Fata Morgana (9 page)

“I’m speeding toward bed,” answered Picard with a beatific smile, and the policeman understood that this lover was no threat to the night. He passed on, lightly-tapping his pole, and Picard went in the opposite direction, toward his hotel. Once more as he walked he felt the presence of the fairy child in him, a sliver of moonlight in his soul, haunting and distant. And with it he suddenly heard the mocking voice of Ric Lazare, saying,
It is only a toy, monsieur.

The
morning was grey, his cape windblown, and scattered snowflakes fell on the booths and stalls of the toy makers. But despite the cold, the atmosphere was warm,-the booths all heated by small stoves or open braziers, and the toys performed as usual on the counters and tables—dancing, drumming, opening and closing their eyes, making soft cries or squeals of delight when moved by the toy makers’ hands.

“I saw a toy once, a very elaborate one; it was a machine that clicked out one’s fortune.”

“If it’s fortune you’re after, sir, here is my husband’s version of the House of Wealth—a bank that takes your money in the most delightful way. Have you a coin?”

Picard gave the woman a coin, which she deposited in the mouth of a tin dog, who stood upon a metal platform, beside a tin doghouse. The woman touched the dog’s tail and he moved along a groove to the house, where he deposited the coin through a slot in the roof. It clinked away, out of sight, and Picard moved too, toward another booth, where a dancing toy bear was turning. The toy maker was a young man, smiling, wearing a long scarf around his neck, and warming his fingers over his brazier.

“Have you ever seen a toy that told fortunes?”

“No, sir, I’ve not,” said the young man. “There’s precious little fortune in toys, I’ll tell you.”

“You must work long hours on them.”

“As a hobby, sir. To pass the time, after working seventy hours a week in the factory.”

Picard moved on, from booth to booth, inquiring after a fortune-telling toy that clicked like a telegraph machine. The snow continued to whirl; no one had seen such a toy; indeed, it didn’t even sound like a toy. “If you want a toy, sir, a real toy, look here, at this kangaroo...”

He stood in the middle of the square, with the medieval-like booths all around him, their many flags and banners whipping in the wind. The feeling was strange, as if he’d known it all before, long ago, on the jousting field of a bygone age. He smiled to himself, recognizing the enchantment of the toys again, which filled the mind with fairy tales.

He stared up and down the rows of the toy makers, making certain that he’d inquired at every booth. He heard the embattled voice of two of the toy makers, somewhere toward the fringe of the fair grounds. While he could not quickly translate the shouts, he understood the universal language of resentment, especially when it is joined by the wife of one of the combatants, as now seemed to have happened. He caught sight of the contest, between one booth, already set up, whose owners, a man and a woman, were screaming at a bent little pin of a man, who was, with the help of an obviously dim-witted youth, trying to set up his own tent. Despite the scolding of his neighbors, he continued setting up shop, and smiled at the approach of Picard.

“Having trouble?” asked Picard, answering the bent man’s smile.

“None at all, sir,” said the bent man, as if the storm of protest were not falling on his head. Then, turning to the boy: “Hurry up there, lad, we’ve got a visitor.”

Picard assisted the dim-witted youth in the securing of the tent pole, which brought a hiss from the neighbor woman and a grunt of disgust from her husband.

“All right, sir, we’ll just be a moment,” said the bent man. He lit a lantern and opened his trunk, withdrawing a number of conventional toys—little hopping rabbits, birds who chirped when wound, and a fish on wheels.

“I’m looking for an unusual toy, not the sort of thing I’ve seen anywhere around here,” said Picard.

“Of course,” said the bent man, “a discerning collector. Of course, my dear sir, I have exactly what you’re looking for.” He signaled to the dim-witted young man, who lifted a second trunk onto the toy maker’s bench. The bent man opened it and withdrew a toy man, clothed in a barrel. “Now here is a somewhat unusual...” He lifted the barrel over the man’s head, and in so doing exposed the man’s miniature sexual member, which rose up quickly to erection, supported by a rubber spring. The peddler lowered the barrel again, covering the man’s private parts. “A novelty.” He smiled. “A comic piece.... Here we have something for your tree...”

He brought out a large Christmas ball, beautifully made, wreathed with bright bands and bits of sparkle. Handing it to Picard, he said, “Look closely, sir. Yes, Father Christmas has come...”

Picard held up the Christmas ball. On one side of it was a tiny glass window. He peeked through it, into the interior of the ball, where a tiny naked lady lay, upon a tiny bed, with Father Christmas atop her, delivering his gift.

“Yes,” said the bent man, taking back the ball, “just a touch of cheer, for the holiday season, you see... now, let me...” He dug in his trunk again, like Father Christmas himself, mumbling amongst his gifts.

“I’m looking for a fortune-telling machine,” said Picard. “One which clicks out information of a very special kind...”

“You’ve seen the work of Robert Heron, then.”

“Robert Heron?”

“My dear sir, who else could make such a thing as you describe. Surely none of these jackasses!” The bent man gestured toward the other booths in the fair.

“Who is Robert Heron?”

“The greatest toy maker in the world.”

“Where may I find him?”

“His home is in Nuremberg.”

“And he makes a fortune-telling toy?”

“His automatic mechanisms are without peer. I daresay his toys can do what angels cannot.”

There was a scuffling outside the tent, and the door was suddenly filled by a grey-frocked policeman and the wife of the next-door toy maker. The woman was still red-faced with indignation and the policeman came forward, spurred on by her loud protestations.

“Who is the owner of this tent?”
 

“I am,” said the bent man.

“I understand that obscene objects are for sale here, which is strictly against the law. I must ask you, sir, to...”

“Excuse me,” said Picard, opening his wallet and showing his credentials, as well as the special visitor’s badge issued him by the Viennese Chief of Police.

“Yes, sir,” said the policeman. “May I be of assistance?”

“I’m working with your Chief,” said Picard, “and this man is helping me in my investigation. I would appreciate it if his perfectly innocent display of toys”—Picard gestured toward a tricycling goat—”be left unmolested. He is of great service to me.”

“Very good, sir,” said the policeman. Turning to the dumbfounded woman, he gestured toward her with his walking stick and directed her out of the tent. At the last moment, he leaned back in and touched his hat with his fingers. “Don’t worry, gentlemen, there’ll be no further interruptions.” He disappeared, then, and the next-door neighbors were silenced.

“Thank you,” said the bent man.

“Robert Heron is in Nuremberg, you say?”

“He was when last I saw him, nearly a year ago.”

Picard adjusted the collar of his cape and took hold of the tent flap. “I’m grateful for your help.” He moved the tent flap aside, but then turned back, drawn to a toy the idiot assistant was placing on the wooden display bench.

“You like it, sir?” asked the bent man. “You may have it.”

Picard picked up the glass ball. It was clear glass, and constructed within it were a few tiny buildings and a man pulling a cart beside them, through a layer of snow which covered the bottom of the ball. He shook the ball and the snowflakes rose up, suspended in water, and slowly fell around the rooftops and onto the man’s head. Picard watched them fall, a peculiar feeling coming over him, as if he knew the figure in the glass, had known him for many years, indeed for all time.

“A beautiful thing,” said Picard, setting the ball back onto the bench.

“Worlds within worlds, sir. I have here another transparent glass, the subject of which is somewhat more sophisticated, Miss Schmidt and the Delivery Boy, for private collectors only...” He reached into his other trunk, but Picard was already departing the tent, into the blowing storm.

The
train was halted by drifting dunes of snow. Picard left his compartment and walked to the end of the coach. The conductor shook his head; there was no telling when the tracks would be cleared. “We’re not far from the inn, if you care to walk.” He pointed toward a curl of smoke that played among the falling snowflakes. “You can hire a carriage from there.”

Picard returned to his compartment and picked up his bag. Other passengers were doing the same. They stepped from the train, into the knee-deep snow. The snowflakes fell upon his face, and he raised his footsteps high, drinking in the fresh clean draughts of winter air. Nuremberg can’t be more than an hour’s ride; up this hill, then, that’s a stout lad, push your fat along and don’t eat so much today.

The road to the inn was being plowed by a team of men and horses, who dragged a large wooden blade

through the snow. The horses’ manes were filled with snow and the men’s beards glistened with frost. They’d obviously been working all night, for the way was now wide enough for a carriage sled to pass through easily. Picard entered the inn with four other passengers and they engaged the carriage for immediate departure.

The horses were fresh, shivering and stamping in their harness, eager to be moving. Picard tossed his luggage on top and settled in by the window, joined by an elderly man and his wife, and two young women, apparently of the teaching profession, for they had taken out a textbook and were sharing it on their laps. Picard considered opening the book he had in his own coat pocket, then decided against it. The memoirs of Celeste Savidant bore a rather lurid cover and might prove upsetting to the young women, and perhaps to the old boy and his wife. It was the sort of reading matter Picard liked, but not now; a trifle inappropriate. Just relax and watch the scenery.

“You’re going to Nuremberg, sir?” asked the old man.

Picard nodded.

“On business, yes?”

“I’m a toy collector,” said Picard.

“Ah, I see,” said the old man. His wife, a shy little Frau, whispered in her husband’s ear, and he smiled, nodding toward Picard. “Yes, if you’re a collector, you must see our friend Hermann Wilderstein. He lives in the shadow of the great Tower. I’ll write down the address for you.”

“I’m very grateful,” said Picard. “Is Herr Wilderstein a collector?”

“A toy maker. An excellent one.”

“Are you familiar with the work of Robert Heron?”

“Naturally. He is the finest in the world.”

“Do you know him?”

“I’ve seen him about. You’ll find his shop. It’s near the... isn’t it near the Hauptmarkt, mama?”

The old woman nodded her head and smiled at Picard. Her husband, now satisfied of the stranger’s business, closed his eyes and folded his hands across his stomach. The two young women continued their lesson, in mathematics, and Picard turned toward the window. He’d been flung out of school as a boy, mathematics being only one of the things about which he had no understanding, or interest, and their voices brought back all his old feelings of insecurity, as if the lesson were being prepared for him, for the stout, stupid little Picard, hiding in the last row.

The runners of the sleigh cut along through the snow with a softly hissing sound, and Picard took refuge in it, forgetting all voices, from the present and the past. Snow-laden trees bent low over the road, and the horses gave off a subtle perfume, the scent of vigor, of strength. Cottages appeared, fell away behind them; the old man snored quietly, and Picard looked toward the next bit of firelight and smoke, where a house and barn were nestled at the edge of the forest. The cows were standing outside the barn, and had made a tangle of paths all around it, through the snow. The farmer who’d just milked them had loaded his wagon with milk cans and was bringing it toward the road.

The moment froze, a cheap Christmas calendar, an innocuous winterland scene become the quintessence of horror to Picard, who stared dumbfounded at each suspended detail: the smoke held in the air, unmoving, the farmer and his horse immobile as two wooden toys.

“That is for Nuremberg,” said the old woman softly, destroying the spell, setting free the smoke, the farmer, the horse, and Picard, whose heart began beating again. The old man muttered in his sleep, and she touched his sleeve. He woke, looked around him in puzzlement for a moment, then smiled at Picard.

“Your toys, sir, do they bring a good price in other parts of Europe?”

“Depending on who has made them,” said Picard nervously, looking out the window, turning back to be sure the farmer and his horse did not again become creatures of ice. He faced the old man, tried to smile. “The toys of Robert Heron...”