"Get to work!" Otto Hell ordered the next afternoon when I finally showed up after many aspirins and pots of strong espresso. "Set up the big bash for this weekend. I've called a meeting of the board of trustees this evening. Confirm Xox's attendance. And what about that historical research on the Schadenfreude family? We need some hard evidence."
My hangover grew worse instantly. I pouted. "What are you going to do?"
My boss put his hairy arm around Pipi's slender waist and smirked. "It's a nice afternoon. We're going fishing." Hell looked at my bleary face for a moment. "You been taking street drugs again? Take a vitamin, damn it. You look dreadful."
I popped a pill and then another. The dark clouds lifted almost instantly. I felt speedy, even belligerent. After some hard bargaining with various caterers and fireworks experts, I walked into my temporary office, placed my feet, cigarettes, and hip flask on the desk, and pulled the ashtray and telephone toward me. I was ready for combat. It was time to call New York. I punched in one of the numbers listed under Exponential Investments in the slim university phone book. "X-O-X Foundation," a cracked voice whined. "Koroviev speaking."
Koroviev. With incredible speed and precision, my memory recalled that Koroviev had cleaned up after Lucy's death. He had also contacted Luke on behalf of the X-O-X Foundation. How did I remember this? Normally I couldn't even remember the names of people I had met an hour before. Clearly the vitamins were affecting my memory. I frowned. A bad memory was so convenient. My closest relatives and best friends had long since reconciled themselves to never receiving birthday cards. Strangers came up and threw their arms around me and I bore their effusions with equanimity, knowing that I would forget their faces again within the minute. A good memory imposes responsibility and the quality I like most about myself is my utter incapacity to be responsible about anything. If I was going to remember things I would have to act like an altogether different person. I shrugged. I had an interesting lead on the line and there was no time for existential questions.
"Monsieur Koroviev," I said warmly. "How are you?"
"Fine, thank you," the whiny voice replied hesitantly. "Who is this?"
"Come on, big guy. I work for Lord Hades. I'm his special assistant."
"Nero Insanetti?"
"Of course not," I said cheerily. "Nero is gone. Didn't you know?"
"Of course..." Koroviev whined. "What can I do for you?"
"Would you happen to know how I can reach my friend Luke Leazy?" I asked easily. "We just don't seem to have Murti Bing's place listed in our confidential phone directory. I thought you might know..."
There was a sharp intake of breath. "You don't know?"
"What don't I know?"
"Please speak to Mister Xox himself about this," Koroviev replied formally and then he hung up.
I shrugged, mystified. I had to invite Xox to the Europe conference anyway. After the usual hassles with various clerical intermediaries, an obstacle course which I hurdled with ease, dropping Otto Hell's name whenever I felt like it, I was put through to a mobile phone number in London, a special line to the great man's special assistant herself.
"This is Lord Hades' special assistant at the University of Truth and Justice in Prague," I recited for the hundredth time. "May I speak to Mister Xox please?"
" So you finally learned how to say his name." The voice sounded pleased.. "Thanks for saving his butt in Budapest the other day. I couldn't get there in time. Couldn't find a spare body. In New York City, can you imagine?"
"Excuse me?"
"You used to call him Mister X. You even called him Socks once. I bet you learned it from your friend at the Amerikan Embassy. What was his name, Steele?" The voice giggled. "He was cute."
"Steele was transferred to Tirana. He's still there as far as I know," I replied faintly.
"Tirana, huh? Think Steele managed to find out anything in Albania about Our Master? Or was my mysterious death just a red herring to distract attention?"
"Who is this?"
"It's Lucy, silly." I could almost hear her skip for joy.
"That was you in Berlin, wasn't it? The torch singer with Old Nick and the Fallen Angels? In that dreadful nightclub, Holle?"
"Lucie Settonova," the voice confirmed. "That was fun. I've never been a torch singer before and it was such a relief after being a boring Mormon."
"Did you kill her?"
"Who, me? I was the victim. Ask the Berlin police. About the brutal murder of a young Czech au pair with a husky voice and a fondness for nose rings. Actually, I wouldn't advise asking the police. They would probably arrest you again. And that's no fun, is it?" The voice giggled again. "You might ask Rasputin. When you see him again."
"Who the hell are you?"
"Lucy. Mister Xox's valued special assistant."
"Whose body do you inhabit right now?"
"You know her. In fact, she's a good friend of yours."
"Oh shit. Who is it?"
"I'm not telling..." Lucy teased.
I took a deep breath. "Do you snatch bodies often?"
"Whenever I get bored. Which happens quite frequently."
"So I see. Will you tell Xox that Hell is arranging a conference this weekend?"
"He knows. He'll be there. I'll show up too. When you least expect it."
"Don't change bodies before then. I mean, please don't murder any more of my friends, okay?"
"I can't promise that, silly. You're in for a shock, though..."
"I can't wait." I hung up the phone and grabbed my head. It was still there. My increasingly frequent encounters with the supernatural were imbuing me with a profound appreciation of the simple pleasures of life. Like the fact that I had a head. Safely attached to my body, albeit with a scrawny neck. One couldn't have everything. Or could one? With a little help from one's special friends? Whom did Lucy call when she wanted to dispose of her current body and Rasputin wasn't around? Was Rasputin back in action after all? I was suddenly very afraid. How would Rasputin have felt about me when he woke up from his coma and found himself sold to a Berlin brothel for hardened homosexuals by his erstwhile best friend? Would he still like me? More to the point, would he want to kill me?
I pulled myself together. My personal feelings had nothing to do with it. I had a job to do and I was, after all, a special assistant. Like Lucy. I remembered Nero Insanetti, who too had been fond of boasting about his special status. And look what had happened to him. I didn't want to start frothing at the mouth and sobbing at meetings and threatening to kill inoffensive strangers just because they resembled the Antichrist. I resolved to take better care of myself. I would take more drugs and indulge my personal feelings shamelessly.
I stared out of the large plate glass window. The view was spectacular, a panoramic picture of Prague, faded red rooftops and a thousand spires stretched out beneath me, a broken medieval mosaic, or a complex jigsaw puzzle, or an intricate web. The maze stretched out beyond my sight but I knew that the horizon was no limit, that beyond its horizontal, billions of people were eating, sleeping, working, plotting, rushing to and fro, teeming, struggling to escape the long confines of their particular place in the puzzle, hoping to reach some still center. It seemed to me that all the lines of the labyrinth were leading now to this building where I sat, small, motionless. In that silent instant, I became suddenly aware of the movement of the earth, the unending rotation of the planet, the wild whirl of the world, a greater game than all the plots of power in which I was now embroiled, and I rejoiced.
But then I sighed and stared morosely at the fat studbook in front of me. The music of the spheres was fun enough to listen to but I would face an altogether different music if I didn't do my long overdue historical research. I had no intention of getting a tongue-lashing from Hell: I began dutifully to pore over the tiny print, tracing the intricate pattern of marriages which wove the Schadenfreude family inextricably together with the more obscure offshoots of the Gapsburg dynasty, a narrowing trail of drooping lower lips and hooded eyes and an appetite for mad violence which finally led to the abominable Axel von Schadenfreude, and I was so engrossed in this maze of intrigue and intermarriage that I did not notice Hell standing behind me until he tapped me on the shoulder.
"Enough work for now," Hell said almost kindly. "Come along and have some wine. Most of the trustees are here for the meeting."
"Who's here?"
"Some old friends." Hell grinned. "And one or two you haven't yet met."
"You're not planning to kill anyone tonight, are you?" I asked in alarm.
"Asking questions again," Hell reproved. "Just sit in a corner and take notes. The big stuff will take care of itself. Just sweat the small stuff."
My hangover grew worse instantly. I pouted. "What are you going to do?"
My boss put his hairy arm around Pipi's slender waist and smirked. "It's a nice afternoon. We're going fishing." Hell looked at my bleary face for a moment. "You been taking street drugs again? Take a vitamin, damn it. You look dreadful."
I popped a pill and then another. The dark clouds lifted almost instantly. I felt speedy, even belligerent. After some hard bargaining with various caterers and fireworks experts, I walked into my temporary office, placed my feet, cigarettes, and hip flask on the desk, and pulled the ashtray and telephone toward me. I was ready for combat. It was time to call New York. I punched in one of the numbers listed under Exponential Investments in the slim university phone book. "X-O-X Foundation," a cracked voice whined. "Koroviev speaking."
Koroviev. With incredible speed and precision, my memory recalled that Koroviev had cleaned up after Lucy's death. He had also contacted Luke on behalf of the X-O-X Foundation. How did I remember this? Normally I couldn't even remember the names of people I had met an hour before. Clearly the vitamins were affecting my memory. I frowned. A bad memory was so convenient. My closest relatives and best friends had long since reconciled themselves to never receiving birthday cards. Strangers came up and threw their arms around me and I bore their effusions with equanimity, knowing that I would forget their faces again within the minute. A good memory imposes responsibility and the quality I like most about myself is my utter incapacity to be responsible about anything. If I was going to remember things I would have to act like an altogether different person. I shrugged. I had an interesting lead on the line and there was no time for existential questions.
"Monsieur Koroviev," I said warmly. "How are you?"
"Fine, thank you," the whiny voice replied hesitantly. "Who is this?"
"Come on, big guy. I work for Lord Hades. I'm his special assistant."
"Nero Insanetti?"
"Of course not," I said cheerily. "Nero is gone. Didn't you know?"
"Of course..." Koroviev whined. "What can I do for you?"
"Would you happen to know how I can reach my friend Luke Leazy?" I asked easily. "We just don't seem to have Murti Bing's place listed in our confidential phone directory. I thought you might know..."
There was a sharp intake of breath. "You don't know?"
"What don't I know?"
"Please speak to Mister Xox himself about this," Koroviev replied formally and then he hung up.
I shrugged, mystified. I had to invite Xox to the Europe conference anyway. After the usual hassles with various clerical intermediaries, an obstacle course which I hurdled with ease, dropping Otto Hell's name whenever I felt like it, I was put through to a mobile phone number in London, a special line to the great man's special assistant herself.
"This is Lord Hades' special assistant at the University of Truth and Justice in Prague," I recited for the hundredth time. "May I speak to Mister Xox please?"
" So you finally learned how to say his name." The voice sounded pleased.. "Thanks for saving his butt in Budapest the other day. I couldn't get there in time. Couldn't find a spare body. In New York City, can you imagine?"
"Excuse me?"
"You used to call him Mister X. You even called him Socks once. I bet you learned it from your friend at the Amerikan Embassy. What was his name, Steele?" The voice giggled. "He was cute."
"Steele was transferred to Tirana. He's still there as far as I know," I replied faintly.
"Tirana, huh? Think Steele managed to find out anything in Albania about Our Master? Or was my mysterious death just a red herring to distract attention?"
"Who is this?"
"It's Lucy, silly." I could almost hear her skip for joy.
"That was you in Berlin, wasn't it? The torch singer with Old Nick and the Fallen Angels? In that dreadful nightclub, Holle?"
"Lucie Settonova," the voice confirmed. "That was fun. I've never been a torch singer before and it was such a relief after being a boring Mormon."
"Did you kill her?"
"Who, me? I was the victim. Ask the Berlin police. About the brutal murder of a young Czech au pair with a husky voice and a fondness for nose rings. Actually, I wouldn't advise asking the police. They would probably arrest you again. And that's no fun, is it?" The voice giggled again. "You might ask Rasputin. When you see him again."
"Who the hell are you?"
"Lucy. Mister Xox's valued special assistant."
"Whose body do you inhabit right now?"
"You know her. In fact, she's a good friend of yours."
"Oh shit. Who is it?"
"I'm not telling..." Lucy teased.
I took a deep breath. "Do you snatch bodies often?"
"Whenever I get bored. Which happens quite frequently."
"So I see. Will you tell Xox that Hell is arranging a conference this weekend?"
"He knows. He'll be there. I'll show up too. When you least expect it."
"Don't change bodies before then. I mean, please don't murder any more of my friends, okay?"
"I can't promise that, silly. You're in for a shock, though..."
"I can't wait." I hung up the phone and grabbed my head. It was still there. My increasingly frequent encounters with the supernatural were imbuing me with a profound appreciation of the simple pleasures of life. Like the fact that I had a head. Safely attached to my body, albeit with a scrawny neck. One couldn't have everything. Or could one? With a little help from one's special friends? Whom did Lucy call when she wanted to dispose of her current body and Rasputin wasn't around? Was Rasputin back in action after all? I was suddenly very afraid. How would Rasputin have felt about me when he woke up from his coma and found himself sold to a Berlin brothel for hardened homosexuals by his erstwhile best friend? Would he still like me? More to the point, would he want to kill me?
I pulled myself together. My personal feelings had nothing to do with it. I had a job to do and I was, after all, a special assistant. Like Lucy. I remembered Nero Insanetti, who too had been fond of boasting about his special status. And look what had happened to him. I didn't want to start frothing at the mouth and sobbing at meetings and threatening to kill inoffensive strangers just because they resembled the Antichrist. I resolved to take better care of myself. I would take more drugs and indulge my personal feelings shamelessly.
I stared out of the large plate glass window. The view was spectacular, a panoramic picture of Prague, faded red rooftops and a thousand spires stretched out beneath me, a broken medieval mosaic, or a complex jigsaw puzzle, or an intricate web. The maze stretched out beyond my sight but I knew that the horizon was no limit, that beyond its horizontal, billions of people were eating, sleeping, working, plotting, rushing to and fro, teeming, struggling to escape the long confines of their particular place in the puzzle, hoping to reach some still center. It seemed to me that all the lines of the labyrinth were leading now to this building where I sat, small, motionless. In that silent instant, I became suddenly aware of the movement of the earth, the unending rotation of the planet, the wild whirl of the world, a greater game than all the plots of power in which I was now embroiled, and I rejoiced.
But then I sighed and stared morosely at the fat studbook in front of me. The music of the spheres was fun enough to listen to but I would face an altogether different music if I didn't do my long overdue historical research. I had no intention of getting a tongue-lashing from Hell: I began dutifully to pore over the tiny print, tracing the intricate pattern of marriages which wove the Schadenfreude family inextricably together with the more obscure offshoots of the Gapsburg dynasty, a narrowing trail of drooping lower lips and hooded eyes and an appetite for mad violence which finally led to the abominable Axel von Schadenfreude, and I was so engrossed in this maze of intrigue and intermarriage that I did not notice Hell standing behind me until he tapped me on the shoulder.
"Enough work for now," Hell said almost kindly. "Come along and have some wine. Most of the trustees are here for the meeting."
"Who's here?"
"Some old friends." Hell grinned. "And one or two you haven't yet met."
"You're not planning to kill anyone tonight, are you?" I asked in alarm.
"Asking questions again," Hell reproved. "Just sit in a corner and take notes. The big stuff will take care of itself. Just sweat the small stuff."
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