Glimmering (22 page)
Authors: Elizabeth Hand
The magazine still lay where Leonard had dropped it. Jack picked it up and stared at the glossy cover. Tiny holograms winked up at him, hinting at what lay within, and there was the musky scent of a popular new cologne. He flipped through the pages, past advertisements for Broadway musicals and vintage Bentleys, embalming parlors and dance recordings and IT portraiture. Amidst all the enticing ads articles appeared like nutritious bits of grain in a bowl of sugar and colored fluff.
He flipped past the Chutes & Ladders section, with its desperate efforts to salvage some gossipy dignity from the detritus of the city, glanced at a few cartoons. The lead story was about the international success of a Xian crossover artist named Trip Marlowe. Its headline flickered crimson and gold—
STORMING HELL!
—while a musical chip played the opening chords of Marlowe’s most recent hit, complete with gamelan and what sounded like a woman’s dying screams. With a shudder Jack let the magazine fall. He had half turned to go to his desk, when the front door began to shake.
“Hello?” someone called.
Jack stiffened. “Who is it?”
The door shook more violently. Jack had a flash of what lay behind it: wasted
fellahin
with sawed-off assault rifles; anorexic cranks with filed teeth and hybrid mastiffs. He glanced helplessly around the room. The door swung open.
fellahin
with sawed-off assault rifles; anorexic cranks with filed teeth and hybrid mastiffs. He glanced helplessly around the room. The door swung open.
“Mister John Finnegan?”
Outside, rainbow light swept across broken blacktop stitched with chickweed and rust-colored grass. It was a moment before he made out the figure standing in the doorway, blinking in the spectral glare.
“Mr. John Finnegan?” A Japanese accent. “You are Mr. John Finnegan? Editor in chief of
The Gaudy Book
?”
The Gaudy Book
?”
“Uh—yes?” Jack shaded his eyes and squinted.
It was a man. Perhaps twenty-five and a head shorter than Jack, with delicate features and beautiful soft black eyes. He wore a zoot suit of green-and-orange plaid, ornamented with amulet bottles. A stylish rubber satchel was slung over his shoulder. Jack glimpsed its insignia, kirin or gryphon, its claws grasping a pyramid. The young man’s black hair was glazed into a fabulous pompadour that added several inches to his height and seemed to provide the same kind of UV protection a hat would. Jack, embarrassed, found himself thinking of the curl of Hokusai’s
Under the Wave at Kanagawa
. His visitor seemed to have anticipated this, and bowing slightly gave him a smile that held within it everything of forgiveness and generosity and gentle amusement.
Under the Wave at Kanagawa
. His visitor seemed to have anticipated this, and bowing slightly gave him a smile that held within it everything of forgiveness and generosity and gentle amusement.
“Mr. Finnegan. Good morning. You received my message?”
Jack shook his head. “No,” he began, then sighed. “Don’t tell me. Leonard sent yo u—”
The man frowned.
“Leonard Thrope,” Jack went on. “He’s a friend. A very
bad
friend,” he added darkly. “Did he—”
bad
friend,” he added darkly. “Did he—”
“Yes. Mr. Thrope. He—”
“I
am
sorry. But we don’t—I mean I don’t, the magazine does not, we don’t have visitors. To the office. No interviews, submissions by mail only—”
am
sorry. But we don’t—I mean I don’t, the magazine does not, we don’t have visitors. To the office. No interviews, submissions by mail only—”
“Please.” The young man opened his hands. “I am not a—” Pause, as though steeling himself to pronounce the next word. “—a
writer
.”
writer
.”
The man took a step forward.
“May I?” he asked, tilting his head and peering up through that absurd pompadour.
Oh why the fuck not
, thought Jack. “Of course—please. Come in.”
, thought Jack. “Of course—please. Come in.”
His visitor stepped inside. Jack pulled the door shut after him. The room filled with the same musky fragrance that had risen from the pages of
The Gaudy Book
, and for a moment Jack had the ridiculous fear that he had been cornered by a perfume salesman. Then the man smiled, a disarmingly childlike smile that showed off two dimples in his cherubic face. With his dark eyes and smooth skin he reminded Jack of Leonard in his youth. Despite himself, he smiled wanly back.
The Gaudy Book
, and for a moment Jack had the ridiculous fear that he had been cornered by a perfume salesman. Then the man smiled, a disarmingly childlike smile that showed off two dimples in his cherubic face. With his dark eyes and smooth skin he reminded Jack of Leonard in his youth. Despite himself, he smiled wanly back.
“Larry Muso,” the man said. His brow furrowed. “You
are
John Finnegan?”
are
John Finnegan?”
“Yes—but Jack—please, everyone calls me Jack.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Um—so. Larry. What can I do for you?”
Larry Muso smiled again. “No—what can
I
do for
you
—”
I
do for
you
—”
He shrugged off the rubber satchel. Jack’s heart sank.
Oh God. He
is
a salesman
. He watched as Larry Muso opened the bag and pulled out a small parcel.
Oh God. He
is
a salesman
. He watched as Larry Muso opened the bag and pulled out a small parcel.
“For you,” his guest said.
Jack took a step backwards. A letter bomb? Delivered by suicide courier? He shook his head—they’d finally caught that guy in New Rochelle, but who knew how many others might be around here? But the young man only stepped forward and slid the package into Jack’s hands. The only way he could have refused it was by dropping it. Even faced with the possibility of receiving a bomb, Jack Finnegan was too polite to do
that
.
that
.
“It is a gift.” Larry Muso stepped back and dipped his head. “For you . . .”
Jack stared at the rectangular parcel, carefully wrapped in green fabric. He drew it to his face, smelled a pleasant, slightly musty scent.
“Please,” urged Larry Muso. “Open it.”
He did. Slowly, unfolding the fabric until he found it, nestled within the cloth like a gold ingot.
A book; a very
old
book. Its cover looked like watered silk, crocus-colored with an Art Nouveau pattern of acanthus, stippled with gold, and in the center the title in raised gold letters.
old
book. Its cover looked like watered silk, crocus-colored with an Art Nouveau pattern of acanthus, stippled with gold, and in the center the title in raised gold letters.
“Wow.” Jack laughed. “I don’t believe it.
“For your collection,” said Larry Muso.
Jack opened the book gingerly. The frontispiece showed a Beardsley-esque line drawing of a grotesque mask and the date 1895, opposite the title page.
THE KING IN YELLOW
BY ROBERT W. CHAMBERS
“
The King in Yellow
,” said Jack. “This is incredible . . .” Carefully he turned the pages to the first tale, “The Repairer of Reputations.”
The King in Yellow
,” said Jack. “This is incredible . . .” Carefully he turned the pages to the first tale, “The Repairer of Reputations.”
Now that the Government has determined to establish a Lethal Chamber in every city, town, and village in the country, it remains to be seen whether or not that class of human creatures from whose desponding ranks new victims of self-destruction fall daily will accept the relief thus provided. There a painless death awaits him who can no longer bear the sorrows of life. If death is welcome let him seek it there.
He closed the book and looked up. Larry Muso was beaming, stray light striking the tip of his pompadour so that he looked like a burning candle.
“It is very beautiful, isn’t it, Mr. Finnegan? The first edition. Eighteen ninety-five.”
Jack shook his head. “But—” He started to explain that it had been his grandfather, not him, who collected books, then stopped. “But I don’t understand. Who
are
you?”
are
you?”
His visitor slipped a hand inside his velveteen jacket, withdrew a card case embossed with a hologram of the same logo that appeared on his satchel. He opened it and presented Jack with an illurium business card. The iridescent metal was etched with Japanese characters and a skeletal winged creature with grasping claws. When Jack tilted the card, English letters flickered beneath the Japanese. There was the nearly imperceptible sound of bells. A woman’s voice whispered the words as Jack read.
“
Gorita-Folham-Ized: The Golden Family.
”
Gorita-Folham-Ized: The Golden Family.
”
“
Altyn Urik
,” Larry Muso offered. “That is our name in the archaic tongue of the Mongol people.” With a soft
click
he snapped the card case shut and replaced it inside his jacket. “It means ‘The Golden Family.’”
Altyn Urik
,” Larry Muso offered. “That is our name in the archaic tongue of the Mongol people.” With a soft
click
he snapped the card case shut and replaced it inside his jacket. “It means ‘The Golden Family.’”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “And
that
means . . . ?”
that
means . . . ?”
“My employer. We are a joint Japanese-American-Mongolian corporate enterprise, engaged in mining and other industrial operations, but also incorporating your ALTCOM and the entire NOREX Telecommunications Group. We are based in Dalandzagad, and of course the Pyramid here is our American headquarters, but our work extends very far, far beyond these places.”
Jack stared at his visitor with growing despair. He knew all about GFI, of course; but obviously this guy wasn’t from GFI. Some kind of terrorist? He had some vague sense that things were unsettled in Mongolia, but then they were unsettled everywhere. In the wake of the glimmering strange alliances had sprung up across the globe, most especially in those places heretofore ignored because of their very isolation. Places like central Canada and Siberia and Mongolia, now besieged with investors and developers fleeing the flooded coasts, the diseased cities and ruined farmlands.
“The Golden Family has many interests!” Larry Muso said brightly. “But today I am here on other business—”
He turned and for the first time seemed to take in the room around him: swaybacked bookshelves, outdated computers, and all. He breathed in sharply, and Jack watched, bemused, as a beatific expression spread across Larry Muso’s face. After a moment he looked back at his host.
“You have such beautiful things.” Larry Muso’s eyes were moist; his voice soft, almost chastened. “They told me you had very beautiful things, but—to see them, that is a different matter. You see, I studied library engineering, at Oxford—that is why I was chosen to come here.
That
—”
That
—”
He tipped his head in the direction of the book in Jack’s hand. “I myself selected that for you, Mr.—I mean Jack—because, like yourself, I love beautiful things. Like yourself,
we
—The Golden Family—love beautiful things.”
we
—The Golden Family—love beautiful things.”
Jack nodded. “I see.” He felt more at ease, now that it appeared he was not going to be murdered by an exploding antiquarian volume. “Well then. Won’t you have a seat?”
Larry Muso followed him to a small sitting area composed of a wicker table and three very old wicker chairs. He settled in one gingerly, turning to stare into the carriage house’s shadowy corners.
“I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything,” Jack continued. “But we really don’t receive people here. When my grandfather was alive, the magazine’s offices were in the city—”
“Gramercy Park.”
“Yes, that’s right. But needless to say we can’t afford offices there anymore—”
Larry Muso frowned. “But that, too, was your family’s home? Am I correct?”
“Well, yes, but—we sold that place years ago.” Jack stared at the book in his lap, his fingers tracing the raised gold letters, the smooth ribbony feel of the silk cover. His grandmother would adore it, of course; might not ever forgive him for letting it go.
So Jack wouldn’t tell her. With a sigh he wrapped
The King in Yellow
back in its cotton covering and placed it on the table. “Look, Mr. Muso—”
The King in Yellow
back in its cotton covering and placed it on the table. “Look, Mr. Muso—”
“Larry—”
“
Mr. Muso
,” Jack repeated firmly. “I don’t mean to be rude, but this is a bad time for me, okay? A bad time for
The Gaudy Book
—” He stared pointedly at the rows of cartons by the door. “
That
is probably our last issue, right
there
—”
Mr. Muso
,” Jack repeated firmly. “I don’t mean to be rude, but this is a bad time for me, okay? A bad time for
The Gaudy Book
—” He stared pointedly at the rows of cartons by the door. “
That
is probably our last issue, right
there
—”
“Yes!” Larry Muso exclaimed. “
That
is why I am here!
The Gaudy Book
! We want to buy
The Gaudy Book
!”
That
is why I am here!
The Gaudy Book
! We want to buy
The Gaudy Book
!”
Jack’s dismay curdled into anger. This was
worse
than a terrorist.
worse
than a terrorist.
“I’m sorry.” He started to his feet, no longer caring how rude he sounded. “This is our
editorial
office. We don’t handle
subscriptions
from here, we
never
handled subscriptions from here, the only reason
those
magazines are here at all is because, as I just told you, we’re going under, the printer folded, the distributor folded, and now presumably
we
are going to—”
editorial
office. We don’t handle
subscriptions
from here, we
never
handled subscriptions from here, the only reason
those
magazines are here at all is because, as I just told you, we’re going under, the printer folded, the distributor folded, and now presumably
we
are going to—”
Larry Muso waved his hands. “Yes, I know! I am here representing The Golden Family, and we would like to
buy The Gaudy Book
—the magazine enterprise itself—as an investment. A corporate investment. An
aesthetic
investment,” he went on quickly, “an
artistic
investment. You, of course, would retain all artistic control, Mr.—Jack—because we have the greatest respect for you, for your entire family, and the contributions you have made to literature. To literature in English,” he amended, and paused to pull a large silk handkerchief from his pocket.
buy The Gaudy Book
—the magazine enterprise itself—as an investment. A corporate investment. An
aesthetic
investment,” he went on quickly, “an
artistic
investment. You, of course, would retain all artistic control, Mr.—Jack—because we have the greatest respect for you, for your entire family, and the contributions you have made to literature. To literature in English,” he amended, and paused to pull a large silk handkerchief from his pocket.
Jack stared at him dumbfounded.
He’s kind of cute
, Jack found himself thinking;
in a Japanese Elvis kind of way
.
He’s kind of cute
, Jack found himself thinking;
in a Japanese Elvis kind of way
.
“You understand this?” Larry touched one corner of the handkerchief to his cheek, a gesture so subtle and affected that Jack wondered if it was some sort of coded message.
Permit my multinational corporation to purchase your failing periodical, and I will be your love slave.
“We believe in protecting the few beautiful things left in this world, while we can. Your magazine would be very precious to us. And we would, of course, seek to preserve it as a commercial property.”
Permit my multinational corporation to purchase your failing periodical, and I will be your love slave.
“We believe in protecting the few beautiful things left in this world, while we can. Your magazine would be very precious to us. And we would, of course, seek to preserve it as a commercial property.”
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