R. MacAvoy - Tea with the Black Dragon

Mayland Long paced to the low shelves beneath the window. Searching through the row of books, his hand reached out and began to harvest. First he found the three volumes of Knuth’s The Art of Computer Programming, Principles of Compiler Design, and the Conference Proceedings of the Third West Coast Computer Faire. Then, rising with this armload, he made his way to a large, slotted magazine rack, whence he plucked out Dr. Dobb’s Journal of Computer Calisthenics and Orthodontia.

He lowered this accretion of technical expertise to the seat of one of the chairs and, picking it up by the carved wooden arms, so as not to damage the Turkish rug, he placed it next to the other chair, on which he sat.

A tall lamp stood beside him; he snapped it on. He grunted briefly as he opened Knuth, vol. I, Fundamental Algorithms: a happy little sound, full of contentment.

With reddening fingers Martha pried apart the loops other key ring and forced the keys of the rental car upon it. She had reached the landing between the third and fourth floors and stopped to breathe for a moment before continuing her ascent. She wondered what sprite had tempted her to hoof it from the lobby to the seventh floor, where Mayland Long resided. Surely it was not the spirit of physical fitness. Health trailed along in Martha Macnamara’s wake; she had never turned to pursue it.

She snorted as she recognized her motive. She was visiting a man’s rooms alone, and so had unconsciously avoided observation. What an absurd right hemisphere you have, she railed at herself. Nasty half-brain. Sneaky and absurd… Serve it right to climb the rest of the way.

She stood at the top. “There,” she mumbled to herself. “See what you made me do?”

The plain iron sign read seventh floor. She leaned against a newell post cast in the shape of an acorn, feeling the heat in her face. She stepped through the fire door into the hall.

Here, somewhere along the maroon turkish-patterned runner, was where the body was found. The junkie. With his neck broken. She ought to ask him about that story— get it over with and out of her mind.

Lifting her hand to knock on the door marked 714 cost a great effort of will. She stared at the shiny brass numbers. Heavy. Solid. 7-1-4. Her face was still hot; he would think she were blushing. Perhaps she was. Definitely she would not ask about the body.

She listened for movement within and heard nothing. Then the door softly opened, revealing Mr. Long. He balanced a cup on a saucer in his left hand. In the morning light he looked thinner and less exotic. Standing in shirtsleeves between Martha and the window, he seemed very slight indeed.

“Looking for bloodstains?” he asked gently, smiling. He laughed at her reaction. “Forgive me, Martha. That unfortunate accident is our one piece of notoriety at the James Herald. Everyone who speaks to Jerry Trough finds out about it.”

“Did you see the body, Mayland? It must have lain just outside your door.”

He shook his head. “No. I slept through the entire incident. I had been out late the night before, you see, and only woke when the police started knocking on doors. Couldn’t help them.”

She stood in the doorway, blinking all around at the book-lined room. Mayland Long lifted his suit jacket from the closer of the two wing-back chairs and gestured her to sit.

She noted the teacup, and the fact that his shirt cuffs were not buttoned. “Sorry. I guess I’m on time.” She snorted in self-deprecation as she lowered herself into the delicate chair. “Unforgivable, really. You become so used to people being twenty minutes late that you tack that time onto the real time you want them to be there and then someone like me comes along and ruins everyone’s schedule. It’s because I’m so literal minded.”

“Never apologize,” said Long. “Especially not for punctuality. I was not underway as early as you this morning, but that ought to give you cause for resentment, not me.” He placed the saucer and cup neatly on the floor, atop the second volume of Knuth. “I have only just gotten out of the shower.

“Please pour yourself a cup of tea while I finish straightening up. It is not black but Chinese,” he added, and knelt beneath the window, paging books carefully into their shelves.

It was the tea, she discovered, which was not black but Chinese. Smelled like peaches. Tasted slightly salty. As she sat, craning her neck to stare all around, she began to swing her legs. The chair was too high for her. It made her feel like a little girl.

So did all this room, so old looking—old mannish looking, really, but in such good taste. And almost oppressively neat by her standards. Having a few books scattered across the floor proved the rest weren’t just book-binding wallpaper.

Martha Macnamara was resigned to being too early. She sat swinging her stockinged legs while her toes brushed the subtle cream and maroon pattern of the rug.

Mayland Long did not mention that he himself hadn’t shut eye the past night, and if weariness caught him as he squatted on the floor, slipping Dr. Dobb’s between Donleavy’s and Forbes September 4th issues, that drowse might hav6 been merely the effect of the first sunlight, which struck suddenly through the morning haze and threw him into a sort of peaceful trance. His amber eyes lidded over and his hand was slipping down the slots of the rack when he heard Martha gasp. Then his head moved quickly.

“That is Oolong,” he stated.

The half empty cup and saucer rattled in her lap. “No,” she whispered eagerly. “The statue! That magnificent statue!”

He turned back to the window, brushing invisible dust from his trouser knees. “Yes. It’s called Oolong.” His perfect voice had sunk to a mumble of disinterest and Mayland Long stared out into the sky, caught by some pattern of sun and mist.

“Is that the name of the piece, the sculptor, or the dragon who posed for it?”

Motionless, he answered, “Any one you please,” and he yawned an enormous yawn, with his tongue curling up like that of a cat. But when he turned again toward her there was crispness and decision in his attitude.

“Now, my dear lady, I have done with dawdling and we may off.”

“Ah. Okay.” She deposited her white cup on the oilcloth beside the green teapot and the red kettle. Puzzled, she lifted the lid of the pot and the smell of leaves leaked out. She was sure that tea was Oolong. Both the tea and the statue were named Oolong? The tea, the statue and the dragon? The word swelled in her mind, assuming awful proportions. Perhaps if she asked him the name of the black lacquer table here, he would state, “Oolong” again. She had once had a Master like that; no matter what the question was, his answer had been, “Dust on the floor.” After a year of that she had rebelled, shouting, “There’s nothing in you but ‘Dust on the floor!’ ” That had turned out to be the proper response; from then on they’d gotten along famously.

She met Long’s challenging eyes with a greater challenge. “Oolong,” she announced. “The tea, the statue, the dragon—and you too. The same word can do for all.” And she laughed, till the bare shock in his face drained the humor away.

“I’m not insane, really,” she explained carefully. “That was just a little Zennie joke. Very little. And now, Holmes! The hunt’s afoot! Or the game’s up, or… something…” She preceded a thoughtful Mayland Long out the door.

“When Thou hast done, Thou art not done, for I have more,” he announced, sinking back into the upholstery of the passenger seat. Brown fingers, seemingly by themselves, sought out the handle of the door and swung it closed.

Martha was a bit dejected, having drawn a blank both at FSS and Stanford. What was worse, Judy Freeman, Liz’s school friend and Martha’s best hope, had moved to Seattle months previously.