Fata Morgana by William Kotzwinkle Page B

toward the Turk, “is the worst chef in Paris. I am fortunate to have him.”
    The Turk bowed ceremoniously and Armand put his arm around Picard’s shoulder, leading him back to the dining room, through the aisle of empty tables.
    “Come by for breakfast, Paul. Omar will be preparing a marvelous omelette. First he throws it on the floor...”
    “Know anything else about Lazare?”
    “He can drink poison,” said Armand. “Yes, I’m not kidding you. Some Viennese dumbbell challenged him to a duel and Lazare chose the weapon—a bottle of poison which they shared. The dumbbell died, of course, and Lazare is in Paris, entertaining on the rue de Richelieu. But I’d like to see him drink a glass of this little wine and live to tell of it.” Armand spit a mouthful out the door, as Picard stepped into the street.
    The Spaniards were still singing. He walked through their ranks, attempted another growl or two. A few minutes’ walk brought him to the door of his tenement. The card game continued in the concierge’s room. A broken claret glass lay in the doorway, fragments of it scattered around the hall. Last month there’d been a contest among the gentlemen, to see who could kick a bottle, barefooted, furthest up the stairs. A ridiculous affair, which Picard was ashamed to admit he’d won.
    He climbed slowly to his apartment, let himself into the gloom, undressed in darkness. The Spaniards had drifted into the narrow rue de Nesle and were leaning up against the dead end of it, singing of the Alhambra in the echoing lane. They led him into sleep with their sad lament, to a street in an unknown land, where the streetlamps were crystal balls, one after another along an endless avenue. He followed it over the horizon and down, walking the great glittering thoroughfare. In each of the crystal lamps he saw figures moving, small and luminous, their bodies forming the radiance of the lamps. With sudden astonishment he found himself coming up and around to the spot from which he’d begun. His avenue was a ring of silver, and the lampposts were jewels which decorated the ring.
    Looking up, he saw high above him the giant who wore the jeweled ring upon his finger. Horrified, Picard realized that his own body was no bigger than a flea, crawling along the rim of the giant’s ring.
    He woke, heard a Spaniard vomiting in the gutter. It was dawn. The night had gone by in an instant.
     
     

 
    PART II
     
    The Valet of Coins
     
     

 
     
     
    “No, Lazare is no citizen of Austria, nor does he own any property in Leopoldstadt.” The Viennese Chief of Police opened his desk drawer and removed a brass water pipe, the bowl of which he filled with dark wet tobacco. “There is, however, a superb prison in Leopoldstadt. Perhaps you would care to visit it. I can contact the warden.”  
    “No,” said Picard, “I think not.”
    “The insane asylum, then?” The Chief placed a piece of glowing charcoal in the bowl. “Upon request...” He puffed on a silken-wrapped hose. “...the patients are exhibited and beaten for special guests. I could arrange...”
    “Thank you, no,” said Picard. “You have nothing on this man Lazare?”
    “We know who he is, naturally. He operated here for months.” The Chief surrounded himself with a cloud of smoke, the fumes of which made Picard lean forward dizzily. The Chief smiled. “You’re admiring the aroma of my tobacco. A mixture of spice and molasses.” He pointed to the gurgling brass chamber. “Essence of rose and saffron in the water. It is the style in Kashmir. Have you been there? I have another tube for this infernal thing, you can join me...”  
    “I must refrain...”
    “Yes, the smoke is rather strong. Comes from a marvelous little shop, you must visit it, the Black Mother of God.” The Chief continued puffing and looked up with a sheepish grin. “Strong, very strong. Occasionally it renders me unconscious.”
    “About Lazare...”
    “He swindled a fortune out of our