The Triforium Read online

  “So what on earth does that prove?”

  “That she’s been sleeping with this guy.” Hecuba continued with her argument, though she knew it was a weak one.

  “Well, sleeping with a man is commonly done. I’ve been known to do it myself. It might not always be the wisest thing to do but the only thing that might be betrayed is your own personal standards.”

  “Zoraida, you weren’t there last night at the Brocken Specter to see how lovey-dovey the two were.”

  “No, I don’t go to that infantile nightclub for immature Witches. Again, it’s a matter of standards. Hecuba, you must have hated your time in the Navy with all those men about you. Again, having a relationship with a man is not an abomination. You certainly have no qualms about Crowley now do you? I’ve seen you groveling before him. Yes master this and yes master that. Some adherent to feminism you are. You act like his pet hamster.”

  Hecuba’s voice became shrill, “No wonder Miss Fancy Britches put you in charge of the youngsters, you’re as much of a snob as she is. You should be educating the kiddies about the works of Crowley. If you knew anything you’d know that he was a champion of women.”

  Zoraida began to laugh, “This is far too silly. If you have any complaints as to our president’s conduct feel free to bring them up at the next general meeting. I would ask all of you; especially you silver-chair gals to come join me for a drink at the bar. And Hecuba, let me treat you to a bottle of something that is 175 proof. You certainly could use it.”

  Hecuba had a sly grin on her face as Zoraida walked over to the bar.

  “Where are our supplies?” Zoraida said as she turned to confront Hecuba.

  “Why, in the dumpster out back. It’s about time that you realized that there has been a revolution going on around here. The absinthe has been removed and no one is leaving. In a few hours there will be a lot more silver-chair women than green-chair. Then we will take a vote on who our president is. Don’t look so alarmed Zoraida. It will be a legal vote held in accordance with our organization’s bylaws. There will be a new order around here. Out with absinthe! Out with the green chairs! I think all of us are sick of spending our miserably short lives with our brains jumbled up with ghosts. They will have all eternity without us once we are dead. We need our mental freedom now to enjoy what little time we have left without being annoyed by ghosts or avoiding them by being perpetually drunk. If that means sucking up to Crowley for help, then I’m for it.”

  She then turned to Artemisia, who had been standing nearby.

  “Assemble a team and get all of this green chair rubbish out of here.”

  “Of course Hecuba,” Artemisia said with deferential enthusiasm.

  “Oh, Artemisia, that includes our schoolmarm. Take her upstairs, chain her to one of her pupil’s desks … and give her a copy of Crowley’s Liber AL vel Legis to read. Maybe it will bring her to her senses … if not, the withdrawal from the booze will.”

  “Of course Madame President … almost-nearly,” she laughed at her own joke as she and two silver-chair ladies began manhandling Zoraida up the steps to her classroom.

  ***

  There was only one coffee shop close by and, though he had only known Maeva a short while, he was pretty sure that it was the one she meant. It was unusual and everything about her seemed to be immersed in the unconventional. That would suit her. He was having a hard time remembering the name of the place: Coffee Passion?… Coffee Compulsion?… Coffee Preoccupation?… Coffee Obsession?… No. Coffee Possession! He’d been in it once — didn’t care much for the atmosphere. An artsy place with the walls covered with the works of some artist. Again he tried to pull up the name. “ZDZISLAW BEKSINSKI!” the name echoed through Butterfield’s head. It hurt. He chalked his pain up to his hangover but still he felt proud of himself remembering a foreign name like that, especially since it had been many years since he had last stepped foot into Coffee Possession.

  It was Butterfield’s ghost who remembered the name, and couldn’t believe that the idiot he was forced to travel with had forgotten it. Butterfield’s ghost had long wanted to return to the coffee shop so he could once again gaze at the beautiful pictures. They were so inspiring – so uplifting. But of course his host didn’t care for them and was only motivated to return to the place by the temptation of having another go in the sack with Maeva. It was disgusting.

  As Wallace walked he found that his balance was improving. He felt stronger and steadier. Soon he was briskly on his way, passing the Six Way Poultry Bar, the Grateful Boar, and McMillan’s Garden Pools and Aquariums. His stomach had stopped punishing him. The queasiness that he had felt earlier had all but gone. His confidence began to match the vigor of his stride. Maeva was just down the street. Coffee Possession was up ahead.

  Though it was true that he hated the interior of the place, he rather admired the exterior. The building was classic Victoriana. It had a recessed doorway, with off-white pilasters that had been repainted so many times that they truly gave a sense of antiquity to a relatively recent knockoff of an ancient Greek temple. Decorative corbels, like ones from ancient Athens, supported an ornately carved cornice running along the eaves. It was a shrine to commerce. The place originally must have sold fine lady’s shoes, or pretty parasols and hats — something like that — probably had withstood around a hundred and fifty years of retail commerce — from high fashion to comestibles. Perhaps it was once a bakery or a butcher shop, then was transformed into a bicycle repair shop — probably sold hookahs as a head shop in the 1960s. Now, only the façade of the building was dedicated to beauty, and that was just incidental. In today’s world it was only the location of the building that had any real value.

  As was frequently the case, Butterfield’s ghost always found himself disagreeing with Butterfield. Wallace had no idea about what true beauty was. Stepping into Coffee Possession was like stepping into a nightmare. What could be more beautiful than a bad dream?

  Coffee Possession featured no other artist’s works but Beksinski’s. You could hardly see the old pressed tin walls due to the pervasive presence of his ghoulish paintings. Butterfield’s ghost was convinced that the café owner had a great appreciation for the finer things in life … which would be anything that was grotesque. The ghost rejoiced in the dark lurid skeletonized humans that occupied the canvases. He admired the crablike creatures that were depicted crawling amongst the painted ruins. He adored the rotting faces. The artist’s world was a world populated solely with hellish escapees from a morgue. So enchanting. So uplifting. But it was his depiction of architecture that the ghost liked the most. It crumbled burned and exploded. What a delight!

  As Butterfield opened the door to Coffee Possession, an old fashioned bell above the door tinkled. His ghost remembered that sound. It was like he was coming home. He eagerly looked about from wall to wall, trying to take it all in for tonight’s dream.

  Maeva had seated herself in a far corner with her back to the wall. This provided a clear view of the shop entrance. She was relieved that she couldn’t see his ghost resting his chin above Wallace’s head. This assured her that her late morning libation of absinthe was the proper dosage. But then she thought she might have drunk too much. Maybe he would smell the alcohol and think her to be a morning boozer. Maeva reached down into her white leather clutch bag and placed her hand on the bottle of love potion that Artemisia had provided her with the day before. She was tempted to put some more on to mask her scent, but too much might make Butterfield go out of control. She really couldn’t imagine him ever getting out of control, but this wasn’t the place to have him dancing on the tabletops.

  “Wally. Over here,” she called out, as a mime walked up to a neighboring table, blocking her view of Butterfield.

  He had heard her voice, stopped to look about, then spotted Maeva as the mime went off to fill an order. Mime waitresses were something new, another as
pect of this place that made him feel very uncomfortable. But there was Maeva, and she was beckoning to him to come over.

  “Lovely Maeva,” he thought, “What a contrast to everything in Coffee Possession. So cute in her pink polka dotted dress.”

  He hurried over to be with her.

  “Wally,” she said as she held out a white-gloved hand for him to kiss. Which he obediently kissed before he seated himself.

  This was just the reaction she had been hoping for, no hesitation, no questioning her as to why on earth would any woman be wearing opera gloves to a java shop and who kisses a woman’s hand today? He just showed passive devotion. Maeva now knew that she had applied the correct amount of love potion.

  He was about to tell her how lovely she looked when a mime showed up at their table. All the waitresses were dressed like Marcel Marceau, with white pancake makeup on their faces and their eyes and eyebrows painted black. It gave them a cadaverous look like bloodless corpses in sailor suits.

  A wooden menu board was propped up on the table by the waitress-mime.

  Maeva politely and exaggeratedly nodded to the mime, then she pointed to a line on the menu that said green-eyed coffee.

  The mime held up her a hand as which to say, “Anything else?”

  Maeva shook her head.

  Now, it was apparently Wallace’s turn. The menu was turned to face him.

  “Tetley tea with cream and sugar,” he said.

  The mime pantomimed horror. Shaking her head, she waived her hands about while making a shish sign across her mouth with her right index finger.

  “Sweetie, you point and never speak to the mimes. It’s part of the ambiance of the place.”

  Butterfield felt momentarily annoyed, but Maeva had called him sweetie, so he decided to go along with it. By pointing to where it said orange pekoe. But this wasn’t good enough for the mime, she drew a finger along the board where it said orange pekoe, Gorreanna, orange pekoe Ceylon, Chester broken orange pekoe.

  He pointed to one of the offerings thinking he was done but the mime continued on with her silent interrogation. She traced out the sweeteners; brown sugar, stevia, New Zealand honey, and turbinado sugar, followed by the types of creams; Ayrshire, Guernsey, Jersey, and goat.

  Butterfield perfunctorily placed a finger on two of the choices and was relieved when the waitress brought two fingers up to the edge of her lips, made a smiley face and then went off to the barista station.

  “I know,” Maeva giggled. “This isn’t your cup of tea.”

  Butterfield chuckled. “You should save puns like that for the Reverend.”

  “Oh I would like to meet him. He sounds like an interesting man.”

  “Yes, interesting. He’s interesting.” Butterfield wanted to say so much more but it had nothing to do with Reverend Poda-Pirudi. He started to tell her about how much he cared for her. “You know about last night … I’m mean I feel…”

  Maeva wasn’t listening. She seemed to be distracted. Her attention had become fixed on a painting that hung on the wall behind where Wallace sat. She hadn’t noticed it before, but it now seemed to be pertinent to their conversation. It was of a cathedral. Not dissimilar in shape to that of the Abbey. But instead of being made of masonry it appeared to be organic and growing, more like interconnective bone tissue than block. It glowed too, a rust-like color. The composition of the painting directed the eye towards the central feature, a large rose window, which did not look like it had been made to let in the light of God. It was more like a lair for a giant spider. Maeva’s face went blank.

  She lowered her gaze a bit and saw that she had been ignoring Wally and that he looked concerned.

  “Oh sorry. Sometimes I get caught up in the paintings.” Then she added in a more serious tone, “I’ve been meaning to ask you. How are you coming with the project? Any new ideas today?”

  “No not today.” Then he drew in his breath and whispered, “All I’ve been thinking of is you.”

  Maeva was touched and was going to return the compliment but Butterfield wouldn’t allow for that. Embarrassed he moved on, “I think I might have been assigned an impossible task. Though the Reverend seems to be confident in his hiring of me, I’m not so sure I can come up with any ideas that will make him happy. Mucking about with such an historic structure … I’m not sure it can be done. Take a genius to plop a tower in the middle of the Abbey without ruining it. I thought perhaps plopping it to one side. There’s a grassy courtyard in the middle of the cloister. Maybe there?”

  “You see, you are a genius. The Reverend has chosen well.”

  “No, he hasn’t. But he said that he was just looking for ideas. So it’s not like I’m going to be in charge of bringing in a wrecking ball or anything like that. I just can’t think of anything that would look appropriate.”

  Their waitress returned with their order. Placed it on the table as Maeva made a motion for a check.

  Butterfield looked hurt. “I’m sorry,” Maeva said quickly, “I can’t stay too long. I’ve got to take one of my Girl Guides on an outing today. She’s having problems at home and I thought it might do her some good to get out.”

  “I didn’t know that you were a troop leader.”

  “Wally, there is lots you don’t know about me. But perhaps we will learn a lot more about one another. I’d like very much to help you with this project. Is there anything I might do?”

  “No. I can’t imagine what you could do. It’s up to my brain I guess.”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking,” Maeva said, using that serious voice that Butterfield had just heard for the first time. “It might be helpful if I come to work a little prepared on Monday. Would you mind if I take my Girl Guide to the Abbey? I’m sure it would be a good experience for her and might help me to understand what we are up against.”

  She paused for a second then added, “Might even bump into that Reverend of yours. I’d like to meet him.”

  “Oh. Yes … of course. If you can think of a solution to my dilemma, I’ll put Wolusky before Butterfield on the family sign.”

  She laughed. “That would be lovely — Wolusky Butterfield and Son.”

  “I’d like it too.”

  “I’m surprised you’ve been to this place,” he said, trying to steer the conversation away from his problems at work and back to just her. “Do you come to Croydon often? You must know your way around to know about this place.”

  “No, I don’t often come to Croydon — just occasionally. I have a friend — Zoraida — she’s the owner. Strange, I thought I might have had the opportunity of introducing you to her. She is normally about. Not today … I guess. Well, since she’s not here, I’ll let you in on my little secret. I can’t stand the mimes either. I only come here because she’s my friend. Guess you can tell that she’s a bit of a collector. She’s a painter too — paints garbage. Unfortunately, she’s too embarrassed to show her own work on her coffee shop walls.”

  “Well, if you think her work is garbage, maybe she’s doing the right thing?”

  “Oh … sorry,” Maeva exclaimed, realizing that she had just led Wallace astray. “She paints garbage. Real garbage. She once told me that it was about starting with the basics and working your way up from there.”

  “So, this Beksinski guy is her idea of fine art?”

  “You don’t approve do you?”

  Butterfield would be willing to agree to anything if it made Maeva like him a little bit more. “I’m an architect not an artist.” Then he added, “But I’d love it if you became my guide to appreciating art.”

  Maeva smiled, realizing that this was the best that Wallace could do when it came to being flirtatious. He was so charmingly pathetic. Though she found this quality to be exciting in a man, she had no time to encourage it today. Today she must go into this reverend’s lair and fi
nd out why on earth he had hired Wallace Butterfield as his architect.

  “I’m no connoisseur of these thing,” Maeva said, politely pushing off Wallace’s invitation to become his personal art guru. “I just have a soft spot for Beksinski. A fellow Pole you know?”

  “No I didn’t know that. Actually, I came here once before. I’m embarrassed to say this — his pictures gave me nightmares.”

  “They’d give anyone nightmares. Still, there’s something that draws people to them. Beksinski was a fascinating fellow you know? No formal training in art. He was a sweet shy man with a great sense of humor and yet he painted these magnificent gothic horrors. Even stranger was that he died like he was a subject of one of his paintings. He was found murdered in his flat a few years back. Stabbed to death. Seventeen wounds.”

  “Seventeen stab wounds,” Butterfield said, in wonderment that she would remember the exact number of stab wounds.

  “Seventeen stab wounds!” thought Butterfield’s ghost. “Murdered in his flat. How delicious!”

  It had occurred to his ghost long ago that Butterfield might take too long in dying. He might end up in an old folks home and die on a respirator. He remembered Butterfield reading an article about an old woman who lived to be a 110. That was unconscionable! Her poor ghost must have felt like she was in a seedpod that refused to burst. If Butterfield’s ghost could have figured out a way of killing Butterfield, he would have done so long ago. Butterfield was just too damned resilient. All the ghost’s nightmares only made him lose sleep. He’d never be driven to suicide over having bad dreams.

  The waitress placed the tab on the table and again drew a happy smile across her face.

  Butterfield was tempted to draw a sad frown on his face and not leave her a tip. But he could never be that rude. In fact, he left a big tip. He didn’t want Maeva to think he hadn’t enjoyed himself.

  Maeva thanked him for picking up the check in the appreciative style that women, who are used to having men pick up the check, feign. She then added, “Working with you will be so much fun. Can’t wait till we start sharing the office together. I’ll see you there. Now it’s off to get myself educated about that Abbey. Thanks again for the coffee.”