“Since your night is ruined, drink!”
Roy and I glanced nervously around the restaurant.
No Beast.
When the champagne was poured, Groc toasted us.
“May you never have to curl a dead man’s eyelashes, clean a dead man’s teeth, rewax his beard, or rearrange his syphilitic lips.” Groc rose and looked at the door through which his women had run.
“Did you see their faces?” Groc smiled after them. “Mine! Do you know why those girls are wildly in love
with me and will never leave? I am the high lama of the Valley of the Blue Moon. Should they depart, a door would slam, mine, and their faces fall. I have warned them also that I have hooked fine wires below their chins and eyes. Should they run too far too fast to the end of the wire—their flesh would unravel. And instead of being thirty, they would be forty-two!”
“Fafner,” growled Roy. His fingers clutched the table as if he might leap up.
“What?”
“A friend,” I said. “We thought we might see him tonight.”
“Tonight is over,” said Groc. “But stay. Finish my champagne. Order more, charge me. Would you like a salad before the kitchen shuts?”
“I’m not hungry,” said Roy, the wild disappointed Shrine Opera Siegfried look in his eyes.
“Yes!” I said.
“Two salads,” Groc said to the waiter. “Blue cheese dressing?”
Roy shut his eyes. “Yes!” I said.
Groc turned to the waiter and thrust an unnecessarily large tip into his hand.
“Spoil my friends,” he said, grinning. Then, glancing at the door where his women had trotted out on their pony hooves, he shook his head. “I must go. It’s raining. All that water on my girls’ faces. They will melt! So long. Arrivederci!”
And he was gone. The front doors whispered shut.
“Let’s get out. I feel like a fool!” said Roy.
He moved and spilled his champagne. He cursed and cleaned it up. I poured him another and watched him take it slowly and calm down.
Five minutes later, in the back of the restaurant, it happened.
The headwaiter was unfolding a screen around the farthermost table. It had slipped and half folded back together, with a sharp crack. The waiter said something to himself. And then there was a movement from the kitchen doorway, where, I realized, a man and woman had been standing for some few seconds. Now, as the waiter realigned the folding screen, they stepped out into the light and hurried, looking only ahead at that screen, toward the table.
“Ohmigod,” I whispered hoarsely. “Roy?”
Roy glanced up.
“Fafner!” I whispered.
“No.” Roy stopped, stared, sat back down, watching as the couple moved swiftly. “Yes.”
But it was not Fafner, not the mythological dragon, the terrible serpent, that quickened himself from kitchen to table, holding his lady’s hand and pulling her along behind him.
It was what we had been looking for for many long weeks and arduous days. It was what I might have scribbled on paper or typed on a page, with frost running up my arm to ice my neck.
It was what Roy had been seeking every time he plunged his long fingers into his clay. It was a blood-red bubble that rose steaming in a primeval mud pot and shaped itself into a face.
And this face was all the mutilated, scarred, and funeral faces of the wounded, shot, and buried men in ten thousand wars since wars began.