Figgs & Phantoms (15 page)

Her hands behind her clutching the doorknob, Mona watched the old bookseller resume his perch on the high stool. He no longer had his bald spot; otherwise he, too, appeared unchanged. And he, too, must have studied the map in
Las Hazañas Fantásticas
before he died.

Resentful of old man Bargain, fearful of the savage pirate in the street, Mona tried to think of Uncle Florence, only of Uncle Florence. Slowly the knob turned in her hand. Once again she stood behind the opera house and saw Phoebe and Uncle Florence in the field of flowers.

“Uncle Florence!” Mona shouted.

A hand gripped her shoulder.

“No!” The pirate's voice was deep and stern. “No, let them be.”

M
ONA SAT on the edge of a large carved chair, her eyes trying to escape the pirate's intent stare. Fear had given way to confusion; unasked questions were stuck in her throat.

At last the pirate spoke. “Seems rather damp in here,” he said with surprising mildness.

Now Mona felt the dampness and nodded in agreement. The pirate fanned the flames in the great marble fireplace and began pacing the palatial room. Mona wished she were sitting on something more comfortable.

“Get that monstrosity out of my castle,” the pirate shouted as she snuggled into the broken springs of her old sofa. Mona quickly sat upright again in the carved chair. “I'm sorry,” she whispered hoarsely.

“I haven't decided on all the furnishings for this room,” he said, softening his tone again, “but that sofa was ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous.”

Trembling, Mona nodded again and racked her brains for something to say, something casual and pleasant. She knew instinctively that she would have to please her eccentric captor if she were going to reach Uncle Florence. Clearing her throat, she made an awkward attempt at polite conversation. “How many rooms do you have here?”

“It varies,” the pirate replied. “Anywhere from fifteen to one hundred and eighty-five, depending on my mood.”

“I'd guess there are about fifteen rooms now,” Mona said, familiar with his wild swings of temperament.

“You're probably right. I do feel in a fifteen-room mood. Fifteen rooms, that is, not counting the sapphire ballroom I built for Phoebe and Florence. They love to dance, you know.” Anticipating Mona's next question, he turned away.

“We'll discuss that later.”

Mona would have to wait, but she wanted to keep her host in his fifteen-room mood. He was still wearing a sword, and his hand rested on the jeweled hilt. “How many bedrooms do you have?” she asked. It was the wrong question.

“None!” The pirate's face darkened as he pointed threateningly at Mona. “No bedrooms; no sleep; no dreams. Not while I have a stubborn, heartless intruder on my island.

“I have had to watch your every clumsy step. I have had to listen to your whining cries and that ear-shattering tapping that follows you everywhere. I have had to blot out your philistine wishes and tasteless encroachments, your appleless apple tree and your crudely drawn sign.”

“But I didn't make that sign.” Mona's protest went unheard as the pirate ranted on.

“I have had to resort to threats and terrors, heat and hurricanes and the tongue of John Milton, and still you remain, uninvited, unwanted, a blemish on this, my most magnificent dream of dreams.”

“This is NOT your dream,” Mona shouted, fearless with rage.

The pirate laughed a loud, mocking laugh.

“I belong here!” Mona screamed, lashing back at the pirate as she had wanted to lash back at the people of Pineapple. “I belong here, here in Capri with Uncle Florence and my pink palm.”

“Pink!” His leopard eyes glared. The pirate seized Mona by the arm and dragged her across the marble floor to the high arched window. “Look! Look at your pink palm.”

Alone on a stretch of sand in the distance the tall palm glowed a muted orange.

“The color is coral, coral, a delicate shade of coral. Not PINK!” He clenched his teeth on the word pink as if to gnash it apart, then, his poise regained, continued. “That CORAL palm was drawn by my own hand, painted with my own brush, on my own island, on my own map, in my own book:
The Imaginary Adventures of a Would-Be Pirate.”

“But the book was in Spanish,” Mona challenged feebly.

“I am speaking Spanish,” replied the would-be pirate.

The Spanish map-maker and would-be pirate, Capitán Miguel de Caprichos, sat at the head of the banquet table waited on by faceless servants. At the foot of the long board Mona poked at her food, tortured by humiliation and uncertainty.

“Eat,” he commanded. “You must be strong for your trip back.”

“Back where?” Mona asked dejectedly.

“What did you say?”

“I said, back where? Why did you dream up such a huge table for only two people? If I were dreaming up a dining room, I would put in....”

“You would put in what?” Her host was open to suggestion.

Mona didn't know. She had never paid much attention to furniture, or houses, or horses. “I'd just have a smaller table,” she replied humbly.

“Is that better?” he asked.

The table shrank in size; silver platters of food tumbled to the floor and vanished.

Mona smiled and wished herself a hamburger from Flabby's. And a candle for the middle of the table.

“Very good. You don't look half as scraggly by candlelight.”

Mona had forgotten what she looked like. She had never been pleased with her appearance, but now that she could be whoever she wanted to be, she felt most comfortable inside her ordinary, everyday body, with all its faults. At least it was hers. Nothing else in this ghostly land was hers, not even the pink palm. Not even Uncle Florence.

“Cheer up,” the pirate ordered. “Gloom is not allowed on Caprichos. You do understand that you will have to return to your home. You don't belong here.”

“But Uncle Florence....”

“Florence and Phoebe will remain. They are knowledgeable and talented citizens, and companionable neighbors. I have learned a great deal from them.” He dismissed the subject with a monologue on candles and candlesticks.

“There is a gold candelabrum, studded with emeralds and rubies, on a treasure ship I almost captured. I was defeated by Admiral One-Eye, an admirable adversary, but his ship will pass this way again. Then victory may be mine.”

“That's the silliest thing I've ever heard,” Mona said. “Losing a battle in your own dream.”

“Defeat makes the final victory all the sweeter,” the would-be pirate explained. “In real life sweet moments are short and dulled by time. But here the mind can invent and reinvent. Here I can relive each battle until I have perfected every detail of my glorious triumphs.”

“That's childish,” Mona said, remembering with shame her childish parents. “Uncle Florence isn't childish.”

“Your charming uncle and my dearest friend, Florence Figg,” the pirate replied, “has married Phoebe twenty-six times since arriving in Caprichos.”

Capitán Miguel de Caprichos rose from the table. “It is time for you to go.”

“No, please,” Mona begged. “Please let me see Uncle Florence.”

The would-be pirate was firm.

“Then let me stay here,” Mona begged.

“And what can you contribute here? A broken-down sofa, a hamburger, a candle?”

“Books. I know books. I can build you a library.”

“Come,” the captain said. Mona followed him into his library. Mahogany cases with glass-enclosed shelves lined the paneled room, filled with rare and exquisite volumes.

“Make me a book,” he commanded.

Mona strained her memory for a book, a book he had never seen, a book that would delight him. Ships, exotic scenes.

The remembered first edition—dark green binding-decorated cloth—slight tear in ... (no, Mona quickly repaired the torn backstrap) ... slowly materialized in her hands. She presented it to her captor.

The pirate turned to the frontispiece illustration of a ship in a raging storm and smiled. He read aloud from the title page. “Typhoon, by Joseph Conrad.”

Mona breathed a sigh of relief; he could read English after all, or some language common to dreams. But as the would-be pirate turned the pages, a scowl distorted his handsome face. He slammed the book shut and thrust it back into her hands.

“This is not a book,” he growled. “This is a package. A package of nothing.”

Hands shaking, Mona examined her book. Except for the memorized title, not a word appeared on any page. She stared down at her unread blank pages. “I want to see Uncle Florence. Please,” she begged, and burst into tears.

Torn between anger and pity, the pirate remained silent. He placed a hand on her trembling shoulder. “All right, you poor, dreamless, unchildlike child,” he said at last. “Dry those sightless eyes. I will let you see Florence once more. Just once more. But ... he must not know who you are.

“He must not know who you are.”

C
OLORED LANTERNS danced on a string around the terraced balcony; brilliant orchids studded the jungle canopy below. Mona wished up a fruit bowl full of figs and pineapples for the table decoration. This was to be her last night in Capitán Miguel de Caprichos' dream, and although she had promised not to reveal her identity when Uncle Florence arrived, she was determined to give him clues.

“Now, what shall we call you?” the pirate mused.

Mona thought of a Conrad title. “Narcissus. It's my favorite flower,” she lied. “Narcissus Q. Holtzlump.”

“Ridiculous. You shall be Señorita Narcissus Maria-Teresa Murillo y Olivares de Santiago. And twenty-three years old.”