Ambitious mirrors
By andrew_pack
- 823 reads
"Ambitious mirrors"
If there was one type of thing that made Bernard October unhappy, it
was the finer things in life. Coming away from the regular meeting, his
nose was full of the rich fat smell of Cuban cigars and the smug taste
of fine port.
Bernard was a smart man, well-dressed and with impeccable manners, so
he never complained at the meetings, but he was very sensitive to the
emotions behind things. He could taste the pride of the owner on that
cigar smoke and as for the port, he may as well have been drinking
Edward's own all-too obvious sense of self-satisfaction.
Mr October plunged himself into a cheap newsagents, a poor one with
signs posted up in the windows, asking for babysitting jobs and
offering sewing machines for sale. He was hoping to find something with
no connotations of class or riches, nothing that stank of
quality.
"Irn-Bru! " he said with an air of childish delight which belied his
exterior as a distinguished businessman of rather advancing years, "I
haven't had this for years!"
He bought the can from the newsagent, who was tired and heavy,
operating the till as though it was a vast physical exertion. Outside
the shop, October opened the can and gazed at the thin pink trails that
the sun was shedding over Saffron Park, making all of the trees seem
yellow and fragile. There was a noise and a collection of winged
creatures burst into the air above the trees and wheeled away. October
knew full well that not all of these creatures were birds or bats, but
he did not let this knowledge marr the view.
Heavens, he thought, there really should be more to the Company than
the nonsense we have been discussing this afternoon. Here I am in a
world of infinite magic and pleasure - a world where I can drink
Irn-Bru and taste only the honest intentions of those who made it. Just
the desire to make a drink that tastes good and sends bubbles up your
nose.
People who knew October well had in the past remarked upon what they
regarded as a flaw in his character, but that he himself saw as his
redeeming feature, that he was a dreamer, who did not take the magic
seriously. Those who knew him better, and there were few of those, were
well aware of his keen senses and always offered him the simple - the
lumpy mattress, the simple homecooked meal, the wine pulled at random
from the shelf of a cheap off-licence.
The only luxury October ever permitted himself was in his clothing and
even there he made up for this with his uncomfortable ill-fitting
underwear, which allowed him to wear smart suits and well-pressed
shirts without too much sense of loathing. (And although his shoes were
well-made, he had selected a pair that were a little too large for real
comfort, having to lace them viciously to keep them on)
That and his books, but October was well able to find books that had
been written with enjoyment and vigor. Those written with an eye to
profit or fame, or critical appreciation, he could sniff out with a
simple thumb rubbing over the spine of the book. This was no imaginary
sense; this was true, real. Everything that had gone into the making of
an object, all the creators feelings, hopes, desires; he could tell the
worthy from the proud as easily as another man might smell out which
bottle contained milk and which vinegar.
As usual, October's pockets were full of clocks, dozens of watch faces
set to different times, their straps long-removed. Clocks of varying
ages and styles and he emitted a faint ticking sound throughout the
day, a radioactive man. He had left the meeting earlier than was
expected. They had all been meeting the newcomer, a replacement for one
of their group who had met with a violent and unexpected end. The
newcomer had been strikingly young, with hair that was almost white and
whipped into meringue-like peaks, full of new ideas and enthusiasm.
October had liked him. New blood was always welcome, even if it did
mean shedding some of the old.
At the meeting, he had begun to feel queasy and to smell violets and
that was never a good sign. He had taken the velvet drawstring bag from
his coat pocket, absenting himself from discussions and had drawn out
scrabble tiles. No ordinary tiles these, he had obtained them from an
institution for the insane, tiles that dangerous madmen had handled.
Very useful for sensing danger, tiles like these. He had paid a great
deal for them, but they had been worth it. His previous set had been
flawed, as one of the inmates had eaten all of the vowels, rendering
the set useless for either playing wordgames or divining the
future.
In any event, the tiles he had drawn from the velvet bag had been
unambiguous, 'ambitious mirror'. This was one of the bad ones.
He pulled one of the clocks from his pocket, seemingly at random and
studied it; but he was not interested in the time. Time meant nothing
at all to men such as October. What interested him was the direction in
which the hour hand was pointing and he followed this course, swapping
watches every few minutes to change direction.
As he walked, he saw one of the Paper Boys drift past, mumbling as if
in madness about a quest. He always felt sorry for these insubstantial
creatures, trapped in a world not of their making, but this was not his
task for the evening.
October found himself in a square, a string of people waiting dismally
for a bus, young boys skating and metal shutters being pulled down by
hooks to cover shop windows. He consulted another clock and the time
read 12.00 precisely. He had arrived where he was supposed to be. All
that was left was to find someone who was unhappy.
Judy Fisk sat in the caf?, trying to ignore the men who were looking at
her legs. Her coffee was long-cold, although she had her fingers
wrapped tightly round the cup as if warming them. She simply couldn't
face going home.
"You don't look too happy, " someone said to her.
She was ready to resist this pick-up line until she saw who had
delivered it. A kindly figure, with a crimson tie crisply knotted about
his throat, shoes that seemed a little too big for him and an avuncular
air to him. He resembled in some ways a younger Alec Guiness. He wore a
similar beard that was short and dappled with grey. His eyes
twinkled.
"Unhappiness is something I make a habit of solving, " he
explained.
Despite herself, Judy found herself opening up to this man as he sat
beside her on a high stool, telling him about her boyfriend, how things
had been really good between them for some time and then suddenly he
had begun to look at her with contempt and then had started staying out
late at night, how she suspected him of having affairs.
"You live together at present? " asked Bernard October.
She told him that they did, that they had moved in together a few
months ago, but that it didn't seem that it would be possible to
continue doing so, and where was she going to find another place at
short notice?
"I think I may be able to assist you, " said Bernard, standing up. When
he did this, she realised how tall he was, how slender. He resembled a
heron, grey and angular.
Without really knowing why, she led Bernard home, never considering
what she was doing or why. She popped her key into the door and twisted
it, letting him into the house.
For a few minutes, Mr October talked to Judy about her books,
discussing themes and characters, idly wondering how certain stories
might have been dealt with by other authors. He commented
appreciatively on a lamp that she had bought in a flea-market.
"I just need to use your bathroom, " he said apologetically, standing
up once more.
It was only once he had gone that Judy seemed to awaken from a sort of
daze or spell, wondering why on earth she had brought a strange man,
even such a gentleman back to her house.
Mr October called gently from the top of the stairs, "You have a new
toothbrush. The bristles are barely used. Tell me, did the last one
wear out, or did it go missing?"
"It got lost, " Judy shouted up, "What's wrong?"
He came out of the bathroom, removing a pair of darkened spectacles
from his eyes, "I think, no I am certain, I know what the problem in
this house is. Do you think you could bring me up a very small glass of
Gran Marnier? "
Still befogged, Judy looked about in the kitchen and found a sherry
glass and a bottle left over from Christmas. She filled it almost to
the top and carried it upstairs, taking great care not to spill any of
it.
"Thank you very much, " said Mr October, as he took the sherry glass
from her very gently, "Please, take my advice and don't look at the
mirror until I say otherwise. "
He pushed the bathroom door open and deliberately averted his eyes from
the wall where a large ornate silver-framed mirror was hung. Despite
herself, Judy did likewise. Mr October took a deep sip at the spirit
and rolled it around his palate as a wine-taster, before swallowing
it.
"Alcohol and orange seems to be the key with mirrors, " he told her
knowledgeably.
He then closed his eyes, put down the glass with a great deal of care
and moved towards the mirror, placing each palm flat against the wall
on either side of the mirror. He carefully breathed out, over and over
again until the mirror was completely fogged over with
condensation.
"You have an ambitious mirror, " he told her, "You can look directly at
it now. "
She did so, feeling slightly ridiculous at having covered her eyes
moments before.
"Sometimes, " October went on, "Mirrors can get above themselves. I
think your boyfriend has owned this one for a long time. They get to
know you, if you keep them too long. Sometimes they get ideas above
their station. "
"But, how can a mirror get ideas at all? It's just glass. "
October flashed her a smile, "Sorry. I forget that not everybody knows
that the world is full of secrets. Mirrors are made of atoms, just as
you or I. All we are are chemicals dancing together, yet we can think
and dream and wish. Flies can too in their own limited way and there
are far less atoms in flies than there are in a mirror. If you think
too much about it, it will only worry you. "
He dipped his index finger carefully into the remaining Gran Marnier,
"Nietzsche said it first , but then he got frightened and changed his
wording. When you look into your mirror, your mirror also looks into
you. Your mirror sees you at your best, it sees you at your worst. Most
of the time, they are content to serve, to be your looking glass and no
more. But, very rarely, some want more. They want to shape, to sculpt.
They tire of showing back only what they're shown. They become
ambitious. "
"For some reason, " he said, "They always seem to start by eating a
toothbrush, pulling it into their world. That's always the first
tangible sign, but no one seems to know why. I don't have all the
answers, I just know some of the right questions. "
He began to write on the steamed surface of the mirror, speaking softly
under his breath.
The condensation vanished from the mirror, in an instant, and instead
of their reflection, was the image of a young man, very handsome with
beautiful hair and teeth and cheekbones.
"Is that your boyfriend? " October asked.
"Sort of, " said Judy, who was gripping onto the side of the bath to
stop her legs folding up under her, "But he's not as good-looking as
that. I mean, he's lovely and everything, but he doesn't look quite
like THAT."
"The mirror has been showing him what he would like to look like, "said
October, "If every morning over a long period, you looked in your
mirror and were more handsome, more attractive than you believed you
were, eventually you begin to believe it. You might begin to believe
that you deserved more from life than you have and go out to seek what
you felt you were entitled to. "
"But why has this mirror done that to us?"
"It probably, I'm sad to say, doesn't like you. They can be jealous
too, you see. They like the intimacy of a one-to-one exclusive
relationship. The good news for you is that ambitious mirrors are very
rare. In the right hands, they can do wonders for a person, project
them to the very top of their field. Why, my friend Edward owns Samuel
Coleridge's old ambitious mirror. Edward says that he never looks in
it, but sometimes I wonder. He's the sort that might. "
"So what should I do now?" asked Judy, still holding tightly to the
bath, her fingernails digging into a towel.
"Well, if I were you, I would dispose of the mirror. Once your
boyfriend stops getting his daily flattery from the glass, he'll soon
return to normal. "
"How do I get rid of it? "
"Well, you can either sell it, or get an expert to dispose of it.
"
"Would you get rid of it for me? " she asked, "I don't know why, but I
seem to trust you. I don't want to think of that evil thing in someone
else's bathroom. "
October handed her the glass of Gran Marnier, "Certainly. This will
help, I think."
He then began to rummage through the pockets of his grey coat and suit
and trousers, fumbling through the clocks and taking small objects out
from time to time. Judy watched in wonder as she gulped at the spirit,
while October took out postcards of the Bayeux Tapestry, maps of the
Underground (which when she looked had stations and lines that she had
never heard of), pieces of string with various unusal knots in them, a
pair of white bishops and black rooks from a chess set, an assortment
of aluminium milk-bottle tops, six small magnifying glasses and finally
a small silver hammer.
He mumbled some words under his breath and hit the mirror with the
hammer, at first gently and then flying at it as if in a rage, smashing
the mirror harder and harder. But oddly, the glass didn't shatter or
splinter into pieces. It seemed, while Judy watched to get more and
more like a liquid, glossy like molten metal. October continued to
flail at the liquid mirror, but it didn't splash or spray. Instead the
more he hit the liquid, the less there seemed to be of it, until
finally there was no glass at all in the frame, just the ornate frame
and a wooden backing board.
By this stage, Judy had given up trying to make sense of anything that
had happened, "Do you have that hammer specially for evil
mirrors?"
"Not evil, " said October sadly, "Just ambitious. And no, the hammer is
generally for toffee. Sometimes it can be very hard to break off a
piece. And now, my dear, I must talk to you about stamps. One of the
finest stamps in my own personal collection was issued in 1912, a
wonderful specimen with the most marked oddity in its perforations. Let
me tell you what in particular delighted me so, when I found it at the
market in Aberdeen?"
As October talked, he watched Judy's attention slip away, just a few
more remarks and the charm would have done its work.
"No, " he said, stamping his foot rather childishly on the bathroom
floor, a noise which seemed to wake Judy up as if she'd been asleep for
hours on a Sunday afternoon, "I shan't do it. Judy my dear, I am
supposed to talk to you about stamps so that you forget everything that
happened here. It's a sort of magic. My colleagues are very obsessed
with secrecy. I shall get into quite a lot of trouble if they hear of
this. "
"Then? why did you stop? "
October gave a deep sigh and his left hand tugged at his greying beard,
"I think because I love it so. The world is full of people who complain
and think themselves unfortunate, when if only they knew, there is
wonder beyond wonder. I am lucky enough to experience it every day and
sometimes I just want to give others a glimpse of it. And the other
reason, my new friend, is that I have a feeling that bad times are
coming for those of us who work with Wonder and the more people who
know something of the Wonder, even if only a little bit, the better I
think we'll do. "
"Right, " he said briskly, feeling a little ashamed for becoming so
emotional, and brushing down imaginary dust from his trousers, "I had
better be going. My advice to you, is never keep a mirror more than two
years. Then they never get the chance to think that they know what's
best for you. "
"How long have you had yours?"
October tugged at his beard again, but more in play than in worry this
time, "Judy, I own no mirror, hence my beard. And when I have my hair
cut at a barbers, I keep my eyes squeezed tightly shut in the chair.
There are far too many things a mirror would want to change about ME !
"
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