Nightlight (3 page)

Paul was relieved that no bribe of food or cash had been even hinted at. He responded that he was sure they would both enjoy their dinners, emphasizing the word
both
, so the staff might believe that an act of seduction was underway, not simply another column in the daily.

Paul ordered the
mista
of chicken livers and hearts, knowing that any restaurant with such an odd dish must be proud of it. He encouraged Lise to sample the veal, promising that if she didn't like it he would drop by Colonel Sanders' on the way home.

The dinner was excellent. Lise's veal was in a caper sauce, with a delightful flavor more intense than the usual lemon sauce that was so common. The capers were surprisingly attractive, friendly pealike shapes, but not as wrinkled as peas, and smaller. Paul's dish was delicious. It was hard to disguise the anatomy-lesson air of such a dish; he counted twelve hearts, and knew that they represented twelve separate lives. He acknowledged the presence of the livers, but it was the sauce that delighted him. It was a red wine sauce, and a demiglaze of beef had been added just before serving. He recognized the method as he tasted the first spoonful, and his admiration for the chef grew until he wanted to dash into the kitchen and shake his hand.

“Ordinarily,” he said, “I visit a place two or three times before I review it, but I think I'll write this one up tonight.”

“Maybe they knew you were coming.”

“No one knew. Not even you. I am very careful not to mention any of my plans.”

“Like a spy.”

“Actually, this job is very much like being a spy. A detective, at least. I remember—or try to remember—to be fair, always. To weigh everything carefully. Not to trust other people's opinions. To ignore reputation and hearsay. To have no opinion until I have seen and tasted. What do you think of the wine?”

“It's having trouble standing up to all these flavors.”

Paul was pleased that they shared the same opinion. “Exactly what I think. Although I sometimes think that the Italian philosophy about wine with food is that it doesn't harmonize with the food so much as fit in with it. A chardonnay wants to bracket a food, wrap it in flavor, highs and lows, like a quartet. An Italian white, although thinnish by comparison, simply serves the food, on a plate, so to speak.”

He nibbled at a pine nut tart, and tasted Lise's kiwi fruit tart, bypassing the mousse which he knew was made by a shop in Oakland that serviced six restaurants with excellent but indigestible chocolate desserts. The espresso was brought to the table in a stovetop espresso maker, a homey touch that didn't fit the pretensions of the restaurant, but Paul was expansive and forgiving and when the owner arrived, smoothing back his hair, gripping Paul's hand like an arm wrestler, Paul could tell him truthfully that his restaurant was a success.

The man nearly wept. “Was the veal to your satisfaction?”

“Quite.”

“The
mista
? The salads?”

He had been given an order-by-order breakdown of the meal, no doubt wincing at little uncertainties. Paul reassured him. “Everything was excellent.”

5

Aunt Mary lived in a handsome brick fortress in Pacific Heights. The mortar between bricks was a brilliant mossy green, and a cupid turned to one side on a small fountain to share a joke with someone invisible. Water danced above the simpering, muscular infant, joining the rain as it fell over the stout legs. Paul used his own fist, rather than the knocker, and hurt his knuckles.

Aunt Mary herself answered the door, although Paul had expected a tall, male servant. She squeezed his hand in greeting, and Paul realized how much he had always liked her.

He followed her into a library, a room he had not seen since his boyhood. Fire curled around a log the size of a man's torso in the fireplace, and the room was lined with what Paul supposed must be expensive books. Leather, some of it with a patina of age, some of it newish, and Paul could not guess where they still made books of that quality. Obviously chosen for their looks, rather than their contents, Paul guessed. His hand went out and selected a volume that looked especially weathered. It was in Latin, and the old pages turned with a crisp sound.

“P. Ovidii Nasonis,” he read silently. “
Metamorphoseon
.” He closed the book as one closing the door to a temple. He turned and realized he had neglected his aunt, who waited patiently by the fire.

“I'm sorry. All these books—”

“You found the Ovid. It was one of your Uncle Phil's favorites. He translated parts of it, in an amateurish sort of way. He especially liked the part where Daphne turns into a laurel. He had a theory, and I agree with him, that transformations are inherently more fascinating to human beings than static entities. That we like dawn and sunset not simply because they are attractive to behold, but because they are thresholds.”

Paul absorbed this, and accepted a glass of brandy. The liquor danced with the light from the fire, and Paul did not want to taste it, it was so beautiful. His aunt spoke about her late husband's love for books, his fondness for music, and Paul understood why he had seen so little of his aunt and uncle. Their lives had been complete, and Paul was not highbrow, or even interesting.

He thought this without malice. He was fond of his aunt, and enjoyed the sound of her voice. There was something in her tone, however, that told him that she was not at peace. There was something wrong, and he waited.

She stopped, abruptly, as if coming to the end of a chapter. When she began again her voice was deeper, softer but more intense. “I need your help, Paul. Phil would have been able to advise me, but I am alone now. It's a family matter—or at least I want it to remain that way. I have some modest standing socially, and I don't want a scandal. Don't misunderstand. I don't fear scandal, but I would rather avoid it.”

Paul smiled, mystified.

“Len has disappeared.” His aunt looked away, overcome for a moment. When she could speak her voice was even quieter. “He rented a little cottage up in the wine country somewhere. I don't know where, exactly. And I haven't heard from him for two months. He was always very good about phoning once a week; we have always been a very close family. I have made a few inquiries through friends, but no one has seen him. And I would very much appreciate it if you would …” Her voice faded. “Please go up and see if you can find him, Paul. I'm afraid something terrible has happened.”

“Have you called the police? Or the sheriff? Whoever it is up there.”

“Len is such a private person he would die if a sheriff poked his head into his studio. He would never forgive me. Besides, you know how newspapers are. One word of Len being missing and the
Chronicle
would have it on page one. Not that it's big news, but that's the
Chronicle.”

Neither of them had touched their drinks. Paul waited for something to be made clear. There was something peculiar in his aunt's tone, something she was not discussing.

“I will tell you why I am particularly disturbed. And why I don't want to have this talked about all over town. Len has always been interested in painting, and photography. He has always been a whimsical young man. Gifted, but a dreamer. And I have encouraged him. If you have a talent, develop it, I have always felt. But lately, in the last year or so, he has developed a new interest. He has developed an interest in what you would have to call spiritualism.”

Paul's face betrayed confusion. She added, “Séances. Haunted houses. He became obsessed with the idea of attending meetings in supposedly haunted houses so he could photograph the ghosts. Well, it all sounds farfetched but harmless, but he carried it too far. He began spending nights in cemeteries. He showed me endless roles of film, special settings on the cameras to soak up as much light as possible. Naturally, some odd things showed up on the film.”

“What sorts of things?”

“Blurs. Nothing. Just things that you had trouble making sense of.” Her voice was sharp for a moment. “Len thought that every time he picked up a stray cat on his film he was seeing a spirit.”

She sipped her brandy. “He finally found a place up north somewhere he said was a legitimate ‘place of haunting.' That's what he called them. Not ‘haunted houses.' So he left to inhabit this ‘place of haunting,' some two months ago. And I have not heard from him since. Of course, he may have sprained an ankle, I tell myself. I should call the sheriff, but I know that he is probably up there with his camera and sound equipment and would be furious with me if some yahoo deputy came clumping along. Len is a very intense person, and I have to respect him, but I can't sit still any longer.”

“So you want me to drive up there, tell him to call home, and leave it at that.”

She relaxed. “That's exactly right. That's all I want. Drive up, and drive back. The only catch is—I don't know exactly where the cottage is. So it might be difficult for you to find it. Time-consuming. And so I want to compensate you for your trouble—”

“Absolutely not. I will not hear of it. I was very much in need of a vacation. This is exactly the sort of break I need. Besides, I always liked Len. I haven't seen him for years, but he was always such a talented guy. Always drawing and taking pictures. We used to play with his train set. I was always proud to have such a smart cousin.”

“I can give you a key to his studio here in the city. It's in a warehouse off First Street. A cavernous place; I only saw it once. Perhaps he has an address or something there, some way of knowing where the place was and …”

Paul pulled at his lower lip. “You want me to check up on him.”

“Please.”

Paul stood and wandered to the window. “Maybe you need a detective.”

“If you don't want to do it, Paul, I understand.” She added, “I've had some experience with detectives.”

Her voice had become dry. She turned away from Paul and watched the fire. “Your Uncle Phil had an affair at one point during our marriage. I contacted a detective to find out who was involved. It was an established firm, a distinguished-looking man. When it was all over, I felt entirely sleazy. Phil confessed all of a sudden one night, but didn't name the woman involved. The detective arrived the next day, with telephotos of my best friend on a beach at Lake Tahoe. I was appalled, of course, but the worst thing was the pornographic glitter in the detective's eye. This is, as I said, a family matter.”

“I understand.”

“I have an envelope with directions to his studio, the studio key, a letter giving you permission to act on my behalf, and some cash against expenses which I ask you to accept, with my gratitude.”

“You knew I would agree to do this.”

“I hoped you would. And I read your reviews. They are the reviews of a curious man, who likes to taste new things. A man who prides himself on his common sense. On his ability to notice details. A man who is impatient with his own ignorance.”

Paul blushed, flattered, but also amazed that she could have touched his vanity so well.

“By now you, too, want to find Len. Your curiosity is aroused.”

She either guessed well, or she knew Paul's nature. Paul agreed that she was right. His curiosity was very much aroused.

Paul paused before a small painting on the wall. A man, evidently a shepherd, looked up from his seat at the foot of a tree. An angel addressed him, a diaphanous figure the size of a large rabbit. The angel was painted in white, with quick strokes of the brush. In the distance was a city, walls and towers displayed awkwardly, in a perspective that struck Paul as crude. The horizon beyond was lost in blue, and the entire painting was discolored, whites gone yellow, blues going gradually gray.

“A Patinir. Joachim Patinir died in 1524. Flemish, of course, and arguably the first Western artist to specialize in landscapes. What you see here is a shepherd awakened by an angel, perhaps the angel of death, but here the experts differ. Death is usually depicted as a virtual caricature. A dancing, grinning skeleton. So perhaps this is simply an angel.” His aunt stood close to the painting, as if she had never seen it before. “As if in those days they expected angels to show up before shepherds, like a swarm of gnats.”

“He looks surprised,” offered Paul. “As if he were not aware of the custom.”

She did not answer at once. “At any rate,” she said, shaking off a thought, “I don't believe it is the angel of death. Some other heavenly messenger, with some other tidings. Certainly there must be good apparitions as well as evil ones.”

“This is beyond my field of expertise,” Paul said, tugging his nose. “I don't believe in any sort of spirit.”

“You wouldn't,” said Aunt Mary.

“Everything will be fine,” Paul said.

“I don't expect instant results,” she said, in a way that seemed a rebuff. “I am very patient. Take your time, but please begin soon.”

A bad thought touched Paul. “Is there something you're holding back? Something I should know?”

“Nothing. Except a feeling I have—a hunch. A feeling that Len is in a strange kind of trouble. And that it has to do with his research.”

“You mean, his ghost hunting.”

“Thank God for your common sense,” she said. “But Len takes it very seriously, and Len is not stupid.”

“Everything will be fine,” he repeated.

“I hope so. I wake at night sometimes, and I am afraid to be alone. I, of all people. I have always been a rock. A sensible person. So steady. Even during my husband's infidelity I waited, always sure of myself, never panicking. But lately, I've had the most terrible dreams. They seem so real.”

She opened a door that swung too silently. Their footsteps made no sound across the carpet. A desk drawer opened with a sound like a cough. She pressed the envelope into his hand. She turned away, as if she did not like to see the envelope, or to be reminded of what it contained.