Fata Morgana (10 page)

“Of course, they’ll fetch the best price, as well they should. A remarkable craftsman.”

“I’ve heard he even makes a fortune-telling machine.”

“I’ve never seen it, but I can tell you this—old Heron knows a thing or two. He’s a strange fellow, Heron is. A trifle mad, yes?”

The old woman shook her head no, and clucked her tongue in disapproval. Her husband cleared his throat, changed his tone. “You’re right, mama, old Heron isn’t mad. He’s—a visionary. Yes, that’s the better word. Old Heron is a visionary. His father was the same way; a watchmaker, but what a watchmaker! He built a clock— you should have seen it, sir—a clock that had angels circling on it, and peculiar little animals, and there were entrances and exits and hallways in this clock. It was enormous, bigger than two men, and as the hands went round the various figures danced, synchronized with the hands of time. It was in the town hall for years and then —then, I think it was presented as a gift to a visiting king. Anyway, sir, you see what I mean—Robert Heron came by his gift honestly, for his father was one of our city’s great masters.”

The old man turned toward the window. More houses had appeared, and other sleighs were moving on the side roads, and on the main road. The spires of a cathedral appeared in the distance, rising out of the storm. Then the clouds parted for a moment and thousands of snowcapped roofs could be seen.

“There is the Tower,” said the old man, pointing to the ancient castle that sat upon the rock heights of Nuremberg. “Herr Wilderstein lives just next to it. You will find him most hospitable.”

The huge rock walls of the city loomed up, snow-covered, silent, unmanned; the city was at peace. The sled entered with many others, and fell in behind a brewer’s wagon, which bore its barrels of beer undeterred by the storm. On the sidewalks, the shopkeepers were shoveling out side by side with home owners. The windows of the restaurants and beer gardens were only just beginning to lose their frosty designs as inner fires warmed them, and children pummeled the passing sleds with snowballs, one of which crashed against the glass just beyond Picard’s face. He started, saw the answer to the entire case, and lost it. His mind raced frantically, seeking to overtake the half-formed intuition, but it was gone, back into the land of shadows, leaving him with only a single impression, of glass which must shatter—a breaking bottle on a ship’s bow, a window broken by stones, a crystal ball flung against the wall.

“There is a hotel on the next corner,” said the old man. “You won’t be uncomfortable there. Not too expensive either.”

Picard rapped on the driver’s window, and the sled was drawn over to the doorway of the hotel. A servant came immediately and received Picard’s luggage. The old man leaned out the window. “I trust you’ll find the toys you seek. If I can find any old ones in my attic I’ll send them round to you... Ah no, mama says I cannot. We must hang on to them for the grandchildren. So—there’s the value... goodbye then...”

* * *

The hotel staff was still shoveling, and Picard watched them from his window as he changed into his Norfolk jacket. The knickerbocker trousers, ending just below the knee, would make snow-walking easier. The socks were thick, would turn the water.

He tugged on the tweed cap he always wore with the Norfolk, an Irish creation whose brim had been bent through the years into a smoothly rounded arch. Fastening the belt of his jacket, he observed with some pleasure that it closed one notch tighter. Traveling has taken off some of the spread; let me just check this...

The Lefaucheux revolver came open with a click, he examined the chamber, blew a minute particle of dust out of it, and returned it to his jacket. He was feeling strong, exhilarated by the blowing weather, walked down the stairs and through the lobby, into the wind, the close-fitting Norfolk suit having the feel of a uniform as he strode into the snowy street.

He walked toward the center of the city, following the slope of the gentle valley on which the town had been built. A postman was coming toward him, shouldering his letter bag. Picard stopped the man, inquired for the house of Robert Heron.

“Henkersteg,” said the postman, pointing toward a succession of small wooden bridges. Picard continued down the sloping street and turned in the direction the postman had pointed, along the narrow little stream that flowed through the fairy-tale city. The small gently arching bridges spanned it, one after another, as in a matchbox Paris with a miniature Seine.

Henkersteg, the Hangman’s Bridge: Picard located it on his map and then with his eye, a humble bridge like all the others which crossed the little stream, except that here men had dangled over the water at the end of a rope. Not an ordinary bridge, mein Herr, not ordinary at all. A bridge leading across a vast and unknown water, to places only the hanged men know. And leading as well to a row of shabby houses on the water, one of which is Robert Heron’s.

The porches were built over the water, supported by long naked poles; the dooryards were a jumble of rotted shingles and trash barrels, and stiffened wash hung on the open porches. Picard circled around to the front of the row houses, finding the door of Robert Heron at once—the frame was carved into an arbor, with faces of gnomes and elves peeking from the leaves, mischievous smiles on their faces. He took hold of the brass knocker and rapped solidly.

Receiving no answer, he rapped again. Footsteps slowly approached from inside, and the door opened. An old woman stood before him, her body frail and white as a porcelain doll.

“I’m looking for Robert Heron,” said Picard.

“He’s dead.”

“Dead? When did he die?”

The woman looked at him, hesitation in her eyes. “Who are you?”

“I’m from the Paris police,” said Picard, showing his shield.

“Very well,” said the woman. “But come inside. We’re letting the cold in, and it’s cold enough.”

He followed her to her parlor, where she sat down in a rocking chair beside a window, looking out onto Hangman’s Bridge. “He died two months ago,” she said, slowly rocking back and forth, staring at the celebrated bridge.

“How did he die?”

“In a ring of broken toys.” Robert Heron’s widow was a small woman, made still smaller by old age, her feet hardly touching the floor as she rocked, a withered doll who rocked through a secret eternity.

“A ring of toys? I don’t understand.”

“He gathered all his toys around him and smashed them one by one,” said the woman, without emotion. “They were the most wonderful toys on earth, and after he smashed them to bits, he lay down and died amongst them.”

Picard sat in silence with Heron’s widow, she seeming not to care if he sat there forever.

“Did your husband have any assistants?”

“No.”

“No apprentice, no pupils in the art?”

“He worked alone. Only he knew the secret of his toys, and he took it with him.” The old woman pointed to a door. Picard went to it and entered the toy maker’s studio. On the floor was a pile of broken springs and wires and wheels and tiny arms and legs and lovely heads and torsos. He knelt before the ruin of little bodies, touching them gently with his fingertips. The sadness of his childhood overtook him again, and he stood, not wishing to open that wound. But the sunlight moved, extending a beam into the heart of the scattered toy kingdom, where a bit of sequin suddenly glittered. Picard knelt again, drawn to the sparkling waistband of a circus acrobat, in white and black tights, with gold cincher and wristbands. The acrobat had somehow been spared in the final destruction of the toys. Picard picked the figure out of the fragments. Then, looking closely at the face, he felt a sudden vertigo, as if he were the acrobat, falling from the high wire into a bottomless abyss. The face on the toy was that of Ric Lazare.

* * *

He stood upon a sheltered wooden bridge, staring at the stream below. Snow was still falling, touching the water for a moment and disappearing. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the circus acrobat. While he was not in the habit of stealing from old women, it could not be helped; when the case is over, I’ll send it back to her, wrapped in an appreciative note from the Prefecture and lined with German marks.

The acrobat was perfectly made; a tiny key was folded almost invisibly in his back. I hold Lazare; he has been in Nuremberg.

Picard wound the key a few turns, and released it. The acrobat squirmed in his hands, arms and legs kicking powerfully, but unable to go anywhere.

Picard smiled and returned the acrobat to his pocket. He continued across the bridge, toward a promontory of land on which a weeping willow drooped over the water. Were I to be hanged in Nuremberg, I would choose this bridge, for the sight of the willow as I dangled.

He walked past the tree, and into a street that rose sharply upward to the northwest, toward Castle Rock, the pinnacle of the city’s skyline. It was a long, slow climb, through ever-narrowing lanes and up stone steps. He huffed onto Am Olberg, the winding street that lay in the shadow of the great Tower. At number 31, he rapped on the door of Hermann Wilderstein, toy maker.

* * *

“No,” said Wilderstein, “there were no assistants, nor an apprentice.” The toy maker was plump, red-faced, a good solid burgher, whose house was as carefully made and as highly polished as his toys, every latch and doorframe a masterpiece of care and craftsmanship. “Many young lads were sent to him, but Heron insisted they have complete knowledge of anatomy and geometry. May I bring you a glass of brandy, sir, you look quite pale.”

“No,” said Picard, “the hill has tired me, it is nothing serious, please go on.”

The toy maker called his serving girl and had the brandy brought anyway, taking one himself as he continued his reflections on the work of Robert Heron: “Yes, anatomy and geometry, and the processes of nature. In all this he was adamant. The proper making of toys could not begin without such knowledge already in the mind. His own guidebook was that of our most famous artist, Albrecht Dürer. Do you know Dürer’s
Instruction in Measuring with the Compass and Ruler?
A marvelous book. There was also his work on human proportion. Heron lived by these books, and expected anyone who wanted to learn the art to have such knowledge. Well, I ask you, sir, what young lad is going to come up out of nowhere with such learning at his disposal? Or, if he did have such learning, he would go on to be a painter or sculptor, where he might make a good deal more fame for himself.” The burgher finished his brandy, stared into the empty glass. “So Robert Heron’s superb gift was not passed on, and we’ll never see the likes of it again. My favorite was his miniature city: It was entirely animated. The cows walked along each morning toward their pasture, and at lunch-time the tiny church bells rang; in the evening the night watchman made his rounds, and a drunkard reeled down the street. It went continually as if everyone in it were animated by—by life. Its secret, of course, was a magnificent system of springs and balances whose intricacies would drive most men mad.”

Picard withdrew the acrobat from his pocket, and before he could say a word, Hermann Wilderstein had reached forth his hand.

“Ah, sir, how fortunate you are! This is a priceless find, priceless...” Wilderstein turned the acrobat over in his hands, examining every detail of it, holding it as one holds a sacred child. Finally he set it down on the coffee table, shaking his head affectionately. “And how much do you want for it?”

“I’m not interested in selling.”

“Quite right, quite. Keep it always, and it will bring you good luck, for I swear to you, sir, his toys are all enchanted, and this...” Wilderstein picked it up again, wound the key gently. “This is one of his best. Look at the detail, and now look... look at the action!” He set the acrobat down and the little figure performed a perfect run of somersaults, the steel-veined arms and legs carrying him end over end, across the floor. He finished upright, poised, ready to be wound again. Picard reached down to the acrobat and picked him up, setting him on the coffee table, where he stood frozen, silent, yet somehow more alive than ever.

“Do you know who the model for this was, Herr Wilderstein?”

Wilderstein looked at the face of the acrobat. “It’s one of a circus set he worked on for many years. Heron had an entire circus, you know, waltzing elephants, high-wire acts, all in miniature. The model for this could have been any one of a number of circus performers. Heron loved the circus, and always attended when the tents were erected in Nuremberg. I saw him there, many times, and he was continually sketching faces and details of the performance. I expect...” Herr Wilderstein touched the acrobat on the head. “...this fellow was part of some passing troupe.”

Picard stood, putting the acrobat back in his pocket. “Thank you for your time, Herr Wilderstein.”

“It was nothing, sir. It’s always a pleasure to meet a serious collector.” Herr Wilderstein showed Picard toward the door of the old house.

“Where is Robert Heron buried?”

“In the cemetery of St. John. In that direction...” Herr Wilderstein stepped with Picard into the street, pointing toward the end of it. “You must cross the wall and then it is straight on from there. But the gates have closed now...” He took out his pocket watch. “Yes, you’re too late. Tomorrow, sir, try again tomorrow.”