The Age of Magic (13 page)

They hadn’t gone long when, on looking back, they noticed that the church was further away than they thought it would be, as if it had moved.

They went on a little longer, and then they thought they should make their way home to the hotel in time for lunch. But when they turned back everything seemed different. They were lost.

The air had become murky though there were no clouds in the sky. They heard raucous noises up ahead, people talking loudly and all at once. An orchestra sounded jarring notes close by. There were vintage cars parked along the road. Lao and Mistletoe were bewildered.

They came to a white open-topped car with a bunch of violets visible on the front seat and a card with words scribbled on it which they didn’t have time to decipher because they suddenly noticed someone standing next to them. A tall well-dressed gentleman in a morning suit and a grey top hat with the air of a successful banker stood there. He had just sunk his teeth into a split pomegranate when they asked him the way back to the hotel. To their surprise he threw his head back and laughed. It was very disconcerting. They could see the red seeds in his open mouth. As he laughed they had a chance to look at the card.

Greater authority

Hath Christ

Who rose from death

Than Christ

Before his death.

Lao and Mistletoe exchanged glances. Thinking that the man had not heard their question, they asked it again. He stopped laughing and regarded them with pity.

‘There’s no way you’ll get a hotel in this town, dear boy,’ he said, taking another bite from his half-eaten pomegranate. ‘It’s all full up. It’s been full up all season.’

He must have noticed the strange look on their faces for, in a more genial tone, he said:

‘Everybody is here, you know. The rich, the famous, the fatuous, dear lady, are all here. Film stars, shipping magnates, great beauties, American tycoons, and the thousands that go where they go, are all here. There’s not a single room to be had, for God or money.’

The look of consternation on their faces deepened. The man smiled ruefully.

‘As you can see, I’m leaving. I’ve had enough. I’m finished.’

He pulled out a black handkerchief and wiped his face. He became solemn.

‘The town is ruined,’ he said sadly. ‘Ruined by the rich and famous. It’s over-run and over-exposed. That’s the price of fame, dear boy, the deadly price of fame.’

Lao and Mistletoe looked at one another.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ the man said, looking at them with a thoughtful smile. ‘But it’s true. First the rich, then the rest. After that, hysteria.’ He fixed them each with a piercing stare. ‘Do you know what we have done?’

Lao and Mistletoe shook their heads.

‘We have sucked the place dry,’ he said. ‘We have torn up its flowers, fornicated in its cemetery, and revelled in its churches. We have sucked its teats dry. We have spread debauchery everywhere. That’s what we do.’

He gave them a mournful look.

‘Then we move on, find another town by a lake or the sea, somewhere unspoilt, and we do it all over again. We make a place famous, and then we ruin it. But I’m leaving, I’m finished.’

The last bit of pomegranate disappeared into his mouth. He gave them an avuncular smile.

‘Good luck to you both. I hope you find somewhere to stay in the encroaching darkness. You look so innocent. Lambs to the slaughter. But beware the wine of fame, its intoxication, its madness.’

Then he raised his hat to them, slid into the white car, and sped off, mirage into a mirage, without raising dust.

Not knowing what to make of the man’s utterances, they went on walking through the unfamiliar streets till they came to their hotel. They were puzzled to find a scene of drunken rowdiness in its forecourt. The building looked bright as if freshly painted. It had a bustling air and a large signboard over the entrance which wasn’t there before. Spilling out of the doorway, noisy in the garden, were men in morning suits and women in slinky silk dresses and demure hats. They were all talking at once and were drunk and jolly. A man with a waxed moustache and a fluted glass of champagne in one hand caught sight of Lao and Mistletoe and pointed at them and said something to his companions. They turned and stared as though they had never seen anything like them in the world.

‘We’d better go,’ Lao said. ‘I think we’re in the wrong time.’

They turned and hurried back in the direction they had come, trying to control their panic.

They half walked, half ran, till they were in sight of the pier. They took off their sandals and walked on the cool grass. They saw the little church again and crossed the road to wander among the beautiful gravestones of marble, granite and alabaster. They walked on the straight paths and looked at the carnations and violets and at the busts and pictures of the dead. They paid attention to the dates on the gravestones.

In the cemetery they calmed down a bit. The lighted lamps and flowers and the Elysian beauty of the place instilled in them some tranquillity.

They began touching the stones, and noticed a tingling in their fingertips. It was Mistletoe who saw the photograph first, the glazed picture of a man. The inscription read:

Tom Woolnoth

Investment Banker

Died in a Car Accident

Departed in a Hurry

1888
–1928

When they saw the picture the air settled, their heads cleared, and the magic quality of the light returned.

The mountain shone like crystals and the lake shimmered.

Freed of an oppressive weight in their heads, they looked at the pictures on the graves with new respect.

Sending out a silent blessing to all the dead, they left the cemetery, crossed the road and walked barefoot on the grass, and breathed gently.

They did not allude to their experience, choosing to pretend that nothing odd had happened, that they had merely passed through fragments of a dream floating in the air.

They kept their eyes firmly fixed on the mountain, till they got to their hotel. They lunched on salad and grilled fish and a glass of Sancerre, and went upstairs to sleep off their perplexity.

In the late afternoon, they went exploring again. This time they ventured beyond the bridge. Mistletoe led the way, following an unerring instinct. They crossed a patch of wasteland and went under a flyover. Suddenly they heard music and went towards it, walking along a path and climbing a hill till they saw a wood.

They had come upon a music festival in a clearing in the wood. A crowd of people were jumping up and down and singing along to a rock anthem pounding from a stage. There were caravans and portable lavatories on the edges of the clearing, and stalls selling hamburgers, hot-dogs, roasted chicken, beers, soft drinks, popcorn, T-shirts, books, CDs, multicoloured scarves, magic rings, and necklaces. There was even a Tarot card stall. Here at last were the young people of the town.

Lao and Mistletoe were relieved. They had begun to suspect the town of having no young people, as if some spirit of negation had driven them all away.

Coming upon a festival in the woods was exciting, as if they had wandered into a legend. They mingled with the young men in hats, the young women in pretty dresses, and didn’t think of themselves as outsiders. They bought soft drinks and hot-dogs and watched the peculiar dances.

But Lao and Mistletoe did attract attention because they were different. People clustered round them, wanting to talk to them, but didn’t have the courage.

Mistletoe began dancing. She danced on one spot, moving her hips, shaking her shoulders. It was a controlled dance. Lao brooded. He was watchful, his expression impenetrable.

They both thought the music very bad, but they listened. Then Lao growled out something which Mistletoe didn’t hear. But she grasped its intention. She said:

‘Why did you wake up screaming?’

‘Why did you stare at me coldly?’

‘You destroyed my mood.’

‘What mood?’

‘I was trying to draw the cloud over the mountain, to capture something quite difficult.’

‘And so?’

‘I was just discovering something and then you screamed, and frightened it away.’

‘How was I to know that? I was asleep.’

‘How was I to protect myself from your nightmare?’

‘I can’t say I’m sorry.’

‘Of course you can’t; you’re a monster.’

‘Monsters don’t have nightmares. They are nightmares.’

‘What about gods? Do they have nightmares?’

‘Some people would say this world is the bad dream of a god.’

‘We are all gods,’ said Mistletoe.

‘Gods of mud.’

‘Okay, we’re not gods. We only contain gods.’

‘You got that from a sacred Indian book.’

‘Yes.’

‘“All the gods are within us, like cows in a cowshed.”’

‘Well remembered. Anyway, why did you scream?’

‘I thought I had diverted you from that question.’

‘I know some of your tricks. I know the things you want to tell me.’

‘How?’

‘Oh, how, how, how. They are usually the questions you don’t answer, the ones you deflect.’

‘Really?’

‘You’re not a piece of music, you know. You’re not to be got, any more than I am. When we’re in tune, it’s lovely; when we’re not, it’s frustrating. You ask me how I know when you want to really tell me something. Pure instinct, that’s all.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Forget it.’

‘I think I lost you there. Do you want a drink?’

‘I’m drunk.’

‘Already?’

‘I was drunk when we left the hotel.’

‘From what?’

‘From drawing the mountains. It did something weird to my head. I’m a little giddy.’

‘You’ve been soaring, my dear.’

‘My head’s been expanding.’

‘Now you’re big-headed.’

‘Not nearly as much as you are. So, tell me why you screamed.’

‘Do you really want to know?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Then I’ll tell you.’

‘Even if I don’t want to hear?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Then I won’t listen.’

‘Excellent.’

‘I’m not listening, but carry on.’

‘I had this dream,’ said Lao. ‘In the dream Malasso was showing me a map of the world. I looked at it, and fell in. I fell into the world. I fell and fell till I landed at the precise point in the map that I was standing on to begin with. Malasso laughed and said:
This is the Arcadia you’re looking for.
I didn’t understand what he meant.’

Lao paused. The music from the band had got louder, and the shouting and singing along amplified it. They moved further away.

‘In the same dream Malasso showed me another map. It was a map of the universe, vast and three-dimensional. I got lost in it. Centuries went by. I woke up in this place where there was a lake and a mountain. You were on the mountaintop dancing naked with the circus folk. I called to you, and you turned, saw me, and screamed. Then the circus folk, like murderous bacchantes, came at me. I ran and suddenly found myself with Malasso. He showed me the map again. Then he said:
This is what will happen when you find the treasure…
I still didn’t understand.’

Looking around, Lao saw that the crowds were denser. The musicians were performing another song, a ballad, and it was not as loud as the previous one.

‘And then in the same dream he showed me a third map.’

‘Is this still Malasso?’

‘Yes. The third map was tiny. It was minuscule. It was microscopic. I peered into it, and saw everything: the first map, the second map, my life, your life, the whole earth, all dreams, all fishes, angels, cloud formations, fourth dimensional beings. As I gazed I fell into this map, and I wandered the world, looking for someone I knew. I discovered that I knew everyone. All things were familiar to me. It was disconcerting.’

Lao paused again and shook his head as if to rid himself of an unpleasant sensation. Mistletoe listened with a neutral expression.

‘Then I came to a gravestone. It had one word inscribed on it in gold letters: ARCADIA. As I stared at the word there was a mighty noise. The earth cleaved apart and the tomb opened and a man stepped out. He had a strange glow. There was something about him, something frightening. Then I realised what it was.’

Lao stopped.

‘What was it?’

‘It was his tranquillity,’ said Lao in such a soft voice that she almost missed it. ‘But that’s not it. The really weird thing is I noticed that he was me.’

‘You?’

‘Yes, me. A better, wiser, transfigured me, shining with the tranquil authority of truth.’

Lao’s face turned grim.

‘Then the really scary thing happened.’

‘What?’

‘This other me, this transformed me, approached, and I fled. At least I tried to, but couldn’t. Then he enfolded me in an electrifying embrace which I could not withstand. It was horrible. It felt as if I was scalded. I screamed, and woke up to your cool stare.’

A warm applause rose from the crowd at the conclusion of the ballad. The performance had ended, and another band took over.

Mistletoe said nothing. She was letting the recounted dream settle. Her response would take a form she didn’t know yet. She didn’t want to force it. Lao understood this, but he still wanted a word from her. It was always a risk telling a dream, and he didn’t want his dream to disappear into silence.

‘Do you understand how your cool stare made me feel?’

She looked at him with neutral eyes, and said nothing. She was never good with anything resembling a direct accusation. When it became clear that she was not going to say anything, he shrugged and went off into the crowd. It was a way of regaining something of the integrity lost in speaking of his dream.

Mistletoe stayed where she was, and watched his head vanish into the crowd.

She drew a line on him and intersected it with another, and kept track of his motion through the crowd. How easy it is for two people to lose one another, she thought. She was aware that he had left because of her unresponsiveness, but she couldn’t help it.