“It is very beautiful, isn’t it, Mr. Finnegan? The first edition. Eighteen ninety-five.”
Jack shook his head. “But—” He started to explain that it had been his grandfather, not him, who collected books, then stopped. “But I don’t understand. Who are you?”
His visitor slipped a hand inside his velveteen jacket, withdrew a card case embossed with a hologram of the same logo that appeared on his satchel. He opened it and presented Jack with an illurium business card. The iridescent metal was etched with Japanese characters and a skeletal winged creature with grasping claws. When Jack tilted the card, English letters flickered beneath the Japanese. There was the nearly imperceptible sound of bells. A woman’s voice whispered the words as Jack read.
“Gorita-Folham-Ized: The Golden Family.”
“Altyn Urik,” Larry Muso offered. “That is our name in the archaic tongue of the Mongol people.” With a soft click he snapped the card case shut and replaced it inside his jacket. “It means ‘The Golden Family.’”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “And that means… ?”
“My employer. We are a joint Japanese-American-Mongolian corporate enterprise, engaged in mining and other industrial operations, but also incorporating your ALTCOM and the entire NOREX Telecommunications Group. We are based in Dalandzagad, and of course the Pyramid here is our American headquarters, but our work extends very far, far beyond these places.”
Jack stared at his visitor with growing despair. He knew all about GFI, of course; but obviously this guy wasn’t from GFI. Some kind of terrorist? He had some vague sense that things were unsettled in Mongolia, but then they were unsettled everywhere. In the wake of the glimmering strange alliances had sprung up across the globe, most especially in those places heretofore ignored because of their very isolation. Places like central Canada and Siberia and Mongolia, now besieged with investors and developers fleeing the flooded coasts, the diseased cities and ruined farmlands.
“The Golden Family has many interests!” Larry Muso said brightly. “But today I am here on other business—”
He turned and for the first time seemed to take in the room around him: swaybacked bookshelves, outdated computers, and all. He breathed in sharply, and Jack watched, bemused, as a beatific expression spread across Larry Muso’s face. After a moment he looked back at his host.
“You have such beautiful things.” Larry Muso’s eyes were moist; his voice soft, almost chastened. “They told me you had very beautiful things, but—to see them, that is a different matter. You see, I studied library engineering, at Oxford—that is why I was chosen to come here. That—”
He tipped his head in the direction of the book in Jack’s hand. “I myself selected that for you, Mr.—I mean Jack—because, like yourself, I love beautiful things. Like yourself, we—The Golden Family—love beautiful things.”
Jack nodded. “I see.” He felt more at ease, now that it appeared he was not going to be murdered by an exploding antiquarian volume. “Well then. Won’t you have a seat?”
Larry Muso followed him to a small sitting area composed of a wicker table and three very old wicker chairs. He settled in one gingerly, turning to stare into the carriage house’s shadowy corners.
“I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything,” Jack continued. “But we really don’t receive people here. When my grandfather was alive, the magazine’s offices were in the city—”
“Gramercy Park.”
“Yes, that’s right. But needless to say we can’t afford offices there anymore—”
Larry Muso frowned. “But that, too, was your family’s home? Am I correct?”
“Well, yes, but—we sold that place years ago.” Jack stared at the book in his lap, his fingers tracing the raised gold letters, the smooth ribbony feel of the silk cover. His grandmother would adore it, of course; might not ever forgive him for letting it go.
So Jack wouldn’t tell her. With a sigh he wrapped The King in Yellow back in its cotton covering and placed it on the table. “Look, Mr. Muso—”
“Larry—”
“Mr. Muso,” Jack repeated firmly. “I don’t mean to be rude, but this is a bad time for me, okay? A bad time for The Gaudy Book—” He stared pointedly at the rows of cartons by the door. “That is probably our last issue, right there—”
“Yes!” Larry Muso exclaimed. “That is why I am here! The Gaudy Book! We want to buy The Gaudy Book!”
Jack’s dismay curdled into anger. This was worse than a terrorist.
“I’m sorry.” He started to his feet, no longer caring how rude he sounded. “This is our editorial office. We don’t handle subscriptions from here, we never handled subscriptions from here, the only reason those magazines are here at all is because, as I just told you, we’re going under, the printer folded, the distributor folded, and now presumably we are going to—”
Larry Muso waved his hands. “Yes, I know! I am here representing The Golden Family, and we would like to buy The Gaudy Book—the magazine enterprise itself—as an investment. A corporate investment. An aesthetic investment,” he went on quickly, “an artistic investment. You, of course, would retain all artistic control, Mr.—Jack—because we have the greatest respect for you, for your entire family, and the contributions you have made to literature. To literature in English,” he amended, and paused to pull a large silk handkerchief from his pocket.
Jack stared at him dumbfounded. He’s kind of cute, Jack found himself thinking; in a Japanese Elvis kind of way.
“You understand this?” Larry touched one corner of the handkerchief to his cheek, a gesture so subtle and affected that Jack wondered if it was some sort of coded message. Permit my multinational corporation to purchase your failing periodical, and I will be your love slave. “We believe in protecting the few beautiful things left in this world, while we can. Your magazine would be very precious to us. And we would, of course, seek to preserve it as a commercial property.”
Jack thought of Leonard, of his records of human and animal extinction purchased by collectors in Manhattan and Vancouver and Bloemfontein. He sank back into his chair. “Have you—have you ever actually read The Gaudy Book?”
Larry Muso pursed his lips shook his head. “Myself, personally? No. But Mr. Tatsumi, our CEO—he reads it. He used to travel a great deal. He said that The Gaudy Book was the only thing he could read on an airplane.”
Jack tried to figure out if this could possibly be a compliment. “Well,” he said at last, “does he still travel much?”
“Oh no. He has not left the desert in two years.”
“Probably behind in his reading, then,” Jack said, and was rewarded with a smile.
He straightened, putting on his best Face the Trustees expression, and stared at The King in Yellow on the table. “I’m afraid I can’t accept this.”
Larry Muso looked puzzled. “Why not?”
“Because I’m not in a position to do business with you. The Gaudy Book is no longer a going concern. We’re suspending publication—”
“I know, Mr. Finnegan.” Larry Muso’s voice sounded less conciliatory; more the voice of a man determined to do business, swiftly and with no interference. Surprised, Jack looked up and saw the other man draw a tiny palmtop from his pocket. “In the first quarter of this year, you showed a loss of—nearly two million dollars.” Larry Muso frowned, tapped once more at the keyboard. “Last year, your friend Leonard Thrope made the magazine the beneficiary of a modest grant—”