Stuart Kaminsky - Melting Clock

“It’s a throne,” said Dali, looming up behind me. “I shall tell my guests tonight that it is the throne of Cleopatra’s father.”

I jumped up, my heart beating like a combination by Henry Armstrong.

“You scared the shit out of me,” I remonstrated.

“It is the fate of man since clothing was invented to embarrass us that we should soil ourselves,” he said. “In fear, in passion, in disgrace. It is a concern that only humans have, particularly fathers.”

Dali was wearing the same tiger-skin robe and pink silk pajamas. He had one of those long-stemmed glasses in each hand. He handed me one.

“Orange juice,” he said. “From my cache of fruit.”

I took it and drank.

“Good stuff,” I said.

“Today we find my stolen painting,” he affirmed.

“Could be,” I hedged.

“I saw it in a dream,” he said.

“When did you sleep?”

“Here, there, a moment an interrupted dream. I do not need light to paint. The light is in here.”

He pointed to his head.

“Like a Mazda bulb,” I said.

“Precisely. The Impressionists need light from outside, from nature, from the gods. Surrealists get light from inside themselves. They need no gods.”

“Pretty weighty stuff for dawn,” I said. “This is more Jeremy’s line. Mind if I use the phone?”

“It is not chilled,” he complained. “There is a phone in the kitchen but I cannot bear to touch it. It sticks to the fingers. Phones should be chilled.”

“I’ll try not to be too disgusted,” I said.

It was almost six on a Monday morning. I called the boarding house, hoping for Gunther. I got Mrs. Plaut on the second ring.

Before I could say anything, she shouted, “Early, but I don’t care. I had to feed the bird.”

“Mrs. Plaut, it’s me, Toby Peters. Can you get Gunth-?”

“Mr. Peelers, the police are an interesting lot, Lord knows, but they spend entirely too much time here looking for you.”

“The police were there?”

“Have you been killing people again, Mr. Peelers? I have asked you to stop that manner of behavior.”

“I’ve never killed anyone, Mrs. Plaut,” I objected. “Can I please speak to-”

“They asked me about a clock,” Mrs. Plaut went on. “I showed them the Beech-Nut clock on the wall of your room, the grandmother clock in my sitting room, but they were not interested.”

Dali was now standing in the doorway to the kitchen, empty glass in hand.

“Gunther Wherthman,” I said loudly, emphatically, to Mrs. Plaut, to no avail.

“They talked to Mr. Gunther Wherthman also,” she said. “I informed them that if they wanted to apprehend you for murdering more people they would be well advised to go search for you instead of indulging in hobbies.”

“Allow me,” said Dali, reaching for the phone.

He had a clean new handkerchief in his hand and took the phone carefully, like a hot-shot evidence man at a crime scene.

“Senora Plaut?” he asked into the phone. And then he began to jabber away in Spanish, with appropriate pauses to listen. Finally, he said, “ Esta bien, gracias. ”

He handed the phone to me and cleaned his hands.

“She’s getting your Mr. Wherthman,” he said. “I must dry my hands.”

“Mrs. Plaut can’t speak Spanish,” I said as he threw into the corner the offending handkerchief that had touched an unchilled phone.

“Her Spanish is flawless,” said Dali. “A bit of the Andalusian but perfect.”

And he was gone.

“Toby?” came Gunther’s voice over the phone.

“I’m here, Gunther.”

“Police were here. Sergeant Seidman.”

“Did they see the painting?”

“No, it is in my room, under the bed. They would not say why they were looking for you.”

“Fleeing the scene of the crime, absconding with evidence, possibly suspicion of murder.”

“That is less serious than last time,” he said. “They wish you to come see them immediately. I believe that a police automobile with a red-haired man inside is waiting across the street.”

“Thanks, Gunther,” I said. “Here’s my number. Don’t write it anywhere.”

“Be cautious, Toby,” he counseled.

“I will,” I said. “Did you know Mrs. Plaut speaks Andalusian Spanish?”

“Yes,” he said. “And a very acceptable French.”

“Why didn’t I know that?”

“Toby, you are my closest friend, the closest friend I have ever had and yet you have an inclination to close yourself off from that which will alter your perception of others. Mrs. Plaut is an enigma, not a joke.”

“I hate art and philosophy, Gunther. And I don’t care all that much for literature.”

“I know that you believe that, Toby. Please, I did not intend to agitate you.”

“I’m sorry, Gunther. I don’t really hate art and literature.

“I know that. Did you get enough sleep last night?”

At that instant, Gala, a twig in a purple dress reaching to the floor, washed into the room.

“No,” I said.

“Off the phone,” Gala ordered.

I turned my back on her. I had been about to end the conversation, but now I was more than a little inclined to engage Gunther in discussion of Da Vinci, Debussy, or Frankie Sinkwich.

“Recommend some reading for me, Gunther,” I said.

“I have a party to arrange for Dali and only twelve hours to complete it,” Gala said. “The phone is required.”

“I will gladly make a list and let you borrow my books,” said Gunther, “but I would prefer that you not remove them from Mrs. Plaut’s premises.”

“I’ll talk to you, Gunther,” I said.

“Be more concerned for your safety,” he answered, and I hung up.

Gala took the phone from me and motioned for me to get out of the way and out of the kitchen. I left.

The rest of the day, Jeremy-after I woke him at nine-and I took turns watching the street. A couple of truckloads of caterers arrived around three and took over most of the house. The caterers were all women.

“This,” declared Dali, who had changed into a white tuxedo with black tie and had come down to tilt his head back and watch the preparation, “must be a night of triumph. The press of the world will be here and I shall find new ways to offend.”

“Sounds like fun for all,” I said.

“I must retire to my rooms now.” Dali refused to acknowledge my sarcasm. “It is fatiguing to watch people work and to create offenses.”

At five, with food everywhere and tables on the beach around the throne, the first guests arrived. No one came to the house. Dali had painted a sign that Gala had personally put up in the sand. The sign read:

TO THE BEACH FOR SIGHTS DENIED MOST MORTALS

These first guests, a man and a woman, were wearing clown costumes.

From the window, Dali observed to me, “No imagination. I shall be dressed from the neck down as a rabbit-a trickster who hops, deceives, and refuses to be contained. And from the neck up, I shall be Sherlock Holmes, who claims to operate from reason and the logic but is really an artist.”

“Have fun,” I said.

“And you shall be dressed as …?” Dali inquired.

“I shall be dressed as Toby Peters, Detective.”

“There is only room for one detective at this party, and it shall be Salvador Dali. There is a costume for you in your room and one for the poet. Gala picked them. She can see through to the soul.”

I was about to say no again, but Dali wouldn’t let me get started.

“No one goes to the shore without wearing a mask of the gods.”

Depending on what torture Gala had laid out on the bed, it wasn’t such a bad idea to be in some kind of disguise. There wasn’t much chance of the L.A. cops showing up, but there was a chance the killer would come. That chance became a near certainty about ten minutes after the thought hit me.