Mount Terminus (24 page)

My father.

And where is this father of yours?

Bloom pointed a finger to the center of the rose garden. There. In his grave.

And your mother?

In her grave. A great distance away.

Fatherless
and
motherless.

Yes, said Bloom.

I see, said Gottlieb, and not without pity.

Bloom walked Gottlieb through the pergola into the courtyard and led him inside. They walked upstairs and entered the library. Here, Bloom said, looking down on his companion, this is what I wanted to share with you. With his arm outstretched, he led Gottlieb to a table running the full length of the library's windows. On it were arranged in the order his father had left them the optical devices he'd inherited and collected from the time he was a child. Indonesian shadow puppets on one end, the very first Phantoscope equipped with the Rosenbloom Loop on the other. On shelves behind the objects were notebooks and pamphlets, antiquarian publications written in Latin, French, and German, boxes upon boxes of glass slides from phantasmagorias performed by Etienne-Gaspard. And then, on a separate shelf, there rested leather folders stuffed with designs and descriptions of patents for many of these objects, his father's included. Gottlieb walked the length of the table with the fluff of his beard pressed to his chest, his bony little fingers tugging at curls.

That and my mother were Father's great passions, said Bloom in response to Gottlieb's silence.

Too engrossed in what he saw, Gottlieb made a guttural sound from the back of his throat. Bloom placed his hands in his trouser pockets and took a seat on a sofa, and from there he watched Gottlieb run a finger over the items. Before one of the magic lanterns he stopped and lingered for a while, then did the same when he saw a folio whose front cover read,
Ars Magna Lucis et Umbrae.
This, he said as he pointed to the old book, and that, he said of the lantern, what did your father tell you about these?

Nothing.

Nothing about where he acquired them?

No. Nothing at all.

A shame, said Gottlieb. The little man pulled the folio from the shelf and opened it. Slowly and deliberately—with great care—he turned its pages, paused every now and again to take in what he saw. Would you mind very much, he asked, if I write to a friend of mine and invite him here to examine these?

Of course not.

My friend, he's a scientist, of a kind. He'll be intrigued by such a comprehensive collection. More than intrigued, I should think.

He's welcome anytime.

Gottlieb now walked over to Bloom and looked beyond him to the library's shelves. From the beleaguered looks of you, he said, I'm going to conjecture you've read nearly every book in this room.

Bloom nodded.

Gottlieb began walking along the orderly rows of bindings at Bloom's back and began to quiz him. You've seen the world of Homer.

To this Bloom nodded once more.

Gottlieb pointed to a nearby shelf.

You know Scheherazade and her golden tongue?

He did.

Studied the cosmologies of Copernicus, Ptolemy, and Galileo?

He had.

Visited with Dante and Milton?

Yes, he said to these, too.

And on Gottlieb walked some more and pointed some more, and Bloom continued to say yes. Yes to Leonardo and Swift, Diderot and Voltaire, Tolstoy, Chekhov, and all the books Gottlieb catalogued. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes, he said to all of it.

And you can quote Pliny the Elder to me?

Yes, said Bloom.

Do you know what all this tells me, Rosenbloom?

No.

It tells me, Gottlieb said as he took a seat across from Bloom, you have a mind too bright to waste on that halfwit Abrams and the nitwits he keeps company with—those other journeymen incompetents in which your brother sees
something
.

Although Bloom didn't believe Mr. Gottlieb was inaccurate in his estimation of his mentors, he nevertheless came to the defense of the men and women he considered to be his friends and protectors. They're hardly halfwits and nitwits, he argued.

Why? Because they've been kind to you? Stroked you until you purred? Coddled you in their knowing hands to show you something of their world?

They
have
been kind to me, said Bloom. Kind
and
generous.

Of course they have. Your brother owns them, Rosenbloom. It's his money that allows them their livelihood. They
should
lavish you with kindness and attention if they know what's good for them.

Taking offense at this, Bloom said firmly, I expected no special attention.

Gottlieb leaned forward in his seat and with a seriousness of purpose scrutinized Bloom's face. His tawny eyes lingered on him in the same way they lingered over the lantern and the book. No, he said, I don't believe you did. Gottlieb protruded his lower lip. Allowed a moment more to pass. Clever, loyal,
and
good-natured? he said, waggling a finger. A dangerous disposition for a young artist. He shook his head at Bloom with disapproval and started to once again twist the curls of his beard. So, he said, I've seen what I've come to see. Now what?

I'm not sure, said Bloom.

Well, said Gottlieb, you do away with the pretense and you tell me the real reason why I'm here today.

Bloom searched for a way to begin describing how important this moment was for him. He tried to formulate an argument in which he could articulate the effect Gottlieb's pictures had had on the way he perceived his craft, but he failed to speak.

I am at best, what, Rosenbloom? Four feet, eleven inches in height?

I'm sorry?

Do you generally fear men a little more than half your size?

No, Mr. Gottlieb.

You are what? A
regal
six feet in stature?

Bloom shook his head. I don't know.

And you—a
giant
Jew, a colossal Semite whose ancestors likely commingled with villainous Cossacks—sit across from me like a milksop? Have I not praised you enough? What? Do I need to cradle you in my arms?

I beg your pardon.

Or is it because you believe I'm the intolerant dog everyone says I am? Or maybe you've concluded all on your own, I am that intolerant dog?

I don't know.

Well, you
should
know. What is a man—what is an artist—if he doesn't know his own mind? His own heart. What kind of weakling are you?… And your brother thought you and I were kindred spirits? Nonsense!

Bloom now wondered if perhaps Mr. Abrams was right, after all. Perhaps Gottlieb was too enthralled with himself, too devoted to his adversarial role to extend a hand and guide him.

Well? said Gottlieb.

All right, then, said Bloom.
Yes
, if you must know the truth. Yes, I fear that you might be the rabid dog everyone makes you out to be. The instant Bloom let these words slip from his lips, he wondered if he should retract them, but his riposte shaped a broad smile on Mr. Gottlieb's goatish face, a smile he let linger for some time.

What? said Bloom. What is it?

What is it? he asks. Still smiling broadly, now to the ceiling, Gottlieb extended his arms as if he were seeking an embrace, then looked back down to Bloom. A sign of life! Of honesty! This is what
it
is.

Again, without intending to, Bloom in response to Mr. Gottlieb's condescension shook his head with a snarl of consternation. An entirely involuntary reflex.

Aha! Gottlieb, delighted at the sound of Bloom's small exhalation, was now pointing with both hands. Listen to that: a set of
balls
has descended! Come now, he cajoled, his arms waving in toward his chest as if motioning a boat into a slip. Sit up in your seat. Pull back your shoulders. And speak!

Bloom was resistant to do anything this vicious little man asked of him, but, as if he were being pulled by invisible strings, he slowly sat up in his seat and drew back his shoulders. And now at a loss, said, What would you have me do now, Mr. Gottlieb?

Say what you want from me, Rosenbloom! Tell me why you've written to me once a week for more than three months. Say it! Once and for all! Commit yourself to your own cause!

It was at that moment Bloom understood precisely what was happening. He was in the midst of his first lesson. Mr. Gottlieb was, in effect, teaching him how to communicate with him in such a way he could tolerate Bloom's company. Now that he understood what game Gottlieb was playing, Bloom, with as much dignity as he could find within himself after recovering from Mr. Gottlieb's humiliations, said without any constraint whatsoever, I want to work as your apprentice, Mr. Gottlieb.

Gottlieb leaned forward in his seat so his face was near Bloom's. In a tone no longer playful, but dead serious, he asked, And I should accept you, this meek wisp of a boy, as
my
protégé, why?

Bloom now leaned forward in his seat, and with his nose only inches from Gottlieb's grotesque protrusion, he said in a gritty voice charged with a conviction he didn't know resided within him until this very moment, For reasons I can list ad nauseam, Mr. Gottlieb, I'm able to speak of what I find brilliant in your pictures. To my great misfortune, it seems, I've been cursed as one of your great admirers, and, however foolhardy it might be, I want to learn from you everything you can teach me.
If
such a thing is possible.

Now there
, whispered Gottlieb as he pulled back from Bloom and nodded with approval, is a man to whom I wouldn't mind imparting my wisdom. Gottlieb rose to his full, stunted height, and said, We'll waste no time! He walked to a nearby desk and pulled out from a drawer a piece of paper, on which he scribbled a few lines. Paused for a moment, then scribbled a few more. Here, he said, a dramatic sketch for you to do with as you please. I give you three weeks to draw up a scenario. Plan for two reels. Twenty minutes, no more. Prove to me you have what
I
consider
something
, and then we'll see. In the meanwhile, you stay away from that stronghold of amateurs and poseurs down there. You remain here on the estate.

But I was meant to be on set with Mr. Evans this afternoon.

I'll inform him—and all the others—you belong to me for the time being. You understand? You belong to
me
.

The thought of this troubled Bloom. He had in the time he'd worked on the lot grown accustomed to the company of Mr. Evans and Murray Abrams, of Hannah Edelstein and Constance Grey. He'd grown accustomed to the discipline and rhythms of his routine. He would especially miss meeting Gus for lunch in the canteen and eating the food Meralda prepared for them each morning.

If you're hesitant to make a commitment, said Gottlieb, if you're unwilling to sacrifice what I think necessary …

No, said Bloom. I'll do as you ask.

Not even Simon will drag you down there, understood? If he asks what's become of you, what do you tell him?

I belong to you.

Precisely. Then we're agreed?

Yes, said Bloom, we're agreed.

And with that said, Gottlieb made his exit. Three weeks from today, Rosenbloom.

Three weeks from today, Mr. Gottlieb.

Good afternoon, Rosenbloom!

Good afternoon, Mr. Gottlieb.

Once Bloom heard the front door slam shut, he walked over to the desk on which Gottlieb had scribbled his hand. On the blotter, Bloom read the title,
Mephisto's Affinity.
Following this was a short description of a domestic scene in which Mephistopheles's wife grants her husband leave to visit Earth for a day of long-needed holiday.
He rises up from the underworld and enters the world of the living
, wrote Gottlieb.
He witnesses the sins of sinners, sees the avaricious, the gluttonous, the envious, etc., all in need of his services, but because he is on leave, he resists temptation and turns away from their folly. He is resigned to do as his wife said he should. He is resigned to enjoy a devil's Sabbath. Today, he will write no contracts and make no bargains. Today, he will capture no souls. In which case, where, Mr. Rosenbloom, will Mephistopheles find his joy? How will he experience abandon? In whom will he find his affinity?

*   *   *

For hours after Gottlieb had left him alone, Bloom paced the floor of the library, waiting for the first image to come to him. He paced through the remainder of the day and into the night. He lay awake in his bed, hoping something in the shadows of his room might take hold. The following morning, for the first time in a long time, Gus didn't wake him to go to work. Bloom climbed the stairs of the tower and through his telescope searched the basin, thinking perhaps there he would see something, anything that would stir him. But he found only an image of a landscape ravaged by his brother's endeavors; across the vast stretch of the ancient seabed a number of citrus groves had been razed, their fields left barren. The disheartening image advanced an even duller emptiness than he'd felt before he climbed to the tower's pavilion; his mind void, his spirit enervated, he searched for Roya, from whom—without intending to—he'd grown apart in the three years he'd spent on the studio lot.

For some time after he started work on
The Primal Pill
, she continued to search him out in the evenings, to sit with him in the parlor after his meals, to lie with him on the chaise in his mother's gallery, but when he began to return later and later from the studio, she withdrew from him. Only from great distances did he catch glimpses of her—on the trails, in the tower, standing on the promontory, and soon afterward she seemed to disappear from the estate altogether. He would sometimes awaken in the middle of the night and think she was standing in his room, watching him sleep, but when he turned on the electric lights, he would discover he was alone, at which point he would wrap himself in his blanket and walk to the gallery, where he would stare into the pinholes of Aphrodite's eyes, thinking that perhaps she was there, watching him from inside Salazar's chamber.