The Masters of Atlantis by Charles Portis Page A

matter of indifference to him.
    As luck would have it, there was a musical cartoon of the kind he liked, with some toys coming to life in a toy shop after the toy maker had gone to bed. He hummed along with the singing dolls. The feature was good too, a murder mystery with a circus setting, in which an escaped gorilla figured as a red herring. It was not June’s kind of picture. She liked the ones with big city nightclub scenes, with perky cigarette girls in their cute outfits, and dark sleek men who whispered orders to henchmen, and pale ladies in white satin gowns who drank highballs and took calls on white telephones. The selected short subject was puzzling to Golescu. It was all about a luxurious rest home in California for retired movie stars, a beautiful estate set in rolling hills, with cottages and swimming pools and all the latest medical equipment. Nothing was too good for the Hollywood old-timers who had worn themselves out with their antics before the camera. When it was over the lights came up and ushers appeared at a quick march to collect money for the home in cardboard buckets. Each of the Macks gave a dime. Golescu dropped in a penny. America, so far from the Danube, was a strange land and he was still not clear as to the nature and extent of his duties here. Among other things, it seemed, he was expected to help Errol Flynn with his retirement plans.
    At the close of the program the moviegoers shuffled out and paused in the lobby to put on their heavy coats and think over some of the things they had seen. Golescu looked into their faces. “Where are the Red Indians?” he said. “For months I am living in the West and I am seeing no Amerinds.”
    June said, “I think they live in Arizona, don’t they, Mom?”
    â€œYou got me.”
    â€œArizona or New Mexico, one. Wait a minute. I forgot about Thomas. He’s some kind of Indian.”
    â€œI am anxious to see the solemn old chiefs in their round hats,” said Golescu. “Their squaws and papooses. Those noble faces are from Mu. I am most anxious to measure their heads.”
    At Mack house, after Mrs. Mack had said good night and gone to her room, the professor sat on the sofa with June and showed her his membership cards from various secret brotherhoods. Then some tricks. He wrote with both hands. He balanced a glass of water on his forehead, tossed three nickels into the air and caught them on the back of one hand. He drove two nails with a hammer in each hand. June offered him some squares of fudge. He declined. He brought out his cylinder seal and told her a little about Kikku and the burial customs of Mu. But he went through all this in a mechanical way, with none of the old Golescu brio, and after a time fell silent.
    June ventured a thought. “Do you want to know what I think, Cezar? I think you must have some secret sorrow in your life.”
    He admitted that his work was not going well and that life in the old Taggert house was grim. Hogandale was worse than Mount Grobny. He didn’t know how much longer he could tolerate Popper’s drinking and his insults. The man was a lunatic. He had once been at the very top of the Gnomon Society, a trusted keeper of the secret knowledge of Atlantis, and was now a raving drunk. You never knew what was going on in his head, what he might say next, or even what his raucous bird might say.
    â€œBut you and Austin are alike in some ways,” said June. “No, it’s true. Do you want to know what I’ve noticed? I’ve noticed that neither one of you ever laughs. Austin has a wonderful smile but that’s as far as it goes. And you never even smile.”
    â€œSo, you expect me to cackle, do you? My dear girl, Romanians are known all over the world for their hilarity. I love nothing better than to laugh but my life it is not a joke. Or it is a joke if you like but not a good one. I am engaged in serious work and how can I do it properly when