Waking the Moon

With one smooth motion Magda pulled off the lunula. She held it in front of her and gazed upon it for the last time.

All the brilliance that had filled the room now seemed to radiate from the shimmering crescent, so that nothing but shadows surrounded herself and Angelica. From somewhere very far away she heard murmuring, a woman’s voice raised in lamentation. The shadows grew thicker. For an instant Magda had a glimpse of the new moon rising above a stony outcropping, the scarlet arc of George Wayford’s throat against the earth. Before the vision could fade she slid the lunula over Angelica’s head.

“I’m very glad you enjoyed the lecture,” Magda said loudly as Balthazar and Francis Connelly swept up behind her.

“What?” exclaimed Angelica; then “0w!—it’s hot!”

“But now you’d better go—”

Magda pushed the girl toward the bar. In a daze Angelica stumbled past Professor Warnick and his companion, then on through the diminishing crowd, her fingers splayed across her throat. For once no one took any notice of her.

“Magda.”

Magda could smell Balthazar before she turned to greet him: that deceptively serene mixture of Borkum Riff and chalk and moldering books. “Balthazar,” she whispered.

The small slender man shook his head. In his pearl grey morning suit and ascot of pale green satin, he looked like a darkly elegant cricket.

“I was so—surprised—to learn you were still among us. I thought your flight was today.” His tone was mocking but also wistful.

“I changed it.”

He took her right arm, Francis her left. “You changed a few other things as well,” Balthazar murmured as they assisted her through the crowd. “News of your recent fieldwork reached me only this morning. I had no idea your interests had—expanded—so far beyond ours.”

Gently but irresistibly they steered her toward the same door where Harold Mosreich’s nuns had gathered earlier. Magda looked away so they couldn’t see the fear in her eyes. Her throat and breast felt scorched. Without the lunula she felt utterly exposed, as in a nightmare of facing a lecture hall naked, her students gaping in disbelief. As Balthazar and Francis led her through the darkened doorway she whimpered.

Here the sounds of the reception were abruptly silenced. They were in one of the service wings of Garvey Hall. The narrow passage was dark and cool, the floors smelling of disinfectant and neglect and giving a hollow echoing tone to their footsteps. A chill wind moaned querulously as it plucked at Magda’s bare arms. When they turned a corner her captors’ hold on her grew tighter.

“Where are you taking me?” she whispered.

They faced a wide stairway that curved upward through several stories until it disappeared into utter darkness. From far overhead came the rattle of an unlatched window. As Warnick and Francis dragged her up the steps she pulled back with all her strength.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Forget it, Magda,” spat Francis. “We know all about you, we—”

“Francis!” Warnick’s commanding voice rang out. Francis fell silent and glared sullenly at Magda. Balthazar shook his head.

“Forgive me if our methods seem a little crude, Magda. But we just can’t afford to let you go.”

“Where—” she began; but Balthazar hushed her.

“I was terribly, terribly sorry to lose you to Berkeley,” he said, his voice so regretful that she glanced at him hopefully, half-expecting to see tears in his eyes. There were none, but the look he gave her was immeasurably sad. “And now this—losing you twice… Oh, Magda—”

They stopped, halfway up the stairs. Francis stared pointedly into the darkness and glowered. But Balthazar gazed at Magda, his handsome features disarmingly youthful as ever. To her amazement she saw that now his eyes were brilliant with tears. She could feel his hand trembling even as he held her unyieldingly. For a moment she thought he was going to stand on tiptoe to kiss her. Instead he turned away.

“This is a great disappointment,” he said, and pulled her after him.

“Please, Balthazar, can’t you tell me—”

Her words broke off as she stumbled onto a landing. They stood at the entrance of another dim hallway. Seemingly endless ranks of closed doors lined each side of the corridor. There was a smell of stagnant water, the faintest whiff of gasoline.

“A safe place,” Balthazar said softly. “No people to bother you—”

“Balthazar, listen to me—”

“—no people at all—”

“Balthazar, please!”

No one heard as they dragged her into the silent passage.

The string quartet had packed their instruments and were lined up at the bar, ordering shots of tequila. A tape of the opening strains of Carmina Burana wafted above the dying smoke and laughter. At my feet a little army of empty glasses glinted, as I finished another vodka tonic. I was already totally wasted, but I had some stupid idea that the more messed up I got, the safer I would be here.

“They always play this as a sign-off,” Baby Joe said in disgust. “It’s like the fucking national anthem at midnight.” He shifted against the wall, pointed with his drink. “Uh-oh. Here comes Barbie.”

I looked up to see Angelica.

“The weirdest thing just happened to me.” She raised an eyebrow at the rows of empty glasses and the cigarette in my hand. “Have you seen Oliver? Sweeney…?”

“Angelica.” I grabbed Baby Joe’s arm. “This is Baby Joe—remember, you said you’d met him—”

Angelica flashed him a distracted smile. “Sure. Hi. Look, Sweeney, this is very strange—do you know who Magda Kurtz is?”

“Uh-uh. No, wait—” I looked at Baby Joe. “Wasn’t that who you were telling me about?”

“Visiting Marcellien Professor in European Studies.” Baby Joe regarded Angelica through slitted eyes. He looked like Peter Lorre sizing up a little girl for the kill. “Saw you talking to her.”

“Well, look—she gave me this—”

I leaned forward to see what she pointed at: a crescent-shaped silver necklace, like a Celtic torque.

“Wow. It looks expensive. She gave it to you?”

Angelica nodded earnestly. “Isn’t that weird?”

“Beware of geeks bearing gifts.” Angelica looked annoyed as Baby Joe pointed across the room. “There’s one now. Your friend Oliver.”

Angelica whirled. I made a show of casualness and turned slowly, taking another drag on my cigarette. When I saw him I started coughing uncontrollably. Baby Joe snickered.

“Maybe he heard the calla lilies are in bloom. Talagang sirang ulo.”

In the middle of the room Oliver stood gazing at the dome as if he were reading something there, his horoscope maybe, or the name of a good psychiatrist. A few feet away two middle-aged couples were trying very hard to ignore him. He was wearing makeup—at least what was left of it, most seemed to have come off on some kind of sheet wrapped around his neck. What remained was a red hole of a mouth and two bruised eyes, and of course all that disheveled hair and a flowered Marimekko sheet. He looked like the survivor of some terrible crash on a fashion runway, beautiful and wrecked.

Angelica stared at him transfixed. When I finally stopped coughing I wheezed, “He’s got to be totally wasted—he told me he was getting some mushrooms—”

“Mushrooms?” Baby Joe perked up. “Maybe I’ll go see how he’s doing.”

He rambled off, trailed by a grey cloud of ash. I started to follow when Angelica grabbed my arm.

“Come with me?” she pleaded, glancing back at Oliver. “I wanted to find the ladies’ room—I feel so grubby, all this smoke—”

I nodded reluctantly. When I looked back I saw Baby Joe standing a few feet from Oliver, smoking and