GLASS SOUP Page 27

  “Vincent is here.”

  Isabelle froze. “Vincent? How can he be here?”

  “Anyone can be. The problem is getting back to his side of here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “At your apartment. That’s where you were going anyway, wasn’t it?”

  Isabelle started to say yes but to her real surprise, Leni interrupted her and said loudly, “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Then where were you going?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Leni!”

  “Isabelle, he isn’t real; he’s Chaos. He’s your own chaos.”

  The idea was so unexpected that it stopped Isabelle. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s from Simon’s world, right? That’s where you know him from?”

  “Yes.” Isabelle said it hesitantly, the one word sounding like a question.

  Leni shook her head. “You fished him out of your memory of Simon’s world to save you now. It won’t work.”

  “But I saw him in the other world too, Leni, the real world. After your funeral in Weidling.”

  “Yes, you told me. But was he able to stop you from coming here?”

  “No.”

  “Exactly. And he can’t save you now either. You can re-create him and make him damn real, but he’s only a delusion. Most of our lives we create our own chaos, Isabelle. We don’t need much of it from the outside because we’re so good at making it ourselves.

  “We do it because we believe, we honestly do believe that it’ll help us or save us… but it’s usually what ruins us.

  “Nobody can help you get out of here now but yourself. Not Vincent, not your fake little magic man, no ruby slippers. Not me or Simon—only you. Only you can do it.”

  “But what about that whole scene with the soul we just saw; the crow stealing it and the crying baby? Were they real?”

  “Yes, but this guy is not. Not some little leprechaun who pinches babies. He’s your creation. You made him out of your memories because you hoped he’d help get you out of here. He won’t. He can’t.”

  To make matters worse, afterward this false Broximon wouldn’t go away. When they started walking again toward Isabelle’s apartment he followed them without asking permission. Fifty steps on, Leni made a disgusted sound and stopped. Turning to him, she asked/accused, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Walking.”

  “Walking where?”

  “That’s none of your beeswax,” he said nonchalantly.

  “Oh really? That’s interesting.” But Leni was at a loss for something else to say in response, so she started walking again albeit more quickly.

  Broximon walked a few feet behind them. He frequently interrupted their conversation by asking what this or that was along the way, as if they were tour guides. It quickly became both exasperating and annoying. When he wasn’t asking questions, he whistled that moronic song from the group Drownstairs neither of them liked.

  “Broximon, will you please stop that? If you’re going to follow us, at least just shut up. Don’t ask any more questions and stop whistling.”

  “Why?”

  Isabelle held up a rigid fist at him to be quiet now—or else.

  “Leni, why is he still here if what you said is true?”

  “I don’t know—ask him.”

  Isabelle asked.

  To their surprise he answered. “Because you brought me here. You’re the only one who can make me go away.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know—I didn’t make me. Ask yourself.”

  Isabelle asked herself but didn’t have the faintest idea. Leni didn’t have the faintest idea either.

  Brogsma

  The three of them stood there looking into the front window of a vacant store. False Broximon was behind the women and off to one side. He had continued talking, asking irrelevant questions and whistling the Drownstairs tune on and off all the way over here. The women wanted to strangle him. He was like the awful little brother you had while growing up who seemed to make it his goal in life to infuriate you with everything he did.

  “Why are we looking into an empty store?”

  They pointedly ignored him, but the truth was Leni would like to have known the answer to that question too.

  Isabelle remained silent and stared. It had been her desire to come here. While walking toward her apartment, she had unexpectedly veered off onto a side street without any explanation. For the next ten minutes she said nothing while leading them here.

  The empty storefront looked vaguely familiar to Leni. But she had lived in Vienna all of her life so much of it appeared familiar, no matter where she was in the city.

  “Why are we looking into an empty store window?”

  “We heard you the first time you asked that question.”

  Broximon’s voice went up a half octave. “Yes, but you didn’t answer me the first time, so I’m asking again.”

  Ignoring both of them, Isabelle continued to look intently into the empty window as if there really was something in there only she could see.

  “Isabelle, why are we here?”

  “This was Petras Urbsys’s store, don’t you remember?”

  “Ah, that’s right!” Leni remembered Simon Haden scolding her for forgetting the time he brought her and Isabelle here and introduced them to Urbsys.

  “I want to go inside. Can I do that?”

  “Sure, but why?”

  “I just want to go inside, that’s all. How do I do it, Leni?”

  “Push the door open and walk in,” Broximon said.

  Isabelle checked Leni who nodded that this was true.

  She gave the door a push. It didn’t budge. She immediately thought It won’t let me do this, it won’t let me go in there. But a moment later the door yielded to the pressure of her pushing hand and slid open. Isabelle walked in.

  Leni remained outside with Broximon, assuming her friend would be inside only a short while. Plus she had no desire to go in anyway. The only things she remembered about Petras was that he talked too much and he smelled. Go into his funky old empty store now? No thanks. Broximon did not go in either. He stood nearby whistling. Leni was sure he did it only to irritate her.

  “Petras? Are you in here?”

  The empty store remained silent. Did Isabelle seriously believe he would be in there? Yes, some optimistic part of her believed exactly that. She said his name again, only this time with no question mark at the end.

  It smelled of mildew, old air, dust, and wood in the store. It smelled of emptiness and long neglect. It had once been such a vital unusual place. A compelling man had passed his last days in here. Old Petras knew that his life would soon be over. While he still had time though he wanted to share his stories with people who would appreciate them and cherish the objects that had helped populate them. Isabelle walked aimlessly around that large, shadowy, empty room searching for anything that would bring back even a trace of Petras Urbsys.

  On the floor in a corner of the room was an old disconnected telephone. Clam gray, it had one of those rotary dials she hadn’t seen for a long time. Squatting down beside it, Isabelle slid a finger into one of the holes and slowly dialed her own number at home. She left the receiver in its cradle. For a fine few seconds she envisioned the black telephone ringing in her apartment. She saw it on the small redwood table next to the couch in the living room. Then she pictured Vincent entering the room and walking toward the phone to answer it.

  After dialing the seventh and final number in the familiar sequence, she left her finger in the hole and watched it ride the wheel back to the starting point.

  When someone outside tapped on the front window, she started in alarm because she had been so absorbed in that scenario of Vincent in their home. She really felt she was there—like she could reach over and touch the ringing phone herself.

  Leni rapped on the glass again, harder this time, using the backs
of two fingers. When she eventually had her friend’s full attention, she shrugged as if to ask When are you coming out of there?

  Isabelle could not see little Broximon from where she was but assumed he was somewhere nearby. Her Broximon—not the real one, but the imposter she had unconsciously created from memory and frantic need to help her out of this trouble.

  Perhaps it was thinking about her false Broximon. Or the memory that followed of the multitude of Simon Hadens massed together to confuse Chaos when it arrived. It might even have been as simple as seeing the rotary dial on this telephone with its numbers and letters you could choose from and combine.

  Whatever gave her the idea, like a cloud that crosses a brilliant morning sun and changes the light over the world completely for a few dramatic moments, Isabelle suddenly realized something and instantly she passed from doubt and confusion to crystal clarity. Without hesitating at all she closed her eyes and thought of Petras Urbsys. In her mind she re-created the best possible image of the man she had known so well and respected tremendously. She thought in particular about his joie de vivre combined with that polymath’s knowledge and endless curiosity…

  Time passed while she thought of him, remembered him, and then she heard his voice very near: “Did I ever tell you about the Blue Morpho butterfly?”

  Although her first reaction on hearing his familiar voice was to yelp with joy, Isabelle managed to keep her eyes closed and silently mouth no. She had never heard of the butterfly before. She hoped and prayed to the gods that Petras would speak again now and prove her inspiration correct.

  “I had a framed specimen of a Blue Morpho up on the wall in here for years but then I sold it. A seven-inch wingspan, Isabelle. Can you imagine that? Amazing!”

  Unable to wait any longer, she opened her eyes and saw Petras sitting on the floor facing her. His elbows were on his spread knees and he was smiling his missing-tooth smile at her. He was even wearing the tan construction boots she remembered he liked so much. “The top of the Blue Morpho’s wings are a magnificent electric blue. A blue you cannot imagine until you have seen it. But that is only one of the reasons why it is a favorite of mine. The second reason will be helpful to you now, I believe.”

  Because he stood so low to the ground, when false Broximon looked into the store he had to look up. As a result, he was the first to see one of the three large blue butterflies fluttering around inside Petras Urbsys’s shop. Out of nowhere a second appeared and then a third. He stared at them for a while with a child’s wonderment. The sight of those gorgeous butterflies flying around in there was eerie and out of kilter. Particularly because they kept appearing and disappearing. There they were, now they’re gone—nope! Here they are again. How did they do that in plain sight?

  When he brought it to Leni’s attention she seemed unimpressed. There were other things on her mind. One minute she had peered into the store and seen Isabelle crouched alone in a corner fiddling with a telephone. The next time she looked in the window, Isabelle was in that same position talking to Petras Urbsys.

  “Why are there blue butterflies inside that store?”

  Leni was straining so hard to see what else was going on inside “that store” that she barely managed to answer “I dunno.” About the only thing she did know was Isabelle and Petras were watching the butterflies with great concentration. The old man gestured toward them with both hands as if explaining something about them to her.

  He was. Before the Blue Morphos flew into the room, Petras explained to her the difference between mimicry and camouflage in the animal kingdom. Isabelle began by thinking What does this have to do with what’s going on now? but she remained quiet and just listened. Soon she was listening with interest that grew into genuine pleasure, as had usually happened during her visits with Petras. He was a natural teacher. His enthusiasm was contagious and made subjects intriguing that never in a million years would have appealed to her if he hadn’t introduced and talked about them. When he found something fascinating he was eager and worked hard to make you think so too.

  When the butterflies appeared out of nowhere they were as striking as Petras had said. Isabelle wanted to talk about them and ask questions, but he stopped her and said, “Just watch them a while before saying anything more.” She did that and noticed the same thing Broximon had observed—the butterflies seemed to appear and disappear as they flew in and out of the light around the room. It was not one specific place where it happened either. She could not figure out how it happened but found it very intriguing and mysterious.

  Petras watched her watching the butterflies. He was hoping she would come to the right conclusions by herself but if not, he would tell her the necessary information anyway. Much better though if she discovered things for herself. The more of this she worked through on her own, the easier it would be for Isabelle to find and use her important reserves when it was necessary.

  Once when she visited him in the store he had been eating a large piece of chocolate cake from the bakery across the street. It was gooey and in his enthusiasm to devour it, he had bits of chocolate and crumbs stuck to his mouth in several places. Without a word she reached into her purse, pulled out a paper tissue, and handed it to him. Petras took it but put it down until he had finished eating and in that eager process, gotten even more cake on his face. Only when he was done and had sighed contentedly did he use her tissue.

  “That’s the difference between us, Isabelle. You see a crumb and want to wipe it away. But I believe people should live like an old man eating cake. For him there is nothing else left in his life but that delicious sweetness in his mouth. So he enjoys it more than you ever could and doesn’t worry about how the crumbs look.”

  Speaking to him now, she mentioned that cake incident and said she was trying to look at these butterflies the same way he ate his cake. Petras grinned but said nothing. She rose from the floor and walked over to the part of the room the butterflies had chosen, for the moment, to do their air dance.

  Outside, Leni watched it happen through the front window but it left her even more confused about what to do next. Petras watched too, still not saying a thing. Indifferent, Broximon had turned away and was content watching the cars go by on the street.

  The three butterflies didn’t appear to mind Isabelle’s presence, even when she moved up close and walked here and there to observe them from different angles.

  “Their wings are schizophrenic.”

  Petras shifted his position. “What do you mean?”

  “The tops are blue but the bottoms are black. At least they look black.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  She kept staring at the butterflies. “I don’t know.”

  “Watch what happens to them when they fly in and out of the light. But it’s better to sit down and watch from the floor.”

  In and out of the light they dipped and danced, spun and played tag with one another.

  “They disappear. They disappear when they fly into the light.”

  “No, it just looks that way from where you are sitting. The truth is they are still there but you can’t see them for some moments. It is their camouflage, Isabelle. Remember what I told you before about mimicry and camouflage. It is how these butterflies survive.”

  She glanced at Petras. “That’s why the bottom of their wings is black? Anything below can’t see them because they’re so dark.”

  He corrected her. “But only for a moment—just enough time for them to escape. Remember though, only the bottoms of their wings are dark. The tops are blue; a great blue.

  “Black to your enemies, blue to all others.”

  What Isabelle had realized while looking at the old telephone was that she could conjure a Petras in the same way she had earlier conjured false Broximon, but with one great difference. She had unconsciously reconstructed Broximon out of her fear, weakness, and need. In contrast, this Petras was a fully conscious creation, the deliberate product of love and a trust in her best memories of
her friend. She had brought that man here now to help her.

  In this singular world somewhere on the borderline between life and death, it was becoming clear that she had the power to do remarkable things. Even more so than Leni because Isabelle was alive in this world and Leni was not. At the same time, Isabelle now realized she must be extremely careful and precise about her choices. Here she could conjure “leprechauns” or summon the dead, but which versions and whether they would be of any help depended entirely on her foresight, perception, and will.

  A little later as she was leaving, Petras said one last thing. “The heart and the mind rarely lie at the same time, Isabelle.”

  She stopped in the doorway and waited for him to continue but he didn’t. “I don’t understand that.”

  “Whatever you do now, listen to yourself carefully before acting. Try to recognize which part of you is telling the truth and which part is lying only because it’s safe or easier.”

  “Know thyself?” she asked with a smile.

  “Know thyselvessss,” he answered, elongating the last syllable so that he sounded like a buzzing bee.

  When she stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind her, both Leni and false Broximon were there with sour looks on their faces. They had been waiting a long time.

  “Well?”

  “I want a Mohr im hemd. I’m trying to think of a place around here we can go to get one.”

  Isabelle’s response was so unexpected that without thinking, Leni automatically asked, “What do you want?”

  Isabelle repeated, “A Mohr im hemd.”

  Broximon looked at both women and asked anyone, “What’s a Mohr im hemd?”

  Leni looked from Isabelle to Broximon and then back at Isabelle again, her face all confused. “Chocolate cake.”

  Vincent Ettrich was thinking about food when the telephone rang. While he crossed the living room to answer it, a bowl of soup was in the middle of his thoughts. A large white bowl full of thick goulash soup and several pieces of fresh bread. Brown bread, brown soup, white bowl…