The century referred to was not the present one. Across the cover’s lower edge trailed the magazine’s motto, from Juvenal.
Aude aliquid brevibus/Gyaris et carcere dignum/Si vis esse aliquis.
Dare to do something worthy of imprisonment, if you mean to be of consequence.
During one of his visits, Leonard had suggested the Latin would best be changed to reflect the changing times.
“‘Fidelis ad urnam scribendi,’ that might be a nice epitaph.’”
Jack scowled. “And what does that mean?”
“‘Faithful to the memory of the written word.’”
And Leonard tossed the last issue to the floor.
The magazine still lay where Leonard had dropped it. Jack picked it up and stared at the glossy cover. Tiny holograms winked up at him, hinting at what lay within, and there was the musky scent of a popular new cologne. He flipped through the pages, past advertisements for Broadway musicals and vintage Bentleys, embalming parlors and dance recordings and IT portraiture. Amidst all the enticing ads articles appeared like nutritious bits of grain in a bowl of sugar and colored fluff.
He flipped past the Chutes & Ladders section, with its desperate efforts to salvage some gossipy dignity from the detritus of the city, glanced at a few cartoons. The lead story was about the international success of a Xian crossover artist named Trip Marlowe. Its headline flickered crimson and gold—
—while a musical chip played the opening chords of Marlowe’s most recent hit, complete with gamelan and what sounded like a woman’s dying screams. With a shudder Jack let the magazine fall. He had half turned to go to his desk, when the front door began to shake.
“Hello?” someone called.
Jack stiffened. “Who is it?”
The door shook more violently. Jack had a flash of what lay behind it: wasted fellahin with sawed-off assault rifles; anorexic cranks with filed teeth and hybrid mastiffs. He glanced helplessly around the room. The door swung open.
“Mister John Finnegan?”
Outside, rainbow light swept across broken blacktop stitched with chickweed and rust-colored grass. It was a moment before he made out the figure standing in the doorway, blinking in the spectral glare.
“Mr. John Finnegan?” A Japanese accent. “You are Mr. John Finnegan? Editor in chief of The Gaudy Book?”
“Uh—yes?” Jack shaded his eyes and squinted.
It was a man. Perhaps twenty-five and a head shorter than Jack, with delicate features and beautiful soft black eyes. He wore a zoot suit of green-and-orange plaid, ornamented with amulet bottles. A stylish rubber satchel was slung over his shoulder. Jack glimpsed its insignia, kirin or gryphon, its claws grasping a pyramid. The young man’s black hair was glazed into a fabulous pompadour that added several inches to his height and seemed to provide the same kind of UV protection a hat would. Jack, embarrassed, found himself thinking of the curl of Hokusai’s Under the Wave at Kanagawa. His visitor seemed to have anticipated this, and bowing slightly gave him a smile that held within it everything of forgiveness and generosity and gentle amusement.
“Mr. Finnegan. Good morning. You received my message?”
Jack shook his head. “No,” he began, then sighed. “Don’t tell me. Leonard sent yo u—”
The man frowned.
“Leonard Thrope,” Jack went on. “He’s a friend. A very bad friend,” he added darkly. “Did he—”
“Yes. Mr. Thrope. He—”
“I am sorry. But we don’t—I mean I don’t, the magazine does not, we don’t have visitors. To the office. No interviews, submissions by mail only—”
“Please.” The young man opened his hands. “I am not a—” Pause, as though steeling himself to pronounce the next word. “—a writer.”
The man took a step forward.
“May I?” he asked, tilting his head and peering up through that absurd pompadour.
Oh why the fuck not, thought Jack. “Of course—please. Come in.”
His visitor stepped inside. Jack pulled the door shut after him. The room filled with the same musky fragrance that had risen from the pages of The Gaudy Book, and for a moment Jack had the ridiculous fear that he had been cornered by a perfume salesman. Then the man smiled, a disarmingly childlike smile that showed off two dimples in his cherubic face. With his dark eyes and smooth skin he reminded Jack of Leonard in his youth. Despite himself, he smiled wanly back.
“Larry Muso,” the man said. His brow furrowed. “You are John Finnegan?”
“Yes—but Jack—please, everyone calls me Jack.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Um—so. Larry. What can I do for you?”
Larry Muso smiled again. “No—what can I do for you—”
He shrugged off the rubber satchel. Jack’s heart sank. Oh God. He is a salesman. He watched as Larry Muso opened the bag and pulled out a small parcel.
“For you,” his guest said.
Jack took a step backwards. A letter bomb? Delivered by suicide courier? He shook his head—they’d finally caught that guy in New Rochelle, but who knew how many others might be around here? But the young man only stepped forward and slid the package into Jack’s hands. The only way he could have refused it was by dropping it. Even faced with the possibility of receiving a bomb, Jack Finnegan was too polite to do that.
“It is a gift.” Larry Muso stepped back and dipped his head. “For you…”
Jack stared at the rectangular parcel, carefully wrapped in green fabric. He drew it to his face, smelled a pleasant, slightly musty scent.
“Please,” urged Larry Muso. “Open it.”
He did. Slowly, unfolding the fabric until he found it, nestled within the cloth like a gold ingot.
A book; a very old book. Its cover looked like watered silk, crocus-colored with an Art Nouveau pattern of acanthus, stippled with gold, and in the center the title in raised gold letters.
“Wow.” Jack laughed. “I don’t believe it.
“For your collection,” said Larry Muso.
Jack opened the book gingerly. The frontispiece showed a Beardsley-esque line drawing of a grotesque mask and the date 1895, opposite the title page.
“The King in Yellow,” said Jack. “This is incredible…” Carefully he turned the pages to the first tale, “The Repairer of Reputations.”
Now that the Government has determined to establish a Lethal Chamber in every city, town, and village in the country, it remains to be seen whether or not that class of human creatures from whose desponding ranks new victims of self-destruction fall daily will accept the relief thus provided. There a painless death awaits him who can no longer bear the sorrows of life. If death is welcome let him seek it there.
He closed the book and looked up. Larry Muso was beaming, stray light striking the tip of his pompadour so that he looked like a burning candle.