Free The Spirit Cabinet by Paul Quarrington

replace Samson, neither had there been any open discussion about it. Jurgen maintained that the animals were Rudolfo’s concern, covering any sign of affection for Samson with this impersonal professionalism. Not that Jurgen was
that
attached to the beast. Especially lately, especially after that show a few weeks ago when they had pulled away the curtain from the gaffed cage to reveal the albino leopard in a state of profound slumber. The audience had laughed, which always seemed to horrify and madden Jurgen. Rudolfo had tried to cover, guffawing with the exaggerated lip-twitching of a moronic donkey, slapping his thighs with stagy mirth. Samson awoke and, confused as to what was happening, had backed behind the mirrored panel, disappearing from view except for a ghostly, quivering snout.
    Rudolfo and Samson neared the back of the house. The last of the movers emerged through the door, two overalled men chuckling and shaking their heads with bemusement. Rudolfo knew immediately that they were laughing at his partner, so he whispered to Samson, “Go play with those two fat piggies.” Samson bounded with childlike enthusiasm, indistinguishable from brute fury to the movers. Rudolfo allowed a few moments for bowel-loosening, with Samson cavorting before the two men, alternately hugging the ground and springing high into the air.
    “Guys, hi,” he said nonchalantly, leisurely walking toward them and clapping his hands together. Samson crumpled like an old newspaper, lying down and then licking out of habit, shovelling up a tongue-load of gravel from a flowerbed and tossing it down his throat. “What company are you babies from?” demanded Rudolfo.
    The two movers looked at each other and one pointed to the crest sewn over his breast.
    Rudolfo squinted, stared, nodded his head. “Because when is a big mess in the house I get angry and phone the company.”
    “No mess, chief,” said the man.
    Rudolfo grinned at that, always happy to learn new colloquialisms. “Okay, chieves,” he said, executing a quasi-military salute. “Is my friend in there?”
    The two men nodded as one and hastily began down the bright golden path that led around to the front of the house.
    Rudolfo pushed the door open for Samson, who hoisted himself from the ground and lumbered through. The hallway lay before them, a long tunnel of polished marble and burnished oak. They walked past the entranceways to the Gymnasium, the archery range, the theatre, Samson making a half-turn at each one, straightening out hurriedly when he noticed Rudolfo still walking determinedly.
    At the very end of the hallway was the Grotto. This had been Rudolfo’s idea, to construct a cave beneath the house, although the architect had embraced the notion with quixotic enthusiasm. Most of the stone was imported from the tiny emirate of Alqa’ar, although some of it was Himalayan, large pieces from the very summits imprinted, incredibly, with the fossils of sea creatures. The Grotto was vaulted, the light sources hidden in nooks and crannies. It was a large hole of shadows. There was no door as such, rather, a large remote-controlled boulder that rolled into place. However, the batteries had longago run out on the remote, so the boulder remained parked just inside.
    The movers had dumped the boxes of books, the few pieces, with no care or design. True, the Grotto had no real corners, where things might be piled less obtrusively, but Rudolfo didn’t think that was reason enough for the confusion he felt.
    Rudolfo was briefly alarmed to see a fat man sitting over in the shadows, but as his eyes got used to the gloom, he realized that it was the big wooden doll-man. (He would not have been able to name it—
Moon
—even though the word was carved into the top of the automaton’s pedestal.) In the middle of it all, at a small schoolboy’s desk complete with empty inkwell and the initials of children long dead, sat Jurgen Schubert, a large leather-bound tome clutched in his