The Magic Circle Katherine Neville (top 100 novels of all time TXT) 📖

that morning when I came into the office, with a rousing round of the Tom Lehrer song “Pollution,” an industry favorite for phrases such as “The breakfast garbage that you throw into the Bay, they drink at lunch in San Jose.” Olivier was clicking his fingers like castanets as he spun around in his chair and caught sight of me.

“Oh, my blessed prophet Moroni!” he cried. “You do look like something the argonaut dragged in, if you don’t mind my saying so. What happened to you? Did you crash into a lamppost in your zeal to run down pedestrians yesterday?”

“I ran into an avalanche, in my zeal to get away from my life,” I told him, knowing that the pickup of Wolfgang’s government car would engender tongue-wagging around the site anyway, when it was learned that we’d been off together skiing all day. “And I’m sorry about what happened at the post office, Olivier. I’m just a bit crazy these days.”

“An avalanche? On your way from the post office to work? My, things must be picking up around here in the adventure department,” Olivier said, standing up to help me solicitously to my seat. He settled my arm on the arm of the chair. “But you never came in to work all day, and when I got home last night at seven, your car was in the drive, and the whole house was dark and silent. Jason and I dined alone, wondering where you could possibly be.”

So Jason had wangled himself two dinners—one downstairs and another from Olivier’s gourmet cat stockpile. What a little conniver. I wished he were human enough that I could put him to work on some of my problems. But I knew Olivier was waiting for an answer. I closed my eyelids and pressed my fingertips against the bandage above my throbbing eye. Then I opened them and looked at Olivier.

“I hope you haven’t speculated with the budget for free-range chickens and farm-reared venison, too,” I commented.

Olivier stared at me, his mouth open. “You didn’t?” he gasped. “You didn’t actually—”

“Spend the night with Dr. Hauser? Yes, I did,” I said. “But nothing happened.”

After all, with the kind of attention Wolfgang Hauser attracted, and in a town this size, everyone would know about it soon enough.

“Nothing happened?!” Olivier nearly screamed. He slammed the door shut and flung himself into his chair. “Just what is that supposed to mean?”

“The man saved my life, Olivier,” I told him. “I was injured, as you see, and he brought me home. I was unconscious, so he stayed with me.” I held my aching head.

“I think I need a new religion,” said Olivier, standing up. “The prophet Moroni doesn’t seem too connected to the impulsive behavior of women. I’ve always admired the Jewish faith, for the power of that Hebrew word of theirs: Oy! What is the etymological derivation, do you think? Why does it feel so good, just to run around, saying: oy?” Olivier started pacing around saying “oy-oy-oy.”

I thought it was time to intervene. “Are we going to Sun Valley this weekend?” I asked him.

“Why else am I working late every night?” he asked me back.

“If Wolfgang Hauser has returned from his trip by then, he’s coming with us,” I told him. “After all, I start work on his project on Monday—and he did save my life.”

“Oy,” said Olivier, looking at the ceiling. “My prophet, you’ve really screwed up.”

I hoped Olivier would come up with the meaning of that word oy, and soon. Because it was starting to sound like a pretty good description of my life just now.

Earlier that morning, since I still couldn’t move my arm without tearing stitches, Wolfgang had driven me to work. I’d asked him to stop en route at the post office and keep the engine running while I went inside for a minute. I signed a postal form so George, the clerk, could hold my mail for a few days until my arm healed. I asked him to phone me at work if any large parcels arrived—not to have the route driver leave claim slips in my mailbox. Then if there was something important, I told him, I could come by the post office on my way home from work and the postal folks could load it into my car.

“I hope you weren’t too shocked to learn about your aunt Zoe,” Wolfgang had said at home that morning as I’d wolfed down the sourcream-and-caviar omelette he’d thrown together from the bizarre fixings in my fridge. “Your aunt would very much like to know you, and have you know her. She’s a fascinating woman of great charm—though she understands why the rest of your family thinks of her as the black sheep.”

And well she might, I thought. Most details of Zoe’s life were widely known from the did-all-schmooze-all books on herself she’d already published. For instance, her legendary vocation as one of the most famous dancers in Europe, along with her pals Isadora Duncan, Josephine Baker, and the Nijinskys. Or her legendary avocation as one of the most famous demimondaines in Europe, along with her role models Lola Montez, Coco Chanel, and the fictional Dame aux Caméllias. And so on, and so on.

But until this morning’s breakfast with Wolfgang, I hadn’t heard some other details, such as the fact that during World War II my infamous aunt Zoe had been a member of the French Resistance, not to mention also acting as an informant for the OSS—the Office of Strategic Services, America’s first official international spy group.

I wondered precisely how much of this could be true. Though such endeavors were in keeping with our part of the family tree, I found it incongruous that a group like the OSS—which broke codes, encrypted messages, and operated in an environment of presumed secrecy—would have any traffic whatever with a gushy, gossipy, world-class blabbermouth like my aunt Zoe. But on closer consideration, a reputation like hers might prove the best cover—in the long run, clearly a