The Genie of Sutton Place

  “I have seen much of it.” Dooley smiled at me wanly. “And am like to see much more.” He left.

  I showed Mr. Dickinson the pages I’d brought up. “Fascinating! How fascinating!” he exclaimed, with that special enthusiasm that only a scholar can get when he finds a rare new document.

  “I think ‘the runes of his release’ just mean the spell—”

  “Very probably.”

  “This is the part I’m most interested in.”

  “Mmm. ‘Printed upon the stars—’ Five letters.” He frowned at the pages, wanting them to give up their secrets. “‘Which all the children of the Highest among men revere.’ Mmm.” A thought was swimming in his head, somewhere down deep. “Well, now here at least I can be of help. This quotation from Al-Hazred purports to be of the time of the caliphate of Haroun Al-Raschid—is that not so?”

  “Yes. It says so right here. The seventh year of his reign.”

  “It happened to be the custom in those days to refer to Mohammed the Prophet himself as ‘the Highest among men.’”

  “So all the children—”

  “All the children of the ‘Highest among men’ would be all those people who are Mohammedan. Everyone who belongs to the religion of Islam. Well, of course—!” He smacked his forehead as that thought broke the surface. “Come here—I want to show you something.”

  In the back of his crazy little space—and you can’t imagine how crowded it was!—there stood this great big pot, vase, whatever you want to call it. It was broken into about a million pieces, and you could see where Mr. Dickinson was laboriously gluing them back together again. “This,” he said proudly, “is one of the very few stellar vases to survive from the period we were speaking of.” He sniffed a bit. “My younger, more irreverent colleagues refer to it as ‘Dickinson’s star jar.’ They were called stellar vases because, as you can see, even from the little bit left of this, the ornamentation on the surface represents the constellations. The Mohammedans believed—I wouldn’t for a moment doubt it, although you can see pretty much what you want in the stars—they believed that the name of the Supreme Being whom they worshipped was written in the heavens in configurations of the stars.” He traced a pattern, from star to star, on the vase. “You see? There, there—”

  “What is that name?”

  “In English, it would be A-L-L-A-H. The five letters printed upon the stars. Yes, indeed, in the minds of many Mohammedans, the greatest name in the world is Allah.”

  That was it then …

  I thanked him, and without being too rude, I hoped, got out of there as quick as I could.

  Dooley was in the tapestry room, staring up at himself. “Did you find the word, master?” he asked, without turning around to look at me.

  “Yes.”

  “Am I like to hear it?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “A single word.” Now he smiled down at me and took my hand. “Verily, master, we tread upon the shells of eggs.”

  11

  The Beginnings of a Birthday Party

  An awful week of worry set in.

  I did most of the worrying. Dooley got resigned pretty quick. He really expected the worst to happen. Here we’d gone down to Madame Sosostris’s hoping to find a cure for the complications of his being a genie, and all we’d found out was that if he did fall in love with Rose, it was back to the rug. And in addition—to make matters worse—if he heard just one word, even accidentally, it was right back there just-like-that!

  He explained it to me, though, Dooley did. He said that magic was like that—very unlike humanity. If two people have a quarrel, say, they can fume for days and then change their minds. You almost always get a second chance. But not with magic. It’s very much stronger than human nature—but also much weaker, more vulnerable. Just one wrong word, or a sinister gesture, and a palace or a whole big city built by sorcery can zip into oblivion. Dooley said that that was the reason the Wizard forbade him to love. He said love was humanity’s strongest point, and the thing that challenged magic most … I’m not sure I understand what he means, yet.

  And poor Sam! We explained the situation to him, and if you ever saw anyone look dejected, you should have seen the face on this frightened basset-man. For a while he didn’t say anything—just looked around the pet shop he loved. Then he made me promise, “If anything does happen, Timmy—I mean, if my dog gets too obvious—you will take care of the animals?”

  “Sure, Sam.” I did a stiff-upper-lip.

  “Lucy’s rich, and—”

  “Sam!—I promise. Even if I have to sell Lorenzo’s books.”

  It was awful!… It was one of those times like when someone is dying. And nobody’s willing to admit a thing.

  It also was awful for Dooley and Rose. He and I decided that the best thing would be if he didn’t come to the apartment any more. Or at least as little as possible—only to pick up Aunt Lucy at the door when she had to be driven somewhere, and for very fast lunches. The rest of the time, in his own apartment, he’d concentrate on the spell, to keep Sam manly.

  Rose was terribly hurt, but she wouldn’t admit it. She hid it by saying in a newspaper voice, “Such a waste—such a criminal waste. With a voice like that.” Because Dooley had stopped his singing, too, to stay away from her.

  Rose was a special problem for me. All during that week I could think of nothing but one word—Allah—and how I could keep Dooley from hearing it. I told him to stay away from the United Nations, where there might be Near Eastern diplomats. And we had to give up going to Armenian restaurants. (He was teaching me to like all his favorite foods.) Then all of a sudden a danger point showed up right in the apartment.

  It was those darn crossword puzzles of Rose. I came in to breakfast one morning, and before I could even say “scrambled,” which is how I wanted my eggs that day, she went on to ask me, “And what’s a potent Near Eastern deity, in five letters, Mr. Wisdom—from all you picked up in that shop in the Village?”

  Well, I can tell you the thought of eggs instantly vanished from my mind! As it turned out, the name they wanted was Thoth, that Egyptian god they have the statue of up in the museum. But it set my mind to wondering. “Do those puzzles often ask questions like that, Rose?”

  “All the time. I think the person who makes them up has a thing about religion. I get asked for the names of saints, Greek and Roman gods and goddesses, pre-Columbian somebody or other—it isn’t fair.” She began scrambling. “If your high-talkin’ friend would do something more than just stick his face in here, he could probably help me with them a lot. With all the traveling he says he’s done … The River Jordan—ha!”

  So after that I had to get up very early every morning—the paper got delivered to the door—and go through the crossword puzzle bleary-eyed. Because I hate to get up early.

  A really rotten week … But at least I couldn’t think of any other way that Dooley could hear the Mohammedan word. At least New York has this advantage: everyone swears in Christian here.

  It was rough on Aunt Lucy, too. More so than I knew at the time.

  She took me aside one morning for one of those serious “grownup” talks that a grownup has with a kid when he knows that the kid won’t like what he hears. It seems that the testing psychologist, with Mr. Watkins’s enthusiastic support, had come to the conclusion that I was an antisocial child, about as well adjusted as a polar bear in Central Africa, and I did need to go to summer camp—for all of August. Of course I objected violently. But only because the spell was hanging by a thread, and heaven knew what might happen in my absence. However, Aunt Lucy, with that chipmunk mind of hers, interpreted my resistance as absolute proof that the psychologist and Mr. Watkins were right. And they weren’t! They were both dead wrong. You may not believe it, but I like the company of kids my own age. If they’re interesting and fun, that is. Like Jimmy and Irving.

  I asked Aunt Lucy if I could postpone it until next year—or shorten it to two weeks at least … No! No!
No!… There was nothing to do but give in gracefully—and hope for the best.

  But then, after the grownup part was through, our conversation got interesting. Aunt Lucy began to pick my brains about Sam. I still don’t know if she knew what she was doing, but that little animal inside her, which had lately begun to spruce up, was feeling lonely and uncertain.

  “How’s the pet shop going?” she nonchalantly asked.

  “Oh, fine.”

  “Sam seems to be very busy these days.”

  “He is.” He’d been avoiding her. We had a talk about it, and Sam decided that if Dooley did lose control completely and Sam reverted to being a dog, he didn’t want it to happen in front of Aunt Lucy. It would have upset her terribly.

  “I’ve stopped by a couple of times—just on the way home—” she did that thing of being indifferent, which women often do when they’re not—“and he’s always so preoccupied. The rabbits need water, or the puppies new paper.”

  “It’s a hard job—” I tried to cover Sam’s tracks—“running a pet shop all by yourself.”

  “I thought that we were becoming good friends.” Of course she was dying to dig for information, but being ladylike, as well as little and pretty uncertain, she didn’t know how. “Has Sam ever said— I mean, do you think I’ve done anything to offend him?”

  “No, Aunt Lucy. Sam really likes you very much. It’s just that—” It was just that the magic might collapse and Sam turn into a mutt again—and how do you explain all that to a maiden lady who lives in Sutton Place? —“It’s just, he has problems, that’s all.”

  “Oh, well.” She shrugged it all off: unimportant. And then exclaimed, “But I have a marvelous idea!”—as if she’d just had a marvelous idea, when obviously she’d been hatching it for days. “Next week is your birthday—”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Oh, I know all about you, young man!” Ha! She’d checked with Madame Sosostris, I found out later. “And a few days later you’ll be going to camp—so why don’t we have a splendiferous birthday party for you? You might even pry Mr. Bassinger away from his pet shop—for one evening at least.”

  I think it was right then that I really began to like Aunt Lucy. She did want to give me a birthday party and make the grim going away to camp a little bit easier—but she also had doped out a way to get Sam back in the apartment again … I don’t mind people being sneaky—if it’s in a good cause, at least.

  “Aunt Lucy,” I said, “I would love that!”

  * * *

  But she didn’t like the guest list much. There were no “little friends” on it. (Jimmy and Irving didn’t know any of these new people in my life, so why invite them? They’d only be edgy.) I asked Madame Sosostris, Felix, Dooley, Rose, Sam, and of course Aunt Lucy. And that was all. It was plenty, too. They were all people I wanted to celebrate my birthday with. But Aunt Lucy invited Mr. Watkins. Or, to do her justice, he invited himself. On the afternoon of the party, just before it was supposed to start, he called up and said that he had some literature on the camp I was going to—naturally he’d advised her on its selection—would it be all right if he came around? From the telephone Aunt Lucy’s expression asked me if he could.

  She looked so hopeful, I nodded. My instinct said no, but my head nodded yes … It’s a big mistake to distrust your instinct.

  * * *

  So everybody arrived. With presents. And presents are hard for teenagers—I was turning thirteen—because when you’re a little kid, you can get toys and not too important things, but when you get up into your teens, people have to begin to make thinking decisions.

  I’m sure Mr. Watkins had been clued in, because along with the stuff about Camp Jefferson, he gave me a transistor radio. I liked him then—and not just because of the radio, but for the way he gave it—“I thought this might be, well, fun at camp”—as if he was a little scared I wouldn’t want to accept his present, and he did want to be part of my party … I guess that kitten I adopted at the shop has been teaching me to like cat people, without my knowing it.

  Rose and Dooley collaborated on their present—but only over the telephone. Amid all the things that Aunt Lucy had bought for me, before I moved up, she’d forgotten a hi-fi set. So Dooley got me that—with his own earned money, he assured me, not magicked—and Rose got me all her favorite records. She said that she always got people presents that she liked, because that way at least she was sure of herself … It was a great selection, too—all the way from opera through pop to rock.

  Madame Sosostris was a bit of a disappointment. I’d been sending thought waves down to Greenwich Village about that antique bull’s-eye mirror, but she showed up with a miniature Eskimo totem pole. At first I was worried and thought I’d better whip it up into my closet with the rest of my weirdo stuff, but Aunt Lucy examined it with a great deal of interest. She was really coming along. For a while.

  Her own gift was the biggest surprise of all: a beautiful set of prints of hunting dogs—really knockout drawings. “They’re wonderful! Thank you,” I said. “Look, Sam—”

  Sam looked and mumbled something about how nice—but he got pretty fidgety and self-conscious.

  Felix picked that up right away, of course. He eyed Sam, cackled his laugh, and asked, “Recognize anyone there, Fido?”

  Dooley and I frowned seriously, and Felix shrieked an apology. He began to sing “Happy Birthday.”

  Felix was really the life of the party. He was standing on the topmost rung of his new platform—that was Sam’s gift to me, by the way—and was he ever pleased with it! It had different levels, arranged in a spiral and all connected by elegant little curving ladders, on which my parakeet marched proudly up and down, cracking jokes and singing and having a marvelous time. I offered to set the stand up in my bedroom, but Aunt Lucy said—another good sign—that it was too beautiful, it belonged in the living room. So there it stood, with newspapers placed all around beneath it.

  We were going to have a dinner party, called for sixish, and I wanted us all to have drinks before. Lorenzo had said that was very civilized—if it didn’t go too far. There was water for Felix, in a cup hung on a special hook right under the topmost platform, and ginger ale for me, and whatever anyone else might want from Aunt Lucy’s well-stocked bar.

  I think that Aunt Lucy and Mr. Watkins were a little bit nervous at first, about having her servants as part of the party. But fortunately Dooley and Rose were not. And, being guests, they were not wearing uniforms. He’d bought a new suit, which was almost purple—but Dooley could get away with it—and a ruffled shirt, and Rose looked (not quite, but very close) more stylish than Aunt Lucy. She was wearing a slack suit and obviously enjoyed the pants flapping around her legs … I like it when some people show themselves off. If they do it the right way.

  Although Dooley and Rose were guests, they were also very helpful. When it came time for canapés, they unobtrusively disappeared, and in a minute there was Dooley, passing a tray around.

  He was also, less luckily, making drinks …

  Sam had been a man now for a very short time. He should have been in his thirties—by dog chronology, that is—and he looked in his thirties, but as far as holding his liquor went, he was probably a few years behind me. And I’ve never had anything but half-glasses of wine, on birthdays down at the antique shop.

  Mr. Watkins did a big-buddy thing: sidled up to Sam, put his arm around Sam’s shoulder, trying to be friends with everyone, and said, “How about a martini, Bassinger?”

  But a cat wanting to be friends makes a dog uneasy.

  Sam twisted out from under Mr. Watkins’s arm and said, “Oh—okay.” That was the first of Sam’s martinis.

  The first of many … Now there are some things, like ice cream and steak, that dogs and people can enjoy together—but not booze!… I watched Mr. Watkins and Sam stroll off to the bar with a certain amount of apprehension.

  I would have gone after them, to make a little margin between them, but R
ose came up just then and said, “Hey, Mr. Birthday Boy!—you’re not the only one who gets presents today.”

  “Who else, Rose?” I asked, with my eye on Sam.

  “Me!” she boasted. “Look! A gift from our long-lost and elusive friend Dooley. He knows my passion.” She gave me a paperback book with the title A Selection of Best Crossword Puzzles, and subtitled—as if that wasn’t bad enough!—“gathered from English-language newspapers throughout the globe.”

  That was just what I needed. I thought of the weeks that I’d be away, and Rose now having a grand excuse to call Dooley up and ask him questions … The poor guy—he’d probably say the word, in all innocence, and kayo himself back into the carpet before he even knew what hit him.

  “That’s very nice, Rose. May I look through it?”

  “Sure, help yourself. I’m putting on the beef—” For beef Stroganoff, a favorite of mine—I’d requested it. “The madame shouldn’t be too long with her tricks, should she?”

  “Half an hour at most, Rose.”

  “Okay.” She went into the kitchen.

  I hid the book between the cushions of the couch. Tomorrow I was going to slip it down the incinerator, behind Rose’s back. And then have to lie about having forgotten where I had placed it.

  Madame Sosostris, when I had invited her to my party, proclaimed that as a special favor she would do her magic tricks. And if Madame Sosostris was a success as an antique dealer, and a moderate success as a medium—at least trying hard—she was a disaster as a magician! All she knew were the old corny things like disappearing coins and handkerchiefs being pulled through rings and old-fashioned junk like that. But when I told Dooley we were going to have to sit through all her parlor tricks, he shined on me with one of his smiles and said, “Master, shall we also make this a special occasion for our struggling Occult Scientist?”

  You can bet I said yes … So this was one magic show I was really looking forward to.

  High time for it, too. On the other side of the living room Mr. Watkins and Sam had gotten into a heated conversation. In fact Sam, who was belting another martini, looked quite hot under the collar. Aunt Lucy, who had been checking with Rose about the Stroganoff, was casting anxious glances toward them.