A very strange thing happened to me a few days ago. The night before, I'd swiped a bottle of wine, maybe two, from a case a delivery man left by a hotel door. By the end of the night, I'd fallen asleep in Scriblerus House-today the Scriblerus Museum-on the bed where the author of Sylvie's Baubles had once lain in state.
The day was well underway when a little old man in a wing collar shook me from my slumber. "Young man! Wake up!"
"Huh? What?"
"Wake up, I say! You've been quite careless!"
I leapt to my feet, despite my state. No doubt I had the museum curator before me. Expecting to see a squad of guards come hustle me out, I eyed the door to the duke's chambers uneasily.
"Don't worry," said the old man. "I haven't summoned them."
He saw the look of surprise on my face. "You see, it isn't every day that a curator has the chance to speak with a…"
"A rat?"
The curator nodded. "But you don't seem quite up to satisfying my curiosity yet. Come with me. I'll give you some of my coffee. You'll see, it's excellent; my wife makes a thermos for me every morning."
"So, you're-"
"A rat."
"Delighted! Please, relax! You're safe here in my office. No one will disturb us; the Scriblerus is one of the city's most rarely visited museums. Have no fear of my watchman: he's utterly devoted to me. Would you like some more coffee?"
I took a second cup of the delicious brew.
"And now, tell me… What's it like? Have you lived like this for long? Do you have friends? What are they like? Surely you write! Have you anything on you to show me?"
He kept me until the middle of the afternoon, and insisted that I take half his meal home with me: a chicken drumstick and an orange, which he placed in a plastic bag.
"At my age, one hardly eats anything anymore. You'll come back and see me often, won't you? You can't imagine how long I've awaited such a meeting. You… rats, you're life itself, you're hope! The rest of us,"-he waved wearily to include his sumptuous office, that of the Duke of Scriblerus-"the rest of us manage but dust and death. Go on, young man, be careful, and above all, come back. I still have many things to ask you, and some to teach you as well."
I didn't dare confess to Mr. Kingsheart-for that was my new friend's name-that I'd never yet written a thing. We saw each other often; he plied me with beef casserole and rice pudding. Mrs. Kingsheart cooked every dish to perfection. Even reheated any old way in a mess kit over a camp stove, her casserole was a marvel. I hesitated to introduce my benefactor to Gus. I'd have to split the chow. Maybe Gus would even take my place in the curator's heart? That'd be plain dumb of me. No, clearly things were better as they were: genius for Gus and beef casserole for me.
From fear that Mr. Kingsheart might tire too quickly of my company, I took care to dole out the secrets of our band sparingly. Everything interested him: our conversations, our little schemes, our Weltanschauung. Sometimes, too, speaking in veiled terms as if he feared to say too much, he broached quite an alarming topic. According to him-if I understood correctly-the township kept us at bay, yet also, in a way, at their beck and call. The mayor had but to give his guards free rein, and they would seize us all in one fell swoop. The trap was set, but the mayor deliberately held off on springing it. They had plans for us. They were grooming us as part of some devious design. God, how plain and simple everything had seemed only yesterday! We were Heroes of the Human Spirit persecuted by obtuse Authority. Now I wondered if we weren't merely some kind of livestock, secretly handpicked by some infinitely patient owner…
I resolved to take Gus to the Scriblerus. He had two short poems on him, jotted in his big, loopy handwriting on endpages torn from valuable volumes of the Ballantrae Museum's library. Mr. Kingsheart read them and reread them with a greediness not unlike that with which I'd initially fallen on the meals his wife made. Tears rolled down his wrinkled cheeks. He pressed Gus to his heart. "My boy! My boy!" he gibbered. Dumbfounded, Gustin let himself be swept clumsily into an embrace. I found both of them fairly ridiculous. From that moment on, I knew I no longer mattered. Gus was the only important one. Of course, Mr. Curator knew how to treat his guests! He began bringing double servings of food, but Mrs. Kingsheart's rice pudding now stuck in my throat. No matter. I put it off for a bit, but eventually wound up following the dictates of my conscience. I didn't think there was anything left for me at the Scriblerus Museum.
It's Wednesday. Last night, Gus was killed. He slipped from the roof of the Robinson Museum, where he'd been hiding from the guards. I went up there with Guv'nor Paul and a few others this morning. I don't know really what we were thinking… a kind of pilgrimage, perhaps.
From above, we witnessed a scene I alone understood. Before a chalk outline traced on the ground the mayor stood stuffed into a camelhair coat. He seemed lost in a bleak reverie. Guards kept the tourists back. Mr. Kingsheart showed up. He walked right up to the mayor and, with all his strength, slapped him. Then he threw a sheaf of papers into his face.
Beside me, Guv'nor Paul's eyes widened. "What's all that about, then?"
"Tell you later."
He stared at me, then, taking closer notice than he had in a long time. "Indeed you will. Come to think of it: time you started writing, isn't it?"
"Yes-it's time."
Below, Mr. Kingsheart had turned on his heel. Leaving the mayor on his knees, busy gathering up the papers the wind threatened to scatter, he strode furiously toward his car.
Bures, February 1983
The Guardicci Masterpiece
was walking down a quiet street around nightfall. It was fine weather. Even on the ground floor, locals had opened their windows to the warm night. Some had lit their lamps, but others preferred to let night flood the rooms where they sat as the tide floods a grotto. From these submerged chambers drifted snatches of conversation by turns ordinary, amusing, and mysterious. But what struck me at first was the sound of the voices: hushed or muffled, muted, inexplicably distant and musical.
I stopped before a taxidermist's storefront. The pieces on display were bathed in a warm glow confined to the middle of the window by a large parchment shade: a fox and a young boar, a few small weasels (marten, ferret, civet), but also various birds kestrel, swift, woodpecker, tawny owl). I thought I glimpsed, in the shapes I made out farther back from the light, other creatures, tightly wrapped in bandages, that had been mummified instead of stuffed. My face pressed to the glass, I scanned the depths of the store. There was a jackal, a hyena, then cats, a tall wading bird (stork or heron), and apes-one of which, for all I could see, could well have been a human being.
A brass wind chime gave out a tinkle. The door opened, and the proprietor appeared, an old man in loose brown overalls and a square black hat that lent him a judgelike air.