Mandolin Dreams. Chapter V

Paris, now

Part 1: ch.I  |  ch.II  |  ch.III  |  ch.IV

San Fransisco, Paris, Osaka and Houston are designated tourist zones. It is forbidden to pharm those cities. All effects are disabled except in the context of tourism and in specific locations within the city.

—The Pharmer’s Handbook, Sixth Edition, page 28.

About six seconds later and four hundred kilometres away, a shimmering door, identical to the one they'd driven through on Westminster Bridge, appeared on the Pont de l'Alma in the centre of Paris.

It was four in the morning and there were few people about. Nobody seemed to notice the blue light on the bridge, or the red MG that appeared out of nowhere. That didn't seem to impress anyone, but the fact that the car sped along on the wrong side of the road, did.

"Holy hell! Hobson, look out!" Van screamed from the passenger seat. All sleep vanished.

"Damn it! I always forget about this! Hold on." The MG swerved further to the left to avoid a cab, then back into the road to not kill a cyclist and around a delivery truck that blared its horn. Everyone shot an arm out, gestured, and yelled obscenities at the back of the car as they continued into oncoming traffic. "I really don't understand these right-side drivers. It's just so uncivilized." Hobson drove the car to the end of the bridge, was able to make a right hand turn onto Jacques Chirac.

Once Van pried his fingers from the dashboard and the car door, he slowly turned to look at Hobson. "Why?"

"Why, what?" Hobson glanced at him.

"Why are you like this? You could have killed us. You should have let me drive."

"Don't be daft; that wasn't dangerous at all. Besides, if I'd let you drive, we'd still be in London." Hobson grinned.

Van looked out the window and spotted the Eiffel tower above the trees on the left. It was a point of pride that he never, not once, visited it when he lived here. "How? How long was I asleep? What did you do to me?"

Hobson chuckled. "Always with the questions. Let me find us somewhere safe."

"Safe from what?, Your driving?"

"More things than in heaven and earth, and all that. I just need to loop back and head to the bookshop."

"Bookshop?"

"Shakespeare and Company. I still have a friend or two in this town and they're usually there."

"Seriously? Isn't that a little on the nose?" Van said. "You're saying that your 'safe place' in Paris is that bookshop. The bookshop that was frequented by Joyce, Hemingway, Pound, et al."

"Yeah. And because of them, we'll be safe there. It's mostly a mundy tourist trap now. Nothing important happens there anymore." Hobson paused, looked at his hands on the wheel, squeezed, and relaxed a little. "Listen. It isn't safe for me, for us, out in the open."

"Why not? And what's a 'mundy' tourist?"

Hobson turned his head and looked at Van, and then back at the road.

"Well?" Van persisted.

"All I can say is that I'm not allowed to be anywhere near Paris. Not anymore. And I think that may now apply to you as well."

"Me? I've lived here, on and off for years. I've never had any trouble. What about Anthony? Is it the same for him? What are you not telling me?"

Hobson reached for the radio and hit play, then cranked up the volume. Van's music tore open the Paris night.

It's just paranoia but at least I'm never alone / Fascists at the front door and I cringe when I hear the phone / I tell you something's goin' on down there / But I don't know what and I don't know where

"Bloody hell. Paranoia Blues? You still trying to make a point?" Van yelled over his own voice.

Hobson shrugged and stared ahead. He was done talking.

Van gave up and turned to look out the window, at the mix of old and modern buildings. He had loved this city. He hated the few years he spent living here, but some good memories persisted, early gigs in random cafes and many drunken evenings with Anthony. Van had spent a lot more time here than him. He could still see how Paris was a wonderful place to visit, but not somewhere he would ever live again. That wasn't true. On his own terms, it might be fine. But in the end, it wasn't home; it wasn't Montreal. Anthony, on the other hand, had never ended his romance with Paris, mostly because of June.

"June." Van said.

"What?" Hobson yelled.

"June." Van lowered the music. "June. Anthony's June. Did you know that he spent most of last year living in the flat above the pub? I didn't. Why wouldn't he tell me?" He shook his head. "But that isn't the point. If he was having trouble at home, and was squatting in London, he might also seek out June. As far as I know, she's still here. We need to find her."

"I knew you'd figure something out." Hobson turned left into a small lane and stopped the car in front of the Shakespeare bookshop. "We're here."

It was still dark. The moist cobblestones untouched since the last drunkards stumbled by on their way to bed a few hours earlier. Van looked at the bookshop, it's dirty yellow and green paint unchanged after all these years.

Hobson walked up to the door between the bookshop and the cafe. Van followed but started to drift towards the books in the window, unable to resist the pull of the new, the novel and the unread.

"There's also an apartment here that nobody knows about." Hobson winked. The lock popped as Hobson reached for it, and the door opened. "Nice to know that still works. Get in. Quick."

Van stepped through and up the stairs. "I've heard of this place. It was the apartment of a famous musician in the twenties. I don't remember the details. Something about a ballet mécanique."

"Yeah. Not one of mine. Bit of a flop if I'm being honest."

"Are you ever though?"

Hobson looked at Van's back from a couple of steps behind. "Fair point." He scuttled past Van into the flat and disappeared in a room to the left. Van took a step to follow, when a pale green light flashed behind him, and a woman yelled. "Arrêtez!"

He froze and heard, what he could only assume, was the cock of a shotgun. "Tournez lentement." To wit, he turned, slowly, to face this woman. She wore an elegant and mostly see-through, nightgown. The word gossamer popped into his head as he stared at her breasts, behind the dark double barrels that were in his face.

"Hobson?" Van said over his shoulder. He couldn't take his eyes off her. Were her nipples visible? Teenage excitement bubbled inside him. He barely noticed the gun between them anymore. In French, he said "I am with a friend that you might know. It was his idea to come here. Hobson!"

The woman cocked her head a little and looked past Van. "Monsieur Hobson? Is that you?" She turned back to Van. "You. Turn on the light to your left. Slow, please." In a daze, Van flicked the light switch. Part of him was eager for the light, to get a better look at this stunning woman. As it filled the hallway, Van's eyes slammed shut.

He opened them when he heard Hobson say "neat trick. Delphi."

"Hobson. Is it really you?" Delphi said.

Van looked at her, looked for the curves, the breasts, even the shotgun, but the woman wore a dark nightgown that revealed nothing. She held a cane, not a shotgun. He stepped to the side, as she rushed past him. She left a scent of jasmine and lavender in her wake. Her fuzzy slippers stayed on the floor as she fell onto Hobson. She enveloped him in her arms. He disappeared behind her silver-streaked hair as she hugged him. She was much taller than him.

"Hello, chérie. It has been a long time." Hobson crooned.

"You shouldn't be here. If they--"

"They won't. We came in on the bridge and I haven't done anything, you know, noticeable."

Delphi turned back to look at Van. "And who is this lovely young man?"

"Hi. Name's Van. Enchanté" Then he looked at Hobson, remembered Anthony, and said "We need to find June."

"We can't do anything now, and we need to tread carefully here, Van. Trust me." After a pause, he added "Please."

"Let me prepare a quick petit déjeuner. Both of you have a seat in there." She pointed to the room behind them.

Van and Hobson sat at the small table in the living room. Delphi returned with a pot of coffee in a press and two cups. She placed everything in the centre of the table and went back to the kitchen.

"Tell me. Why is Paris not safe?" Van asked.

"Hmmmmm." Hobson closed his eyes for a moment. When he next looked at Van, his shoulders softened. The wrinkles in his brow lessened. "Van, things are more complex than they seem."

"None of it is simple. You always made things so complicated. We know that there is more to you than  —that you can do things. We've always known, even when you tried to hide it. We were happy to have a glimpse, to know that there was more to this world than most would ever see. We just could never figure out your angle, why us, and what you were really after."

"He has never been subtle, this one." Delphi said to Van as she returned with an empty cup and a plate full of croissants. "May I?" She said as she sat at the round table across from them. She was not really asking. Hobson looked uncomfortable. It didn't suit him. "Van, Hobson is not from around here. He is not made of the same stuff we are. You're right that he can do things that might seem magical, but in fact, are not. He can move instantly between places, anywhere in the world. He can make things out of nothing. It could be magic, but it isn't." She looked at Hobson. Gave him a slight smile. "What he can or cannot do is not important, not what you need to know right now. He cultivates talent. He curates art. He got you to find your voice, to create works that might reach more people. This you must already know."

Van nodded.

"He is not all-knowing, or omniscient. He wishes, certainly, but he is not; no matter what he might say. And there are rules. This is where he has the most trouble." She put a hand on Hobson's arm. "It has always been so, since I've known him."

"Why is it dangerous here, for us?"

"For him mostly, but you also now, perhaps. Paris is a tourist city. A location in the world where all manner of beings are welcome to visit, to mingle among the mundy, the locals. Not only does he not have a permit, he is on a blacklist that prevents him from ever setting foot in any of the tourist cities. He is allowed to continue to work but only in the UK."

"And what work is that?" Van was going to milk Delphi for all of the information he could. He couldn't wait to share this all with Anthony.

"He is what is called a Pharmer. There are many like him in the world, each cultivating different forms of art, or science in some way or other. To avoid problems, each of them is given a territory from which they are allowed, or licensed, to work. It is imperative that they not work outside their zones, as any interference might taint the crop of another pharmer. They live longer than us, and age much more slowly."

"Are you saying that there is a cabal, a group of immortal people, that shape the world by nudging us in one direction or the other. Like the Illuminati?" Van couldn't help the sharpness in his tone. "Brilliant." Anthony was going to go apeshit when he heard about this.

"Sort of. Yes. But from my understanding, they aren't so concerned with the betterment of mankind as much as in allowing for our creations and inventions to sprout and flourish."

"Hold on." Van raised a hand. "How do you know all of this? Are you one of them too? I saw what you did in the hallway."

"No. Not like him. I'm kind of like the hired help. I used to work for Hobson. This allows me to have some... abilities."

"But you don't work for him anymore?"

"No. I’m retired. I keep this place as an, a kind of airBnb for non-mundy tourists."

Hobson shook his head. "This is not important." He said. "Delphi is a what is called a Hand. Someone that is essentially a mundy, but is given certain abilities and permissions to act, to do things when a Pharmer is not around or able. Terry is a Hand also. He has worked for me since the late seventeen hundreds."

"Fuck. I knew it." Van looked down at his coffee. "Damn. There is a lot to unpack here." He wished Anthony was here. "All this time. Anthony was right. He was on to you. I thought he was nuts, but he saw it, some of it anyway."

Delphi turned to Hobson. "You need to tell him."

"It's too dangerous. The shock—"

"He needs to know, and he won't be able to help you until he knows." Delphi said softly.

"Tell me what? There's more?" Van said.

Hobson sighed. "A year ago, you died."

---

The Soundtrack