Magruder's Curiosity Cabinet (26 page)

Ha, Ha, Ha

In fitful sleep, Nazan remembers.

She's sitting on a bench in Tompkins Square Park, across from the Carnegie library. She'd checked out too many books on her last visit and hadn't had time to finish one. But she hates the thought of renewing the book and dragging it all the way home just to read the last few chapters—there were so many unread books clamoring for that precious space in her satchel. It is an usually warm April day, so she sits in the sun to read the ending. She is dimly aware of people walking by, shaking their heads at the sight of a young woman sitting alone with her nose in a book. She ignores them, diving headlong into the story in her hands.

A shadow falls across the page. She looks up to see a young man standing over her, grinning. “She ends up with Darcy,” he says. “Not to ruin it for you.”

“Is that so? Are you an admirer of Austen?”

He plunks down beside her on the bench. Extremely presumptuous—but then, a boy with those cheekbones can get away with a lot. “Austen's all right, I guess. That Darcy is a bit full of himself.”

Nazan shrugs. “What do you expect from a boy named Fitzwilliam—he was doomed from birth, really. Besides, Elizabeth is rather full of
her
self. I suppose they're made for each other.”

“Suppose so.”

“Sir, I don't mean to be rude, but…” She gestures at her not-quite-finished book.

“I see. Of course.” He stands up, brushes off his trousers, and jogs across the street into the library.

A half hour later,
Pride and Prejudice
finished, Nazan enters the library as well. There he is again, lingering by the entrance. He smiles when he sees her and holds out a book.

“Try this. Much more exciting.”

She inspects the cover. “
The War of the Worlds
. Sounds unpleasant.”

“No, great fun. My brother got me started on it. He says H. G. Wells is writing the best stuff out there. And trust me, he'd know—he reads
everything
. That's why I'm here, actually. I have this shopping list of books he wants. If Charlie says something is good? It's good. Give it a try.”

She shrugs agreement. “Why not?”

“But first have lunch with me.”

“What? Why, I don't even… Goodness, you're forward, aren't you?”

He matches her shrug with a sly one of his own. “Why not?”

Something gently shakes Nazan awake. “My dove, wake up.” She realizes she's no longer drifting. She's lying in a bed at Magruder's, very far from the Carnegie library.

Nazan opens her wet eyes, wiping them with a clenched fist. Dawn peeks through the blinds.

“I'm sorry,” Rosalind says. “It's time.”

• • •

Archie sits alone in the tavern, smoking his pipe. He takes another swig from a bottle of Magruder's Elixir Salutis. Not a bad concoction, if he does say so himself. At least his customers would have died happy. That's more than Reynolds can say.

He scratches idly at his scarred palm. Reynolds. It's not his fault.
He
didn't tell the kid to go down to the doctor's office.

Archie had accompanied Digby to collect the body. Digby was grateful for the company, until he realized Archie's primary interest was not Spencer but Spencer's wallet. Archie figured the kid owed him after the elixir incident, and anyway, Reynolds certainly didn't need the money anymore. But when Archie and Digby found the body in the alley, the wallet was gone.

Archie sighed. “Looks like somebody had a good day.” Kneeling beside Spencer's stiffening corpse, Digby shot Archie a disgusted look. “Well, not
Reynolds
, clearly.”

In the tavern, he takes another sip from the bottle. There's no question the kid had money—an apparently endless supply stashed away somewhere. But where was he hiding it? Wherever it was, that's probably what got him killed.

Not my fault.

The situation with Papa Reynolds and his Committee, on the other hand… But then, the Committee hasn't come. Papa Reynolds left that oily little twat in charge… What was his name, Gibson? Who knows if the kid will even follow through? Another wet-behind-the-ears rich boy. Maybe he won't have the guts.

But Archie remembers the hungry look in Gibson's eyes—like a starving wolf with only one succulent baby left in the village—and his stomach turns sour.
Gibson is coming, and he won't come alone.

None of that is his fault either. He'd tried to warn them. They should thank him, really. They won't, of course. No one ever, not once, has thanked the bearer of bad news. Which is all he is, when you think about it.
Not his fault.

And now this: some sort of beach funeral for Reynolds—the most reckless, least deserving corpse in a city overflowing with them. Archie runs his finger along a cigarette burn in the wooden bar. Well, “funeral.” A traditional Tibetan funeral, supposedly, as conducted by that paragon of authenticity, Yeshi Lowenstein. It would be funny if it weren't so pathetic.

Yeshi had wandered off the boat a few years ago, not knowing uptown from down. She didn't know two and two was four until Archie taught her. He'd shared everything with that ungrateful little scallop. Find the Lady. Pig in a Poke. Pigeon Drop. He taught that girl everything. Then her brother arrives in New York, jabbering about Tibetan independence, and suddenly Yeshi's too good for Archie. She has
real
things to do.
A calling.
Now Archie is expected to stand at this funeral, listening respectfully to Yeshi Rinpoche without laughing his socks off.

Rosalind pokes his head around the door to find Archie draining the bottle of elixir. “A little early, isn't it?”

“It's cocktail hour in Tibet, my dear.”

“Ha-ha. We're leaving, so come if you're coming.”

• • •

As the sun rises over Dreamland, three bodies lie exposed on the beach, ready for burial. But not any burial. A sky burial.

Spencer is placed in the middle, with one rotting Committeeman on either side. Rosalind objects to the two bodies from Magruder's backyard being dispatched along with their friend. “We don't even know those men, beyond the fact they tried to burn us down. They're criminals as far as I'm concerned. Spencer ought to be… This should be just for him.”

But Nazan disagrees. “Spencer wouldn't want that. No. If there's three, then that's how many there are.” She looks at Rosalind and tries to smile. “It's fine.”

So off they go. Rosalind wears a striking but respectful gray pin-striped suit and a platinum-blond wig piled high. Nazan grips his elbow, Timur walks beside them, and Archie skulks along behind. They go to the small public park and down toward the water.

Digby walks up to greet them, an enormous mallet in his meaty fist. Grasping Nazan's hand, he says, “I'm sorry, Miss Celik. I surely am.”

The mourners stand at a safe distance, while Her Holiness Yeshi Rinpoche/Lowenstein arranges ornate silver pots in a circle. She walks around the circle, reciting a prayer as she drops a lit match into each pot. A wispy, gray smoke rises in the air—juniper incense, to summon the Dakini. “The Dakini are sky walkers. My people say—”

“You can tell whatever fairy stories you like, Lowenstein,” Archie interrupts. “That doesn't make those things not vultures.”

Yeshi rolls her eyes and ignores him.

The juniper incense does its job, and before long, the sky is crowded with large black birds with bloodred, featherless faces. They ride the wind silently, the early morning sun glinting against their dark feathers. They soar in ever-narrowing circles, like a slowly gathering tornado. Yeshi stretches out her arms and prays to them.

Rosalind puts his hand on Nazan's shoulder, and she reaches up and grabs it tightly. “It's not too late to change your mind. We can fetch the police, or we can find an undertaker, or we—”

But then the vultures move in, perching on the bodies and squawking as they jockey for position. They shove long, pointy beaks into soft bellies. One rips off a long ribbon of flesh from Spencer's arm and chokes it down in toothless gulps. Two vultures perch on either side of his face and hiss, arguing over who gets to eat his eyes.

Nazan puts her hands to her mouth, trying not to sob. “Oh…” An ambitious black crow joins the pack, pecking at the flesh along Spencer's thighs.

Rosalind gasps. “This is barbaric.”

Yeshi comes over to stand beside Nazan and takes her hand. “Listen to me. No, don't look there; look at me. I see you now, and I see a young woman, maybe not so strong. But is that the total of what you are? Is this body all you are?”

Blinking back tears, Nazan shakes her head no.

“No, you are not. You are not this body. And neither is he. Nazan, my people believe that the body is a vessel. An imperfect, short-lived vessel—that's all. Spencer's vessel is now empty, and so we release it to the sky.”

Nazan nods. She bites her lip, and tears spill down her cheeks.

“Don't think I do not understand. My brother, Tenzin, succumbed to the Cough ten days ago. That's how I came to perform this ritual—I wanted it for him, and then I realized I could honor his memory by sharing our custom with others. It is terrible to lose the ones we love. We miss them, their physical presence. We ache for those vessels, feeble as they are. But my brother, your friend, they are free. And for this, we rejoice. Now they can soar, and the Dakini will carry their empty shells to a holy place.”

Archie nods. “A holy place. They'll shit him out over Hoboken.”

“Oh, you wretched man.” Rosalind groans. “Why did we bring you anyway?”

Nazan forces herself to watch the vultures feast on Spencer. “Empty vessel,” she says quietly. “Empty vessel released to the sky.” She feels like throwing up.

It takes time for the buzzards to consume their meal. The process is agonizingly slow and yet somehow far too brief.
Is that it? Can a man really be erased so quickly?

When the birds have had their fill, when there is little left but skeletons in the sand, Yeshi nods at Digby. “It is time.”

Digby sighs and takes up his mallet. He takes a step toward the bodies but turns back to address Nazan. “Miss Celik, I want to explain—”

“It's all right, Mr. Digby. I understand your role.”

“No, it's just…” He leans in. “Yeshi says I have to laugh.”

“What? I don't under—”

“Because these are vessels? It's no different from breaking stones, she says. So to emphasize this, I am supposed to laugh, like…I'm happy in my work. But I want you to know…”

She smiles a little. “Thank you, Mr. Digby. You are very kind. But you should do as Yeshi says. I'll be all right.”

Digby nods and picks up his mallet. The tide roars in and out, but not loudly enough to cover the cracking of bone and the thud of Digby's mallet against the sand as he brings it down again and again, slowly reducing the bones to a powder. Yeshi stands by with a saddlebag full of barley flour, which she will mix with the shards to attract more birds. The seagulls have developed a taste for bone meal.

“Ha,” Digby says cheerlessly. “Ha, ha, ha.”

Nazan covers her face with her hands. “Empty vessel, empty vessel…” But with every whack of Digby's mallet, another sob threatens to break free. “Talk to me,” she says suddenly. “
Someone
talk to me about something.”

Rosalind shakes his head. “I'm not sure what you—”

“I won't leave until this is finished, but…someone has to talk to me. You!” She catches Archie scratching his palm yet again. “Why do you do that? Scratch that scar so much? What is that scar?”

“The scar on my hand,” Archie says, “is none of your business.”

“I want to hear the story.”

Archie rolls his eyes. “Little girl, now is as good a time as any for you to learn one does not always get—”

“Tell goddamn story,” Timur growls suddenly. “Celik want to hear.”

“Agreed,” Rosalind says, and he arches an eyebrow for emphasis. “Don't test us.”

Archie sighs. “For crying out loud. All right. My family was quite prominent in New Orleans. My father,
his
father, et cetera. We were in the import business.”

Nazan considers this. “Sugar, coffee, that sort of—”

“People. We imported people. And sold them. At a fine price, I might add.”

“Unbelievable,” Rosalind says. “Just when I think you can't get any more unlikable.”

“Do you want to hear this or not? So, as a young man, I did as young men do, taking advantage of what amusements my town had to offer—cards, rum, women. One night, after an evening out, I took a walk by the river. I came upon a young couple. Negroes. And there was…oh, who can remember? Some gibber jabber about her being with child, him about to be sold…a slave Romeo and Juliet, let's say. They'd stolen a boat, but it was full of holes. They entreated me to help them. I'd have none of it, of course. We stood there, them begging and me trying to extract myself, and along comes a group of men with their slobbering canine. Hunting the Negroes, you see. They loosed the dog, and it went for us, teeth bared. So I did what anyone in that situation would—I pulled my pistol from my boot and shot the mangy bastard. That's it. That's the story. Happy?”

Digby finishes with Spencer's remains and moves on, smashing the other two skeletons. “Ha. Ha-ha.”

“But,” Nazan says, “what happened to the couple?”

“
I don't know
. It was half a century ago.” He gazes out at the sea and sighs. “I suppose in all the confusion, they may have gotten away.”

Nazan nods. “Good story.”

“It's a
terrible
story. They got away, and I got
this
.” He holds up his hand, the letters
SS
seared into his palm. “Branded. Slave stealer. Tossed in jail, excommunicated from my family. I was a man of position! I lost my inheritance, and I've wasted my life scamming rubes out of five and ten dollars apiece. And for what? Some dead dog.” He eyes Nazan contemptuously. “There's a lesson for you, Lady Celik, if you care to learn.”