the clothing alone which set him apart—it was Vienna, after all, and a number of passers-by were dressed to the nines—but also the manner in which he walked, as if a cape were billowing out behind him, and he expected everyone to take notice.

He paused at the door, then looked both ways before turning in Michael’s direction and making his way down the line. As he approached, his eyes met Michael’s and he saw something enough there to give him pause.

“I’m sorry,” said Michael pleasantly, “do I know you?”

The man hesitated slightly, as if unaccustomed to not being recognized on sight. “I believe so. I am Mikaal Gunnar-Galen—a Vice-Rector at the University…?”

“Of course, of course,” said Michael slapping his forehead and extending a hand. “Michael Langbein. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you—I suppose I’m one of those teachers who is content to stay in the confines of my own peculiar rat’s nest.”

“Indeed,” said Galen. “Ironic that we should meet tonight, considering I spent a great deal of time this very afternoon in anticipation of meeting you.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Never mind,” said Galen. “What brings you out and about this evening?” he asked, eyeing the still immobile but growing line. “A constitutional, or perhaps meeting companions for dinner?”

“No,” said Michael. “I’m flying solo tonight. And I guess I’m going to see some sort of performance, if they ever let us in.”

“Mmm. Forgive the presumption, professor, but this sort of event in this kind of venue doesn’t exactly seem like your particular brand of recreation.”

“I was invited.”

“As was I. This wouldn’t have something to do with ‘a matter of great importance, academic and historical,’ would it?”

Michael stared, his mouth agape. “Exactly that. How did you …?”

Galen held up a plum-colored envelope identical to the one Michael had received, which was poking out of his jacket pocket.

“Well,” said Michael resignedly, “I wonder what sort of dilemma our mysterious host has that requires the attentions of a Professor of Ancient Literature and a … what exactly was it you teach again?”

A faint scowl crossed Galen’s features before he replied. “Music Theory. But our host is not so mysterious.”

“How do you mean?”

“It’s here on the club handbill,” said Galen, handing him a stiff yellow sheet covered in gaudy black print. “He’s a Zen Illusionist, whatever that is supposed to mean. He’s called Obscuro.”

* * *

The thin layer of sawdust which covered the floor was the first sign that it was no ordinary nightclub; a conclusion signed and sealed upon a glance at the menus, which were tabloid-sized, and bore a portrait of a jovial Mexican man in a sombrero on the front cover, even though nothing in the menu could be considered even remotely Mexican. The selection seemed to consist mostly of alcoholic drinks of uncertain lineage, Viennese pastry, and according to the back cover, various personal care and hygiene products.

After what seemed an interminable wait, the club finally began admitting everyone in the left line, much to the growing irritation to those in the right. Michael and Galen, having presented their identical orange tickets to a surly, mustached man with a swarthy complexion and wearing a low-slung hat, moved through the curtained area at the front and into the main room. There were some twenty tables situated in threes across a rectangular space. At one end was the bar and kitchen; at the other, a small, curtained, makeshift performing stage built of two sets of steps and a riser.

To the left of the stage was a beautiful antique easel, intricately carved with looping scrollwork and sculpted cherubs, which bore an aluminum-framed black sign of the sort used for menus at coffee shops and convention centers hosting Shriners’ banquets. On it smallish white letters spelled out the highlights of the evening’s show, although with a questionable degree of fidelity:
The master Zen ilusionist OBSURO, performing feats of wonder and astonishment - tonite only
.

The tables were draped with a coarse, gray-green fabric, and they were being bussed by a slow, smallish man who, save for the addition of a beard, was the twin of the ticket-taker. Michael and Galen chose a table on the left, about ten feet from the stage, and waved down the waiter.

“Yah?” he said gruffly. “Vat you vant?” He spoke German, but with an odd inflection, as if he’d learned it from cereal boxes.

“I’ll have a vodka and orange juice,” said Galen.

“And I’ll take a … umm, a gin and tonic,” said Michael.

The stubby little man shook his head vigorously—not unlike a mangy cat shaking off a dunking in the river. “Nah—ve got no vodka, und ve got no gin.”

Galen let out a barely suppressed sigh of frustration and rolled his eyes heavenward, while Michael began to closely scrutinize the menu. The waiter began tapping his foot impatiently; other patrons were taking their seats for the show, and were looking for service—which was, apparently, just him.

Michael looked up at Galen. “Do you mind if I just order a pitcher of something? I’ll treat.”

Galen shrugged noncommittally, and Michael pointed to a listing in the menu. The little man scribbled something on an order pad, then scooted away. A few minutes later he returned with a pitcher of creme soda and two tubes of mint-flavored toothpaste. Galen looked at the fare, then looked questioningly at Michael.

“Don’t look at me,” Michael protested. “I ordered beer.”

“You asked for beer, and he brought us soda and toothpaste?” Galen said in irritation as he craned his neck, looking around for the surly waiter.

“Ah, the toothpaste is mine,” admitted Michael. “I’ve been out for days, and thought while I was here…. Anyway, creme soda?”

Galen muttered a silent curse under his breath, and pushed his glass forward.

* * *

“I’ve been hearing about this ‘Obscuro’ for months,” said Galen, “Ever since he started at the University last Fall. I understand his performances are quite unorthodox, even by illusionists’ standards.”

“Mmm,” said Michael. “And he’s a student, you say?”

“No,” replied Galen with a touch of smugness. “He’s faculty. You may have heard about him at the beginning of the year—the child prodigy who only goes by one name?”

Michael looked up at the still empty stage with a renewed interest. “Am I to understand that the magician we’ve come to see …”

“Illusionist.”

“Whatever—is actually the new celebrity head of the Mathematics department at the University?”

“The very same.”

“Interesting. Do you have any idea why he wanted to invite us? I mean, I can’t see a lot of correlations between the three disciplines, or even any cross-interests, to be honest.”

“Agreed—though I did find several points of interest in your treatise on Anglo-Saxon bardic forms.”

Michael smiled, flattered and more than a little surprised. “You read my work?”

“The occasional piece that overlaps my own interest,” replied Galen. “As a Vice-Rector, it is my responsibility to remain cognizant of all of the academic publications of the faculty, but a few of your writings have not been without a certain grace.”

“Ah, thank you,” said Michael. “Do you publish?”

Galen stirred his drink and glanced up at the stage, then back at his companion. “No, not so much anymore. When I quit performing, I largely quit writing as well, so most of my efforts have been constrained primarily to my lectures.”

“You used to perform?”

Galen’s eyes widened, as if he could not believe what he was being asked. Then, they darkened again, lids dropping heavily as he replied. “I used to perform. Not for several years, though.”

“I’m sorry I missed it,” said Michael encouragingly, having also missed the changes in his companion’s countenance. “Perhaps if you …”

He paused as the lights around them flickered once, then again. The performance was about to begin.

The lights in the small club dimmed, leaving only the warm, wan glow from the scattered cupped candles on several of the tables. Then, from the darkness, a voice, smooth and supple, began to speak.

“All that there is in the world, is contact, and interpretation.”

As the unseen speaker said this, a single spotlight was projected on the closed curtains upon the stage, where two hands appeared through the divide, palms held towards the audience. Michael glanced back at the source of the light and was astonished to see that there was none. The voice continued.

“Contact is the instant when we are made real to ourselves, and the world to us. Contact solidifies, confirms, reassures. Contact gives us the base upon which we build our understanding of the universe around us.”

The hands folded about themselves, as if in the act of washing, then positioned themselves for that familiar child’s illusion wherein an index finger positioned over both thumbs, one folded, one open, appears to separate a single thumb from one hand. Several patrons in the club, many jaded intellectuals, emitted loud groans.

“All interaction, all true understanding, takes place at the moment of contact—without contact, nothing can be proven. Thus, contact is essential.”

At that instant, the hands performed the thumb trick—with both thumbs—and then promptly tossed them into the stunned audience.

No one screamed or moved, but there were more than a few gasps, and several patrons crossed themselves. One of the thumbs, its stump rounded and bloodless, had landed on an unoccupied table at the front of the room; the other had bounced off of the same table and was leaning against the bottom step on the right side of the stage. The now thumbless hands rotated slowly, so as to allow a full, unobstructed view to all, who saw that there were no discreetly tucked digits, nor were the thumbs covered. They were simply gone from the hands.

A stout fellow at the table to the left of the one with the thumb stood and was about to voice what everyone in the room felt, which was that it was a childish and amateur trick for someone who advertised himself as an illusionist not merely a magician to start a performance by hurling some fake plastic thumbs at his patrons who paid good money to see him even though he had a lousy sign and no interesting props or animals and didn’t even have an assistant with nice breasts like every other self-respecting performer in his field.

At least, that was what he meant to say. What he actually said was unclear, but came out sounding a little bit like “Urk”, or “Gurk”, and no one else said anything at all, because they had all seen the same thing he did, at exactly the same instant; and to be fair, “Gurk” was not entirely shameful as responses go—not when the sky turns green or water turns into carrots or a dog turns into a cranberry quiche or thumbs believed to be plastic suddenly begin to squirm with life.

As the room watched, mute, the thumb on the table wriggled about for a moment, then turned over and began creeping, a thick inchworm with a shiny carapace, to the edge of the table and over. A few people in the room gave a small start when it hit the sawdust covered floor, then began to carve a trail, arrow-straight, towards its companion near the steps, now itself writhing about.