Free Fata Morgana by William Kotzwinkle

red wheels.
    But when he reached the edge of the square, he left the fair. Christmas is in the air, a special excitement reigns—perhaps that is all I’m feeling, the enchantment of the season. Self-deception is man’s constant companion. Perhaps, after all, it is only the child in me who responds to the fair.
    He turned back, looking through the stone canyon toward the lantern-lit square, and the attraction was intense, but of a sort he could not understand. He stood watching, staring into the fairy light, feeling that maybe the fairies had tricked him, as they were known to do. There had been men from the Prefecture swallowed up that way before—led clear around Europe on completely imagined scents. One took that sort of trip only once—the Prefect did not tolerate such expensive mistakes.
    Picard found a coffeehouse, a bright, quiet place filled with Viennese reading their newspapers. He drank several coffees, and when the kitchen of the café began to emit pleasant smells he ordered supper, eating by the window, watching a faint mist move on the avenue. Toys still played in his head: the large stuffed bear of his childhood, whom he’d pounded hell out of. Poor bear, his head finally drooped, and the stuffing came out of his neck. I was a hard little bandit. But at night—at night I believe he lay beside me, faithful bear. Why do these thoughts keep coming; what do you see, child, what does little Paul have to tell me about Ric Lazare?
    From the mist, two dark-haired gypsy children appeared, a boy and a girl, walking toward the café door, flowers in their arms. Picard’s seat was closest to the door, and they came straight to him.
    “Flowers, sir? Flowers for your girl?”
    Picard smiled, started to reach for a coin, but the owner of the café came quickly forward, scolding the children and chasing them out the door. He returned to Picard’s table, apologetically. “I’m sorry they bothered you, sir. They steal the flowers from the cemetery...”
    The owner smiled then, his gesture concluded, and walked away. Picard turned back to the window, a feeling of cold moving through him, despite the hot wine he’d been sipping. The gypsy children were walking on through the mist; he rose from the table and paid his check. Merest chance that they should have chosen me with their death flowers. Merest chance. Third token of death today. He stepped into the street. The evening had grown milder, the cold edge gone and the mist getting thicker. As he walked, the piping of the child came to him again, the ghost of memory haunting his footsteps. He felt his childhood, his toys, as if he were still carrying them along with him in a sack—Jack the jester who popped out of a box, and a monkey who hung on a string.
    Childhood, the past—go deeper into Lazare’s past, find his origins, certainly, if only I knew where to look. Which city, where...
    He was attracted to the sign of the Elyseum ballroom, whose lobby was decorated with junk from various parts of Europe and the world. He descended, into the dance. The room was enormous; there was a French section, a South American, an African; other geographical niches glittered beyond these, and he moved slowly through the crowd. Tables ringed the dance floor and everyone was drunk. The lamps wore shades of many colors, the floor was smooth as a skating rink, shining with reflected light, in which he saw his hulking form. He ignored the suggestion in his footsteps, the nagging and monstrous suggestion that he was a mere shadow crossing the floor, and less than shadow, a creature of mist doomed to be scattered by the sun.
    “Yes, a brandy, please.”
    The music had ceased and the musicians were themselves taking fortification; other gentlemen were leaning at the bar, or gathered in the doorways. He occupied himself with the sight of the ladies, called for another brandy, and mused on the strange sensation of unreality that now seemed to be his constant companion—old age creeping