Mirror (29 page)

Not this kid, however. As far as Martin could tell, Boofuls had no interest in anybody but himself. Martin could already begin to understand why he had won such rapid and rapturous success – what star quality it was that Jacob Levitz had seen in him that first day he had auditioned for
Whistlin’ Dixie
. A good movie star is interested in nothing but what other people think about him; and a brilliant movie star is
obsessed
by what other people think about him.

Martin said, ‘We’re going to have to think about what we’re going to do with you. You can’t suddenly appear out of nowhere at all and expect to continue living your life as if nothing had happened. If you’re going to stay this side of the mirror, you’re going to need education, social security … And how are you going to get those? Your birth certificate shows you were born in 1931 and yet you’re only eight years old.’

Boofuls stared at him. ‘All I want is new clothes. Then we can start making the picture.’

‘What’s so important about this damned picture?’

But Boofuls wouldn’t answer. He sat on Martin’s chair swinging his legs and doodling: clouds as high as clifftops and strange seductive smiles.

Just then, there was a knock at Martin’s apartment door. Boofuls glanced up, and there was a look of cold curiosity in his eyes, but Martin said, ‘Stay here, okay? I don’t want anybody finding out that you’re here yet.’ He went to answer the door. It was Mr Capelli, in a blue Jack Nicklaus T-shirt and blue-and-white-checkered seersucker golfing pants. He had dark damson-colored circles under his eyes, and he was a little out of breath from climbing the stairs.

‘Hey, Martin, I didn’t wake you?’

‘No, I was up already. Come on in.’

‘I called the police about ten minutes ago,’ said Mr Capelli. ‘They told me no news.’

Martin closed the door. ‘How’s Mrs Capelli taking it?’

‘Terrible, how do you think? I had to give her Tranxene last night.’

‘You want some coffee?’ Martin asked him.

‘Sure, why not?’

‘Have you eaten anything? I’ve got a couple of raspberry Danishes in the freezer.’

Mr Capelli gave him an odd look. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Wrong?’ said Martin in feigned surprise. ‘What do you mean wrong?’

‘You’re fussing,’ said Mr Capelli. ‘I don’t know, you’re all
flibberty
.’

Martin shrugged. ‘I’m a little tired, that’s all. I didn’t sleep too good, worrying about Emilio.’

He ushered Mr Capelli into the kitchen, glancing quickly toward the sitting room to make sure that Boofuls hadn’t decided to make an appearance. Mr Capelli said, ‘I called Father Lucas, too. He’s coming around at nine o’clock.’

Martin spooned Folger’s Mountain Blend into the percolator. ‘Oh, yes, Father Lucas. I’d forgotten about him.’

‘I don’t know how serious he took it,’ Mr Capelli replied, dragging out one of Martin’s kitchen stools and perching his wide backside on it. ‘When I told him we were having trouble with a mirror, you know, the way it nearly sucked in Emilio and all that stuff – well, he sounded a little distracted. You know what I mean by distracted? Like he was thinking about his breakfast instead, or maybe what he was going to preach in church next week.’

‘Sure,’ said Martin. ‘I know what you mean by distracted.’

‘He’s a good priest, though,’ Mr Capelli remarked. ‘Kind of old-fashioned, you know, traditional. But I like him. He baptized Emilio; he buried my daughter.’

The water in the percolator began to jump and pop. Martin took down two ceramic mugs and set them on the table. As he did so, Boofuls appeared in the open doorway, behind Mr Capelli’s back. The look on his face was unreadable. Martin couldn’t tell if he was angry or bored or amused. His eyes flared in tiny pinpricks of blue light, as if they could cut through steel.

‘Some of these young priests, they seem to take a pleasure in challenging the old ways. You know what I mean by challenging? They say, why shouldn’t a priest marry? Why shouldn’t people use a contraceptive? What’s so special about the Latin mass?’

Mr Capelli looked up at Martin’s face.

‘Hey,’ he said. ‘What’s wrong? You look like you just remembered it was your mother’s birthday yesterday.’

Slowly, frowning, Mr Capelli twisted around on his stool so that he was facing the door. He saw Boofuls standing there, silent and small, with that eerie expression on his face that wasn’t smiling and wasn’t scowling and wasn’t anything at all but
triumph
, sheer, cold
triumph
.

Mr Capelli was silent for one long second, and then he shouted out ‘
Yah!
’ in terror, and jumped off from his stool, which toppled noisily over backward onto the kitchen floor. He stood with his back pressed against the cupboards, both hands raised, too shocked and frightened even to cross himself. When he managed to shout out a few desperate guttural words, his Italian accent was so dense that Martin could scarcely understand what he was saying.

‘Whosa dis? Whosa dis boy? Donta tellmi. Martin donta tellmi!’

Boofuls remained silent: still triumphant, but placid. Mr Capelli edged away from him, right around to the far side of the kitchen, and stood staring at him in horror.

Martin said, ‘It’s Boofuls. He came out of the mirror.’

‘He came out of the mirror, he tells me. Holy God and All His Angels. Ho Lee
God!
’

Martin laid a hand on Mr Capelli’s shoulder. ‘I was hoping he wouldn’t come in. I didn’t want to frighten you.’

‘He didn’t want to frighten me!’ Mr Capelli repeated.

Boofuls came gliding forward into the kitchen. He held out his hand. ‘You mustn’t be frightened,’ he told Mr Capelli. ‘There’s nothing to be frightened of at all.’

Mr Capelli crossed himself five times in succession, his hand flurrying wildly. ‘You’re a dead person! You stay back!’

Boofuls smiled gently. ‘Do I
look
dead?’ he asked.

Mr Capelli was shaking. ‘Don’t you touch me, you stay back. You’re a dead person.’

But Martin came forward and laid his hand on Mr Capelli’s shoulder and said, ‘Mr Capelli, he
should
be dead, by rights. But he isn’t. You can see that he isn’t. And I don’t think that he’s going to do anything to hurt us.’

‘Nothing to hurt us, eh? So where’s Emilio? Emilio went into the mirror, and this boy came out, is that it?’

Martin was about to explain that, yes, there was a chance that Emilio might have gone into the mirror, but that Boofuls was certainly going to help to get him back. But Boofuls forestalled him by saying in that piping voice of his, ‘You’re quite right, sir. Emilio is in the mirror. He went to play with some of my chums.’

This was more than Mr Capelli could take. His face turned ashy blue, and Martin had to drag over a chair for him so that he could sit down. He sat with his hand pressed over his heart, breathing deeply. Boofuls stood beside him, still smiling.

‘Emilio’s quite
safe
, sir,’ he told Mr Capelli.

‘Safe?’ said Mr Capelli harshly, in between breaths. ‘Who cares about safe? I want him back.’

‘I’ll get him back,’ said Boofuls.

‘Well, then, go on then, what are you waiting for?’ Mr Capelli demanded.

But Boofuls shook his pretty little head. ‘All in good time, sir. All in good time.’

Mr Capelli reared up; and Martin had to grab hold of his shoulders to make him sit down again. ‘What’s this, “all in good time”? You go in there, and you go get my grandson for me, and if he isn’t here in five minutes,
five
minutes, I’m going to give you the hiding of your life whether you’re a dead person or not, do you get me?’

Boofuls stared at Mr Capelli in surprise, and then lowered his head and covered his face with his hands.

Mr Capelli said with less confidence, ‘What’re you doing? You go get Emilio, do you hear me?’

Boofuls’ face remained concealed. Martin stepped toward him, but he sidestepped away, without lowering his hands. For a moment, Martin had the disturbing feeling that if he tried to prize Boofuls’ hands away, he would uncover not the pretty pale features of Boofuls, but the gilded sardonic face of Pan. He hesitated, glanced back at Mr Capelli, then shrugged. He didn’t know what he ought to do.

It was then that Mr Capelli saw the tears that were squeezing out between Boofuls’ fingers. The boy’s shoulders were trembling; and it was clear that he was deeply upset. Mr Capelli frowned and reached one hand forward.

‘Listen, young man …’

‘It’s Boofuls, Mr Capelli,’ said Martin. ‘It really is. And that’s what he likes to be called.’

Mr Capelli cleared his throat. ‘Well, here, listen, Boofuls. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell like that. But the truth is, I’m real worried about Emilio. I don’t like that mirror at all, and I don’t want him wandering around in there, it’s not healthy, do you know what I mean by healthy?’

Boofuls’ hands remained closed over his face. Mr Capelli looked anxious now and shifted his chair a little closer. Boofuls, in response, stepped back another pace.

‘Listen to me,’ said Mr Capelli, ‘I’m a grandfather. I love children. I don’t know where you’ve come from, I don’t know how you can be dead but still walking around and talking, but I’m willing to accept that maybe I don’t understand absolutely everything in this universe. I don’t understand accumulated earnings tax, does that make me a bad person? But I love Emilio. Emilio is all I’ve got. And even if he’s safe wherever he is, I need to have him back.’

Boofuls at last lowered his hands. His face was stained with tears. He looked utterly bereft and miserable.

‘Oh, Mr Capelli,’ he said, ‘I’m so unhappy.’

‘Hey, come on,’ said Mr Capelli, and held out his arms. Boofuls hesitated for a moment and then came up to Mr Capelli and hugged him as if he were his own grandfather.

‘Do you know something, you’re right,’ said Mr Capelli, beginning to smile. ‘You don’t look dead at all. You sure don’t
feel
dead. I don’t know how it happened, but you’re a live boy!’

Martin watched all this with caution. There was no doubt at all that Boofuls was a most appealing child, yet he couldn’t rid himself of that feeling he always had when he watched a Boofuls musical: that here was a grown-up man, a cunning grown-up man, masquerading as a small boy. Boofuls was just a little too clever; just a little too calculating. Seeing him win over Mr Capelli was almost like watching a skillfully written scene in a movie, specifically aimed at tugging at the audience’s heartstrings.

‘Oh, aunt,’ Freddie Bartholomew had wept in
David Copperfield
, ‘I’m so unhappy.’ And Boofuls had used the same line in exactly the same way. A last desperate tug at a grandfather’s heartstrings.
David Copperfield
had been released in 1935, so Boofuls could easily have seen it.

‘Mr Capelli –’ warned Martin.

But Mr Capelli said, ‘Shush now, Martin. I’m a grandfather. Besides, what have we got here? A famous movie star.’

‘Mr Capelli –’ Martin repeated, but there was little that he could do. Boofuls shot him a quick hostile look that Mr Capelli didn’t see: a look which meant
you stay out of this, or you’ll never see Emilio again
.

‘Emilio’s safe, sir,’ he told Mr Capelli, wiping his tears with the back of his hand. ‘There are plenty of people who are going to take care of him. But the moment Emilio comes back, then I have to go back into the mirror, I
have
to.’

‘But inside the mirror,’ said Mr Capelli, ‘that’s where you really live, right? You don‘t truly
belong
in this world anymore.’

Boofuls swallowed miserably, and tears began to fill up his eyes again. ‘I don’t
live
there, sir, nobody
lives
there. It’s a kind of a place where you go if you can’t get to heaven.’

‘Purgatory,’ put in Martin.

‘Well, some people call it that,’ said Boofuls. ‘But you
can
get to heaven if you fulfill your life’s work, the work that God intended you to do.’

‘And making
Sweet Chariot
, that was the work that God intended
you
to do?’

Boofuls nodded. ‘If I can make that picture, then I can rest.’

‘What’s this
Sweet Chariot
?’ Mr Capelli wanted to know.

Martin said nothing for a moment, watching Boofuls. Then he poured out coffee, and passed a cup to Mr Capelli, and explained, ‘It was Boofuls’ last picture, wasn’t it, Boofuls, before his grandmother murdered him. Or
thought
she’d murdered him. It was about a street urchin who becomes an angel, and who flies around doing good deeds in order to meet with the Almighty’s approval. A musical; something of a tear-jerker, believe me.’

Boofuls clung to Mr Capelli’s neck. ‘I never finished the picture, I never managed to finish it, and if I don’t finish the picture I’m going to have to stay in the mirror forever and ever, and never get out.’

Martin sipped his coffee. ‘You see what he’s asking, Mr Capelli? He’s asking if you’ll allow Emilio to stay in the mirror so that he can make his picture and fulfill his life’s destiny and go to meet his Maker.’

Boofuls sobbed, ‘I know it’s an awful lot to ask you, sir. I know it is. And I know how much Emilio means to you. But please, I beg of you. Otherwise I can never sleep for all eternity. And I’m so tired, sir. So terribly,
terribly
, tired.’