I SOUND LIKE DONALD
Pobiner.” Shrugging the suitcase higher into my hand, I stepped away from the train. My best friend when I was ten was a tight-assed little shit named Donald Pobiner who was no fun and even then had the infuriating habit of making pronouncements that were mostly stupid but always irrefutable, as far as Donald was concerned. “Ketchup gives you cancer” being one of his more memorable ones.
When the train slowed for Zell am See, I looked through the window and asked myself, “What’s so special about this place?” There was a nice lake surrounded by medium-sized mountains, their tops covered with snow. “Switzerland’s better” was my next Pobiner pontification when I climbed down the metal steps.
Outside it was snowing lightly, which gave the air that nice warmth and stillness that can come with snow. One of the small enjoyable details of train travel in Europe is even when getting off at a large stop, you often must walk across tracks to get to the station. There we were, a small group of us crunching across the snow as the Innsbruck express rolled out behind us with a skate and screech of metal on wet metal. I turned once, impulsively thinking to catch sight of the old man and his young listener.
“Harry!” Morton Palm shouted, as he stood under the eaves of the station with his bare hands up tight in his armpits and a big grin on.
“Morton, you made it!” Walking up, I dropped my bag and patted his arm. I was genuinely glad to see the man. He was the first, and after long thought the only, person I called from Saru once I’d agreed to
do the job. Obviously Hassan told Fanny, but I didn’t even call my partner to tell her what was going on. I contacted Palm because I wanted company when I was in Zell am See; company that could speak German well, knew something about my field, and was someone I liked being around. The fact that he was an ex-soldier didn’t hurt either. In the long conversation we had before I left Bazz’af, I asked him to meet me in the mountain town and bring, among other things, a gun. When I began to explain the recent situation in Saru, he said only, “I know, Harry. I’ve been following it. The gun’s a good idea.”
We walked through a waiting room full of people wearing colorful ski clothes and the look of smug fatigue that comes with paying lots to use your muscles. Outside, taxis stood in front, puffing blue exhaust smoke into the still air. The drivers checked us out incuriously before going back to their newspapers.
“Where are you parked?” I asked Palm.
“At the hotel. It’s a five-minute walk.”
“Where are we staying?”
“You asked for the nicest place in town, Harry. I got us rooms at the Grand Hotel. You’ll like it—it’s right on the lake.”
“The Germans beat these landscapes down into postcard pictures so they can promenade around them. Look at this—it’s straight out of
The Magic Mountain
or a Friedrich painting. Beautiful, striking, and absolutely wrong.”
“Why wrong?” He took out a pack of cigarettes, which made me even happier he was here with me.
“Could I have one of those? Wrong because it’s like topiary, or a ship in a bottle. Ships don’t belong in bottles—they belong out on limitless seas, fighting storms and sea monsters. This kind of vista should be dramatic and spectacular—not prettified and docile, like hedges trimmed in clever shapes. These are the
Alps,
man! Blizzards!
Avalanches! Hundred-mile views! But what’ve they done with this place, besides tame it? Quaint little boat docks and wide-deck restaurants on the summit, where you can drink Remy and catch a little sun before taking the cable car down … .
“Listen, in the Renaissance, people were so fucking
afraid
of mountains that when traveling across them by coach, they’d actually put on blindfolds so they wouldn’t be driven mad by their dangerous power! People really believed that could happen. That’s what I’m talking about. Where are those feelings today, Morton? I’m sure the only things that’ll drive us crazy here now will be the price of the hotel room or a drink at the bar.”
“How come you’re forever angry, Harry? You’re a lucky man. You have what you want, your business is a success, and you even went crazy for a while without losing too much. But you’re always distressed, always angry. It’s hard for me to understand.”
Palm didn’t say more than that as we walked toward our hotel, which was now in view. But coming from a man as placid and satisfied with the way his life had gone, the remark cut me in half. Was I so misanthropic and ill-tempered?
The Grand Hotel am See was a nineteenth-century wedding cake properly restored. Our adjoining rooms with balconies looked out over the lake and mountains. Tame as it was, I wished someone I loved was there to share it with me. Fanny came to mind, as did our last conversation. Did I love her? Had I ever? Already many of my memories of her centered on our fights rather than the many good times we’d had together. Was that fair, or only because I was “forever angry”?
Morton opened the doors to my balcony and stepped out on it while I hung things in the closet.
“Come here, Harry. I want to show you something.”
Sillily enough, I was afraid to join him. Afraid he might say something else true that would cut me in half the other way.
“Christ, it
is
pretty,” I said a bit too heartily and full of false delight. Morton smiled with half of his mouth, knowing exactly what I was doing.
“Off there to the right, behind us, is the Schmittenhöhe. We’ll go up there tomorrow, or whenever you’re ready. I skied here and at Kitzsteinhorn once years ago. Both of them have beautiful views from the top and wonderful long runs down. Do you ski?”
“I tried once.”
His smile broadened. “You didn’t like it?”
“I didn’t say that! I just said I tried it once. It was okay. Very, umm, healthy.”
“Uh-huh. Now across the lake, there, is the town of Thumersbach and next to it Maishofen. They are much smaller and quieter than Zell am See. What I want to show you is to the right of Thumersbach. Follow my finger? That smaller mountain there is called Hundstein. Do you see where I’m pointing? That is where your Sultan owned his land.”
“Hund
means dog in German.”
“That’s correct. The Sultan has the best place to build his museum—on a mountain called Dog Stone.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, the truth. I have talked with a man at the
Verkehrsbüro
here in town. He told me the whole story. The Sultan of Saru came to ski Kaprun once four years ago and heard there was a mountain here named Dog Stone, or Dog Mountain, to play with the translation. Since that time he had his people working to buy as much of the mountain as he could.”
I asked Palm to point it out again. Instead he went to his room and brought back a detailed map of the area. By golly, there was the name in real black ink: Hundstein. Pointing to the map and then into the distance across the lake, we found it and looked in silence.
“Can you imagine buying a mountain because you like the name?”
“From what you have told me, he knew he was going to build this museum a long time ago.”
“Yeah, but in Saru! Far as I know, the Sultan didn’t have any plans while he was alive to make Mount Dog into Mount Museum. That’s why he asked me to Saru—to see the country and the site. It was his son Hassan who decided to do it here because he’s afraid Cthulu will blow it up if they build there.”
“A fair guess to make, knowing the history of that man. I have been reading about Cthulu since you hired me. My room is full of books about Saru. Come, let’s get something to eat first. We have days to talk.”
I DON’T KNOW ABOUT
Morton, but the ten days we spent together in Zell am See were some of the best of my life. As an adult, I have never had a real man friend, and I use that term in all the rough and tumble, us pals, drink into the night, talk about women, spill your male guts way it was intended. As friends, women interest me far more than men. Women’s minds are more intricate and labyrinthine, their perceptions deeper, and what they tell you is generally new stuff. Male friendships are ham and eggs, toast and coffee meals. Men-Women friendships are an exotic, foreign taste—delicious in odd ways, like fresh paprika, like fennel.
But those days with Palm showed me how satisfying ham and eggs can be as a meal, how filling and delightful in its simplicity. We went for long walks around the lake, drank beer in the restaurant we found at the train station, which turned out to be the best place to eat in town, and took every cable car ride up to look at the genuine splendor of those mountains in winter. What made me smile was thinking how, on that first day, I had wished to have a woman with me there. What I’d learned was a pal of your own sex wasn’t as romantic and prickly, but the ease and natural empathy in
the air around this kind of relationship was a pleasure to know and possess.
HARRY? IS THAT YOU?"
I’d picked the phone up without really knowing what I was doing. “Hello? Yes? Hello?”
“Harry, is that you? This is Claire. I’m calling from California.”
“Claire! Hi, Claire! How are you?” I sat up in bed and tried to focus my eyes. It was four in the morning.
“I know it’s very late there, I’m sorry, but I had to call when I knew I’d get you. This is so important and you’re the only one who can help.”
“Sure, don’t worry about it. What’s the problem?”
“Harry, I need to borrow twenty-five thousand dollars. You’re the only one I know to ask.” She began to cry. “I would never ask but you’re my last hope and it’s so important. It’s my life.”
“Claire, it’s no problem. I’ll call the office tomorrow and they’ll have a check ready for you by the end of the week. Okay? Honey, are you all right? Do you want to talk about it? Listen,
the money is yours.
Don’t even think about that. Are you in trouble?”
“Oh Harry, thank you so much. No, it’s not like that. I didn’t know what I was going to do. You can’t just go to the bank and say, ‘I want to borrow twenty-five thousand dollars for a hand.’ They’d think you’re crazy. Oh
thank you!
I can’t tell you—”
“Wait a minute! What do you mean, a hand?”
“The Sterling Hospital in Portland has invented a prosthetic hand that is supposed to be the most advanced in the world. But it’s so sophisticated that they’ve only made a few, and they cost … . The whole procedure costs twenty-five thousand, Harry. And if I want to have one soon I have to be able to prove I have the money to pay for it now. I just learned this a couple of days ago and I’ve been going
crazy trying to think of how to get it, short of selling the store. You were my last hope. You saved me, Harry.”
THE SULTAN IS NOT
to be reached, Mr. Radcliffe. He is still asleep. It is only seven o’clock in the morning here.”
“I don’t care what time it is there. You tell him that if he doesn’t come to the telephone right now he can
kiss my ass about this fucking museum!
He cheated me!”
“That is not possible, Mr. Radcliffe. Call back later and perhaps he will talk to you. If you are not so rude.” Click.
I was the only one in the breakfast room at seven the next morning. I’d been walking around the lobby, fuming, for half an hour when the doors opened. Not that I was hungry. I wanted something to do before calling Saru again and raising hell. I ordered coffee.
“Your tea, sir.”
“I didn’t—” Looking up, I was blinded by the fat face of the mysterious Mr. Hasenhüttl from my Saru flight. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Do you mind?” He pulled out a chair and sat down. He was dressed in a burnt-orange jogging suit that made him look like a lifeboat.
“What do you want? I saw you and Awwad together in Vienna. Why are you sneaking around me? I’m doing the job!”
“I don’t sneak, Radcliffe. I’m your Invigilator. Here to make sure you play this game correctly.”
“Play
correctly?
What about Claire’s hand? Is that how wishes are granted? She gets something with wires and rubber that costs
me
twenty-five grand, but still Hassan has kept his part of the bargain?”
“You didn’t specify what you wanted. Besides, even if you had, it wouldn’t have made a difference. A wish is a dream come true. Since dreams are never clear, when they happen they invariably disappoint. Remember what happened to the old man and his bread house?
Claire Stansfield’s new hand is without question the
ne plus ultra
of this field. It will allow her to be whole again.”
“But it’s not a real hand!” Two waiters nearby stopped setting tables and looked at us. Hasenhüttl waved them off and said something in German which I took to be “No problem.”
“Is this the way things are done in Saru?”
“I’m not from Saru, Radcliffe.”
“Oh, the
gods
are sending a guy in an orange sweat suit to make sure I play fair?”
“You thought the Easterling child was Venasque. Tell me how I knew that. Why can’t a fat man in orange sweats come from the gods?”