Our Lady of Darkness

unpredictable streets done now?”

As soon as Franz was reasonably sure that the neatly bearded, rather theatric visage was Byers’s, he pressed past him, saying, “Shut the door. I am shaken,” while he scanned the richly furnished entry and the large, glamorous room opening from it and the thickly carpeted stairs ahead going up to a landing mellow with light that had come through stained glass, and the dark hall beyond the stairs.

Behind him, Byers was saying, “All in good time. There, it’s locked, and I’ve even thrown a bolt, if that makes you feel better. And now some wine? Fortified, your condition would seem to call for. But tell me at once if I should call a doctor, so we won’t have that fretting us.”

They were facing each other now. Jaime Donaldus Byers was about Franz’s age, somewhere in the mid- forties, medium tall, with the easy, proud carriage of an actor. He wore a pale green Nehru jacket faintly embroidered in gold, similar trousers, leather sandals, and a long, pale violet dressing gown, open but belted with a narrow sash. His well-combed auburn hair hung to his shoulders. His Vandyke beard and narrow moustache were neatly trimmed. His palely sallow complexion, noble brow, and large liquid eyes were Elizabethan, suggesting Edmund Spenser. And he was clearly aware of all this.

Franz, whose attention was still chiefly elsewhere, said, “No, no doctor. And no alcohol, this time, Donaldus. But if I could have some coffee, black…”

“My dear Franz, at once. Just come with me into the living room. Everything’s there. But what is it that has shaken you? What’s chasing you?”

“I am afraid,” Franz said curtly and then added quickly, “of paramentals.”

“Oh, is that what they’re calling the big menace these days?” Byers said lightly, but his eyes had narrowed sharply first. “I’d always thought it was the Mafia. Or the CIA? Or something from your own ‘Weird Underground,’ some novelty? And there’s always reliable Russia. I am up to date only sporadically. I live firmly in the world of art, where reality and fantasy are one.”

And he turned and led the way into the living room, beckoning Franz to follow. As he stepped forward, Franz became aware of a melange of scents: freshly brewed coffee, wines and liqueurs, a heavy incense and some sharper perfume. He thought fleetingly of Saul’s story of the Invisible Nurse and glanced toward the stairs and back hall, now behind him.

Byers motioned Franz to select a seat, while he busied himself at a heavy table on which stood slender bottles and two small steaming silver urns. Franz recalled Peter Viereck’s poetry line, “Art, like the bartender, is never drunk,” and briefly recalled the years when bars had been places of refuge for him from the terrors and agonies of the outside world. But this time fear had come inside with him.

17

The room was furnished sybaritically, and while not specifically Arabian, held much more ornamentation than depiction. The wallpaper was of a creamy hue, on which faint gold lines made a pattern of arabesques featuring mazes. Franz chose a large hassock that was set against a wall and from which he had an easy view of the hall, the rear archway, and the windows, whose faintly glittering curtains transmitted yellowed sunlight and blurred, dully gilded pictures of the outdoors. Silver gleamed from two black shelves beside the hassock and Franz’s gaze was briefly held against his will (his fear) by a collection of small statuettes of modish young persons engaged with great hauteur in various sexual activities, chiefly perverse—the style between Art Deco and Pompeiian. Under any other circumstances he would have given them more than a passing scrutiny. They looked incredibly detailed and devilishly expensive. Byers, he knew, came of a wealthy family and produced a sizable volume of exquisite poetry and prose sketches every three or four years.

Now that fortunate person set a thin, large white cup half-filled with steaming coffee and also a steaming silver pot upon a firm low stand by Franz that additionally held an obsidian ashtray. Then he settled himself in a convenient low chair, sipped the pale yellow wine he’d brought, and said, “You said you had some questions when you phoned. About that journal you attribute to Smith and of which you sent me a photocopy.”

Franz answered, his gaze still roving systematically. “That’s right. I do have some questions for you. But first I’ve got to tell you what happened to me just now.”

“Of course. By all means. I’m most eager to know.”

Franz tried to condense his narrative, but soon found he couldn’t do much of that without losing significance, and ended by giving a quite full and chronological account of the events of the past thirty hours. As a result, and with some help from the coffee, which he’d needed, and from his cigarettes, which he’d forgotten to smoke for nearly an hour, he began after a while to feel a considerable catharsis. His nerves settled down a great deal. He didn’t find himself changing his mind about what had happened or its vital importance, but having a human companion and sympathetic listener certainly did make a great difference emotionally.

For Byers paid close attention, helping him on by little nods and eye-narrowings and pursing of lips and voiced brief agreements and comments—at least they were mostly brief. True, those last weren’t so much practical as aesthetic—even a shade frivolous—but that didn’t bother Franz at all, at first, he was so intent on his story; while Byers, even when frivolous, seemed deeply impressed and far more than politely credulous about all Franz told him.

When Franz briefly mentioned the bureaucratic runaround he’d gotten, Byers caught the humor at once, putting in, “Dance of the clarks, how quaint!” And when he heard about Cal’s musical accomplishments, he observed, “Franz, you have a sure taste in girls. A harpsichordist! What could be more perfect? My current dear- friend-secretary-playfellow-cohousekeeper-cum-moon-goddess is North Chinese, supremely erudite, and works in precious metal—she did those deliciously vile silvers, cast by the lost-wax process of Cellini. She’d have served you your coffee except it’s one of our personal days, when we recreate ourselves apart. I call her Fa Lo Suee (the Daughter of Fu Manchu—it’s one of our semiprivate jokes) because she gives the delightfully sinister impression of being able to take over the world if ever she chose. You’ll meet her if you stay this evening. Excuse me, please go on.” And when Franz mentioned the astrological graffiti on Corona Heights, he whistled softly and said, “How very appropriate!” with such emphasis that Franz asked him, “Why?” but he responded, “Nothing. I mean the sheer range of our tireless defacers. Next: a pyramid of beer cans on Shasta’s mystic top. This pear wine is delightful—you should taste it—a supreme creation of the San Martin winery on Santa Clara Valley’s sun-kissed slopes. Pray continue.”

But when Franz mentioned Megapolisomancy a third or fourth time and even quoted from it, he lifted a hand in interruption and went to a tall bookcase and unlocked it and took from behind the darkly clouded glass a thin book bound in black leather beautifully tooled with silver arabesques and handed it to Franz, who opened it.

It was a copy of de Castries’s gracelessly printed book, identical with his own copy, as far as he could tell, save for the binding. He looked up questioningly.

Byers explained, “Until this afternoon I never dreamed you owned a copy, my dear Franz. You showed me only the violet-ink journal, you’ll recall, that evening in the Haight, and later sent me a photocopy of the written-on pages. You never mentioned buying another book along with it. And on that evening you were, well… rather tiddly.”

“In those days I was drunk all of the time,” Franz said flatly.

“I understand… poor Daisy… say no more. The point is this: Megapolisomancy happens to be not only a rare book, but also, literally, a very secret one. In his last years, de Castries had a change of mind about it and tried to hunt down every single copy and burn them all. And did! Almost. He was known to have behaved vindictively toward persons who refused to yield up their copies. He was, in fact, a very nasty and, I would say (except I abhor moral judgments) evil old man. At any rate, I saw no point at the time in telling you that I possessed what I thought then to be the sole surviving copy of the book.”

Franz said, “Thank God! I was hoping you knew something about de Castries.”

Byers said, “I know quite a bit. But first, finish your story. You were on Corona Heights, today’s visit, and had just looked through your binoculars at the Transamerica Pyramid, which made you quote de Castries on ‘our modern pyramids…’ ”

“I will,” Franz said, and did it quite quickly, but it was the worst part; it brought vividly back to him his sight