The Physiognomy Read Online Free PDF Page B

another. “My dear,” I finally said, “you’ve forgotten about the Reiling factor, after the great Muldabar Reiling, that states that a pitched gait, such as Greta Sykes had, reinstates the importance of the upper facial features even after they have been canceled by elegance.”
    She stared away for a minute, and in that time I eyed her hair, her eyes, her figure, her long fingers.
    â€œDid you see her in her wolf form?” she asked, as I skimmed over the red and yellow paisley of her dress.
    â€œDid I see her? I beat her on the head with my umbrella when she went for my ankle once. In her wolfen form, she was hairy and—no lie—a veritable saliva factory. Her teeth were like daggers, her nails as long as knitting needles. All this from a seemingly innocent child.”
    â€œWere you frightened?” she asked.
    â€œPlease,” I said, and then someone turned the lights out all together so that the room was pitch-black. I reeled from the sudden attack of my old enemy night, and thought for a moment I would fall, but then I heard the voice of the mayor.
    â€œFor your honor’s pleasure, we have tonight the rare fire bat found only in the veins of Mount Gronus.”
    I heard a box being opened. Then the mayor cried out, “Shit, it bit me,” just before the sound of flapping leather wings was heard overhead. It circled toward me from out of the dark, a phosphorescent flying rat, and I jabbed at it with my glass. It gained altitude and then flew in circles above the guests. Every time it made a complete loop, a round of applause went up.
    I said to the person I felt standing next to me, “This is Physiognomist Cley. Get word to the mayor that I have had as much of the bat as my patience will tolerate.”
    A few minutes later, I heard Bataldo scream, “Bring up the lights.” The minute the lamps were lit the bat went crazy, smashing into things and diving down to snatch at women’s jewelry. The mayor had, standing next to him, a particularly limited looking fellow with a bald head and a faraway grin. “Call it back,” the mayor said. The man of limitations stuck his pinkie fingers in his mouth and blew nothing but air. The bat continued on its destructive course. The man blew. The mayor called for a shotgun. A chandelier, a wounded valet, and two windows later, the fire bat of Mount Gronus fell dead atop a platter of chived cremat. It remained there for the rest of the evening while the guests danced the quadrille.
    â€œFind me that girl,” I told the mayor as I was leaving. “Send her to me. I need an assistant.”
    â€œYou are talking about Arla Beaton.”
    â€œBeaton …”
    â€œHis granddaughter. Beaton was the one who returned from the expedition to the Earthly Paradise,” he said as he helped me on with my topcoat.
    â€œAnd what did he find when he finally reached Paradise?” I asked as the scent of pineapple rose up to greet me.
    â€œHe never said.”

4
    The tub was cast iron, crouching atop lion paws, and it sat on a screened porch at the back of the Hotel de Skree where I boldly disrobed in the first rays of a dim morning. Thick hedges bordered the grounds, and the wind scattered yellow leaves across the lawn. Stepping into the ancient vat, my feet and ankles and calves went almost instantly numb. As my hindquarters submerged, a fist of ice grabbed me by the brain stem and tugged. I held my peace and sank into it. These were harsh gray waters, and the beauty was no match for them.
    While I soaked, my teeth chattered and I contemplated the expedition to the Earthly Paradise—miners, carrying pickaxes and wearing lantern hats, wandering off into an uncharted wilderness, searching for salvation. All that now remained of that exquisite folly was a blue statue standing in the lobby of the hotel. I then went on to think of the mayor and the infernal fire bat before I realized it was imperative that