Night Film(179)

I wasn’t sure I’d noticed anyone eating the dish. I wrote a question mark beside it.

“Evil King?”

“Evil King,” Beckman announced officially, clearing his throat. “He’s the villain. A universally terrifying character of both myth and the real world. He can look outwardly repellant or totally innocuous. Usually it’s someone in a position of great power. The smarter and more conniving the Evil King, the more turbulent and satisfying the tempest he creates.”

That one was easy. Cordova.

“Phil Lumen?”

Beckman nodded. “A small detail. The Phil Lumen Company is the manufacturer of all light sources in a Cordova film. Lightbulbs, flashlights, headlamps, strobes, lava lamps, and streetlights—they all come from the Phil Lumen Company, which is Latin for love of light. Occasionally the name is called out in airport or store intercoms. ‘Paging Mr. Phil Lumen. Please report to United Airlines Terminal B.’ ”

I didn’t recall hearing anything of the kind—not that I would have noticed.

“The Shadow?”

Beckman paused, smiling sadly. “My favorite. The Shadow is what people are hunting throughout the tale. Or else it can dog the hero, refusing to leave him alone. It’s a potent force that bewitches as much as it torments. It can lead to hell or heaven. It’s the hollow forever inside you, never filled. It’s everything in life you can’t touch, hold on to, so ephemeral and painful it makes you gasp. You might even glimpse it for a few seconds before it’s gone. Yet the image will live with you. You’ll never forget it as long as you live. It’s what you’re terrified of and paradoxically what you’re looking for. We are nothing without our shadows. They give our otherwise pale, blinding world definition. They allow us to see what’s right in front of us. Yet they’ll haunt us until we’re dead.”

It was Ashley. Beckman had seamlessly described my encounter with her at the Reservoir. As he watched me write down her name, his black beady eyes moved from the word to my face.

“What else?” I asked.

“What else about what?”

“Cordova’s mind. His stories.”

After a moment, Beckman shrugged, a wistful expression on his face. “Those constants festering inside Cordova’s brain are all I’ve ever been able to come up with. The rest, as they say, is—not history, I’ve never liked that phrase—but revolution. Constant upheaval. Conversion. Rotation. Oh, dear.” He jolted upright, struck by an idea. “One thing, McGrath.”

“What?”

“Often, at some point in a Cordova narrative, the hero encounters a character who is life and death itself. He or she will be sitting at the intersection of the two, the beginning of one, the end of another.” Beckman took a short breath, pointing at me. “It will be a decoy, a substitute to grant freedom to the real thing. He’s Cordova’s favorite character. He’s always there, when Cordova’s mind is at work, no matter what, do you understand?”

I wasn’t sure I did, but hastily made note of it.

“And what about his endings?”

“Endings?” Beckman looked startled.

“How does it all end?”

He nervously scratched his chin, too troubled to continue.

“You know as well as I do, McGrath. His endings are seismic jolts to the psyche. Parting shots that keep you awake and wondering for days, for the rest of your life. You just never know with Cordova. His ends can be as full of hope and salvation as the tiny green-white bud of a new flower. Or they can be devastating charred-black battlefields strewn with lost legs and tongues.”

I made a note of it, feeling an insidious wave of dread as I did, folding the scrap of paper into my pocket.

“Thank you,” I said to Beckman—abruptly he appeared to be in too ruminating a mood to speak. “I’ll explain when I have more time,” I added, starting down the hall.

“McGrath.”

I stopped, turning. He was staring after me.

“I need to give you a last bit of advice in the off chance this rather extraordinary and enviable situation in which you find yourself is actually true—that somehow you’ve fallen deep down into a Cordova story.”

I stared back at him.

“Be the good guy,” he said.

“How do I know I’m the good guy?”

He pointed at me, nodding. “A very wise question. You don’t. Most bad guys think they’re good. But there are a few signifiers. You’ll be miserable. You’ll be hated. You’ll fumble around in the dark, alone and confused. You’ll have little insight as to the true nature of things, not until the very last minute, and only if you have the stamina and the madness to go to the very, very end. But most importantly—and critically—you will act without regard for yourself. You’ll be motivated by something that has nothing to do with the ego. You’ll do it for justice. For grace. For love. Those large rather heroic qualities only the good have the strength to carry on their shoulders. And you’ll listen.”

He licked his lips again, frowning.

“If you’re the good guy, you just might survive, McGrath. But of course, there are no guarantees with Cordova.”

“I understand.”

“Good luck to you,” he said, then spun quickly on his heel and, without looking at me again, vanished back inside his classroom.