Green Eyes

  ‘Perhaps it’s just my damned Swedish morbidity,’ said Magnusson out of the blue. ‘I tried to kill myself once, you know. Slit my wrists. Damned fool youngster! I was discouraged by the rain and the state of the economy. Not much reason, you might think, for self-destruction, but I found it thoroughly oppressing at the time.’

  ‘Well,’ said Laura after an uncomfortable silence. ‘We’ll let you rest, Hilmer.’ She laid her hand on the doorknob, but the old man spoke again.

  ‘He’ll find you out, Jocundra.’

  ‘Sir?’ She turned back to him.

  ‘You operate on a paler principle than he, and he will find you out. But you’re a healthy girl, even if a bit transparent. I can see it by your yellows and your blues.’ He laughed, a hideous rasp which set him choking, and as he choked, he managed to say, ‘Got your health, yes…’ When he regained control, his tone was one of amusement. ‘I wish I could offer medical advice. Stay off the fried foods, take cold showers, or some such. But as far as I can see, and that’s farther than most, you’re in the pink. Awful image! If you were in the pink, you’d be quite ill.’

  ‘What in the world are you talkin’ about, Hilmer?’ Laura’s voice held a note of frustration.

  ‘Oh, no!’ Magnusson’s bony orbits seemed to be crumbling away under the green glow of his eyes, as if they were nuggets of a rare element implanted in his skull, ravaging him. ‘You’re not going to pick my brain anymore. An old man needs his secrets, his little edge on the world as it recedes.’

  ‘Ezawa thinks he might be seein’ bioenergy… auras.’ Laura closed the door behind them and flexed the lacquered nails of her left hand as if they were blood-tipped claws. ‘I’ll get it out of him! He’s becoming more and more aroused. If his body hadn’t been so enervated to begin with, he’d already be chasin’ me around the bed.’

  Laura went down to the commissary to prepare Magnusson’s lunch, and Jocundra, in no hurry to rejoin Donnell, wandered the hallway. Half of the rooms were untenanted,, all furnished with mahogany antiques and the walls covered with the same pattern of wallpaper: an infancy of rosebud cottages and grapevines. Cards were set into brass mounts on the doors of the occupied rooms, and she read them as she idled along. Clarice Monroe. That would be the black girl, the one who believed herself to be a dancer and had taught herself to walk after only a few weeks. Marilyn Ramsburgh, Kline Lee French, Jack Richmond. Beneath each name was a coded entry revealing the specifics of treatment and the prognosis. There were two green dots after Magnusson’s name, signifying the new strain; his current prognosis was for three months plus or minus a week. That meant Donnell would have eight or nine months unless his youthfulness further retarded the bacterial action. A long time to spend with anyone, longer than her marriage. The Thirty Weeks War, or so Charlie had called it. She had seen him a month before. He had cut his hair and trimmed his beard, was deeply tanned and dressed in an expensive jacket, gold chains around his neck, a gold watch, gold rings… the petered-out claim of his body salted with gold. She smiled at her cattiness. He wasn’t so terrible. Now that he had become just another figment of the French Quarter, working around the clock at his restaurant, clinking wineglasses with sagging divorcees and posing a sexual Everest for disillusioned housewives to scale, he bore little resemblance to the man she had married, and this was doubtless the reason she could now tolerate him: it had been the original she disliked.

  She had been standing beside Magnusson’s door for less than a minute when she noticed her right side - that nearest the door - was prickly with… not cold exactly, more an animal chill that raised gooseflesh on her arm. She assumed it was nerves, fatigue; but on touching the door she discovered that it, too, was cold, and a vibration tingled her fingertips as if a charge had passed through the wood from an X-ray machine briefly in operation. Nerves, she thought again. And, indeed, the cold dissipated the instant she cracked the door. Still, she was curious. What would the old man be like apart from Laura’s influence? She cracked the door wider, and his scent of bay rum and corruption leaked out. White hallway light spilled across shelves lined with gilt and leather medical texts, sweeping back the darkness, compacting it. She leaned on the doorknob, peering inside, and the sharp shadows angled from beneath the desk and chair quivered, poised - she imagined - to snick through the blood and bone of her ankles if she trespassed. Feeling foolish at her apprehension, she pushed the door wide open. He sat in his wheelchair facing the far wall, a dim green oval of his reflected stare puddled head-high on the wallpaper. The uncanny sight gave her pause, and she was uncertain whether or not to call his name.

  ‘Go away,’ he whispered without turning.