Glimmering

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—

STORMING HELL!

—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.