Barry Rosenberg

It was a few weeks before Christmas, and despite the Queensland heat, people were rushing to and fro with bulging shopping bags. Everyone was busy with buying, buying, buying. The shops on Cobble St were close together and their weathered look suggested that they had been there forever. They were traditional shops, too: the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker. It was the type of street, with its suggestion of antiquity, in which a young man could wander and his mind could turn to fantasy.

Rafal peered into the bakery. Coloured lights flickered and the staff were cheerful in bright red hats. Rafal felt a pang. Maybe he did, after all, want to be part of the action. Christmas was for the whole world. It was religion reborn as commercialism. It was a time when even Tibetan monks came out of their caves to pull crackers. Crackers, indeed! One day there’d even be holly on Mars!

It had popped into Rafal’s mind to buy something for himself for Christmas. No one else would. He’d told them he wasn’t into Christmas. Rafal went on to the bookshop, wondering what to buy. It couldn’t be too expensive. He taught tai chi and earned just enough to live on fried air and rice. Further on, the florist’s caught his attention. The outdoor display was intoxicating with its rich smells and vibrant colours. The intricate shapes of the blossoms were so incredibly sexy. Rafal sighed. It was a while since Dianna had left and there was no one else for whom he could buy flowers.

Next along was Wizzard’s Antiques. Wizzard’s Antiques? He hadn’t noticed this shop before. He stepped back. The front door was as weathered as the others. The window, however, was opaque. Was that the difference? He nearly walked on, disliking the musty smell that often went with antiques. But he put his nose in the doorway and found to his delight that the shop was antique-odour free.

Directly in front of Rafal was an old-fashioned record player. It reminded him of…? Oh, yes: His Master’s Voice. A black plastic disc rested on the top and a wind-up handle stuck out from the side. The label showed a barking dog. That was HMV, all right. Rafal was admiring it when a figure suddenly materialised. A most amazing figure. It was a man; the top of his head only came to Rafal’s chest and his white hair crinkled skywards as if combed by electricity. The lined face was Central Australia during a particularly bad drought. His nose was long, narrow and sharp, probably useful as a tin opener. His eyes were shrewd.

“Welcome to Wizzard’s Antiques. I am Wizzard.”

There was a buzz in the voice that Rafal found impossible to place. In fact, there was nothing about this man that he could place. Bemused, he mumbled, “Wizzard, eh?”

The tiny man pursed his lips. “Yez, yez. Friendz call me Wizz.”

“Oh, right. My name is Rafal.”

Not sure why they were introducing themselves, Rafal put out his hand. At the same time, Wizzard bowed. The result? Rafal’s fingers gripped the other’s long nose.

“Zo?” Wizzard laughed. “Very interesting.” He touched the old record player. “You like muzic? This is a very good muzic machine. I play. You listen.” He stood very still, his head cocked to one side. “Let me zee…”

Wizzard started the machine and Rafal expected to hear strange music, a sitar, perhaps. But it was just Sting singing An Alien In New York.

Rafal, thinking of Dianna, murmured, “One of my favourites.”

Wizzard put his finger to his nose. “Quite pleazant, quite pleazant.”

He turned the record over. Rafal startled. The plastic had no grooves and the needle didn’t touch. All the same, out came the pounding introduction to The Rocky Horror Show.

Rafal compressed his lips and a chill ran through him. “Another favourite.”

“Just zo. Just zo.” The little man placed a slender finger against his mouth. Scrutinising Rafal, his gaze stopped at Rafal’s trouser hems. “Az, we also have… we have… the Singer Sewing Machine. Just zew.”

Rafal screwed up his face. Preferring to ignore the pun, he followed deeper into the shop. They stopped at a machine made of lacy metal and deep lustrous wood.

Wizzard sat but immediately leapt up again. “Zorry, forgot. I cannot reach the pedals. You try.”

Rafal sat and ran his fingers along the warm wood as if playing a piano. Wizzard drew a torn canvas under the needle as Rafal peddled. He held up the canvas. The join was seamless. He tore a sheet of paper and placed that on the Singer. It, too, came out with no visible seam.

“Fantastic!” Rafal said.

“I only trade in ze fantaztic.” Wizzard drew himself up to his full height.

Rafal rose and gazed deeper into the shop. Suddenly, he startled. Someone was watching them. It was a woman, nude, absolutely motionless. “Who’s that?” he demanded.

“Who?” Wizzard turned. “Oh, that iz Indigo.”

“Why doesn’t she have clothes? Why doesn’t she move?”

“Why? Why? Why, she is statue, that’z why.”

“A statue?”

In disbelief, Rafal approached the figure. It was indeed a statue, a magnificent female, slim and muscular. The colour, too, was amazing. A translucent white marble shot though with veins of blue. It glowed internally so that rays of indigo seem to emanate from deep within. The almond shaped eyes were a brilliant emerald. The lips were a darker blue, full and with a sultry saucy smile. One hand hid her navel, the other her breasts. Yet her expression, her frozen gestures seemed coy, rather than embarrassed.

Tectonic shifts rocked Rafal. Can one fall in love with a statue? People love cars. They love their houses. They love their art. But, surely, that was a projection? Dianna was totally forgotten as deep aches opened and yet were instantly fulfilled. His most primitive passions were stirred. He touched the figure and the hard surface seemed softer than flesh. There was no breath and yet it seemed more alive than life itself.

“How much is she?” he asked.

Wizzard eyed him. “Normally, three thouzand. For you, two.”

Two thousand? Five thousand? Ten? It didn’t matter. Rafal had to have it. “Can I pay fifty a week?”

“Fifty dollars. For forty weeks.” Wizzard briefly closed his eyes. “Fifty-five for delivery and zundry.”

“Fifty-five? Done.”

“Done?” Wizzard smiled broadly. “I will bring it to your houze this evening.”

“Great!”

Rafal thrust out his arm. Wizzard started to bow, thought better of it and instead extended his hand. The two shook.

In a daze, the young man walked back into the street. The heat immediately hit him, making him feel more unreal. In a daze, he went to the CaffeInne in search of solace. He sat, chin in hands.

Tracey, the owner, eyed him curiously. “So, you don’t say hello anymore?”

“What?” Rafal focused. “I’ve just done something. I’m not sure…”

Tracey waited but his voice just faded away. “So you want your soya decaf or what?”

“Yes, sorry, I want.”

Tracey, plump and shapely, patted him sympathetically on the shoulder. Her regulars were an odd bunch and she did her best to look after them. Rafal looked up and smiled gratefully. Beyond her, he saw his reflection. He was a tall lean man of thirty-two with sharp cheekbones softened by wire-frame glasses. His image, though, looked blurred. He wiped his glasses but it remained unclear.

“Is that distorting glass?” he asked.

“No.” Tracey grinned. “Distorting eyeballs.”

Rafal nodded. It could be true. After all, he’d fallen for a statue. He finished his coffee and rose to leave.

Light-headed, Rafal returned to his car.

***

A long day later, Wizzard arrived at Rafal’s home, a dilapidated weatherboard.

“Nice houze,” he said. “Classic Queenzlander. You trade?”

“It’s rented; not mine to trade.” Rafal marvelled at Wizzard’s bargaining.

“Az. Pity.” Wizzard unlatched the back of his Ute. “Hold here.” He patted the base of the statue.

Carefully, they lowered the wrapped form onto a trolley. Rafal went red with effort. Wizzard didn’t. He wasn’t even breathing hard. Together, they wheeled the package into the living room.

“There.” Wizzard slapped his hands. “Very good.”

“Thanks.”

His heart pounding, Rafal waved the tiny man out. He was desperate to see what he had committed himself to. He tore at the wrapping, his hands shaking. Would he be sorry? Never! The statue was unveiled and Indigo’s blue radiance filled the room. He gazed in awe. She had the long limbs and strong features of a warrior queen. She was beauty layered upon beauty.

That evening, Rafal sat in front of her, absorbing her essence. It became his habit, his meditation. Every night for those three weeks leading up to Christmas, he sat at her feet and worshipped. He even began to dream of her. Arousing dreams, scenes in which her long limbs wrapped around him and her lips caressed him. Such ecstasy, such pain.

***

On Christmas Eve, the sticky Queensland night finally propelled him out of the house. To his surprise, the streets were amazingly alive. Christmas decorations lit up the houses and cheerful chatter came from the balconies. The night was busier than the day so that, beneath the glitter of stars, Rafal felt disconnected and alien. He was reminded of Sting’s An Alien In New York and that, in turn, reminded him of Dianna. With a sudden pang, his thoughts returned to Indigo so that full of hopeless yearning, he hurried home. He sat before her and tried to read.

Rafal was not too sure what happened next. He must’ve slept. He must’ve dreamed. Though his eyelids never became heavy and his mind never drifted. If anything, he thought he remained more alert to hold at bay any feelings of loneliness. So he was certain that he was totally awake when the sculpture stirred. Rafal startled. He must’ve imagined it. But then Indigo winked. Her upper hand rose from her full breasts and touched her lips.

“Shush,” she murmured. “Not a sound, silent night.”

“What…” Rafal tried not to shout. “What?”

“Silent night, magic night.”

She stepped down from the low pedestal, the muscles in her long blue limbs rippling like a jaguar. She knelt and placed his hands on her breasts. They were hard yet soft. So soft, it seemed that he must reach through to her very heart, through to her very breathing. Then her arms went tightly around him. She kissed his eyes, his chest, his groin. Rafal responded. His lips brushed her nipples, glided along her firm stomach and into the swelling between her legs. For once, the constant ache that Rafal kept tucked below his consciousness simply melted. It disappeared into a misty halo as he entered her and together they soared up… up… up…

“I have never felt like this before.” Rafal’s heart was bursting with joy.

“Nor me.”

“Am I dreaming? Are you an illusion?”

“Reality is not so simple.” Indigo uncurled and gazed at Rafal. An unusual wisdom shone from the green slant of her eyes. “The statue resonates to me and under special circumstances it is my evocation.”

“What are those circumstances?” Rafal’s voice was no more than a breath.

“My world is a shift in perspective away from yours.” Indigo placed his hand so that he could feel the soft beat of her heart. “I sensed that somewhere I had a true soul mate but I hadn’t meet him yet.” She paused and her eyes narrowed. “Then I met Wizzard.”

“Wizz to his friends.”

“Count them on one finger.” Indigo brushed back her hair. “He said he could help me. He also said it was a risk but then…” she paused again, “I didn’t want to lie on my deathbed and ask did I live or did I merely exist?”

“The big question.”

“I decided to risk.” Indigo stroked Rafal’s face. “And you?”

“I used to work in Finance.” He turned his right hand to show an empty palm. “I realised that it meant nothing and have since been searching for meaning.”

“Now we are found.” There was a long content silence. Then Indigo looked around the room. “Do you have music? Do you have ways of making music?”

“Yes.” Rafal led her to his collection of CDs. But at Indigo’s non-recognition, he selected the Spring Song by Mendelssohn.

As they danced, Christmas Eve became Christmas and Rafal’s eyes became heavy with entrancement. Indigo smiled a sweet heavy smile and they stretched out again on the beanbag. Her head rested on his chest and Rafal’s arms were wrapped around her. They breathed together and slept.

***

The moon was a hazy disc when Rafal again opened his eyes. He was lying across the beanbag and Indigo was back on the pedestal. He gazed disbelievingly at the statue. He couldn’t believe what had happened. It was too fantastic, too improbable. In wonder, he touched the marble. It was not cold but warm. Yet he could feel no heart or any breath. It was inanimate.

Loss and grief swept over Rafal. He couldn’t believe that it had merely been a dream. Yet nor could he believe that it had been a reality. Dazed, he stumbled to bed. As soon as his head touched the pillow, he sank into sleep, a sleep in which all his dreams were touched by Indigo. He re-saw the moment that the statue had come alive, felt again the soft marvel of her touch. In his dreams, Rafal once more soared.

***

At seven, the radio alarm awoke him. Christmas, at last, and Jingle Bells filtered into his consciousness. He floated into the living room. His clothes were on the floor. Indigo was on her pedestal. He touched the sculpture. It was warm, warmish, but this was summertime in Queensland. She had to be warm. Yet it was not skin, not flesh. He walked around her. Her cheeky come-on eyes did not Mona Lisa-like follow him. There was not the slightest suggestion of breath. In his mind, she was so alive and yet, in reality, she was totally inanimate.

What the hell had happened? An illusion? He didn’t think so. Hypnotised? Possibly. By Wizzard? Who else? The whole thing was impossible. No question about it but he’d have to ask Wizzard.

Rafal tried to settle himself. He did tai chi. He sat and watched his breath. He showered and breakfasted. Restless, he drove to Cobble Street, half expecting the alley to have disappeared. He found it but his was the only car and all the shops were closed.

Waiting for the evening, Rafal had no idea what he ate. Everything tasted like ashes. Everything was in suspension. Time passed as in a Dali painting: minutes melting but not advancing. He sat on the beanbag and gazed at Indigo. So well formed and so beautiful, it was easy to believe that this was a woman frozen. A nude surprised while coming out of her bath. Surprised but delighted. After last night, Rafal couldn’t believe that she was merely an inanimate object.

Rafal sat and gazed. Yet no matter how hard he tried, he failed to recapture the Xmas Eve mood and Indigo refused to come alive. Frustrated, he dragged himself to bed.

***

The next day, Rafal snapped awake. It was a normal workday. Money was in the air and he could virtually smell it. Cobble Street was full and bulging bags banged peoples’ knees. He hurried past the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker. There, just there, was Wizzard’s Antiques. He pushed open the door but then hesitated. What could he say? What would make sense? But Wizzard had heard him and approached. As always, his hair looked as if he’d just stuck his fingers in a power point.

“Rafal,” he called. “Iz it time for a payment?”

“No.” Rafal hunted for words. “What exactly…? Who…? What, who, is Indigo?”

“Indigo?” Wizzard pulled at the collars of his long coat.  “It iz the sixth colour of the rainbow.”

Angry, Rafal snapped, “I mean the statue.”

“Statue?”

“Statue!”

“Well, if stat’s you then it can’t be me.”

This was not humour. This was evasion. Furious, Rafal grabbed the tiny man’s collar. He tried to pull Wizzard upwards, to get nose to nose. But the slight figure didn’t move. He was as hard to lift as wet cement. Gently, the tiny man uncurled Rafal’s fingers. The younger man gazed at his hands, his breath ragged. So much for tai chi, so much for the in-out, in-out flow of the breath and the supposed flow of ch’i.

Gulping for air, he muttered, “Indigo, the sculpture that I bought from you. Who, what, is she?”

“Az.” Wizzard’s eyes opened wide. Rafal noticed then that one half of the iris was green and the other was rust. “Something has happened?”

“On Christmas Eve, she came alive.”

“You were drinking?”

“No.”

“You were zmoking?”

“No.”

“You were halluzinating?”

“No, no, no! I’d gone for a walk. I was alone but the street was partying. I was wide awake.”

“Zo.” Wizzard smiled happily. “You don’t want to return the goodz.”

“No! I mean, she’s not goods. She’s…” Rafal flapped his hands. “I don’t know what she is. You tell me.”

“Az.” Wizzard sent the other a curious look. Envy? Pity? “It iz complicated. And others are involved. But I zee that you want her. Az, a difficult road. A very dangerous road.”

“Why dangerous?”

“Az. Because.”

“Dangerous physically or dangerous mentally?”

“Iz there a difference?”

“There isn’t?”

“A statue comes alive. Iz that physical or mental?”

“I see.” There was another long silence. “So, what can I do?”

“You’ll take the rizk?”

He’d taken one risk, leaving the normal nine to five. Why not take another? Slowly, Rafal nodded. At that, Wizzard gripped his elbows in restrained excitement, once more surprising the young man with his strength.

Rafal became very still, hardly breathing, as still as a statue. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“Good.” Wizzard released him. “I’ll come to your houze tonight.”

The green-rust halves of his eyes began to spin. Rafal felt dizzy. He shivered, wondering just what the hell he was getting into. Yet, in the street, his mood switched. Whatever he was getting into, he was doing something. He would see Indigo again! Smiling at strangers, he went to the CaffeInne.

Tracey, seeing him, called, “The usual? Soya decaf?”

“Thanks.” Rafal paused. “No make that real coffee, with cream.”

“Oh, my.” Tracey raised her eyebrows in mock horror.

***

It was not till nine that Wizzard arrived.

“So?” Rafal said.

“Az,” Wizzard replied. To the statue, he said. “Hello, zweetie.” To the young man, he echoed, “Zo?”

“Okay, okay. It’s risky but that’s okay.”

Rafal gulped. Maybe it wasn’t totally okay. Suddenly, he was very nervous. By then, though, Wizzard was whizzing around the room lighting candles. They were highly aromatic, giving off a heady odour of mint, honey and exotic spices. Rafal inhaled and a marvellous warmth spread throughout his body.

“Cupz.” From his old coat, Wizzard produced a tiny thimble. It did the impossible and filled two large glasses. He handed one to Rafal. “Cheers.” He bumped glasses. “Skol. L’chaiyim.”

Surprised, Rafal said, “You’re coming, too?”

Wizzard beamed. “Very quantum. Thiz situation can’t be in two different phase states in the one space-time.”

“Quite.” Rafal had no idea what Wizzard meant.

Swallowing the scientific jargon, though, made it easy to swallow the drink. It was like the candle fumes, a land flowing with mint and honey.

“We muzt be like tuning forks,” Wizzard said. “We must rezonate with the world of Indigo.”

Rafal sat on the beanbag, facing the sculpture. Resonate, eh? Yep, he wanted to resonate. He would resonate. In the background, Wizzard’s voice changed. It became a soothing buzz that penetrated Rafal’s mind. It became a carrier wave of contemplation while he continued to gaze, trying to sense the essence of Indigo. The drink fizzled within his bloodstream, the fumes creating a cocoon around the two of them. Yet he did not feel drowsy. He felt a tremendous energy, a loosening, a removal of constraints. He sensed a power far beyond his tai chi, an awesome power like the waves of the surf. Except that it was within. He surfed on the waves of the mind. He drew back to surge forward. A great loosening… a freeing… a letting go… a letting go.

He found himself in a strange room of softly glowing walls. Rafal glanced around and couldn’t refrain from asking, “Is this for real?”

“For real?” Wizzard beamed. “Meaning if zomeone came to your house, would they find you there, asleep?”

“Yeah, something like that. Is this some kind of lucid dream?”

“Az, Rafal, it iz very quantum. When you are here, elsewhere you are a collapsed probability wave.”

“Collapsed, huh? I probability thought so.”

What could Rafal say? He’d read The Tao of Physics. He just hadn’t understood much of it. He glanced at the walls. They were ever changing subtle rainbows of colours.

“Very organic,” Wizzard said. “This iz her house. Your rezonance has brought us here.” He pointed to a pedestal in a corner. On it, rested a gleaming leather boot. “Az!” Wizzard clapped his hands. “Indigo.”

He darted across the room. Stopping abruptly, his hands moved cautiously around the boot as if testing for a force field. Gradually, they came closer until his palms rested on the leather. Gently, he lifted the boot.

A door flew open and two women burst in.

“Who’s there?” the first one said. Dressed in white, she had a round, pink and friendly face.

“Oh, Wizz,” the second said. Dressed in black, she had a narrow and unfriendly face.

“Az!” Wizzard’s expression was unreadable. “The twin sisters, Cloud and Storm.”

Cloud, in white, giggled sweetly. “I’m the good sister.”

Storm, in black, frowned darkly. “No, I’m the good sister.”

Not taking to either sister, Rafal took refuge behind Wizzard.

“Yez.” Wizzard studiously studied the shiny leather. “Zo, must we find the one who fitz the boot?”

“Very Cinderella,” Rafal remarked.

“Indeed! Perhapz. Or not.” Wizzard held the boot out to Cloud. “Pleaze, pleaze try it on.”

She dimpled prettily. “Oh, must I?”

“To pleaze an old man.”

“You, old?” Cloud giggled but took the boot. Her wide round foot slid in easily. “Perfect. Oh, my!”

Rafal stared at her. “But she’s not at all like Indigo!”

Wizzard took the shoe. “Ztorm?”

“Oh, get away with you!”

“To pleaze an old man.”

“You, a man?” She snatched it and slid in her long narrow foot. “Perfect, huh!”

“Az, the boot iz on the other foot but it still fits.” Wizzard pulled at his hair, looking like Einstein on a bad hair day. “So whom does the boot not fit?”

“Doesn’t fit?” Rafal collapsed into a settee. It immediately moulded to his shape. With a wail, he shot up. “But that must mean nearly everyone.”

“Not in Faerie.”

“In Faerie!”

“Of courze. It’s the nearest quantum world. Well, it’s just a name, anyway.”

“Oh, jeez!” Rafal sat on the pedestal – which didn’t mould – and took the boot. Even his big foot slid in. “Oh, f… faerie!” he cried. “And it was beginning to seem so simple. All we had to do was to find someone who fit the bill.”

“Fit the boot,” Wizzard corrected.

“Boot, shoe, slipper. Now we have to find someone that it doesn’t fit. Like everyone.” Rafal thought for a moment. “Wait a minute but it even fitted me.” He gazed down at Wizzard’s tiny foot. “It would probably even fit you.” The penny finally dropped. “It’s a magic boot.” He slapped his forehead. “It’s magic, isn’t it?”

“Magic?” Wizzard pulled at his nose like a wizened Pinocchio. “The boot is merely a zybernetic zelf-adjusting podiatric device.”

“Yeah, right.” Rafal couldn’t argue with that. He started to pace. Cloud and Storm watched, their eyes tracking him. “Supposing someone did or did not fit the boot, what would that prove anyway?”

“Az, the boot iz merely a step on the way.”

“Really? I thought the boot was a way on the step.”

Wizzard chuckled. He was obviously pleased to be where they were, wherever they were. “I zink we are being too literal. We are looking in the wrong direction.”

“Indeed,” Cloud agreed. “Look this way.” And she pointed to herself.

“No, that way.” Storm pointed at Rafal.

“I meant,” Wizzard said, “a metaphyzical direction.”

“That way!” This time Cloud and Storm pointed together but their fingers blurred into a non-direction.

Confused, Rafal stroked the soft leather and groaned, “To boot or not to boot? Is that a question?”

With an intense longing, he thought of Indigo. As he did so, he felt a subtle change in the leather, a warm vibration in his fingertips. Startled, he almost dropped the boot. Yet he kept hold and the movement felt like the pleasing throb of a purring cat. Suddenly, the pedestal shimmered. A hint of blue, a hint of Indigo! Rafal wanted to rub faster as if the boot were an Aladdin’s lamp. Yet a stronger instinct held him gentle.

Cloud, however, must have sensed the change. Pointing a chubby finger, she cried, “Mine!”

The boot flew towards her.

Like a gunslinger on the draw, Storm pointed her thin finger. “His!”

The boot hung between them. Cloud’s round face squared with determination. Storm’s hawkish face narrowed with intensity. The boot bobbed hesitantly.

Grinning, Wizzard pointed and said, “Mine?” The boot moved fractionally. He shrugged. “Out of practize.”

Since the boot was literally up for grabs, Rafal thought he’d also give it a go. But he didn’t point. Pointing was rude. He merely cupped a palm in the air.

“Mine?”

The effect was amazing. The boot sailed towards him as smoothly as a boat on a placid lake. It settled in his hand. He grasped it, the leather warm and alive.

I have won, he thought. I have won. But the sense of victory made his attention wander. In that instant, the boot began to flicker. Flashing neon lights played in the air. Inviting words scrolled out from in. New York, New York, Visit New York.

“What the heck?”

“Az.” Wizzard looked amused. “An Alien In New York.” Wizzard glanced at the two sisters. Then he laughed. “New York, New York, ze center of fun and vitality. What a life. You could teach tai chi there. You would have many many studentz.”

“I would?” Wizzard nodded and Rafal saw large classes of slim women in leotards.

Cloud wrapped an arm through his. “Nude York, Nude York,” she said. “Fun. Let’s go.”

Storm gripped his other arm. “No York, No York!” she snapped. “False fun.”

“No?” Rafal echoed. “No! Indigo.” He clutched the boot and clung to the name. The neon letters became jagged. “No!” he shouted and the images of slim women dissolved.

“You’re no fun.” Cloud pouted.

Rafal pressed the leather to his chest. The pedestal shimmered in blue again and the letters vanished.

“Phooey,” Cloud cried.

A naughty expression swept across her face and she winked at the young man. He smiled hesitantly. Then Cloud stepped behind him and pressed against his back. Her breasts were firm and warm. She slipped a hand under his shirt and caressed his stomach. Her breath sizzled inside his ear and his body started to respond.

“No!” Storm shouted and slapped his cheek.

Rafal was shocked. Yet the angles of her dark face settled into a structure of startling beauty that was even more shocking than her blow. The moment fractured into a million pieces and, once more, the leather tingled within his grasp.

“No!” Rafal clutched the boot. “Indigo! Indigo!”

He fell to his knees. He opened his heart.

“Phooey!” Cloud said again. Her round face was a puffed up balloon. She glared at Storm. “You’re no fun,” she repeated.

“Az,” Wizzard said. “Temptation, temptation.”

The leather pulsed, not just in his hands but resonated right through to his heart. The pedestal shimmered. Deep within, he sensed that the sculpture back home was also changing. The air sizzled. A taste of honey, a hint of mint. Snap! There was Indigo, nude and beautiful. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. He was home. Wherever he was, this was home. After a long delicious moment, they separated.

Wizzard coughed discreetly.

“Az, Rafal, it comes to this. You have a choice.”

“Very quantum?”

Wizzard nodded. “You can return to your world and perhaps zee Indigo. Or …”

“I’ll take the or.”

“You can be together…”

“But?” Rafal knew there had to be a but.

Wizzard tugged at his hair. “You will have to live in the twilight zone.”

“We’ll take the twilight zone.”

Wizzard bowed. “Welcome to the franchize.”

“Franchise?”

“Multi-dimensional. You will be pleazed.”

And they were. You can find Rafal and Indigo in a cobbled street near you. You can’t miss their shop, Wizzard’s Antiques. They occupy the space that you’ve never before noticed.

—/—

Copyright © Barry Rosenberg 2010

---

Barry Rosenberg was born in London in 1943 but moved to Canberra, Australia in 1970 after completing a PhD in Artificial Intelligence. Towards the end of 1974, he left research to first teach tai chi and yoga; then to work in the Australian Public Service; and most recently become a craftsman. Since 1997, he has been living on the Sunshine Coast, Qld, with his artist wife, Judith.
He has published academic papers, poetry and had plays performed. Most recently, he has been writing speculative fiction.

FICTIONS: Indigo, 4.3 out of 5 based on 4 ratings