The Empire of Ice Cream (32 page)

A Man of Light

As if arranged for a game of musical chairs, the furniture in the large parlor was all gathered in a tight oval at the center of the room where divan backs touched the backs of rockers. Between two chairs was a small table upon which the servant rested a tray of hors d'oeuvres and the sole guest his drink. Other than this clutch of seating and an opulent crystal chandelier of six lit candles and five hundred pendants hanging directly above it, the space was completely bare. The floor, consisting of cheap gray planks, the kind used to build fences against dunes near the seashore, was swept perfectly clean. The walls all around, interrupted only once by a small rectangular window that gave a view of the eastern side of the estate, reached to a height of fifteen feet and were devoid of paintings or bric-a-brac. Instead they were neatly covered, floor to ceiling, with a faux-velvet olive green paper.

A lone cellist played in the room above the parlor, and the quiet, contemplative tune seemed to filter down through the center of the chandelier and disperse itself in droplets of light. The servant retreated to some other room of the enormous house, and the single guest, a young man by the name of August Fell, a reporter from the
Gazette
, sat in a straight-backed chair, reviewing the list of questions he'd jotted in his notebook. The peaceful nature of the music's glow, the palliative effects of the wine, his awe at the prospect of having an audience with Larchcroft, caused him to whisper as he read aloud what he'd earlier written. If he managed to bring it off, this would be the only interview ever conducted with his host.

Young August knew as much as the man on the street about Larchcroft, who carried the moniker “Man of Light” precisely because he'd shown the world what could be accomplished by manipulating that most elemental of substances. For working his alchemy of luminescence, turning the grim beautiful, the threadbare new, the physical spiritual, and the false true, the world had paid him handsomely. He'd come to the attention of the public while still in his twenties—not much older than August himself—by one night lighting, with five perfectly placed beacons, merely candlepower and large lenses, the local bank of his hometown so that the entire building, with its marble columns and decorative arch, appeared to float a good two feet off the ground. Since then he'd gained world renown as a visionary of illumination. Customers famous, infamous, and pedestrian patronized his services for a myriad of reasons. He utilized his expertise in all types of light imaginable, from sunlight to starlight, firefly to flame, to satisfy any and all requests.

One simple example of Larchcroft's magic was his personalized makeup regimen for discerning women. Of course this process didn't achieve the same level of international notoriety as his famous feat of having lit a battlefield to appear like Heaven—the corpses transformed into heaps of sleeping angels; an overturned war wagon taking on the very countenance of God—but he had revealed the secrets of his cosmetics whereas those of his more flamboyant efforts had not. Patrons had written to him with the simple request that he use his art to make them appear younger.

He produced a makeup that directed light to magically vanish extra chins, smooth wrinkles, negate crow's feet, and offer up to the world the radiance of youth and health. The idea had come to him when his constant research led him to read that the old masters, in the production of their paints, ground substances to a certain coarseness or fineness with a mind toward how each would refract and reflect. These painters knew exactly what would happen to light when it came in contact with their homemade paint, and through well-wrought strategies of intersecting beams were able to make their images appear to glow from within.

Larchcroft did the same with powder and rouge and eyeliner and for his efforts achieved even more remarkable results. Each patron's features were assessed by his people and prescribed an idiosyncratic formulation of makeup and a special plan of application. Crones appeared coquettes, and the plain-faced were transformed into sultry temptresses, so that by the end of an evening of socializing many a man found himself smitten with someone's grandmother. This rarely became an issue, for as many men purchased the same service, and since the process negated the ravages of age equally at all ages, the man finding a grandmother was more than likely someone's grandfather.

August, his notebook closed now, sipping port amidst the aural rain of light, could hardly believe his good fortune. All he'd done to arrange the meeting was write a letter to Larchcroft and request an interview. When he'd told his boss this, the older man laughed at him and shook his head. “You're a fool, lad, to think this man will give you five minutes,” said his boss. For three weeks he was the laughingstock of the
Gazette
, until one day a letter arrived with Larchcroft's name on the return address. When it was opened, the shiny material inside the flap of the envelope caught the ambient light from the gas lamps of the newspaper office and shone back so brightly into the room that all present were momentarily blinded.

An hour passed in the vast parlor and August began to wonder if perhaps the famous recluse had changed his mind. Then the music abruptly ceased. A door opened at the very northern end of the parlor and a gentleman in evening wear, sporting a bow tie and a red carnation in his lapel, entered. He stood still for a moment as if having forgotten something, and then, leaving the door open halfway, slowly walked toward the center of the room.

“Mr. Fell,” he said and waited, even though he'd already captured August's attention. “Mr. Larchcroft will now speak to you.”

There was a prolonged silence in anticipation of the great man's entrance through the far door, but seconds gave way to minutes. The gentleman with the carnation in his lapel stood perfectly still in a half-bow. Finally, August asked quietly, “Sir, are you Mr. Larchcroft?”

The gentleman sighed and said, “I am not. He is right over there.” He turned and pointed behind him at a spot near the entrance. August's glance tracked the man's direction, and a moment later, two sounds followed. The first was a gasp, and the second, coming quickly after, was that of a wine glass smashing upon the wooden floor. The sudden panic that seized the young reporter found its impetus in the fact that floating gracefully through the room, close to the right-hand wall, was a disembodied head, its chestnut hair streaked with gray and combed back in waves, gathered behind by a length of silver ribbon.

August stood, took a step forward, and the head turned to take him in. The face wore a stern countenance, bearing a slight but by no means insignificant descent at the corners of the lips; a subtle arch of the brows. It was a generous head, with fleshy cheeks that sagged into jowls and a long nose—bridge arched outward, tip pointing at the floor. The eyes were dark, encircled in shadows cast by a prominent brow at the center of which was set a diamond-shaped, green jewel the size of a thumbnail.

The head finally stopped moving and came around to face August straight on. Its strict gaze shifted back and forth, as if sizing him up, and the young man believed he'd been, by his appearance alone, found wanting. Before he could look away, though, the face of Larchcroft broke into a huge smile. His teeth gleamed in the soft light from the chandelier, and the entirety of his visage seemed to shine. “Thank you very kindly for waiting,” he said. “I had an engagement in town earlier this evening that took me longer than I'd wished.” August smiled back and took another step.

“Come closer,” said Larchcroft, “and mind that you watch the glass splinters.”

August began to apologize, but the head of the great man said, “Nonsense. It's not the first time that's happened.” Then he laughed heartily. “Come closer, away from the glass, and take a seat on the floor.”

Like a child at nursery school, the reporter sat on the floor but a few feet from the hovering visage, crossing his legs Indian-style. Larchcroft's head descended two feet, as if his non-existent body was sitting in an invisible chair. He stared up for a moment at the chandelier and then spoke:

“It's a strange thing to set out to learn about a Man of Light at night when the world is dark. But all things begin in darkness and far too many end there.”

August simply stared, unable to speak.

“I believe you have questions?” said Larchcroft.

The young man fumbled with his notebook, flipping through the pages so quickly a few were torn off at the corners. He licked his dry lips, and then repeated a question quietly to himself before voicing it. “Yes, sir,” said August, trembling. “Where were you born?”

The head wagged slowly back and forth.

“No?” said August.

“No,” said Larchcroft. “Everyone knows already where I was born. They've seen photographs of my parents in the newspapers. They've declared the hovel I grew up in a historic landmark, they wept at the early demise of my first wife, etc., etc. Look, son, if you want to get anywhere in life, you have to ask the big questions.”

“You mean, like why are you only … a head?” asked August.

“Not bad for a start. Pay attention.” Larchcroft's head turned to face the man with the red carnation in his lapel, who had gone to stand by the door at the far end of the room. “Baston,” called the Man of Light.

“Sir,” said the butler, looking up.

“Tell Hoates to play a few bars,” Larchcroft called.

The man by the open door leaned through the entrance and yelled, “Hoates, a few bars, old boy.”

A second later, the music again filtered down from the room upstairs. “Should I be listening for something?” asked August.

“No,” said Larchcroft, “watching, and watching intently.” He then closed his eyes and hummed along with the tune.

August watched but was confused as to what he was supposed to be watching.
This is certainly the strangest night of my life
, he thought. And then he began to see something he hadn't seen before. There was a very vague outline descending from the bottom of the great man's head, where, if it had a neck, that neck would be. August squinted and saw more of this line and a moment later saw a line descending on the other side from the bottom of the head. More seconds passed and it began to become clear to him—the vague shape of Larchcroft's body.

At that juncture, Larchcroft called out, “Enough,” so loudly that the man with the carnation didn't have to transfer the message upstairs. The music ceased and when it did, the faint lines that had begun to define the Man of Light's body suddenly disappeared. August snapped his head back and blinked.

Larchcroft's eyelids lifted and he smiled. “What did you see?” he asked.

“I began to see
you
,” said August.

“Very good. I'm wearing a suit: pants, jacket, shirt, gloves, shoes, and socks, all the exact same torpid velvet green as the wallpaper. The light acoustics in this room, if we can call them that—the barren space, the grayness of the floor, the height of the ceiling, our mass, and, of course, the glow of the chandelier, soft as liquid fire—conspire to make all but my head invisible against this background. But when Hoates plays his cello on the floor above, positioned directly over the chandelier, the vibration of the instrument travels through the ceiling and is picked up by the crystal pendants, which vibrate ever so slightly, altering the consistency of the light field and sundering the illusion.”

“And you are sitting on a bench or chair upholstered in the same green?” asked August in an excited voice.

“Precisely,” said Larchcroft.

“Ingenious,” said the young man, and laughed.

Larchcroft laughed uncontrollably for a time, and August thought the sight of it was both wonderful and somewhat horrible.

“You're a smart lad,” said the head, nodding in approval. “I have every bit of faith that you'll come up with the right question.”

At first August felt confidant that he wouldn't disappoint. The question seemed right on the tip of his tongue, but after sitting with his mouth open for a time, he found it had never been there at all and the sensation of its presence dissolved.

Larchcroft rolled his eyes. His head lurched forward and lowered itself toward August. The mouth opened, and, when words came forth, the young reporter could smell the warm, garlic-laced breath of his subject. “The Creature of Night,” came the great man's whispered message and was followed by a wink. Then the head ascended and moved back away.

“Can you please tell me about the creature of night?” asked August, bringing his pencil to the ready and resting his notebook on his knee.

Larchcroft sighed. “I suppose,” he said, “although it's a very personal story, and I shan't tell it more than this one time. I will have to fill you in on some preliminaries first.”

“I'm ready,” said August.

“Well,” said Larchcroft, closing his eyes briefly as if to gather his thoughts. “Light is a creative genius, an inventor, a sculptor. For proof of this we look no further than in the closest mirror at our own faces, and precisely into our own eyes. Can you think of anything, my dear Mr. Fell, more intricately complex, more perfectly compact and thoroughly functional than the human eye?”

“No, sir,” said August.

“I thought not,” said Larchcroft. “Consider this, though. Our eyes were created by light. Without the existence of light, we would not have eyes. Over the long course of man's evolutionary maturation to his modern condition, light sculpted these magical orbs, making subtle adjustments through the centuries, until now they are capable of the incredible process of sight. This most vital sense, not only a means of self-preservation but the single most important catalyst for culture, is a product of the inherent genius of light.

“In ancient times it was believed that our eyes were like beacons, generating beams that issued forth, mingling with the light of the sun as like is to like, to strike things and return to us a reflection that we would then register as sight. Now we understand that the eyes are only elaborate sensors by which light communicates with us. Make no mistake about it—light is sentient. It directs our will. Is both a taskmaster and a protective parent. This I understood very early in my investigation of it. From the time when I was five and I saw a beam of sunlight entering a room through a pinhole in a window blind, striking a goldfish bowl and being dispersed in the guise of its constituent colors, it was but a few short years of intellectual pursuit of the phenomenon before I realized that everything we see and seem is merely the detritus of pure light, or so I thought.”