A Highly Unlikely Scenario, or a Neetsa Pizza Employee's Guide to Saving the World (7 page)

Not likely, Leonard said. He's been dead thousands of years.

When the Jew with the letters met the Greek with the numbers, he wept. Can you imagine? You live! he cried. We are one! cried the Greek, and together they danced. They juggled letters and numbers together, making the most glorious patterns, which the people of that place turned into the most peculiar paintings, some of them made with sand. But you—how did you learn such fantastic methods of communication? How is it that you and I speak?

I just pick up the telephone, Leonard said.

You just pick it up. Fantastic, Mill said. No need to mutter formulas or turn this way and that around an invisible circle?

A what? Leonard felt the hairs in his afro stand on end.

You must be very advanced indeed, Mill said.

I gotta go, Leonard said, and hung up the phone. And did something he'd never done before: he took the phone off the
hook, disabled call queuing, and walked out of his White Room in the middle of his shift.

The world was strange; the moon shone silverly on the safety swing, on which Felix seemed to have left some crowdies.

Milione knew about the circle? It was one thing to say he'd met Pythagoras in a desert, and saw a Spaniard with dancing letters, but the circle? Leonard sat on the swing facing the moon and held the crowdies out to Medusa, who was suddenly there. He pushed himself forward and back inchwise with his toe, not caring whether he dirtied his whitesuit.

A rare bird cried out in response to the swing's rhythmic creakings.

How could a crazy man in the Finger Lakes District know about the circle? What was the circle? He seemed to think the circle enabled mystic communication …

Thwack! Leonard felt a sharp thrusting pain in the back of his head and fell forward, insensate, into the besoiling mud.

When he awoke, it was still night. Carol had him under the armpits and was dragging him through the mud toward her house.

Whagghes, he murmured. Carol looked back at him. There were actually three Carols in the starlight, three Carols all in
fuzzy outline, wearing black climbing suits and dust caps, clutchbags slung over three of their six shoulders.

What were you doing out here? they hissed at him in unison. You're supposed to be at work! What am I supposed to think when I look out my window and see a stranger swinging on the safety swing?

He knows about the circle, Leonard mumbled. Who do you think he really is?

If you can talk, you can walk, Carol said, dropping his arms so his head fell back again into the mud.

Am I wasting my life, Carol? Leonard asked, looking up at the stars. Should I find a ship, head out to sea?

Come inside for some chicory, she said. We'll talk.

The world is full of wonders, Mill had said. All places have their fascination, you only have to pay attention. Bravery is easier, in the long run, than the alternative. The alternative being loneliness and fear.

Leonard rolled and turned gingerly onto his knees, then waited for the yard to stop swirling. When he finally stood, the back of his head pounded like justice sticks smashing against a door.

Inside, Carol had disposed of her clutchbag and was now wearing nightgear, as if Leonard really had disturbed her sleep with his spectral swinging. She was brewing chicory in a large earthenware samovar.

Leonard thought she was going to quiz him on his outrageous behavior, leaving the White Room in the middle of his shift, but no, she wanted to talk about Felix.

He's the best boy in the world, isn't he? she asked.

Of course, Leonard said, sitting down in a high-backed chair.

We'd do anything for him, wouldn't we?

We would, Leonard said. Are there any tatties left?

We would never let anything bad happen to him, would we?

We wouldn't, Leonard agreed.

We would protect him no matter what, Carol suggested.

No matter what.

Good, Carol said. I'm glad we had this little talk. Chicory's almost ready. See you in the morning!

I must tell you, Milione said the next night. Some days when I speak to Rustichello, I see someone looking out through his eyes. It is not Rustichello, for he is a shallow man; nothing lurks behind
his
eyes but lunacy and the basest of passions. No, it is someone else. Can you imagine this?

Leonard said nothing. His grandfather's eyes on occasion had slipped from blue to palest green, his pupils expanding, becoming one with the deepest dark: then young Leonard had looked into something strange and black, an emptiness larger than the world he knew. His grandfather would return then and say, Boychik, you're trembling, what do you see?

You think me mad, Mill said sadly.

No, I have felt this, Leonard whispered, and wiped a tear from his eye.

You understand! Mill said. I knew you would. Leonard, you are like my very own brother. It is Isaac, he confided. I know it is he. But why?

Who is this Isaac? Leonard asked. Why do you dream of him?

He is a Jew, he is blind, and a holy master of secrets—this is all I know.

What does he want from you?

He wants me to talk with you, that is all.

With me? Leonard asked.

No other, Mill said.

Do you know a story about four men who walk into an orchard?

No.

Do you know a story about demons in the third ether?

No, but if it is a good one, I will gladly hear it.

But you know about the invisible circle? You know what to do with it?

Of course.

And this is what you propose to write about in your book?

Yes, I will do this.

Leonard's heart began to pound. This was very wrong. Leonard knew this because his grandfather had told him so, and because the thought of it made him sick, a sickness he knew would never leave him if Mill did as he said. Only the grandson of grandsons could know about the circle.

It is a bad idea, Leonard said. A very bad idea.

No, Leonard, it is a very good idea! Imagine how useful it will be for seamen and merchants, separated as they are from their families! Imagine if kings could speak with each other as we do now, separated by immense distances: trade could be conducted, and wars averted.

Leonard had to think quickly; there were no Listener algorithms to help him now.

Have you used your circle and formulas to speak with anyone but me? he asked.

Not exactly.

You've tried?

I tried to reach Kokachin, Mill admitted.

What happened?

Nothing. I heard a sound like forests falling inside the ocean. It was quiet but for six days it deafened me.

And when you got me you were trying to reach someone else, right?

This also is true, Mill said.

Forgive me for saying so, but you don't seem very good at this just yet. Maybe you need more practice? So no one gets hurt?

Mill didn't reply.

You could write about this in your next book, perhaps? Leonard said, knowing somehow that there would be no next book.

Still no reply.

Mill? Are you there?

Leonard, you are a most trusted friend, and you speak wisely. I shall consider your words; possibly I shall do as you say.

When they parted that night, Leonard had no way of knowing he would never speak to Milione again.

The complaints returned the next night. The phone didn't bleat—instead, the usual clients-in-pain called complaining that they'd ordered
Neoplatonist
, not
Neapolitan
. Leonard listened, used approved nicknames and the Lateral Sales Strategy to good advantage, demonstrated largesse with Neetsa Pizza coupons, and gained a more or less average number of converts, but his heart wasn't in it. Where was Milione? Was he okay? Leonard was sure now that Mill had rerouted Leonard's calls—how had he managed to do that? Now that the complaints had returned, did this mean Mill had gone away? Was he in trouble? Was his invisible circle dance the one Leonard knew? Would he hear from him again?

He felt uncomfortably bereft. He had enjoyed their conversations, he had looked forward to them, he had found in Mill not just a client-in-pain but a friend.

Yes, Milione had been his friend.

He was surprised to realize this, because really, he didn't have friends. He sometimes screen-yakked with fans of Sue & Susheela, or other Listeners, using an alias or avatar. To none of these had he ever confided the emptiness he'd felt when his grandfather died, or his lack of skill with women, or the mystery of his grandfather's changing eyes, or his occasional sadness. With none of these had he exchanged fears, or experiences of orphanhood; certainly, none had urged him to be more than he was. Yes, Mill was a friend. But still he didn't call.

When the phone bleated a few nights later, Leonard grabbed it with unprofessional enthusiasm and shouted, Milione? Mill? And was deathly surprised to hear another voice, a voice he thought he'd never hear again.

Listen, boychik, the voice said. I need you to listen good.

Grandpa? Is it you?

It sounds like me, the caller said, but it isn't.

I don't understand, Leonard said, tears already streaming down his cheeks. He'd spent ten years on his grandfather's settee, listening to his grandfather's stories: he knew his grandfather's voice!

Who is it? he sobbed. Why are you calling me?

Boychik, I need you to listen good, the man repeated, causing Leonard to sob even more. You saved the world, just like I ask. You did very very good. I always knew you were a good egg.

Grandpa! You're dead! Why are you calling me?

I tell you, it's not me, the man said, but I need you to listen good.

Who is it, then? Leonard said. Why are you doing this?

You did very very good, said his grandfather's voice. I am so proud of you.

You are? I started telling Felix the stories, I couldn't help it. He's so lonely! I'm never going to have grandsons!

You know nothing about the future, the voice said. Trust me on this one thing. On this one thing there can be no question. You will have grandsons, and more grandsons, on this there can
be no question. That Felix, he is a good egg, he is a good egg and so are you, you are very very good to him. This is very important. Don't you worry about Felix, we talk about Felix later. For the moment I need you to listen.

Grandpa, I was so bad to you before you died. I'm sorry! I am so very sorry!

It's not me like you think, the man said, but your grandpa he know this, he know you are a good egg. Not to worry, boychik.

I was just a kid, I didn't mean it when I said you were stupid and horrible and smelled like herring and I hated your stories. It wasn't true!

Boychik, I need you to listen.

I am listening, Leonard said, wiping his face with his flared cambric sleeve.

You are not listening, said the voice, and he was right. You have the possibility to be the world's great listener, but you don't listen!

Oh, Leonard said. Sorry. I'm listening now.

You saved the world, the voice said. I don't expect you to understand, someday I explain.

I don't understand.

Your advice to Marco save the world, for the time being, this is what I mean.

I was his friend. I called him Mill. I was allowed to call him Mill because I was his friend.

Forget about Marco. He did what we need. He publish his book and he don't speak about the Tibetans. These things he know die with him. I need you to do another thing.

Mill's dead? Leonard's tears started streaming again.

Boychik, you understand nothing. Sometimes you gotta read a book, really, you gotta get your tuchas offa that swirly chair.

I don't understand. How do you know Mill's dead?

He live another twenty-five years after he get out of prison …

He really was in prison?

This is what he say, right?

Yes.

You listen to what he say?

I thought he was an NP test, or a crazy man.

Marco Polo, he die in 1324, live a very happy life. Three children, a sweet wifey, he is one of the famous men in the world: this is what he want, to be a famous guy, he get this because of you. You are very very good to him.

He died in 1324? What are you talking about? I was just on the phone with him last week.

This is the mystery, the man said. This is the mystery and it is safe because of you. He publish these things how he do this and someday, someone use them for evil, this is for sure. You save the world, see? We are very grateful.

Marco Polo, like the pool game?

You are not listening.

Who is this talking if it's not my grandfather, and how do you know Milione?

I thought you understand this, boychik.

I don't understand, Leonard said. This is what I've been saying.

Boychik, this is Isaac. Isaac the Blind.

You're making me crazy! Leonard said. I don't believe anything
you say! I'm not friends with a man who's been dead eight hundred years. I am Leonard, of Neetsa Pizza, I live in the twenty-first century, I work in a White Room. Why are you using my grandfather's voice? Who are you?

You will read this book and we will talk. Make special note of the suggestion you make. You find Marco's false governorship on page 206, his false claim to breaking the siege of Siang-yang-fu on the pages falling after.

The line was dead and the doorbell rang.

Leonard didn't know he had a doorbell.

Package, a man said. He was wearing a striped green delivery uniform Leonard had never seen before. Leonard put his finger in the fingerprint flasher and took the package. It was a book:
The Travels
, by Marco Polo.

No one called the rest of that night, so Leonard read. He read about the lands Milione had described. He read critical commentary about Rustichello, the stylistic and possibly substantive contributions that chronicler had made to the book. He read that many didn't think Marco had been to China, which he called Cathay (he had! he had!). He read about the apparitions that beset men in the Desert of Lop—but not about the Tibetans, there was no word about the Tibetans, or a circle.