By the time the storms reached the Atlantic Coast, they had dissipated to warm rain and a steady wind. From his room at Lazyland Jack watched the fronts moving across the Hudson, passing overhead to break at sea like so many vast leaden waves. At night the usual array of flickering bonfires was gone, as were the tents that marked the fellahin encampments. Instead, through the tattered scrim of trees, Jack could see figures inside the ruined mansions that flanked Lazyland. He smelled the caustic scent of burning plywood, and heard staccato bursts of music from the smoke-blackened remains of the maharani’s carriage house. Sometimes he glimpsed the squatters themselves, all but naked despite the spring chill, their long hair matted as they stood in the shattered windows and stared defiantly across the filth-strewn lawn at Jack. Once he heard a baby crying.
It all infuriated him.
How can they live like that, he thought. Until one day, returning home exhausted and empty-handed from yet another futile trek up to Getty Square in search of food, it struck him—
We all live like that, now. The fellahin were just better at it than he was.
Still, inside Lazyland all was relatively warm and bright. The house was heated by an ancient coal furnace. In January, Jack had had the coal cellar filled; there was enough fuel to see them through the next winter. When there was electricity, television reception became such a game of chance that most nights they didn’t bother—the risk of seeing something horrible outweighed even Jack’s considerable hunger for news. When the phone lines worked, there were obscene faxes from Leonard to break the monotony, and the usual trickle of calls regarding submissions for The Gaudy Book. Jack’s network of loyal editors and writers continued in their doomed efforts at triage, arranging for articles to appear online, for popular artists to have their holographic or recorded likenesses on the magazine’s cover in a futile effort to boost sales. He never wondered if The Gaudy Book was worth it. It was not, certainly not from any financial standpoint, and as a cause of stress in his own life he would certainly be better off without the dying magazine. But he was haunted by the image of his father and grandfather, who had never doubted that The Gaudy Book would greet the new millennium.
He spent nearly the entire month of April indoors, except when he walked out to his office in the carriage house. Then the smell of rotting vegetation choked him. For the last four weeks he had been taking the Fusax religiously, half a dropperful every morning, on an empty stomach. The little bottle was about a quarter empty.
And he was feeling better: no doubt about it. His brush with pneumonia had left him weak, with a ghastly cough. At the hospital they’d given him antibiotics, which Jack took religiously until they ran out. The cough, however, had lingered, as did his general malaise and the too-familiar checkpoints of fever, diarrhea, loss of appetite.
Now the cough was gone. The diarrhea was gone, and the fevers. He still had little appetite, but there was no nausea and no weight loss. Instead he began to wake each day with the sort of joy he had not felt in over twenty years, a rapturous delight over the simple act of opening his eyes and finding the world there to pry open, like the door to some enchanted place. There was no rational reason for this feeling, he knew that. It must be the Fusax.
“It’s working,” he whispered to himself one morning, staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His skin was no longer dried and flaking. When he stuck his tongue out, there was no telltale curd presaging thrush. His eyes were clear; the dreadful ache he had carried within his chest like a stone was gone. Only a faint dizziness worried him occasionally, and the fact that sometimes he saw blurred shapes at the corners of his eyes. When he bounded downstairs, his grandmother looked up from her chair in alarm.
“Jack?”
Grinning, he kissed her. “Any calls?”
Keeley gestured dismissively at the huge mahogany table. “Oh, I don’t know. Someone might have called, but I didn’t answer; I was in the kitchen, and Larena is taking her nap…”
Jack nodded cheerfully and started for the door. “Fine. I’ll be in the carriage house.” He glanced back at her. “Do you need anything, Grandmother?”
She adjusted her gold-topped cane, gnarled fingers closing around the gryphon’s beak that formed its capital. “No, dear. You go do your work. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
The carriage house was large enough to qualify as one of those shingle-style “cottages” built by wealthy rusticators in New England a hundred years before. There was an apartment upstairs where Jack’s great-grandmother had lived, and which until recently had been rented out to a series of increasingly unreliable tenants. Clerestory windows framed discrete bits of sky. The far wall held a huge picture window overlooking the Hudson, but Jack had drawn its louvered shutters. There were no lamps lit, only the spectral glitter that fell from the narrow clerestories and a single glowing computer screen.
The weird light suited the offices of The Gaudy Book, trapped as it was between two eras, like a moth pressed in glass. There were old overstuffed armchairs, their chintz worn by authorial bottoms, and scoliotic bookshelves warped by decades’ worth of The Gaudy Book amid its rivals—The New Yorker, the Yellow Book, Spy, Harper’s, Granta. The walls were covered work by with Edward Steichen, Leonard Thrope, Charles Addams. A Windsor chair held curling prints by Leonard and some of the other mori artists, photos that Jack lacked the nerve either to look at or throw away. There were computers, monitors, printers, CD players, fax and vox and transix and his father’s ancient Magnavox Hi-Fi. Jack’s office pharmacopoeia occupied a shelf between tattered dictionaries and The Elements of Style. There was the mummified corpse of a cat, also from Leonard. A silver frame held a society-page photo of Jack, wearing his customary garb of chinos and oxford-cloth shirt, blond hair falling across his broad forehead, his teeth bared in an uneasy grin. He looked much younger than his forty years; much younger than he did this moment, for all that the picture had been taken only a few years before. Jack stared at all of it, and the windows shuttered against the world, and sighed.
The day before, he had spent an hour on the phone with the company that handled printing of The Gaudy Book. The printer was going under, effective April 30—just eleven days away (their distributor had long since folded). This wasn’t exactly news, with the cost of paper what it was; not to mention the cost of transportation, when it could be arranged; not to mention The Gaudy Book’s microscopic subscription base. Along with his largesse, Leonard’s momentary interest in The Gaudy Book had disappeared, and with it the readers he had tantalized. Still, Jack had vainly hoped for another miracle. The glimmering might be stopped—they were working on it; a multinational concern was going to set up sky stations from which to repair the ozone layer. People might start reading again.
And I’m Marie of Romania. He stood by the door, his good humor dampened. After a moment he crossed to where the floor was covered with cartons containing the most recent issue of The Gaudy Book. The last issue, it seemed; the boxes had been sitting there for several months now. The cover displayed the familiar eidolon—half Cupid, half death mask, an impudent retort to Eustace Tilley’s supercilious gaze—and the familiar scroll of words with their passementerie border.