The Mirror Thief(201)
The Lynceus. You kept the girls busy till closing time, but they found nothing else: neither the date the ship was lost, nor where it had sailed from. It might have already stopped at Split, let Crivano off. Maybe, as its wreck lit up the ocean, he was already intriguing his way through the Croatian port, dodging the Council of Ten’s assassins, seeking passage to Turkish lands. No doubt that city would have felt dreamlike to him: both strange and familiar. Diocletian’s ancient palace was the model for this city’s Piazza; the belltower in this city’s Piazza is duplicated there. You would like to have seen that, too. But no matter. Cities appearing in other cities: a map of echoes, a pattern you know well.
You prefer to believe that Crivano burned. It’s an end that fits him, a doom you can imagine. Trapped belowdecks, flames arcing overhead, his mind would have returned to Lepanto: what he did there, what he did not do. His lonely secret life would have seemed a peculiar circuit, beginning and ending in the hold of a burning ship.
With nothing to do but await the agonies—the blistering flesh, the smothering outrush of air—how would he have passed his final moments? Tincture of henbane, probably: to slow his pulse, to dull his senses, to free his mind to wander. And the magic mirror, of course: the trick he taught you. To meditate upon the talisman—to gaze upon the mirror’s surface—is to arrange your mind to resemble the mind of God. You pass through the silvering, beyond all earthly torment, into the realm of pure idea. At last, all mysteries become clear.
By that point, you imagine, it’ll be hard for you to care about any earthly thing: hard to convince yourself to come back, to finish your remaining task.
But when Damon returns to his own hotel, you’ll be waiting. It might take him a moment to notice you, especially if he’s avoiding his reflection; you’ll bide your time until he does. With the benefit of perfect knowledge, you will not be unkind. If he shoots out the glass—as well he might—you will remain with him, even in the fallen shards. There was a time not long ago when you felt something for him akin to love.
Only one result is possible, so you hope it will come easily. Your ghost-hands will guide the pistol to his mouth, then steady it while his thumb locates the trigger.
Then it will be time for you to join Crivano: to stand with his shade on the blackened foredeck of the Lynceus while he signals to the full moon. The moon will answer through the smoke: Imagine me not as a mirror, but as an opening, an aperture, a pupil admitting light. Imagine the earth curves around you, not under. Imagine this world to be the eye of God, and the ocean its retina. Know that you are always seen.
But you are indeed a mirror, Crivano will say. And I, a stranger to myself, would be seen by no one. That is all I ask, and far more than I deserve.
The pillar of smoke will blot the moon; the flames will rise to erase him. The ship will burn to the waterline: hissing, then sunken, silent. Once the sky has cleared, the sea will betray nothing. The Mirror Thief will be gone.
So, in the end, only we two will remain: you and the ocean, you and the mirror, you and the story you’ve dreamed.
Listen, now: footfalls in the corridor. A cautious hand upon the knob.
No time remains to doubt. This, then, is the end of you—what you’ve feared, what you remember. All of it flashing. The faces and the colors. Watch closely: here they come.
Acknowledgments
It took me five and a half years to write this book, and another seven and a half to find a publisher for it. During this time I benefited to a nearly immeasurable degree from the patience, guidance, and generosity of others, without whom this would not have been possible. I’d like to express my thanks to my spouse, Kathleen Rooney; my parents, David and Barbara Seay; my late grandfather Joe F. Boydstun; to Michael Seay, Jen Seay, Beth Rooney, Nick Super, Richard Rooney, Mary Ann Rooney, Megan Rooney, J. Mark Rooney, Karen Rooney, Cliff Turner, Kelly Seal, Richard Weil, Hester Arnold Farmer, Andrew Rash, Angela McClendon Ossar, Scott Blackwood, James Charlesworth, Carole Shepherd, David Spooner, Matthew MacGregor, Elisa Gabbert, John Cotter, Carrie Scanga, Jason Skipper, Warren Frazier, Mitchell Brown, Bob Drinan, Olivia Lilley, Shane Zimmer, Tovah Burstein, Timothy Moore, the faculty and my fellow students at Queens University of Charlotte’s low-residency MFA program, and my colleagues at the Village of Wheeling, Illinois, especially Jon Sfondilis, Michael Crotty, and Lisa Leonteos.
As my collection of pages has grown closer to becoming a book, I have benefited from the hard work and good judgment of my agent Kent Wolf and my editor Mark Krotov, as well as his colleagues at Melville House, including, but not limited to, Dennis Loy Johnson, Valerie Merians, Julia Fleischaker, Liam O’Brien, Ena Brdjanovic, Chad Felix, and Eric Price.
A substantial portion of the manuscript was written at the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, Massachusetts, where I had a 2005–2006 fiction fellowship. It’s impossible to overstate the value of the support and encouragement that I received from this organization, its staff, and the other fellows.
Finally, I’m eternally indebted to Richard Peabody for starting me down the path that led here, and to Jane Alison for helping me map my route. If they’re willing to claim it, this book is theirs as well as mine.
About the Author
Martin Seay is the executive secretary for the village of Wheeling, Illinois. The Mirror Thief is his first novel.