Grigor sipped his wine, and laid out on the low table before him some of the colour shots of Nezzar’s mummy. The music provided a haunting back-drop to his scrutiny of the pictures. In the dim light, Nezzar looked like a beautiful carving. He had been spared the ravages of age or famine or sickness. When the exhibition had its opening in two days’ time, Grigor would have to make a speech. Now he began to make notes and colourful sentences composed themselves in his head. He didn’t want the lecture to be too dry, as the majority of the guests would not be exactly scholarly, but at the same time, he’d have to impress his colleagues and the other academics who’d been invited.
The following day, Grigor went into work early, keen to examine the mummy once more. He found Nell in their shared office, drinking coffee with her feet up on his desk, browsing through a sheaf of drawings. Art was another of her accomplishments.
‘Hi,’ she said desultorily without looking up.
‘Good morning,’ Grigor said, carefully arranging his coat on the stand by the door. ‘Did you have a nice evening?’
‘Yeah.’ Nell threw down the drawings and swung her feet in an arc to the floor. Without further words, she went to the coffee machine and poured some for Grigor into a plastic cup. He took it from her with a warm smile, hoping she wasn’t in too sour a temper today. Nell mothered him in a very detached sort of way, which he appreciated. Neither of them ever stepped over the boundaries, and they’d never look upon one another as friends, but there was a strong mutual respect between them. As he sipped the scalding, bitter liquid, Grigor glanced down at the papers scattered on his desk. A shock vibrated through his body. A face looked up at him, as if through time. The shadowed eyes, the sculpted cheek-bones, the enigmatic smile. He put down the cup and lifted one of the drawings. ‘This is… this is incredible, Nell.’
‘Huh?’ She never liked to admit she enjoyed compliments. ‘Oh, that.’
‘But it’s… how did you do it?’
Nell grinned at him quizzically. ‘I went out at dawn, ripped down a tree, then mulched some of it to make the paper. Then I stared at it for over an hour until an image formed on it.’
Grigor chuckled. He’d learned long ago not to gulp down her bait in a single bite. ‘What I meant was it’s a brilliant likeness of what Nezzar must have looked like in life. That’s some feat.’
Nell frowned and came to take the paper from his hands. ‘What? Oh, no, you’ve got it wrong, Papa G. That’s not the mummy, although…’ she wrinkled her nose as she examined her work, ‘…I suppose it could be. Yeah, does look like the old fossil a bit. Weird!’ She threw the drawing down onto the desk.
Grigor still felt a shade light-headed from the initial shock. ‘Then who is it?’
‘Just a friend of mine. I’ve done some sketches for a portrait.’ Her eyes took on a wicked gleam. ‘Why, fancy him, do you?’
Grigor spluttered. ‘Really, Nell!’
She wagged a finger at him. ‘Ah, now I understand what you get up to lurking around this old ruin night after night. You’re conducting affairs with dead boys! Their lamenting spirits look upon you as the master. You are the towering magician in their midst, uttering horrible spells of resurrection!’
Grigor wondered whether he should feel offended by Nell’s remarks, but experienced only an odd thrill. Perhaps it was because she thought him more interesting than he was. ‘My curiosity is merely academic,’ he said, smiling mildly.
The opening night was attended by the usual throng; local professors, writers and celebrities, a few government officials and journalists and the friends and families of museum employees who never turned down the chance of free drink. A few students hung sulkily around the fringes of the gathering.
In the privacy of the office before the event, Nell had dressed herself in silver jeans and jacket and had applied false eye-lashes. She had not mentioned her drawings again, and Grigor felt shy of questioning her, although he had thought about them a lot over the last couple of days. Something about this particular exhibit had affected him deeply, but he did not give credence to Nell’s salacious suggestions. It wasn’t that kind of interest, but something more. Now, sipping the appalling, vinegary wine typical of museum opening nights, Grigor rehearsed his speech beneath his breath, though he knew it by heart already.
In the centre of the room, people filed past the glass case where Nezzar was displayed in splendour, high-lighted by the tasteful lighting that managed to plunge the vast room into interesting shadow, while ensuring that all the exhibits lay in concentrated pools of radiance. Emily, the director of the Museum, flitted busily from clique to clique, talking wildly, no doubt attempting to secure future funding from whatever direction possible. The exhibition itself seemed inconsequential to her. A money woman: that was Emily, an essential evil in these corporate-minded times. It was doubtful Nezzar had cast any spell over her. Grigor watched other people’s reactions to the mummy with interest. They would see him as a fairy-tale creature, entombed in glass, perhaps ready to awake.
Grigor realised, by the way he was unconsciously scanning the twittering crowd, that he was looking for the motley band of Nell’s friends, who normally showed up at openings. He admitted to himself that he hoped the model for Nell’s pictures might put in an appearance. Nell was wrong about his interest in the boy; he did not succumb to the pangs of physical attraction, and never had. It was a language spoken by other people that he had no desire to learn.
A batrachian-looking anthropologist cornered Grigor by the canapés and began to drone on about the academic debate over the mummy. Normally, Grigor enjoyed these discourses with colleagues, but tonight was special, different. Nezzar kindled excitement and magic. Grigor did not want to discuss the science of Nezzar, but the enchantment of his physical presence. He knew that Nell’s crowd were more likely to empathise with him, for hardly any of them shared Nell’s working interests - they belonged to the more artistic side of her nature.
The party, such as it was, was in full swing when Grigor noticed someone peering into Nezzar’s glass case. There was an intense air of concentration about this person, who at first Grigor couldn’t tell was male or female. Long, red hair, escaping from loose bindings, fell down onto the glass. Grigor noted the ravaged leather jacket, the ripped jeans. He was slightly affronted. Breath would cloud the polished surfaced, pollute it. Perhaps sticky finger-marks would follow. He was about to make his excuses to his companion and march over to confront the infidel, when Nell loped out of the crowd by the door and sauntered over to the display case. Here, she flung a proprietorial arm about the interloper’s shoulders. Grigor experienced a clenching in his belly. It was the model; he knew it. Not because the young man now raising his face to Nell looked like the drawing, or even physically like what was left of Nezzar. It was something else - an otherworldly mien. Nell had succeeded in capturing his essence, if not his physical appearance. He looked Hispanic - beautiful at first glance, but with some displeasing rough edges to his features that further scrutiny revealed in detail. The nose was a little too flat, the brow too low. His hair was dyed; a harsh coppery red, its blackness no doubt stripped by bleach. Grigor felt absurdly disappointed, but still found he had edged away from the group he was with, in order for Nell to catch his eye. She did, perhaps by telepathy. The smile she gave him was knowing, slightly irritating, and she had the audacity to whisper something to her companion, which Grigor dared not conjecture about, although it caused the youth to grin. Best to retreat now, Grigor thought, although Nell clearly had other ideas. She called to him, and in order to silence any unfortunate remarks, Grigor hurried over to her. ‘My boss,’ Nell said.
Grigor gave her a stare. ‘It’s going well, isn’t it.’
She laughed. ‘Yeah, great. Until you begin to orate. Then everyone will go home.’
‘Don’t deny me my minutes of fame,’ Grigor said, dryly. ‘You know how much it means to me.’
Nell smirked at the sarcasm. ‘Well, this is Gez, who you wanted to meet.?
??
Grigor dared to examine the youth. ‘Did I?’
‘I told him what you said about the drawing. What do you think, Gez? Is the stiff like you?’
The youth wriggled his shoulders in what Grigor presumed was a shrug. ‘After a long, bad night, maybe. It’s creepy. Probably a fake.’
Grigor felt nettled by the youth’s tone. ‘Did Nell tell you that?’
The dark eyes met Grigor head on. ‘No. It just seems too good to be true, too well-preserved.’
‘I agree the mummy is phenomenal,’ Grigor said, which made Nell laugh. He regretted the remark at once.
‘You think it’s real, then?’ Gez asked.
‘Would I have it on display if I didn’t?’
‘What proof have you...’
‘Shut up, shut up,’ Nell interjected. ‘We can talk about this later. Grigor, someone’s signalling you over there. Better get your notes together. Wake me up when you’ve finished.’
Grigor knew that Nell thought he gave very accomplished speeches, but would never say so. He left her with her friend, and prepared himself to speak. Once he positioned himself behind the lectern near the central display case, the room quickly fell to a hush. He knew he’d have to convince a lot of people here, who believed the museum was risking making a fool of itself over such a controversial exhibition. He began to speak, informally, relating a few anecdotes about the problems they’d had with the installation. ‘No-one, as far as we’re aware, has yet been cursed,’ he said, conjuring a ripple of subdued laughter.
As the lecture progressed, Grigor became aware he felt quite light-headed. The spot-lights burned into him, yet seemed unable to dispel a pressing darkness. He thought he heard a deep rasping of breath and for a moment paused. Everyone looked at him expectantly and he realised he’d stopped in the middle of a sentence. He’d been speaking for half an hour, yet his mind had been working independently. He couldn’t remember what he’d said. He saw Nell frowning at him, sending a silent question: Are you OK? He laughed nervously and carried on. It was because he’d forgotten to eat earlier. Two glasses of cheap wine had gone straight to his head and now churned acidly in his stomach. He wished he could get to the end of the speech, but it seemed interminable. His mouth worked automatically, reciting what he’d written over the last couple of days. Still, it seemed to impress the crowd. Eyes were round. Nobody was drinking. They were all transfixed, listening to him. He was conscious of one of the museum technicians aiming a camcorder at him. It seemed like a gloating eye.
Finally, Grigor’s mouth ran out of words, and after a moment of what seemed to be stunned silence, Nell raised her hands above her head and began to applaud. Presently, the rest of the room joined in. Nell uttered a piercing whistle and all her friends cheered. Was I that good? Grigor wondered.
He stepped away from the lectern and Nell came over to him, holding out with a glass of wine. ‘I think I need something to eat first,’ Grigor said, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and pressing it to his damp upper lip. ‘Felt a bit odd there for a moment.’
‘Papa G, that was something else,’ Nell said appreciatively. ‘All that stuff... it was like Lovecraft, or something.’ She shook her head. ‘Daring, but clearly a great success. These people didn’t know what hit ‘em.’
Grigor gazed at her numbly. ‘Lovecraft?’ he said icily, picking up on that single word.
‘Well, yeah.’ Nell looked puzzled for a moment, then her face grew uncharacteristically expressionless. ‘The description of what Nezzar’s life might have been like and all that weird stuff about forgotten gods and lost temples. You know...’
Grigor wiped his brow. He looked down at his notes as if he’d never seen them before. ‘I can’t... I can’t remember,’ he said.
Nell stared at him speculatively for a moment, then took his arm. ‘The office. Come on. I’ll pick up the video tape.’
Grigor went to sit in his darkened office, and waited while Nell busied herself dragging the VCR through from another room. He felt removed from reality, not afraid, not even surprised. Something unusual had happened. Of course it had. But why? He sensed a presence in the door-way and knew immediately it wasn’t Nell. A cold finger of dread stroked his heart as he looked up. He didn’t know who or what he expected to see, but it was only Nell’s friend, Gez, who now seemed ordinary in the extreme, unimportant. Grigor was mildly irritated the boy was there, and did not speak.
Gez lounged insolently in the doorway for a few moments, and then slowly drew himself erect, taking his hands from his pockets. He seemed to change, as if he cast off a mask or a cloak, a disguise; confidence, and a strange, comfortable arrogance emanated from his body like an invisible aura. Grigor sensed this was a new persona, and it had a definite purpose. What had Nell said to him?
‘You didn’t write that speech,’ Gez said.
Grigor stared at him. He couldn’t answer for a moment, and then muttered, ‘Over-tired.’ He laughed nervously, wondering why he felt so intimidated. ‘Got carried away.’
Gez came out of the shadow of the threshold and walked slowly to where Grigor sat drooping in a chair. He exuded a strange odour, which Grigor couldn’t help thinking was almost reptilian. So many perfumes nowadays smelled strange; not like perfumes at all, but reeks and stenches. Gez stood in front of him, a looming shadow, with red metallic flashes in his hair where it caught the meagre light. Without warning, he reached down swiftly and took Grigor’s chin in a strong grip. His face was very close, the eyes gleaming like dark jewels; utterly black. ‘I could pour into you the dust of centuries,’ he murmured, ‘and the ashes of cities, and the fumes of death. Cadaver beetles could fall from my lips into your body, and the desiccated tongue of forgetfulness. I am death and I am life.’ With these words, he lunged and covered Grigor’s mouth with his own.
It might have been a kiss, or something else. Grigor didn’t know. His arms scrabbled around in the air like those of a stricken insect; his feet scraped uselessly against the floor. A calm part of his mind told him that a strange young man had just made an unmistakable advance to him, while another whirled in a vortex of history, back into the past. He caught a glimpse in his mind of some of the things he’d said in his lecture, but strangely there was no sense of familiarity.
Gez released him, breathing heavily. ‘I am not as beautiful as you think,’ he said.
Grigor stared at the boy’s shadow, unable to speak.
Then Nell wheeled a trolley into the room, and turned on the light. ‘What’s up?’ she asked.
Grigor shook his head. ‘Nothing.’ His lips were still wet. He could taste something; sour and perfumed, like frankincense or funerary balm.
Gez had turned away and now seemed threatening and strange no longer. His body had adopted the sloping posture of youth, the slouch, the shiftiness. If anything, he seemed bewildered, even shocked.
While Nell had enjoyed Grigor’s lecture, he could only cringe as he watched the video. What had impelled him to say those things? It was fantasy, but where had it come from? He saw himself speaking vehemently of Nezzar’s calling as a temple dancer of the Stamping God, Sin-na’el. Grigor had not heard of this name before, but in the film he went on to describe with apparent authority the shadowed Temple of Transcendence, where Nezzar had served his deity, dancing in the moonlight to an unheard music; a lone figure in an empty court, partnered only by his swooping shadow.
As he listened, Grigor saw the pictures in his mind. They did seem faintly familiar now, but it was like recalling an experience of déjà vu. He could not remember when or if he’d thought or read of these images before. How could he have spoken so confidently of Nezzar being not quite human, how the royal blood of the Shining Ones ran in his veins? What possible evidence could he have that Nezzar’s mother had been locked in a high tower, where a god had visited her and made love to her? However, on the video, Grigor seemed sure that the woman had conceived, but had died giving birth, for Nezzar had torn himself from her body. He had also eloqu
ently described Nezzar’s adolescent beauty as strange and disturbing - alien - and how he had moved with a feminine grace that was also feline and ophidian. Nezzar had danced with the broken wings of carrion birds around his shoulders, bowing to the Stamping God, who could be heard dancing deep within the earth, all the time bellowing out his eternal pain, for he was banished from the light.
Grigor turned away from the video, reaching for one of Nell’s cigarettes from the packet that lay on the desk, even though he had given up smoking three years previously. Nell watched him, frowning. ‘That wasn’t me,’ Grigor said at last. He felt light-headed from the first draw. ‘I don’t know where all that stuff came from.’
Nell laughed abruptly, shook her head. ‘Are you possessed, Papa G?’
Gez fidgeted uncomfortably in the doorway, gradually edging himself into the corridor beyond.
Grigor rubbed his forehead. He shrugged. ‘I’ve been working too hard, thinking about the exhibit too much.’ He glanced up. ‘This is real life, Nell. Tell me neither of us believe in that sort of rubbish.’
She paused, then nodded. ‘Yeah, you’re right. This is real life. Everything’s ordinary and in its place. You’re gonna have some explaining to do, however. What’s Emily going to say?’
‘I’ll have some days off, tell her I’m stressed.’
‘Yeah, do that.’
Gez, Grigor noticed, had vanished.
Emily, however, did not react in the way either Nell or Grigor anticipated. As Grigor attempted to make a furtive exit from the museum, she spotted him in the lobby and swooped down on him. Grigor fought an urge to run away from her.