The Witching Hours, page 33
“Yes?”
“There was a moment when I had a thought about wishing I could capture it in a watercolor painting.”
Winkleman gave me a new look I hadn’t seen before, as if he was appraising me. “Yes,” he said. “I can see you as a person who longs to create beauty.”
“Wow. Wait a minute. You just went from zero to sixty in under four seconds.”
“Is that a car reference?”
“It is. Winkie, do you have a driver’s license?” I asked the question thinking I might get closer to pinning down his age.
He laughed under his breath. “First, do not call me that. Second, persistence is a commendable trait, Ms. Campbell. I suspect you have it in abundance.”
I waggled my head. “My dad told me once that when I want to know something I’m like a rat terrier. On that note, show me your driver’s license and I’ll stop calling you Winkie.”
“Comparing you to a rat terrier is what passes for a compliment in your family?”
It was my turn to laugh. “Yes. Rat terriers don’t look like rats, if that’s what you’re thinking. They’re actually quite handsome. Proud. Intelligent. And very determined to succeed.” I pulled out my phone, found an image on Safari, held it up and said, “See?”
“Oh, yes. I see what you mean. I suppose those contraptions have their upside.”
It took a second to understand his reference. “If you mean cell phones, yes, they do.” As I dropped my phone back into my pocket, I said, “So?”
“Hmmm?”
“Driver’s license?”
“No. Never needed one.”
“Is that because cars weren’t a thing in the days before you…” I tried to remember how he’d put it. “Accepted this post?”
He barked out a laugh then wagged a long finger in my direction. “Ms. Campbell. You are dangerously inquisitive. You know that many New Yorkers don’t drive.”
“Mr. Winkleman. You have to tell me why answering my questions is dangerous.” He shoved his empty plate away. I gasped and jumped a little when it disappeared. “Oh my God. You really are magic.”
“Told you.”
“Did not.”
“Well, let’s say it’s been strongly implied.”
“Which would be the same thing as calling me dense. Or stupid.”
“In your mind, what’s the difference?”
“Wait. You’ve steered me into the weeds. Masterfully, I might add.”
“Thank you.” He bowed his head just a little. “Are you ready to resume our tour?”
“No. I’m not. Now that I know we’re talking real magic. I want to know how old you are.”
“In years?”
“Winkleman. That may be the oddest question I’ve ever been asked.”
“Well, as they say, you should get out more.”
“Tell me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because the more you know about me, the harder it will be for you to forget this encounter.”
Having not expected his answer to be anything close to that, I sat back and stared. “So, the goal is to have me choose an experience. Experience the experience. Then forgot all about both that and you.”
He looked at the ceiling just before pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why are you making this so difficult?”
“Because the mystery you’re wearing like a visible aura is the very most interesting thing here.”
Central mezzanine – one of Christian Dior’s most famous gowns draped on a headless form that stood on top of the cabinet of a polished ebony, concert length Steinway. The miles of tulle that made up the skirt of the dress draped over the piano and scalloped in places. The overall effect was so dazzling I stopped on the next to last step.
Winkleman turned to see why I was flagging, but allowed a rare moment of quiet. In my peripheral vision I could see him looking from me to the display and back again. When the silence had proved too much for him, he asked, “Is it the dress or the piano?”
I shook my head without looking away. “It’s both.”
“Is there a story you wish to share?”
Was there a story? Nothing came to mind. Except that… “I guess I’ve always been a sucker for post war glamour. I mean we could dress like goddesses but we choose at leisure. How very weird of us. As to the piano, I secretly always wished I could play ‘Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini’.”
“Ah, yes. Your mother would allot a block of time for the turntable to play children’s songs then perform the rest of her household chores listening to the world’s great symphonies.”
“Yes,” I said quietly. “That’s true.” Something about that memory pulled on a guilt thread. Perhaps I took my mother for granted. “She always said Looney Tunes provided a great service to our society by using classical symphonic music as the score.”
“She was astute.” I sighed. “I’d be honored to make both those things happen,” Winkleman said. “In fact, I could arrange for you to wear that dress and be the guest soloist with the New York Philharmonic on Rachmaninoff night.”
For a moment I projected myself into that scene. It had a certain cache, but it wasn’t the vision that came to mind. When I pictured myself playing Rachmaninoff, I saw myself in a glass-walled studio by a lake with sunlit water, playing a Steinway much like the one in Curious Goods.
Alone.
Wow. That was an insight. Maybe I’m a recluse at heart.
I thought about all the hours I spend working alone at my job doing special projects. I live in one of the world’s major cities and work at a place that gets forty-five hundred visitors a day on average, but I spend almost all my time alone. And I guess I like it that way. I have a social life, but I don’t overfeed it.
At home in Cleveland, my siblings were always cooking something up, bringing people over with no advance notice. Sometimes my sisters would just decide to have family pizza night at my house. No warning. They’d simply show up. No advanced notice. I wondered if I fled to New York to get some alone time.
“I see wheels turning,” he said. “What are you thinking?”
I looked at Winkleman. “I don’t get to know the most broad and basic things about you, but you get to know what I’m thinking every second.”
He smiled, crossed his arms, and leaned against a free-standing column. “Again. It’s all about you.” He chuckled. “You will be featured in my journal. And, yes.” He nodded. “It’s a privilege to make the cut. It’s atypical to the point of quirky that you want to shift the conversation from something about you to something about me. Most customers are more than comfortable with occupying one hundred percent of the focus. ”
I sighed. “I guess musical celebrity isn’t really my thing. But thank you. I almost feel like I did experience it while trying it on in my head.” I chuckled. “I even accepted roses, took a bow, and felt velvety petals against my bare forearms.”
“A rather detailed image.”
“I feel awkward when expected to respond to ridiculous levels of flattery. I’m a middle class, Midwest girl, with a public education and nothing particularly remarkable about me.”
“And there it is,” he said. “You underestimate yourself. So, when given the opportunity to experience elite levels of excellence, you think that kind of thing should be reserved for someone… what? More deserving? Raised on the coasts?”
Nailed it. “Maybe.” After the briefest pause, I asked, “Did you learn a lot from Freud?”
“I wouldn’t say that. His biggest contribution was naming things.”
“Things like projection?”
“Exactly,” he said with a chuckle then he pointed at a wall featuring photos of the best-known magicians. The display case featured all sorts of typical magician paraphernalia. There was even a live white bunny sitting in a top hat.
“Hello,” I said to the bunny.
“He doesn’t talk,” Winkleman supplied.
“I, um, didn’t think he did. My greeting was intended as a standalone comment.”
“Oh, well. What do you see here that interests you?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Except maybe the mute bunny.”
“I’m surprised. I know how much you like April Fools.”
“April Fools is unique. It’s a holiday set aside for pranks and once a year is not too much. Anything more than once a year is going too far.”
“So, you’ve given this some thought.”
“I have. An April Fools joke done well is brilliant in concept and elegant in execution. It has to be a surprise delivered in a way that the target doesn’t see it coming even though they’re expecting a surprise. Something so personal to them that they’d never guess you’d joke about it coupled with award-worthy acting.” I looked around. “And you’re missing my favorite magician. Chris Angel.”
Winkleman looked around. “Do you want to adopt his persona and experience being Christ Angel?”
“Gods no. I want to watch him. Not be him. I’m not into pain and some of the stuff he does hurts. He dislocates joints and even breaks bones. What’s next?”
“Beauty and celebrity.”
Around the corner was a brightly lit side room. One entire wall was made up entirely of a grid of monitors, each playing one of my favorite movies with sound muted. The Princess Bride, Field of Dreams, Willow, Night at the Museum, Ever After. Wuthering Heights, and on and on.
“What about acting?” he asked. “If not movies, maybe the stage? Perhaps you’d prefer to star in a Broadway play?”
“I feel butterflies in my stomach just thinking about it.”
“What about beauty?” The adjacent wall was a grid of magazine covers. Elle, Vogue, Vanity Fair, and Cosmopolitan featuring out of this world air brushings. Anne Hathaway’s glitzy gangsta look. Emily Blunt as Mary Poppins. Margo Robbie, wine aficionado.
“You do realize there’s an insult in that question, don’t you?”
For a fraction of a second, Winkleman looked alarmed. “Of course that is not a personal assessment of your physical presentation. But many people, even the most beautiful, want to be someone else.”
“We all want what we didn’t get?”
He nodded. “Yes. Very astute.”
We passed another partition and stepped into a room that looked like a midcentury London men’s club. Priceless wood paneling. Priceless rugs. Big, comfy, leather furniture in hues the color of pinot noir. A hand-carved bar ran the length of the room and was attended by someone who was clearly at the top of his game. Although, all who entered would instinctively know the house drink was whiskey neat. In the middle of this sumptuous luxury sat a vintage roulette wheel.
“Roulette?” he asked.
“I’m surprised it’s taken you this long to get around to asking if I want the experience of being mega rich.”
“It wasn’t my intention to offer money.” He pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose. “Do you want that?”
“No.” He didn’t move and didn’t respond. It was as if he was waiting for an explanation as to why I keep mentioning things I wouldn’t choose. “Just an observation. I mean money is attractive. Obviously. Of course, I do have five thousand dollars that I didn’t have when I came in.”
“On loan.”
“Right. You were saying about roulette?”
“Oh!” He clapped his hands. “You are simply going to love this. If you’re feeling lucky, you can use the roulette table to place a wager with the house. Two for one.” His smile told me he was as proud as if he’d thought of it. And maybe he did.
“You mean, if I win, I get two, um, experiences?”
“Yes!”
“And if I lose, I go away emptyhanded?”
He was nodding enthusiastically. “Why in the world would I trust the ‘house’ to play fair?”
His face dropped. “Play fair?” He sounded sincerely offended, but that’s exactly what a crook would do. “Ms. Campbell. Cheating is simply not done here. It could even be beyond the possible.”
I laughed. “Good one. Cheating is impossible in the Curious Goods store.”
After crossing his arms, he said, “Well, since I have no way to prove the roulette wheel is a legitimate game of chance, nothing more, nothing less, we might as well move on.”
“Look, Winkleman. I like you. I mean, you know, how could I not? You’re likable. But I’ve learned the hard way that my judge of character is faulty. The world is full of con artists who give every indication of being good old guys.” Winkleman said nothing. “Okay. You’re right. This can’t be resolved with talking. Let’s move on.”
“I must say I could count on one hand the number of times I’ve had the opportunity to show a customer everything possible. Most people claim their heart’s desire before we reach the end. You’ve taken me through my paces.”
I looked around, feeling a little alarmed that there wasn’t more. I don’t know what I’d expected. That human experience is limitless?
“So, that’s it? We’re at the end?”
“Not quite,” he said. “But we’re close. I have one more thing to show you and it’s different from anything else you’ve seen. Completely atypical to the spirit of the store.”
“Really. What is it?”
“It’s the opportunity to opt out of choosing the ultimate bucket list item and give your experience away to someone else.” I guess he could see by my expression that I wanted to hear more. “You could either choose to give an experience to another deserving individual, or you could name a group to become the beneficiary of your generosity.”
“That’s a little vague. Give me more details about choices.”
“For example, you worry about your father being alone after a lifetime as half of a couple. You might wish the perfect companion would cross paths with him.”
I’d never considered the idea that my dad might take up with a woman who wasn’t my mom. The child in me immediately instigated a wrestling match with my adult. My inner child is both vicious and determined to have her way. Fortunately, as an adult I’m able to see a bigger picture.
I nodded at Winkleman. “Or?”
He shrugged. “You have to tell me what needs speak to you loudest. We could get a bill passed at the federal level guaranteeing school lunch for every child whose family can’t support that.”
Oh. Wow. That pulled at my heartstrings bigtime.
“That’s pretty amazing.”
“No argument.”
“Now that this has been offered, I feel like any other choice would make me a bad person. I mean, I’d always be known as the woman who could’ve solved the school lunch problem and didn’t.”
Winkleman sighed. “Are you sure you don’t want to circle back to the drama department? I understand that acting can be most gratifying.”
“If you’re saying I’m being overly dramatic, I resent that. I’m being completely sincere.” After a brief pause, I said, “Hey. Not saying this is what I want, but could I play roulette two for one with both those things as prizes?”
“Mary Marie Campbell. You are unique.”
“Everybody’s unique.” It was one of those borderline contentious responses that agrees and argues at the same time. “Does that mean yes?”
“The question has never come up before. I’m not sure it’s entirely up to me.”
“Above your paygrade?”
He smiled. “Precisely.”
“Should I wait at the soda fountain while you find out?”
“Feel free to wander as you please while I find out. You can even try things on.” My head jerked in the direction of the Dior dress then I felt the thrill fade as I confronted the reality that the Dior dress was probably a size four. “Everything in the store will fit like it’s been made for you.”
“No mindreading. We had a deal.”
“I never agreed to a deal.”
“Well, since you’re so slippery, while you’re on mission to get an answer to my question, ask how I can be sure the roulette wheel isn’t rigged.”
Without a word, Winkleman faded away. I didn’t want to become blasé about such things. So, I took a second to remind myself that was not normal.
I looked at the sofa fountain. I was hoping jamocha almond fudge fades away just like that. I stepped behind the counter and bent to open the freezer compartment. I decided to just load a fudge covered waffle cone with my fav Starbucks ice cream and had just built a three-scoop masterpiece when Winkleman appeared by my side and provoked both a jump and a yelp.
“Oh. Forgive me, my dear. I didn’t think about startling you.”
“It’s okay. Do you want a cone?”
“No.” He gave me a little crooked grin I hadn’t seen before. He’d communicated, more or less, that his customers were usually interested in themselves and seemed to be amused by my interest in him. “I have a conclusive answer.”
“Yeah? What is it?” I licked the side of the cone where a bit of luscious creaminess had liquefied and was threatening to drop.
“The answer is yes. You can use the roulette wheel for a chance to do twice as much good in the world. Are you feeling lucky?”
I laughed. “Winkleman! How could I not feel lucky? Look around. This was the experience. Like you said, it was designed for me, and it’s been so much fun.”
“Well, then.” He gestured for me to go first. I knew the way so leading was not a problem. “Does the roulette club have rules about not bringing ice cream?”
For the first time, my guide laughed out loud and looked like he’d been surprised by the experience. “You may bring anything you wish, Mary Marie Campbell.”
Standing over the roulette table, Winkleman produced a green chip and a red chip. “The green chip is school lunches all around. The red chip is quality of life for your father’s remaining years. I’ll let you spin the wheel. If the ball lands on an even number, all offers are withdrawn. If the ball, lands on an odd number, you will have successfully doubled your options and made your dad and a whole lot of other humans happier and healthier.”
I looked down at the roulette table. “I don’t know how to, um, spin the wheel.”
