Sleeping in Flame (22 page)

"Is my real father magic?"

"Yes, but so are you. Even more so, because of your relationship with Maris. Your father couldn't do that. You can, because you're more in this world than his now."

He was almost gone. I wanted to ask something else but couldn't think what. My tongue was thick as a tire. "Where do you go now, Venasque?"

"It wouldn't matter if I told you. You'll go someplace else. Don't miss your chance, Walker.

Don't let him hurt your family. He's a jealous son of a bitch. He has been for four hundred years."

The bathroom was empty. The tile floor cold under my bare feet.

Somewhere in the other room I heard my cat running and crashing into things he normally knew to avoid.

Orlando lay asleep on the floor, exhausted by his short, nightmarish tour through the land of vision. What would he think when he woke again to the dark world he'd always known? Did cats, like us, think Thank God, it was only a dream! when they woke from monsters, or the color blue, that took form in their sightless eyes?

I'd had a shower and was feeling better. Maris hadn't returned, but that was good because I wanted to think about what I would tell her of Venasque's visit when we were together again.

Certainly not that she was pregnant. If it were true, it was her secret and joy to discover first.

How long would it be before she knew? How would she tell me?

Lying on the bed in a bathrobe, I tried out different ways of reacting to it. "You're _what_?"

"Pregnant! No, _really_?" How could I keep the news from her? The phone rang.

"Walker? David Buck here. Where've you been? I've been calling you for days."

"Hi. We've been in California. What's up?"

"I've been doing that research for you. You know, about your look-alike, Moritz Benedikt?"

"Right! What did you find?"

"Big scandal. A very interesting story. You want me to tell you now, or do you want to get together? I've got ten pages of notes."

"Both, but tell me the basics now."

"Okay. Moritz Benedikt is a pretty commonly found name in Vienna. One guy was a very famous editor of the _Neue Freie Presse_. But your Benedikt was famous for something else."

"Famous?"

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"Yeah, wait, it was front-page stuff. He was born here in 1923 and died in 1955. Worked as a tailor for his father in a shop on the Kochgasse in the Eighth District, Benedikt und Söhne, Schneiderei. The store was right down the street from the building where Stefan Zweig lived. Nothing special there, except he was raised by his father because the mother died when Moritz was born."

"Wait a minute, David, let me get this down." But I wasn't writing. I was thinking about the killer in St. Petersburg, Alexander Kroll. He was also raised by his father because the mother died in childbirth. "What was the name of Benedikt's father?"

"Kaspar. Kaspar Benedikt. The interesting thing about him was he was a midget."

"I know."

Buck paused. "You _knew_? How?"

"It doesn't matter. Go on." I started when something jumped up on the bed next to me.

Orlando, his old calm, blind self. He rubbed against me, wanting to be tickled. Didn't he remember anything?

"From the different accounts I've read, Benedikt junior fought for the Germans in southern France in World War Two. He was taken prisoner by the Allies, held awhile, then let go. When he got back to Vienna, he started working again for his father. This is where it gets interesting. Seems like

Moritz had a girlfriend named Elisabeth Gregorovius. She worked as a waitress at the Café Museum. She's still alive, if you want to contact her. I have the address and phone number, but I didn't talk to her. She's probably the one putting fresh flowers on his grave."

"You're sure she's alive?"

"Yes. I called the number when I found out about her. An old woman answered and said

'Gregorovius', so I assumed it was her.

"Anyway, she and Moritz had one of those great, years-long courtships that either end in marriage or both people dying of old age. Real nineteenth-century romance. From what I got, they were engaged forever before they got married. The newspapers said that was the first thing that made the old man crazy: His son was going to get married and leave the house. Remember, though, this was after like _years_ of going out together, so it wasn't a big surprise to Papa.

"Elisabeth and Moritz got married in 1953 and lived in her apartment. He continued to work in the tailor shop and she at the café. Everything stayed peaceful for two more years. She and Kaspar didn't get along, but his son loved her, so there wasn't anything he could do _but_

accept it.

"In 1955, January, Elisabeth discovered she was pregnant. She told Moritz, and he was thrilled. The first thing he wanted to do was give his father the good news.

So he went over to the old man's apartment and told him.

You know what Kaspar did? Pushed his son out of a fifth floor window and killed him!

"When the police came to take him away, Kaspar told them -- wait a minute, let me read it to you -- told them 'He would have loved it more than me.' That was it."

I looked down at Orlando. "What happened to the father?"

"I'm not finished! While they were taking him to the police station, there was a terrible crash and the two cops in the car were killed, along with the driver of the other car. There was a photograph of the accident in the paper. Both cars, _both_ of them, Walker, were standing straight up on their noses! How the hell could that happen? It looked like a movie scene. And guess who the only one was who survived the crash? Kaspar Benedikt."

"You mean they never found him?"

"Yeah, they did. You know the Pestsäule, the plague statue down on the Graben? That night, after a big Viennese manhunt, they found him hanging from it, stone dead, with a note pinned to his shirt. The note said 'Two eyes too many.' _Zwei augen zuviel_."

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Orlando's back felt elastic and warm under my hand. He purred like a wound-up spring toy.

"Where did they bury him?"

"_That_ was difficult finding out. It took me almost three days of digging. The name Gregorovius is Greek, you know. You've heard about how incredible they are as fighters in war?

I guess they're used to it, if you look at their history. Well, old Greek Elisabeth got some kind of small revenge on her father-in-law. Because she was next-of-kin to both Benedikts, the authorities went to her about disposal of the body. You know what she did?

Donated it to the medical school to be cut up! Whatever was left of him after they finished was probably burned, but who knows?"

"What happened to her child?" It was the only important question.

"Can't help you there, Walker. I assume it was born and is still around.

You'll have to go to Elisabeth for that. I've got pictures and Xeroxes and other things for you.

When do you want to get together?" He snorted. "You want to meet at the Café Museum so I can give them to you?"

I decided not to tell Maris anything until after I had spoken with the Gregorovius woman. When Maris returned from her apartment, she was wearing a green dress I had never seen before. With her California tan against it, she looked as though she'd been on the beach rather than a plane for the last twelve hours.

We went to dinner and talked about getting married. What Venasque and Buck had told me sat calmly with its hands folded in its lap, waiting its turn. I felt isolated from her because of the information I'd learned that afternoon, but didn't feel I was keeping anything back because it all had to be thought about first, and put in proper perspective. There was no question about telling her everything -- I would. I only wanted some time to get it straight and . .

. cooled off before putting it in front of her for the Maris reaction.

"I know what I want to give you for your birthday."

"My birthday? I'm thinking about it as our wedding day now."

"That, too. I got an inspiration when I was home. It's going to take me some time, so don't be impatient if you don't get it on the day. It'll be worth waiting for. I _hope_.

"Hold my hand, Walker. That always feels good. Now, something happened I didn't tell you about. The most prestigious gallery in Los Angeles wants me to do a one-man show for them. It's the big break for me."

My jaw dropped. "That's, uh, pretty important information, Maris. How come you didn't tell me?"

"Because I had to think about it awhile first. It happened right before we left America. Also because you had enough to think about with all that

Venasque stuff."

"The biggest gallery in L.A.? That's a hell of a great thing, isn't it?"

She squeezed my hand and blushed. "Yes. I think this is it."

"I'm proud of you. Also a little pissed off that you didn't tell me _immediately_."

"You like my work, don't you, Walker? That makes me feel surer."

"I love it! Where do they come from? I know you're not supposed to ask the artist that question, but really -- where _do_ the cities come from?"

"Now? My dreams, mostly. Both daydreams and night dreams." She sat forward and her expression grew more excited. "But dreams aren't dangerous, or thrilling, until we think of them as real possibilities. It's our own fault .

. . and responsibility if we let that happen. Dreams make no promises, you know? In mine, I _see_ these cities, but then it's up to me whether I can bring them together the way they appear in my head. I want to show exactly what's passed through me. Sometimes I think it's like a hand
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grenade thrown into my . . . gut. I try to cover it and absorb all of the impact. Does that sound goofy?"

"Inspired."

She sat back. "Did I ever tell you about why I made the first city?"

"Never. What happened?"

"Well, my father is a selfish man and can be pretty cold. But when I was seventeen, he was stabbed and almost died. We were living in New York then. My heart had pretty much closed toward him in a lot of ways, especially since I

was going through my own typical teenage hell. But seeing him in such bad shape opened me up pretty damned fast. Suddenly I felt this complete . . .

_agony_ of love for him. He didn't deserve it, but that's what I felt. Lying in that hospital bed, his face as empty and gray as a beach in winter . . . It almost drove me mad. So, almost unconsciously, I found myself in a store one day buying a LEGO set with this dim idea. I wanted to build him a city where he could live while he was recuperating. I spent a week working on it. I built him the kind of hospital he should be in, the house where he should live afterward. Big picture windows, a veranda, a giant lawn . . . I got so carried away, I even bought in a model train store the kind of _dog_ I thought should be at his side while he sat there in a pink chair and waited for his body to

return to him.

"It gave me such peace and pleasure to construct I just continued doing it."

"Did it help your father? I mean, after you gave it to him?"

She smiled. "He looked at it once and said it was 'sweet.' It doesn't matter. I don't even know if I was making it for him. I believe my mind was telling me there was a place I could go, or _build_

for myself, where I could be alone and happy. It was one of the things that saved me.

"I wasn't so happy when I was young. But now I am because I love you."

Her napkin fell on the floor. Bending over to pick it up, she cried out, "Ow!"

"What's the matter?" My first thought was the child inside her.

"Oh, I do that sometimes. I'll make the dumbest motion, like pick up a napkin, and throw my back out. Now it'll be like this for three days. Damn!"

"Can I do anything?"

"You can let go of my elbow. You're squeezing it to death. Don't worry

-- it's not major. Just Maris York growing older. Maris _Easterling_ growing older. How does that name sound? I keep trying it out on my tongue."

"You're sure you're all right?"

"Yes. You didn't answer me -- how does Maris Easterling sound?"

"Good. Like a Southern belle. You don't want to keep your own name?"

"No. Then we'd sound like a British law firm, Easterling and York." Do you think your parents will like me?"

I looked at her and thought about Moritz Benedikt telling his father he was going to marry Elisabeth.

My parents. Would my real parents like Maris? First I had to find them.

First I had to find _him_.

Elisabeth Gregorovious Benedikt sounded nervous but interested when I called. I told her I had discovered her husband's grave at the Zentralfriedhof by accident and, amazed by the physical resemblance between us, had done some further research on him. Could I come and talk to her?

"You know what happened to my husband?"

"Yes."

"You know about his father? What happened to him?"

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"Yes."

"How come you want to see me?"

She lived on the fifth floor of a walk-up near the Prater. Although it was a good distance away, the giant ferris wheel in the amusement park loomed behind her building. Inside, the place smelled pleasantly of freshly baked bread, which was incongruous because everything else in there was dark and defeated. The second _Bezirk_ is a worker's district. Buildings there are either new and dull and functional, or old and dying. Many of the older ones show signs of one-time grandeur or imagination on their faces, whether via Jugendstil facades or the interesting simplicity of the Bauhaus style. But like the old movie queen who has turned seventy or eighty, whatever beauty or appeal remains shows more what has been lost, rather than what is left.

The stairway was wide enough for three people, and at every landing there was a stained glass window of a different kind of flower. Out of curiosity, I opened one and looked down at the courtyard below. Yugoslavian kids were kicking a soccer ball around, shouting at each other in their staccato, brusque language. One of them looked up, waved, and shouted, "_Immer wieder Rapid!_"

Her door was the only one on the floor painted white. A brass nameplate in script letters spelled out "Benedikt." Inside, I heard Peter Gabriel and Laurie Anderson singing "Excellent Birds."