"Mr. Ash, the young woman's here."
"Thank you, Remmick," he said in a voice that was even softer than that of his servant. In the dark window glass, if he let himself, he could see Remmick's reflection--a comely man, with small, very brilliant blue eyes. They were too close together, these eyes. But the face was not unattractive, and it wore always a look of such quiet and nondramatic devotion that he had grown to love it, to love Remmick himself.
There were lots of dolls in the world with eyes too close together--in particular, the French dolls made years ago by Jumeau, and Schmitt and Sons, and Huret, and Petit and Demontier--with moon faces, and glittering glass eyes crowding their little porcelain noses, with mouths so tiny they seemed at first glance to be tiny buds, or bee stings. Everybody loved these dolls. The bee-sting queens.
When you loved dolls and studied them, you started to love all kinds of people too, because you saw the virtue in their expressions, how carefully they had been sculpted, the parts contrived to create the triumph of this or that remarkable face. Sometimes he walked through Manhattan, deliberately seeing every face as made, no nose, no ear, no wrinkle accidental.
"She's having some tea, sir. She was terribly cold when she arrived."
"We didn't send a car for her, Remmick?"
"Yes, sir, but she's cold nevertheless. It's very cold outside, sir."
"But it's warm in the museum, surely. You took her there, didn't you?"
"Sir, she came up directly. She is so excited, you understand."
He turned, throwing one bright gleam of a smile (or so he hoped it was) on Remmick and then waving him away with the smallest gesture that the man could see. He walked to the doors of the adjoining office, across the floor of Carrara marble, and looked beyond that room, to yet another, also paved, as were all his rooms, in shining marble, where the young woman sat alone at the desk. He could see her profile. He could see that she was anxious. He could see that she wanted the tea, but then she didn't. She didn't know what to do with her hands.
"Sir, your hair. Will you allow me?" Remmick touched his arm.
"Must we?"
"Yes, sir, we really ought to." Remmick had his soft little brush out, the kind that men used because they could not be seen using the same kind of brush as women, and reaching up, Remmick brought it quickly and firmly through his hair, hair that ought to be trimmed and cut, Remmick had said, hair that fell sloppily and defiantly over his collar.
Remmick stood back, rocking on the balls of his feet.
"Now you look splendid, Mr. Ash," he said with raised eyebrows. "Even if it is a bit long."
He made a soft chuckle.
"You're afraid I'll frighten her, aren't you?" he asked, teasingly, affectionately. "Surely you don't really care what she thinks."
"Sir, I care that you look your best always, for your own benefit."
"Of course you do," he said quietly. "I love you for it."
He walked towards the young woman, and as he drew closer, he made a polite and decent amount of noise. Slowly she turned her head; she looked up; she saw him, and there came the inevitable shock.
He extended his arms as he approached.
She rose, beaming, and she clasped his hands. Warm, firm grip. She looked at his hands, at the fingers, and at the palms.
"I surprise you, Miss Paget?" he asked, offering her his most gracious smile. "My hair has been groomed for your approval. Do I look so very bad?"
"Mr. Ash, you look fabulous," she said quickly. She had a crisp California-style voice. "I didn't expect that ... I didn't expect that you would be so tall. Of course, everyone said you were...."
"And do I look like a kindly man, Miss Paget? They say this of me too." He spoke slowly. Often Americans could not understand his "British accent."
"Oh, yes, Mr. Ash," she said. "Very kindly. And your hair is so nice and long. I love your hair, Mr. Ash."
This was really very gratifying, very amusing. He hoped that Remmick was listening. But wealth makes people withhold judgment on what you have done, it makes them search for the good in your choices, your style. It brings out not the obsequious but the more thoughtful side of humans. At least sometimes ...
She was plainly telling the truth. Her eyes feasted on him and he loved it. He gave her hands a tender squeeze and then he let them go.
As he moved around the desk, she took her seat again, eyes still locked upon him. Her own face was narrow and deeply lined for one so young. Her eyes were bluish violet. She was beautiful in her own way--ashen-haired, disheveled yet graceful, in exquisitely crushed old clothes.
Yes, don't throw them away, save them from the thrift-shop rack, reinvent them with nothing more than a few stitches and an iron; the destiny of manufactured things lies in durability and changing contexts, crushed silk beneath fluorescent light, elegant tatters with buttons of plastic in colors never achieved within geological strata, with stockings of such strong nylon they could have been made into braided rope of incalculable strength if only people didn't rip them off and toss them into wastebaskets. So many things to do, ways to see ... If he had the contents of every wastebasket in Manhattan, he could make another billion just from what he would find there.
"I admire your work, Miss Paget," he said. "It's a pleasure to meet you at last." He gestured to the top of the desk. It was littered with large color photographs of her dolls.
Was it possible she hadn't noticed these? She seemed overcome with pleasure, her cheeks reddening. Perhaps she was even a little infatuated with his style and manner, he wasn't sure. He did tend to infatuate people, sometimes without trying to do it.
"Mr. Ash," she said. "This is one of the most important days of my life." She said it as if trying to realize it, and then she became silently flustered, perhaps because she thought she had said too much in saying what really mattered.
He let his smile brighten, and dipped his head slightly, as he often did--a trait people remarked on--so that he appeared to be looking up at her for a moment, though he was much taller than she.
"I want your dolls, Miss Paget," he said. "All of them. I'm very pleased with what you've done. You've worked so well in all the new materials. Your dolls aren't like anyone else's. That's what I want."
She was smiling in spite of herself. It was always a thrilling moment, this, for them and for him. He loved making her happy!
"Have my lawyers presented everything? Are you quite sure of the terms?"
"Yes, Mr. Ash. I understand everything. I accept your offer, completely. This is my dream."
She said the last word with gentle emphasis. And this time she did not falter or blush.
"Miss Paget, you need someone to bargain for you!" he scolded. "But if I've ever cheated anyone, I don't remember it, and I would honestly like to be reminded so that I could correct what I've done."
"I'm yours, Mr. Ash," she said. Her eyes had brightened, but they were not filling with tears. "The terms are generous. The materials are dazzling. The methods ..." She gave a little shake of her head. "Well, I don't really understand the mass-production methods, but I know your dolls. I've been hanging around in the stores, just looking at everything marketed by Ashlar. I know this is simply going to be great."
Like so many, she had made her dolls in her kitchen, then in a garage workroom, firing the clay in a kiln she could barely afford. She had haunted flea markets for her fabrics. She had taken her inspiration from figures in motion pictures and in novels. Her works had been "one of a kind" and "limited edition," the sort of thing they liked in the exclusive doll shops and galleries. She had won awards, both large and small.
But her molds could be used now for something utterly different--half a million beautiful renditions of one doll, and another and another, out of a vinyl so skillfully worked that it would look as lovely as porcelain, with eyes painted as brilliantly as if they were real glass.
"But what about the names, Miss Paget? Why won't you choose the dolls' names?"
"The dolls have never
had names for me, Mr. Ash," she said. "And the names you chose are fine."
"You know you'll be rich soon, Miss Paget."
"So they tell me," she said. She seemed suddenly vulnerable, indeed fragile.
"But you have to keep your appointments with us, you have to approve each step. It won't take so much time, really...."
"I'm going to love it. Mr. Ash, I want to make--"
"I want to see anything that you make, immediately. You'll call us."
"Yes."
"But don't be sure you will enjoy the process here. As you have observed, manufacture is not the same thing as crafting or creating. Well, it is. But seldom do people see it that way. Artists don't always see mass production as an ally."
He did not have to explain his old reasoning, that he did not care for the one-of-a-kinds and the limited editions, that he cared only for dolls that could belong to everyone. And he would take these molds of hers, and he would produce dolls from them year after year, varying them only when there seemed a reason to do it.
Everyone knew this about him now--that he had no interest in elitist values or ideas.
"Any questions about our contracts, Miss Paget? Don't hesitate to put these questions directly to me."
"Mr. Ash, I've signed your contracts!" She gave another little riff of laughter, distinctly careless and young.
"I'm so glad, Miss Paget," he said. "Prepare to be famous." He brought up his hands and folded them on the desk. Naturally, she was looking at them; she was wondering at their immense size.
"Mr. Ash, I know you're busy. Our appointment's for fifteen minutes."
He nodded as if to say, This is not important, go on.
"Let me ask you. Why do you like my dolls? I mean, really, Mr. Ash. I mean--"
He thought for a moment. "Of course there's a stock answer," he said, "which is wholly true. That your dolls are original, as you've said. But what I like, Miss Paget, is that your dolls are all smiling broadly. Their eyes are crinkled; their faces are in motion. They have shining teeth. You can almost hear them laugh."
"That was the risk, Mr. Ash." Suddenly she herself laughed, and looked for one second as happy as her creations.
"I know, Miss Paget. Are you perhaps going to make me some very sad children now?"
"I don't know if I can."
"Make what you want. I'm behind you. Don't make sad children. Too many other artists do that well."
He started to rise, slowly, the signal of dismissal, and he wasn't surprised when she rushed to her feet.
"Thank you, Mr. Ash," she said again, reaching for his hand--his huge, long-fingered hand. "I can't tell you how much ..."
"You don't have to."
He let her take his hand. Sometimes people didn't want to touch him a second time. Sometimes they knew he wasn't a human. Never repelled by his face, it seemed, they were often repelled by his big feet and hands. Or, deep in their subconscious, they realized his neck was just a little too long, his ears too narrow. Humans are skilled at recognizing their own kind, tribe, clan, family. A great part of the human brain is organized around merely recognizing and remembering types of faces.
But she was not repelled, merely young and overwhelmed, and anxious over simple transitions.
"And by the way, Mr. Ash, if you don't mind my saying it, the white streaks in your hair are very becoming. I hope you don't ever color them out. White hair is always becoming on a young man."
"Now, what made you say that, Miss Paget?"
She flushed once more, but then gave in to laughter. "I don't know," she admitted. "It's just that the hair is so white, and you're so young. I didn't expect you to be so young. That's what is so surprising--" She broke off, unsure; he had best release her before she tumbled too quickly into her own imagined failures.
"Thank you, Miss Paget," he said. "You've been very kind. I've enjoyed talking with you." Reassurance, blunt and memorable. "I hope to see you again very soon. I hope you'll be happy."
Remmick had come to spirit the young woman away. She said something else hastily, thanks, avowals of inspiration and determination to please the whole world. Words to that sweet effect. He gave her one final sober smile as she went out and the bronze doors were shut behind her.
When she got home, of course, she would drag out her magazines. She would do addition on her fingers, maybe even with a calculator. She would realize he couldn't be young, not by anyone's count. She'd conclude he was past forty, and carefully fighting fifty. That was safe enough.
But how must he deal with this in the long run, for the long run was always his problem? Here was a life he loved, but he would have to make adjustments. Oh, he couldn't think of something so awful just now. What if the white hair really began to flourish? That would help, wouldn't it? But what did it really mean, the white hair? What did it reveal? He was too content to think of it. Too content to court cold fear.
Once again he turned to the windows, and to the falling snow. He could see Central Park as clearly from this office as from the others. He put his hand on the glass. Very cold.
The skating lake was deserted now. The snow had covered the park, and the roof just below him; and he noticed another curious sight which always made him give a little laugh.
It was the swimming pool on top of the Parker Meridien Hotel. Snow fell steadily on the transparent glass roof while, beneath it, a man was swimming back and forth in the brightly illuminated green water, and this was some fifty floors perhaps above the street.
"Now that is wealth and that is power," he mused quietly to himself. "To swim in the sky in a storm." Build swimming pools in the sky, another worthy project.
"Mr. Ash," said Remmick.
"Yes, my dear boy," he said absently, watching the long strokes of the swimmer, seeing clearly now that it was an elderly and very thin man. Such a figure would have been the victim of starvation in times past. But this was a physically fit individual--he could see it--a businessman, perhaps, snared by economic circumstances in the bitter winter of New York, swimming back and forth in deliciously heated and safely sanitized water.
"Phone call for you, sir."
"I don't think so, Remmick. I'm tired. It's the snow. It makes me want to curl up in bed and go to sleep. I want to go to bed now, Remmick. I want some hot chocolate and then to sleep and sleep."
"Mr. Ash, the man said you would want to speak to him, that I was to tell you ..."
"They all say that, Remmick," he answered.
"Samuel, sir. He said to tell you that name."
"Samuel!"
He turned from the window, and looked at the manservant, at his placid face. There was no judgment or opinion in his expression. Only devotion and quiet acceptance.
"He said to come to you directly, Mr. Ash, that it was the custom when he called. I took the chance that he--"
"You did right. You can leave me alone for a little while now."
He took his chair at the desk.
As the doors closed, he picked up the receiver, and pressed the tiny red button. "Samuel!" he whispered.
"Ashlar," came the answer, clear as if his friend were truly at his ear. "You've kept me waiting fifteen minutes. How important you've become."
"Samuel, where are you? Are you in New York?"
"Certainly not," came the reply. "I'm in Donnelaith, Ash. I'm at the Inn."
"Phones in the glen." It was a low murmur. The voice was coming all the way from Scotland ... from the glen.
"Yes, old friend, phones in the glen, and other things as well. A Taltos came here, Ash. I saw him. A full Taltos."
"Wait a minute. It sounded as if you said--"
"I did say this. Don't get too excited about it, Ash. He's dead. He was an infant, blundering. It's a long story. There's a gypsy involved in it, a very clever gypsy named Yuri, from the Talamasca. The gypsy would be dead right now if it weren't for me."
"Are you sure the Taltos is dead?"
"The gypsy told me. Ash, the Talamasca is in a dark time. Somethin
g tragic has happened with the Order. They'll kill this gypsy soon, perhaps, but he's determined to go back to the Motherhouse. You must come as soon as you can."
"Samuel, I'll meet you in Edinburgh tomorrow."
"No, London. Go directly to London. I promised the gypsy. But come quickly, Ash. If his brothers in London catch sight of him, he'll be dead."
"Samuel, this can't be a correct story. The Talamasca wouldn't do such things to anyone, let alone its own people. Are you sure this gypsy is saying true things?"
"Ash, it has to do with this Taltos. Can you leave now?"
"Yes."
"You won't fail me?"
"No."
"Then there's one more thing I must tell you right now. You'll see it in the papers-in London as soon as you land. They've been digging here in Donnelaith, in the ruins of the cathedral."
"I know this, Samuel. You and I have talked about this before."
"Ash, they dug up the grave of St. Ashlar. They found the name engraved in the stone. You'll see it in the papers, Ashlar. Scholars are here from Edinburgh. Ash, there are witches involved in this tale. But the gypsy will tell you. People are watching me. I have to go."
"Samuel, people are always watching you, wait--"
"Your hair, Ash. I saw you in a magazine. Are those white streaks in your hair? Never mind."
"Yes, my hair is turning white. But it's happening slowly. I haven't aged otherwise. There are no real shocks for you, except the hair."
"You'll live till the end of the world, Ash, and be the one to make it crumble."
"No!"
"Claridge's in London. We are leaving now ourselves. That's a hotel where a man can make a big oak fire in the grate, and sleep in a big old cozy bedroom full of chintz and hunter-green velvet. I'll be waiting for you there. And Ash. Pay the hotel, will you? I've been out here in the glen for two years."
Samuel rang off.
"Maddening," he whispered. He laid down the phone.
For long moments he looked at the bronze doors.
He didn't blink or focus when the doors opened. He scarcely saw the blurred figure who came into the room. He was not thinking, he was merely repeating the words Taltos and Talamasca inside his head.