Thomas M. Disch by Ringtime

Author:Ringtime [Ringtime]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2011-12-13T15:37:24+00:00

I loitered in the square some minutes, circling the stacked cars in the fountain, establishing mood. Who knew but that this would be my last recording? So it had better be good. My eyes’ cameras panned across the concrete stumps of benches toward the doorway of Number 33 and then, feet assisting, zoomed in to the shallow foyer and the laminated plastic nameplate of the Happenings Gallery, M. Ruyk, Proprietor. A ringed finger rang the bell.

Silence.

The door was locked. With the ease of borrowed expertise, I entered. The gallery, on the third-floor landing, was double-locked. I entered again. The place was an ice palace carved from white light-no walls for miles, no furniture, just a pure and tasteful void. M. Ruyk didn’t worry much about the electric bill. Illusions like this cost money.

The cinematographer in me was delighted, but the thief was taken aback.

Feeling less and less like an avenging angel, I inched forward through the mirage until my hand encountered vertical solidity.

“Mr. Whelan, we’re so glad you’ve decided to return.” The voice came from the four corners of the void, a flat, throat-milked contralto like the voice announcing time on the telephone.

In the white glare behind me, where the door should have been, two images formed, his and hers: both young, both dressed in icy shades of blue, both upside-down.

“You’re inverted,” I told them.

“One moment.” The man’s hand disappeared to the left, and the image righted itself and then sank through the white glow to just below floor level.

“Better?”

“You need some vertical adjustment, but that’s okay.”

The sofa on which they were seated sank another two feet.

The woman leaned forward-seen right side up, she came across as expensive rather than young-and addressed my midriff with an earnest, placating smile.

“Excuse us for keeping at such an unfriendly distance, Mr. Whelan, but the metal indicator suggested you might be armed.”

“Excuse me for breaking and entering. And no need to worry about the gun. It’s only imitation. Look.” I took it from my pocket and fired off a blank.

“Oh, my!” She fluttered her hands expressively. They were white and bony and roped with veins and about fifty years older than her face. “How violent! Let me say at once, Mr. Whelan, that I am a great admirer of your work. You have such … Flair scarcely does justice. Regrettably, I can’t claim to possess any of your more notable recordings, but I have been allowed glimpses. Such glimpses!” She cocked her head and squinted at my knees. (The image had continued sinking, and now their feet were coming into view in the sir above their heads.) “Rudy, can’t we get better focus?”

Rudy gave a martyred sigh. His hand vanished to fiddle a dial.

“Ali, that’s better. No doubt you’re impatient, Mr. Whelan. There’s so much to explain. And I’m so bad at explanations. The loss of short-term memory is the price one pays for a lifetime of vicarious experience. It does something to the synapses.” (Now only their heads were left in the lower image.

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