Cemetery Dance

Chapter 7

Special Agent Pendergast glided silently down the long, dimly lit central hallway of his West 72nd Street apartment. As he walked, he passed an elegant library; a room devoted to Renaissance and Baroque oil paintings; a climate — controlled vault stacked floor — to — ceiling with vintage wines in teakwood racks; a salon with leather armchairs, expensive silk carpets, and terminals hardwired to half a dozen law enforcement databases.

These were the public rooms of Pendergast's apartment, although perhaps fewer than a dozen people had ever seen them. He was headed now toward the private rooms, known only to himself and Kyoko Ishimura, the deaf and mute housekeeper who lived in and looked after the apartment.

Over several years, Pendergast had discreetly purchased two additional adjoining apartments as they came on the market and integrated them with his own. Now his residence stretched along much of the Dakota's 72nd Street frontage and even part of the Central Park West frontage as well: an immense, rambling, yet exceedingly private eyrie.

Reaching the end of the corridor, he opened the door of what appeared to be a closet. Instead, the small room beyond was empty save for another door in the far wall. Disengaging its security apparatus, Pendergast opened the door and stepped into the private quarters. He walked quickly through these as well, nodding to Miss Ishimura as she stood in the spacious kitchen, preparing fish intestine soup over a restaurant — grade stove. Like all spaces in the Dakota, the kitchen had an unusually high ceiling. At length he reached the end of another corridor, another innocuous — looking door. Beyond lay his destination: the third apartment, the sanctum sanctorum into which even Miss Ishimura entered only infrequently.

He opened the door into a second closet — size room. This time, there was not another door at the far end, but rather ashoji, a sliding partition of wood and rice — paper panels. Pendergast closed the door behind him, then stepped forward and gently drew theshoji aside.

Beyond lay a tranquil garden. Sounds of gently trickling water and birdsong freighted air already heavy with the scents of pine and eucalyptus. The light was dim and indirect, suggesting late afternoon or early evening. Somewhere in the green fastness, a dove cooed.

A narrow path of flat stones lay ahead, flanked by stone lanterns and winding sinuously between evergreen plantings. Pulling theshoji shut, Pendergast stepped over the pebbled verge and made his way down the path. This was anuchi — roji, the inner garden of a teahouse. The intensely private, almost secret spot exuded tranquility, encouraged a contemplative spirit. Pendergast had lived with it so long now that he had almost lost his appreciation for just how unusual it was: a complete and self — sufficient garden, deep within a massive Manhattan apartment building.

Ahead, through the bushes and dwarf trees, a low wooden building came into view, simple and unadorned. Pendergast made his way past the formal washbasin to the teahouse entrance and slowly pulled itsshoji aside.

Beyond lay the tearoom itself, decorated with elegant spareness. Pendergast stood in the entrance a moment, letting his eyes move over the hanging scroll in its alcove, the formalchabana flower arrangements, the shelves holding scrupulously clean whisks, tea scoops, and other equipment. Then, closing the sliding door and seating himselfseiza — style on the tatami mat, he began performing the exacting rituals of the ceremony itself.

The tea ceremony is at heart a ritual of grace and perfection, the serving of tea to a small group of guests. Though Pendergast was alone, he was nevertheless performing the ceremony for a guest: one who was unable to attend.

Carefully, he filled the caddy, measured in the powdered tea, whisked it to a precise consistency, then poured it into two exquisite seventeenth — century tea bowls. One he placed before himself; the other he set on the opposite side of the mat. He sat a moment, staring at the steam as it rose in gossamer curls from his bowl. Then — slowly, meditatively — he raised the bowl to his lips.

As he sipped, he allowed certain memories to form pictures in his mind, one at a time, lingering over each before moving to the next. The subject of each memory was the same. William Smithback, Jr., assisting him in a race against time to blast open the doors of the Tomb of Senef and rescue the people trapped within. Smithback, lying horrified in the backseat of a purloined taxi as Pendergast careened through traffic, trying to elude his brother, Diogenes. Now, further back in time, Smithback looking on in outrage and dismay as Pendergast burned the recipe for the Arcanum at Mary Greene's grave site. And still further back, Smithback once again, standing at his side during the terrible struggle with the strange denizens of the Devil's Attic, far below the streets of New York City.

By the time the tea bowl was empty, there were no more memories to reflect on. Pendergast placed the bowl back on the mat and closed his eyes a moment. Then, opening them again, he gazed at the other bowl, still full, that sat across from him. He sighed quietly, then spoke.

"Waga tomo yasurakani," he said.

Farewell, my friend.