30

One evening Nona and I were dining in Christophe’s, off Geary, enjoying the post-posttheater quiet. We enjoyed brook trout, Montrachet, and candlelight in a corner of the restaurant the maître d’ always managed to have reserved for me.

It was that time of night that is actually very early morning, a time so far removed from business and appointment books that one can actually believe that no further harm will ever take place in the world.

Nona’s dark hair was more radiant than ever, the deep, hidden burgundy hue of her brunette catching the candlelight. She was peaceful, in a way that was distinctively her own. She was sure of herself, and of her life.

Landscaping was a matter of illusion, I was saying. “If you want a blue garden to look blue, it should be twenty percent yellow,” I said. “If you want your garden to look old, plant poplars. No tree grows faster in Northern California.”

I had managed to spend an hour or two that afternoon beginning to restore my hothouse. I had been busy composting, opening new bags of potting soil, writing orders for new plants.

“It’s all magic, then,” said Nona.

“It’s a matter of glamour. In the sense of ‘artifice.’ The flower has to attract the bee. The blossom is a natural form of cosmetic. A botanical fashion statement.”

Coffee arrived. We chatted about recent staffing changes at the Medical Center, the progress of a local theater, my own good prospects for a contract with a Japanese financial firm, and then she reached out her hand, and closed it over mine, a gesture that I recognized.

She had something important to say. I encouraged her with a look, but she was oddly reluctant to continue.

At last she said, “There’s someone I want you to talk to.”

When she did not immediately continue, I urged her. “Please tell me.”

“You’ll be angry.”

I laughed. “Impossible.”

“You will, Strater. You’ll think I’ve been working behind your back.”

“Have you been?”

She paused. Nona rarely needed to be encouraged to share her thoughts. I opened my hands to say: please go on.

“I shared your story with someone I know—someone who understands such things.”

For some reason I decided to be just a little bit difficult. “Such things as what?”

She waved her hand: you know.

I did not want to remember the hallucinations, or whatever they had been. I sipped my coffee. “Who is this remarkable individual?”

“His name is Victor Valfort.”

“I’ve seen his books. He was one of your teachers.”

“Something of a magician, too.”

“In the sense of ‘artifice’?”

“He uses hypnotherapy. He is an adept, if I can use that word, in dealing with the trance state. He’s been very successful at curing what used to be called hysterical symptoms.”

“But it’s been two or three weeks since I had any sort of vision.” I tried to give the word vision a certain spin as I said it, as though having a hallucination was like having a cramp, or a spell of dizziness. I did not convince myself. I know I did not convince Nona.

Her voice was low. She toyed with her spoon. “I study dying. How it happens, and what it means to the psyche as people—especially children—approach it. I can help children. I don’t know how to help you.”

“And this man does.” It was not a question.

“He’s in Paris.”

“When will he be here?”

“I’m suggesting that you go see him.”

“You must be joking. You’ve seen all my appointments. I’m too busy.” I lowered my voice. “I’m all right now. Look at me—everything’s fine.”

“Your symptoms are probably situational,” she began. “They will return when the conditions that caused them return. Right now you’re satisfied. Things are going well. In a crisis, your body chemistry will change. And your visions will come back.”

“You have it all figured out.”

“I knew you’d be angry.”

“I’m not angry. It’s just that I think there’s no emergency.”

“I don’t want to say anything that might hurt your feelings,” she said.

“Such as?”

“I think there’s something inside you. Buried. Some secret, or series of secrets.”

I did not quite understand why her comments made me feel so tense. I glanced over at Fern. His radio was plugged into his ear, a black coiled wire out of his jacket collar that he kept adjusting. His eyes met mine. I tried to read his expression. Was there something wrong?

I watched the candle flame, its untrembling blade tapering to a long, golden needle. The candlelight on Nona’s skin made her look like a woman shaped from oldest Egyptian gold. Her face was the mask of a Sybil. “I want you to promise to go see him,” she said.

“I love Paris. When I get the chance—”

Her hand was on mine now, squeezing. “Soon. Please.”

My laugh was easy, relaxed. “I think I’m beginning to feel jealous of this magus.”

“There’s no reason to.”

“He certainly made a strong impression on you. Nona, look at me. I’m reliable. Steady. Sane.”

“It’s called denial, Strater. Sooner or later, the hallucinations will come back.”