'I had a bit of trouble; he told her. 'I fell off a wall: She looked incredulous.

'What were you doing climbing on a wall?' she said, as though at his age he should be well beyond such indignities.

He told her briefly about the escape of 33, and the chase to Rue Street. It was a bowdlerized account, of course. In it there was no mention of the carpet or what he'd seen there.

'Did you find the bird?' she asked, when he'd finished recounting the chase.

'In a manner of speaking,' he told her. In fact, he'd come home to Chariot Street, only to be told by Brendan that 33 had flown back to the loft in the late afternoon, and was now back beside his speckled wife. This he told Geraldine.

'So you missed the rehearsal looking for a pigeon that came home anyway?' she said.

He nodded. 'But you know how Dad loves his birds; the Mention of Brendan softened Geraldine further still; she and Cal's father had been fast friends since Cal had first introduced them. 'She sparkles,' his father had told Cal, 'hold on to her, because if you don't, somebody else will: Eileen had never been so certain. She'd always been cool with Geraldine, a tact which had only made Brendan's praise more lavish.

The smile she offered now was gently indulgent. Though Cal had been loath to let her in and have her spot his reverie, he was suddenly grateful for her company. He even felt the shaking fade a little.

'It's stale in here.' she said. 'You need some fresh air. Why don't you open the window?'

He did as she suggested. When he turned round she was sitting cross-legged on the bed, her back to the collage of pictures he'd put up there in his youth, and which his parents had never removed. The Wailing Wall, Geraldine called it; it had always upset her, with its parade of movie stars and mushroom clouds, politicians and pigs.

The dress is beautiful,' she said.

He puzzled over the remark a moment, his mind sluggish.

'Teresa's dress; she prompted.

'Oh.'

'Come and sit down, Cal.'

He lingered by the window. The air was balmy, and clean. It reminded him.

'What's wrong?' she said.

The words were on the tip of his tongue. 'I saw Wonderland,' he wanted to say. That was it, in sum. The rest - the circumstances, the description - those details were niceties. The three essential words were easy enough, weren't they? I saw Wonderland. And it there was anybody in his life to whom he should say them, it was this woman.

Tell me, Cal,' she said. 'Are you ill?'

He shook his head.

'I saw...' he began.

She looked at him with plain puzzlement.

'What?' she said. 'What did you sec?'

'I saw...' he began again, and again faltered. His tongue refused the instruction he gave it; the words simply wouldn't come. He looked away from her face at the Wailing Wall. "The pictures -...' he said finally, '. . . they're an eyesore.'

A strange euphoria swept over him as he sailed so close to telling, then away. The part of him that wanted what he'd seen kept secret had in that moment won the battle, and perhaps even the war. He could not tell her. Not now not ever, it was a great relief to have made up his mind.

I'm Mad Mooney, he thought to himself. It wasn't such a bad idea at that.

'You're looking better already,' she said. 'It must be the fresh air.'

4.

And what lessons could he learn from the mad poet, now that they were fellow spirits? What would Mad Mooney do, were he in Cal's shoes? He'd play whatever game was necessary, came the answer, and then; when the world turned its back, he'd search, search until he found the place he'd seen, and not care that in doing so he was inviting delirium. He'd find his dream and hold onto it and never let it go.

They talked a little while longer, until Geraldine announced that she had to leave. There was wedding business to do that afternoon.

'No more pigeon-chasing,' she said to Cal. 'I want you there on Saturday.'

She put her arms around him.

'You're too thin,' she said. 'I'm going to have to feed you up. She expects to be kissed now, the mad poet whispered in his car; oblige the lady. We don't want her to think you've lost interest in copulation, just because you've been half way to Heaven and back. Kiss her, and say something fetching.

The kiss Cal could deliver, though he was afraid the fact that his passion was prompted would show. He needn't home feared. She returned his fake fervour with the genuine article, her body warm and tight against his.

That's it, said the poet, now find something seductive to say, and send her off happy.

'Here Cal's confidence faltered. He had no skill with sweet-talk, nor ever had. 'See you Saturday,' was all he could muster. She seemed content with that. She kissed him again, and took her leave.

He watched her from the window, counting her steps until she turned the corner. Then, with his lover out of sight, he went in search of his heart's desire.

Part Two

Births, Deaths and Marriages

'The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve; lovers to bed; 'tis almost fairy time.'

Shakespeare: A Midsummer Night's Dream

I.

THE SUIT OF LIGHTS.

1.

The day Cal stepped out into was humid and stale. It could not be long before the summer let fall take its toll. Even the breeze seemed weary, and its condition was contagious. By the time Cal reached the vicinity of Rue Street his feet felt swollen in his shoes and his brain in his skull.

And then, to add insult to injury, he couldn't find the damn street. He'd made his way to the house the previous day with his eyes on the birds rather than on the route he was following, so he had only an impressionistic notion of its whereabouts. Knowing he could well wander for several hours and not find the street, he asked the way from a gaggle of six-year-olds, engaged in war games on a street corner. He was confidently re-directed. Either through ignorance or malice, however, the directions proved hopelessly incorrect, and he found himself wandering around in ever more desperate circles, his frustration mounting.

Any sixth sense he might have hoped for - some instinct that would lead him unerringly to the region of his dreams was conspicuous by its absence.

It was luck then, pure luck, that brought him finally to the corner of Rue Street, and to the house that had once belonged to Mimi Laschenksi.