"Where would you find such money?" A pause followed. "If I may ask?"
  	"Over the years, I've made some very lucrative investments on behalf of Katya. We 
own large parts of Los Angeles. Half a mile of Sunset Boulevard is in her name. Another 
half mile in mine."
  	"And you would sell all that to own this?"
  	"A little piece of Sunset Boulevard for your glorious Hunt? Why not?"
  	"Because it's just a room covered with filthy tile."
  	"So I have more money than sense. What does it matter to you? A hundred thousand 
dollars is a great deal of money."
  	"Yes, it is."
  	"So, do we have a deal or not?"
  	"Mr. Zeffer, this is all too sudden. We're not talking about a chair here. This 
is part of the fabric of the Fortress. It has great historical significance."
  	"A minute ago it was just a room covered with filthy tile."
  	"Filthy tile of great historical significance," Sandru said, allowing himself a 
little smile.
  	"Are you saying we can't find some terms that are mutually satisfying? Because if 
you are-"
  	"No, no, no. I'm not saying that. Perhaps we could eventually agree on a price, 
if we talked about it for a while. But how would you ever get it back to California?"
  	"That would be my problem. This is the twenties, Father. Anything's possible."
  	"And then what? Suppose you could get everything back to Hollywood?"
  	"Another room, the same proportions-"
  	"You have such a room?"
  	"No. I'd build one. We have a house in the Hollywood Hills. I'd put it in as a 
surprise for Katya."
  	"Without telling her?"
  	"Well if I told her it wouldn't be a surprise."
  	"I'm just astonished that she would allow you to do such a thing. A woman like 
that."
  	"Like what?"
  	The question caught Sandru off-balance. "Well...so..."
  	"Beautiful?"
  	"Yes."
  	"I think our conversation's come full-circle, Father."
  	Sandru conceded the point with a little nod, lifting the brandy bottle as he did 
so.
  	"So she's not as perfect as her face would suggest?" he asked at last. "Not 
remotely. Thank God."
  	"This place, with all its obscenities, would please her?" "Yes, I think it would. 
Why? Does that make you more open to the idea of selling it to me?"
  	"I don't know," Sandru replied, frowning. "This whole conversation hasn't turned 
out the way I thought it would. I expected you to come down here and maybe buy a table, 
or a tapestry. Instead you want to buy the walls!" He shook his head again. "I was warned 
about you Americans," he added, his tone no longer amused.
  	"What were you warned about?"
  	"Oh, that you thought nothing was beyond your grasp. Or beyond your pocket."
  	"So the money isn't enough."
  	"The money, the money." He made an ugly sound in the back of his throat. "What 
does the money matter? You want to pay a hundred thousand dollars for it? Pay it. I'll 
never see a lei so why should I care what it costs you? You can steal it as far as I am 
concerned."
  	"Let me understand you clearly. Are you agreeing to the sale?"
  	"Yes," Father Sandru said, his tone weary now, as though the whole subject had 
suddenly lost all trace of pleasure for him. "I'm agreeing." "Good. I'm delighted."
  	Zeffer returned through the maze of furniture to the door, where the priest 
stood. He extended his hand. "It's been wonderful dealing with you, Father Sandru."
  	Sandru looked down on the proffered hand, and then-after a moment of study-took 
it. His fingers were cold, his palm clammy. "Do you want to stay and look at what you've 
bought?"
  	"No. I don't think so. I think we both need a little sun on our faces." Sandru 
said nothing to this; he just turned and led the way out along the corridor to the 
stairs. But the expression on his face, as he turned, was perfectly clear: there was no 
more pleasure to be found above as there was down here in the cold; nor prospect of any.
  
  
  THREE
  	There were ten thousand things Zeffer had not witnessed, or even glimpsed, in his 
brief visit to the vast, mysterious chambers in the Fortress's bowels; images haunting 
the tiles which he would not discern until the heroic labor of removing the masterwork 
from the walls and shipping it to California was complete.
  	He was a literate man; better educated than most of his peers in the burgeoning 
city of Los Angeles, thanks to parents who had filled the house with books, even though 
there was often precious little food on the table. He knew his classics, and the 
mythologies from which the great books and plays of the ancients had been derived. In 
time he would discover dozens of images inspired by those same myths on the tiles. In one 
place women were depicted like the Maenads immortalized by Euripides; maddened souls in 
service of the god of ecstasies, Dionysus. They raced through the trees with bloody 
hands, leaving pieces of male flesh scattered in the grass. In another place, 
single-breasted Amazons strode, drawing their mighty bows back and letting fly storms of 
arrows.
  	There were other images-many, many others-that were not rooted in any 
recognizable mythology. In one spot, not far from the delta, huge fishes, which had 
sprouted legs covered with golden scales, came through the trees in solemn shoals, 
spitting fire. The trees ahead of them were aflame; burning birds rose up from the canopy.
  	In the swamp, a small town stood on long limbs, its presence appearing to mark 
the position of some place that had existed there once but had been taken by time, or a 
prophecy of some settlement to come. The artists had taken liberties with the rendering, 
foreshortening the scene so that the occupants of the city were almost as big as their 
houses, and could be plainly seen. There were excesses here, too; perversities just as 
profound as anything the Wild Wood was hosting. Through one of the windows a man could be 
seen spread-eagled on a table, around which sat a number of guests, all watching a large 
worm enter him anally and then erupt from his open mouth. Another was the scene of a 
strange summoning, in which a host of black birds with human heads rose up from the 
ground, circling a girl-child who was either their invoker or their victim. In a third 
house a woman was squatting and shedding menstrual blood through a hole in the floor. 
Several men, smaller than the woman above by half, were swimming in the water below and 
undergoing some calamitous transformation, presumably brought on by the menses. Their 
heads had flowered into dark, monstrous shapes; demonic tails had sprouted from their 
backsides.