"Farther into darkness I see than most," Mezzanote Minuit said,
opening a pack
of Gauloises. "But still only darkness do I see. Do you know
who said that?"
"No," I said, watching as she
pulled a Gauloises from the pack and tapped it against the table.
"No,"
she repeated with the hint of a smile, lighting the Gauloises. She looked at
me silently for a
moment. "How many bridges are there in Central Park?"
"I
don't know. Twelve? Twenty?"
"Thirty-six," she
said, exhaling a gauzy swirl of Gauloises smoke. "You will see a man
standing beneath one
of those bridges at the soul's midnight on Monday."
"The
soul's midnight?"
"Look it up."
"Which
bridge?"
"One of them," she said, looking at me
evenly while drawing at her
Gauloises. "He will have a cup in one hand and a stave in
the other.
Ask him this question in these words: What of the omphalos, wanderer?"
"What's
an ohmfy lowes?'
"It's not important that you understand,"
she said, the smoke from her
Gauloises curling around her face in fractals. "It's only important
that
you ask."
