Graham Masterton - Mirror

'Martin, is this some kind of a practical joke?' Morris demanded. 'I'm a busy man, can you come to terms with that? I just can't stand here listening to all of this —'

He stopped in midsentence, with his mouth open. Because — without any further hesitation, and with stunning grace — Boofuls lifted both his arms, and began to dance slowly around Morris Nathan's office. His head was held high, his eyes were penetratingly bright, his arms and legs flowed through one complicated dance movement after another. Martin stepped back so that Boofuls could twirl past him, his toes scarcely touching the carpet as he went. He seemed to be unaffected by gravity — light and soundless, keeping perfectly in time with some unheard music. One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, around and around and around.

Morris stared in fascination as Boofuls completed his dance, and bowed, and paused; and then clasped his hands together and stared up at the ceiling with an expression of pathos.

'I never saw anybody -' he began, but Martin shushed him, because Boofuls had started to sing. Martin had never heard this song before, although he had read the score. It came about halfway through Sweet Chariot, when the dead-end kid rises from his body as an angel.

Boofuls' voice was clear and sweet and penetrating. It sounded inhuman, as if it had come from the silvery throat of some long-forgotten musical instrument, rather than a child's larynx. It was so moving that Martin couldn't believe what he was hearing — and nor could Morris, from the expression on his face. There were tears in his eyes, and Martin had never ever seen tears in Morris Nathan's eyes before, and (except for his mother, when he was a tiny baby) neither had anybody else.

Like the dew, rising To kiss the morning sun Fm rising, I'm rising To kiss the ones I love

Like the light, dancing Where the river waters run Tm dancing, I'm dancing To that joyful place above

Boofuls finished the song and then stood with his head bowed and his eyes closed. There had been no music; no accompaniment; and yet Martin was almost sure that he had heard a sweeping orchestra; and that when Boofuls had finished singing, a single melancholy violin had laid his last note to rest. As for Morris, he dragged out a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly and looked toward Martin and lifted one hand as if to say, Amazing, I take it all back, whatever I said about Boofuls, whatever I said about anything.

Boofuls opened his eyes and smiled a sly little smile that only Martin saw.

'Well?' said Martin. 'What do you think?'

'I think I should shoot myself,' Morris told him, shaking his head in admiration. 'Then I should talk to June Lassiter.'

'You really like it?'

Morris came around his desk beaming. He laid his arm around Martin's shoulders and gave him an affectionate squeeze. 'Let me tell you something, Martin, there's a world of difference between concept and product. If you're talking concept, the idea of reviving Boofuls totally stunk. I told you it stunk, didn't I, how many times?'

He stretched over to ruffle Boofuls' hair, although Boofuls stepped back so that he was out of reach.

'What you have here, Martin, this is different, this is product. This is something that a studio can understand in terms of box office. What did you say your name was, kid?'

'My name is Lejeune,' said Boofuls.

'Well, we're going to have to think about that.'1 Morris grinned. 'Don't want you sounding too Frenchified, do we? Perhaps we can call you Boofuls II. Martin — you fix yourself a drink. How about you, Lejeune? What about a Seven-Up? Let me call Alison; she can take care of Lejeune for a while so that you and I can talk a little business.'

'I'd rather stay here and listen,' said Boofuls.

'Well, you don't want to do that,' Morris told him. 'This is grown-up talk; very boring. Alison will show you the peacocks. We have five now, did you know that, Martin? They make incredible watchdogs. Anyone come within five hundred feet of the house, they scream out like somebody strangling your grandmother.'

Boofuls suddenly looked white. 'I want to go,' he said.

'We won't be long,' said Morris, parking half of his enormous bottom on the side of his desk and punching out the sun-room telephone number. 'We just have to talk about how we're going to lick this whole thing into some kind of shape.'

'/ want to go,' Boofuls insisted.

'Sure,' said Morris, 'sure. Just as soon as we've sorted things out. Oh — Alison? How are you doing, sweetie-pie? Would you mind coming into the den for a moment? Well, I've got a cute young friend here I'd like you to meet. All right, then, okay. Bysie-bye.'

The phone rang again. Morris picked it up. 'Hello? Oh Henry, how are you? Where are you calling from? You're kidding! Well — if it's unavoidable. What time can you get here? Okay, all right, that's fine. I can see you at two-thirty. Fine.'

'That was Henry Winkler,' he told Martin as he put down the phone. 'He's been held up at ABC. Now, how about that drink? I could use one myself. Lejeune, my friend, the lovely Mrs Nathan is going to show you around the yard while Martin and I have a little pow-wow, all right?'

Tm going,' said Boofuls, his lips blue with rage; and he turned around and stalked out of Morris' study and slammed the door behind him.

'Morris,' Martin appealed, 'just give me a moment, will you?'

He went after Boofuls and saw him marching past the swimming pool, his chin lowered, his arms swinging angrily. 'Boofuls!' he called out. 'Just hold up a minute, will you?'

At that moment, however, Alison came out of the sun-room and began to walk toward the swimming pool in the opposite direction. When she saw Boofuls she waved and smiled and quickened her pace. Her white silk caftan floated in the gray daylight like a Pacific roller photographed in slow motion. She had almost reached Boofuls, however, when she covered her face with both hands, so that only her eyes were visible; and for no apparent reason at all she let him pass straight by, and disappear down the steps toward the front gate.

Martin hurried across the flagstones and took hold of Alison's hand. 'Alison? Are you okay?'

Alison nodded. She was shuddering. 'I think I'm going to have to sit down,' she said. Martin brought over a cast-iron garden chair, and she sat on it unsteadily and hung her head between her knees, breathing deeply.

'Who was that?' she managed to ask Martin at last.

'You mean that boy? He's a child actor I discovered. You know, singer and dancer. I brought him along to meet Morris because he's really got something special.'

Alison was still quaking. 'Is he sick?' she wanted to know.

Martin couldn't help letting out a grunt of amusement. 'Not so far as I know.'

Alison sat up straight, and clung on to Martin's sleeve. 'If he's not sick - why does he look so white? He looks so sick, like he's dead already.'

Martin said, 'What do you mean by that?' He glanced up. Morris was walking toward them now, his white sandals flapping loudly on the flagstones. 'What do you mean, he looks like he's dead already?'

'His face ... oh, God, Martin - it was just like a skull.''

Martin found Boofuls sitting in the passenger seat of his Mustang, throwing stones at lizards, and usually missing. Martin climbed in behind the steering wheel and sat there saying nothing for two or three minutes, drumming his fingers on top of the dash.

At last, Boofuls said, 'I'm sorry, Martin. I didn't mean to spoil things. I haven't lost my temper like that in a long time.'

'You could have screwed things up permanently,' said Martin. He took off his glasses and breathed on the lenses, buffing them up with his handkerchief. 'If Morris Nathan can't or won't fix anything for you, then you might just as well pack your suitcase and go back to wherever you came from.'