Fata Morgana (3 page)

“I’m ready. What is it?”

“Just the sort of case I would like to be on myself, were I to go on cases these days, which I don’t, because of my unfortunate affliction. You know, don’t you, that I’ve been seeing double for some time now?”

“I didn’t know,” said Picard, sipping the cognac.

“Heredity. Double vision runs in the family.”

“What is my assignment?”

“It’s a lovely assignment, lovely. I have the address written down here... somewhere...” Bissonette searched in his pocket, withdrawing a slip of paper. “Eighty-seven, rue de Richelieu. There’s been a fellow entertaining there in luxurious style. No visible means of support. Lazare. Ric Lazare. Came to Paris from Vienna two months ago.”

“The Prefect wishes me to look into these apartments?”

“No hurry, Picard. When you’re able. It’s not a pressing case.”

“I perceive that.” Picard drained his cognac slowly, staring at the table. “Is there anything else I should know about this man Lazare?”

“There’s a hundred-franc admittance to his salon.”

“Is he running a show?”

“I’ve gathered there’s a magical game.” Bissonette’s pipe erupted, sending a burning ember onto his jacket. “A fortune-telling machine...” He casually brushed the ember onto Picard’s rug, where it smoldered and burned out. “The hundred-franc entrance fee is supposed to put the guests in the proper mood. And then your fortune is unveiled.”

Bissonette smiled, burped, and poured himself another drink.

The
Prefect opened the dossier. “Lazare claims to be Austrian. His source of income is supposedly from estates he owns in Leopoldstadt. We checked with the Bank of Austria here and found Lazare’s account is healthy— apparently he’s sold portions of his estate to some of our prominent citizens—Madame Westra, Marshal Legere, Prince Thibeault. Frankly, I don’t see why they should want to make such purchases.”

“What about this fortune-telling business of his?”

“These days every salon must have a fortune-teller. Ric Lazare has hired a Hindoo who mumbles over a crystal ball. Madame Leyette employs a woman who reads feet. I attach no importance to any of it.” The Prefect swiveled his chair toward the window. “We live in strange times, Picard, everybody playing at turning tables and such. The other day at the Place de l’Observatoire I myself witnessed a dog translating passages from the Greeks.” The Prefect swiveled back, opened a newspaper on his desk. “There’s something in here...” He turned the pages. “... something about Lazare.”

His eyes went down the page, he stopped to read for a moment, then looked up with a smile. “Last night Countess Essena appeared at a ball as Salome, wearing an ‘unmentionable costume.’ What do you suppose that might have been?”

“A few feathers, perhaps?”

“A troubling thought.” The Prefect continued down the page. “Yes, here we are...” He handed the paper to Picard, pointing to an account of the Lazare salon.

Picard went through it quickly. The guests were all of the highest station—Due de Gramont-Caderousse, the Russian millionaire M. de Kougueleff, Prince Paskevitch, the Countess Duplessia.
But the angel of Paris,
wrote the infatuated reporter,
is Madame Lazare, who appeared wearing a net of gold in her hair, an off-the-shoulder gown of cream-colored satin by Laferriere, with arrangements of silver cord decorating the lower part; accessories—bands of velvet, worn on the wrist, ornamented with flowers.

“Of course you’ll act with the usual discretion,” said the Prefect. “I don’t want Lazare to know we’re watching him. Have you a suitable cover?”

“Fanjoy.”

“Fanjoy... Fanjoy... something to do with—diamonds? “

“Pearls,” said Picard. “I shall go as Monsieur Fanjoy, the pearl buyer.”

* * *

The hallway of the Prefecture seemed endless, filled with strange turnings. He went slowly, leaning on his walking stick, but a touch on his sleeve nearly toppled him; he fought to regain equilibrium, to confront a familiar figure—Veniot, of the old guard, Veniot smiling, his face like a walnut, wrinkled, hard.

“You’re back to work,” said Veniot. “I knew we’d see you soon.”

“It’s a trifling case,” said Picard. “I’m washed up.”

Veniot’s expression became at once more natural, as he gave up the little show Picard had been observing all day at the Prefecture, put on by those friends of his who tried to conceal the fact they knew he’d been dumped in the turnip bin. “It’s unfortunate,” said Veniot. “Very unfortunate.”

The dizziness hit Picard again, the familiar corridor tilted on its side, and he felt the blood draining from his face. Veniot saw, lent his arm. “Keep moving... you mustn’t fall here... the Prefect’s assistant passes at five for his supper...”

Picard pretended a resolute step, marched blindly forward, Veniot close beside him, down the corridor, into the courtyard. They stood together, Picard breathing deeply, slowly, Veniot watching him closely, his hand still beneath Picard’s elbow.

“Maybe you should rest longer—at a resort.”

Picard brought himself up straight, laid the handle of his cane lightly on Veniot’s granite jaw. “And drink Vichy water.”

“While undressing the maids.”

“I’m better now. The air is what I need. A few more days...”

“We’ll have lunch tomorrow. Something fiery, to thin the blood.”

Picard nodded, moved off slowly, conscious of Veniot’s eyes upon him. He struggled to keep a straight line, made numerous resolutions about his weight, his abstention from lemon tarts. Turning toward the river, he tried to step smartly, establish a military cadence, the rhythm of his best days. There were many strengths to draw upon. The thousand devils rely on a man forgetting his own power, and force him to his knees, forgetful. Walk, Picard, walk and recall the parade ground, the gleam of sabers.

The Church of St. Germain-l’Auxerrois pealed the four o’clock bells. He came to the Seine, crossed the bridge. The water sparkled green, a stream of liquid jade. A barge passed beneath him and then was slowly gone on the water, on and away, into the twilight of the fall afternoon. He walked to St. Michel, stopped at the doorway of the notorious Grotto of Lilacs café. “Closed again, is it?”

“Once again last night,” said the gendarme guarding it, “the cancan dancers exceeded the bounds of decency.”
 

“To have been there.”

“I myself was present,” said the gendarme, his eyes red and swollen. “There was a conspicuous absence of underwear on the ladies...”

“And will it open again tonight?”

“I’ve been told arrangements are being made about underwear.”

Picard walked on, through the winding streets of the Quarter. On the rue de Savoie he was drawn to a window he’d passed many times before. Now he was attracted by the paper stars and moons and by the legend:

Julsca
—
Fortune

He stepped closer, until his face was reflected in the glass, his top hat crowned by the crescent moon. Tonight I’m going to be Monsieur Fanjoy, virtuoso in pearls. Perhaps Monsieur Fanjoy is interested in his spiritual fortune as well. Indeed, that is why he’s making a visit to the salon of Ric Lazare, because he’s fascinated by fortune-tellers.

A barefooted little girl greeted him at the doorway, took his hand, and led him without a word into a heavily curtained parlor, where no sun came and a middle-aged gypsy woman sat reading a newspaper.

“Good afternoon,” said Picard.

She laid down the newspaper and turned sleepy eyes upon him, then gestured toward a small table, where two chairs faced each other. She was heavy and coarse-featured and joined him at the table with a deck of dog-eared cards.

“Shuffle,” she said, handing him the deck.

He fancied himself a shark with cards, had been in great games on the desert, beneath canvas, for big sums of money, for homes that had been left behind, for family heirlooms, for anything a soldier might bring forward as a stake. For one hour on the sand, with an attack expected at any moment, he’d owned a major’s villa, six carriages, and a dozen horses, and lost them again on the turn of a card as bullets disintegrated the gambling tent. He shuffled now, mixing the dog-eared cards with lightning speed, but the gypsy woman was not impressed. She had lowered her head and her eyes were closed. He laid the shuffled deck before her, where it remained a moment, until she reached for it, put it to her forehead.

“What is your name?”
 

He hesitated.

“You have a name,” she said, rubbing her forehead with the edge of the deck.
 

“Paul Fanjoy.”

She laid four cards out, face up. “This is your first name,” she said, then laid out another row beneath it, again of four, then a third row of six. “This is your last name: F-A-N-J-O-Y. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

She studied the cards for a moment, then pointed to the Three of Coins. “You are a craftsman, skilled in your trade.”

“That is so,” said Picard, smiling.

“And you’re troubled by feelings of mediocrity.”

The smile left his face as quickly as if she had slapped it. She passed her fingers to the next card in the first row. On the bottom of the card was written:

The Fool

“This is your present situation. You are playing the part of the Fool.”

The card showed a jester in belled cap and frivolous costume. Thinking of Monsieur Fanjoy, he felt a distinct discomfort.

“With the Fool is the Queen of Batons. You are a man of common sense, beneath your foolish costume.”

Picard looked into the eyes of the woman. She seemed half asleep, but her words struck with amazing clarity. And yet of course it is the atmosphere of the room, and my own mind, which makes the mood and the associations. It’s good I came here. I’ll be better prepared for Ric Lazare. He won’t catch me off guard. I’m already-initiated into the mystery of myself!

“Here is your recent past—the Two of Batons. It’s upside down, indicating sadness. I see you forcibly restrained by someone, an enemy perhaps?”

“Perhaps,” said Picard, feeling the still-red scar on his temple, where Baron Mantes had so forcibly landed the head of a cane. Restrained, indeed.

“Your influence on others,” said the woman, pointing to the Valet of Coins. “You’re a man of deep concentration, and this is felt by all who come within your field. Nonetheless, you have a tendency to overlook obvious facts.”

“Such as?”

“That I cannot say, but beside the Valet is the Cavalier of Coins, indicating limitation because of narrow views. Does that suggest something to you?”

“I’m an enlightened man,” said Picard with a smile. “Or at least I think I am.”

“You will be going into another country soon—it’s here, in the Four of Swords.”

“It’s usual to see some sort of trip, isn’t it?”

The woman looked at him coldly, then pointed to the next card. “Beware of the Hanged Man. You must undergo a change of attitude, a serious transformation, if you are to win.”

“Win?”

“You’re going to encounter black magic, here, beneath the Hanged Man.” She pointed to a card that showed a handsome young man, standing before a table of strange objects, and holding a wand in his hand. “This is the card of the Magician, in the sphere of broad influences. You are going to be deeply moved by magic.”

Picard saw the gypsy child standing in the doorway, winked at her. She smiled and ducked away.

“Here is the Sun, your card of accomplishment, which indicates that you may triumph, after some delay.” She pointed to the adjacent card. “You are a lawyer?”

The card was Judgment. “No,” said Picard, “but...” He smiled. “...I have something to do with the law.”

“You must be careful, then, for it is linked to this card, the Five of Cups, indicating imperfection, a slight flaw.”

“How so?”

“I believe it is connected to the Valet of Coins—your tendency to overlook obvious facts.”

“Well, how is it all going to turn out?”

“There are the Lovers—here is their card. It is with them you will ultimately be concerned. Are you in love?”

“Hardly.”

“The Lovers are sometimes called the Brothers—and one of them always kills the other.” She moved her finger to the last card. “This is the High Priestess. It’s the card of enlightenment. Perhaps...” The woman smiled for the first time, and her sleepy eyes suddenly sparkled. “...perhaps you will become an enlightened man, as you say.”

“So I can look for a favorable ending?” smiled Picard, laying a large franc note on the table.

“Beware of the Magician, my friend. His card is shining strongly against you.”

“I have a few cards of my own,” said Picard, and with a bow he left the room, and the building, plunging back into the crisp autumn air. The wind whirled the leaves on the street in a bright dancing ring. The magic ring. Grandmother called it that... when leaves are caught in the wind...