The Masters of Atlantis (31 page)

“Junior had scared the fool out of everybody with a lot of wild tales about us. People were fainting. Women passing out and children crying. Well, Big Boy had to eat those words. You can bet I set the record straight, and pretty fast too. On the day I left Austin the Christmas shoppers on the streets were talking of nothing else but Lamar Jimmerson and how he had been misunderstood.”

“And what did Junior say?”

“Junior didn't know what to say, Mr. Moaler.”

Mr. Moaler smiled at the picture in his head of his son, the big fellow, checked and sputtering. “And what repercussions may we expect?”

“None. We're clear. All is well.”

The two wheelchairs in such narrow quarters made for a traffic problem. Popper maneuvered his chair about in a clumsy manner. “Watch out for Sweet Boy's tail,” said Mr. Moaler. “And his paws. Watch out for my curios. Watch out for the tree.” This was the Christmas tree. All the lights on it were blue.

Hen and Babcock were not so pleased to see Popper, nor was Popper pleased to find that Hen had taken his bed. He had been informed of Hen's descent on La Coma but not fully informed, it being his understanding that the visit was to be a flying one of only two or three days. He was greatly surprised to find Hen still here, and, to cap it off, wallowing in his, Popper's, sheets.

“He hasn't left? Sydney Hen is here now? You're not serious!”

“He's back there having his lunch.”

Popper rolled himself down the corridor to the end bedroom. Hen was in bed eating greedily from a tray, not fruits of the season but meat loaf and fried potatoes. Adele was seated beside him with pad and pencil. She was there to jot down the words that came to him in his poetic flights, these to be picked over later for gems, such as were suitable for inclusion in the new book he was putting together on the sly. Adele also had a moist towel at the ready for dabbing the tomato sauce off his fingers and chin.

Popper looked at Hen, taking him in. The two men had never met and now they took each other in, shadows become at last sagging flesh. Hen was wearing his Caesar wig with the curly bangs, and Popper his Texas promoter wig, which was a swelling silver pompadour.

“Hen? I'm Austin Popper.”

“Popper. Well, well. Lo the bat with leathern wing.”

“What do you think you're doing here?”

“Austin ruddy Popper. Augustine writ small. Yes, I daresay you are Popper. You look like Popper. That narrow eye.”

“You look like some devilish old diseased monkey.”

“Charming. But we shall just have to bear with one another's infirmities, Popper. I with yours and you with mine.”

“You've made yourself at home, I see.”

“Oh yes, I've become quite fond of my room here. My little nest. A poky little room but oh so comfy. Like a snug cabin on a ship or a luxury train. Morehead is very kind. I grow tired of travel.”

Adele said, “Should I turn to a fresh page and get this down, Sir Sydney?”

“No, my dear, I think not.”

“If I may dab. A red drop there.”

“Too kind.”

“About to fall.”

“Most considerate.”

Popper said, “It's time for you to move on, Hen. Back to your hole in Mexico. You're not welcome here. There's no place for you here in our program. You're in my bed. This is not your room. This is my room and I mean to have it back.”

“Oh pooh. Do you hear that, my sweet? He makes threats from a wheelchair.”

“What have you done with my things?”

“I had your man take them away.”

Popper wheeled about and went back to Mr. Jimmerson and Mr. Moaler to present his case. Mr. Jimmerson, who was thinking of turtle riding in the open sea, did not follow the complaint in all its detail but he did say that this squabbling on Christmas Eve was unseemly and that surely some sleeping arrangement satisfactory to all parties could be worked out.

“Lamar is right,” said Mr. Moaler. “There's plenty of room for everyone. Plenty of trailers and plenty of warm beds for everyone to lie down in. And if not, we'll
make
room. Let's not spoil our Christmas with a quarrel.”

That night they saw Christmas come in at the dominoes table. Popper sat in on the game. He and Hen observed a wary truce. At midnight Mr. Moaler rang the thumb bell on his chair and they broke off play. There were Christmas greetings all around, followed by coffee and banana pudding and some friendly chat.

Mr. Moaler, taking care to get a bit of banana and a bit of yellow pudding and a bit of vanilla wafer in each spoonful, said it was interesting that cattle were mentioned upwards of 140 times in the Bible, but that the domestic hen, a most useful fowl, was mentioned only twice, and the domestic cat not at all. Mr. Jimmerson said that Sydney's recent mention of the turtle had made him think of something he had seen many years ago, and that had been much on his mind lately. It was an old newsreel showing a young man astride a swimming sea turtle. A giant turtle, with his flippers, such odd limbs, flapping smoothly away in the water. The young rider was laughing and waving at the camera. He would be quite old now and Mr. Jimmerson wondered if he retained his good humor and his gleaming teeth and his love for water sports. He wondered where the fellow might be today. Probably gumming his food well inland, said Hen. He went on to say that the domestic dog came in for a good deal of unfavorable mention in the Bible. Popper said that so far tonight no mention at all had been made of the deer, and yet his antlers, shed and regenerated once a year, were thought to be the fastest-growing of all animal substances.

They stayed up for the late weather report—“Winds light and variable”—and exchanged another round of good wishes. “Let's all look our best tomorrow,” said Mr. Moaler, with a curious smile. “That is, later today. I have a little something in mind. An interesting announcement to make. Let's all look our best.”

With that they turned in. Popper slept on the plastic couch, in the blue glow of the Christmas tree.

Adele, who had away of getting wind of things, came on the intercom early in the morning to say that everyone was to wear his good clothes to the dinner today. She repeated the message at intervals, sometimes adding, “Let's keep to schedule.”

Lázaro was up early too, basting the turkeys, as was Maceo, who had charge of cakes and pies. Teresita prepared the gumbo. This dish, a soup dense with shrimps and hairy and mucilaginous pods of okra, was a Moaler tradition on Christmas morning. Whit loaded his camera, in a darkened bathroom this time.

Popper had Esteban take him out for a drive in the van. He wanted to get away from Adele's voice and all the bustle. On sharp turns the right front tire rubbed against the crumpled fender. They cruised the residential streets and watched with delight the little children wobbling along on their new Christmas bikes and skates. They went to Brownsville and looked over Mr. Moaler's downtown parking lots. No revenue today, no cars, but still the recorded message played endlessly over a loudspeaker, warning those who would park there without paying that their cars would most certainly be towed away, at any hour of the day or night, Sundays and holidays not excepted, at great expense to the trespassers.

Popper said, “This is the greatest business in the world, Esteban. You do absolutely nothing but collect money.”

But he wondered if these two weed lots could continue to support Mr. Moaler's expanded household. Would he be announcing sharp cutbacks at the dinner today? Or what? Something to do with the Society? Would he proclaim himself Master?

Esteban said, “Why don't we go back to Corpus, boss?”

“No, I'm just not up to it. I'm tired of all that chasing around. I'm tired of jabbering. I haven't had a drink in five years. Your brewers, your vintners, your distillers, they don't even exist for me anymore, and I try to put a good face on things, but the fact is, Esteban, that I'm still not getting enough air to my brain. The truth is that my powers are failing and I can't cut it any longer. You saw how they worked me over up there at Austin.”

Babcock had no Christmas morning duties to perform either. He poked at the pile of Gnomon goods with a stick, looking for his stenotype machine, as a survivor pokes the rubble after a tornado in search of a favorite shoe. The light winds had disturbed the covering sheets again, leaving the mound exposed. The rain and sun had been at work. Alternately soaked and baked, the mass was dissolving, blending and settling into a lumpy conglomerate, something like fruitcake. Around the base there lay exfoliating copies of Hoosier Wizard.

Babcock's eye ranged over the big trailer. This was the new Temple, or rather Great Hall. It seemed an unlikely place for one to await apocalyptic events, but then what would be a likely place? He noted that the Hall was growing on him. The stark lines had become pleasing, the horizontal values, the very human scale. It was a Temple that could be hauled away in the night by anyone with a two-inch ball on his car bumper, but then Temples of marble and granite did not last either, as he had reason to know.

“Hey, what do you think Mr. Moaler's announcement will be?”

This from Ed, who had slipped up behind him. Ed was apprehensive.

“I don't know.”

“Lázaro thinks he may kick some of us out. Or all of us.”

“I don't know anything about it, Ed. We'll just have to wait and see.”

Babcock thought he did know what the announcement would be but it was not the kind of thing you could discuss with Ed, who, he knew now, was not Nandor. He had seen it coming. He had felt it coming, this climacteric, this revelation that Mr. Moaler was himself the Lame One, and that Mr. Jimmerson and Sir Sydney were Nandor and Principato, or Principato and Nandor. It was all falling together. He could see now the necessity for the flight south. It was nothing less than the coming together of the Three Secret Teachers.

Adele served Hen his cup of gumbo and his cup of cocoa in bed, and advised him to wear his green silk gown for the reenactment of the Masters' handshake. The gown was of oriental design, with ample sleeves that covered the hands when joined in front, Chinese fashion. There were white four-pointed stars scattered about over it, representing Ptolemy's fifteen fixed stars of the first magnitude.

Adele said, “The green makes a stronger statement and will help to offset Mr. Jimmerson's thicker presence. Your super-tall green Poma will help to diminish him somewhat too.”

Hen nodded. He was brooding over Mr. Moaler's interesting announcement. When would it come? Before dinner? After? During? With ding of spoon on glass? What could it be? Interesting to whom? Something to do with the Lag? A recent dream? A vision? A program of compulsory physical exercise? A day trip on a motor launch?

He waved off the gown chatter. “Yes, but what news, Adele? What do you hear about this announcement or proclamation?”

“Ed told Whit that Mr. Moaler thinks there are too many people living here and that he's going to turn some of us out.”

“On Christmas day?”

“Ed didn't know when. He got it from Lázaro.”

“And who was Lázaro's source?”

“I have Whit working on that now.”

“Babcock, you think?”

“I wouldn't think so. He never knows anything.”

“Popper?”

“That would be my guess. Through Esteban to Lázaro to Ed.”

“Or Popper directly to Lázaro to Ed.”

“Or through Maceo to Lázaro.”

“They confide?”

“They confer. Over their pots.”

“Nothing about a boat ride?”

“No, sir.”

“But who is to go? Who is to be given the black spot?”

“Whit is working on that now. Shall I lay out the green silk?”

“Yes, my dear, and then you can draw my tub.”

ADELE TOO chose to make a green statement, with her sea-green terry-cloth coveralls, cinched in at the middle with a pirate's black belt, for the occasion of this extraordinary conclave at Rancho Moaler. Mr. Jimmerson called her Juanita. Never good at sorting women out, he had thought Adele and Teresita to be the same person, though they were nothing at all alike, and he addressed them both as Juanita. Now he saw them together for the first time and was confused. Teresita wore different hues of black.

All were crowded into the big trailer or Great Moaler Hall, and all were spruced up, faces scrubbed, Ed with clean boots, Babcock in borrowed necktie, Maceo in his old tan suit and long pointed tan shoes, Esteban in his frilly white guayabera shirt, Hen resplendent under a green spire, a Merlin hat. Mr. Jimmerson's original Poma looked squat and crude in comparison. Still the eye was drawn to it.

Again the two Masters clasped hands across the burning bowl, before rapt faces. Popper did not lead the applause but he did join in. Whit took shots from different angles. He said, “Hold it, please. That flame is so faint and I want to make sure I get it in.” He wanted to catch a blue wisp, seemingly unsupported, on his color film.

Sir Sydney was on edge, unnaturally animated, talking too much and laughing too readily under the tension of waiting for Mr. Moaler's announcement. He said, “Do you know, Lamar, there really is something to this stuff. There were times when I thought I might be deluded. There were moments when I wondered if my condition might not be a pathological one, but now I'm convinced that old Papa Pletho was really on to something.”

Mr. Jimmerson said, “It's too bad that Fanny and Jerome can't be here to share in this.”

“Yes.”

“I don't believe you have any children, do you, Sydney?”

“Oh no, it wouldn't have done for me. I spared the world the late-life spawn of an aesthete and a socialite. I didn't want to foist off some rotten, helpless, exotic kid on the world. It would never have done. Out of the question. It must all end with me. The Hen line must die with me in what I had hoped would be a Wagnerian finish.”