The Book of Cthulhu 2

A Gentleman from Mexico

Mark Samuels

“Barlow, I imagine, can tell you even more about the Old Ones.”

—Clark Ashton Smith to August Derleth, April 13^th 1937.

Víctor Armstrong was running late for his appointment and so had hailed a taxi rather than trusting to the metro. Bathed in cruel noon sunlight, the green-liveried Volkswagen beetle taxi cruised down Avenida Reforma. In the back of the vehicle, Armstrong rummaged around in his jacket pocket for the pack of Faros cigarettes he’d bought before setting off on his rendezvous.

“Es OK para mí a fumar en tu taxi?” Armstrong said, managing to cobble together the request in his iffy Spanish.

He saw the eyes of the driver reflected in the rear-view mirror, and they displayed total indifference. It was as if he’d made a request to fold his arms.

“Seguro,” the driver replied, turning the wheel sharply, weaving his way across four lines of traffic. Armstrong was jolted over to the left and clutched at the leather handle hanging from the front passenger door. The right hand seat at the front had been removed, as was the case with all the green taxis, giving plenty of leg-room and an easy entrance and exit. Like most of the taxi drivers in Mexico City, this one handled his vehicle with savage intent, determined to get from A to B in the minimum possible time. In this almost permanently gridlocked megalopolis, the survival of the fastest was the rule.

Armstrong lit up one of his untipped cigarettes and gazed out the window. Brilliant sunshine illuminated in excruciating detail the chaos and decay of the urban rubbish dump that is the Ciudad de México, Distrito Federal, or “D.F.” for short. A great melting pot of the criminal, the insane, the beautiful and the macho, twenty-five million people constantly living in a mire of institutionalised corruption, poverty and crime. But despite all this, Mexico City’s soul seems untouched, defiant, and no other great city of the world is so vividly alive, dwelling as it does always in the shadow of death. Another earthquake might be just around the corner, the Popocatéptl volcano might blow at any hour, and the brown haze of man-made pollution might finally suffocate the populace. Who knows? What is certain is that the D.F. would rise again, as filthy, crazed and glorious as before.

They were approaching La Condesa, a fashionable area to the north of the centre that had attracted impoverished artists and writers ten years ago, but which had recently been overrun with pricey restaurants and cafés. Armstrong had arranged to meet with an English-speaking acquaintance at the bookshop café La Torre on the corner of Avenida Nuevo León. This acquaintance, Juan San Isidro, was a so-called underground poet specialising in sinister verse written in the Náhuatl language and who, it was rumoured, had links with the narcosatánicos. A notorious drunk, San Isidro had enjoyed a modicum of celebrity in his youth but had burnt out by his mid-twenties. Now in his mid-thirties, he was scarcely ever sober and looked twice his actual age. His bitterness and tendency to enter into the kind of vicious quarrels that seem endemic in Latin American literary circles had alienated him from most of his contemporaries. Armstrong suspected that San Isidro had requested a meeting for one of two reasons; either to tap him for money or else to seek his assistance in recommending a translator for a re-issue of his poetical work in an English language edition in the United States. It was highly unlikely that San Isidro was going to offer him a work of fiction for one of his upcoming anthologies of short stories.

The taxi pulled up alongside the bookshop.

“¿Cuánto es?” Armstrong asked.

“Veintiún pesos,” the driver responded. Armstrong handed over some coins and exited the vehicle.

Standing on the corner outside the bookshop was a stall selling tortas, tacos and other fast-food. The smell of the sizzling meat and chicken, frying smokily on the hob, made Armstrong’s mouth water. Despite the call of ¡Pásele, señor! Armstrong passed by, knowing that, as a foreigner, his stomach wouldn’t have lasted ten minutes against the native bacteria. Having experienced what they called “Montezuma’s Revenge” on his first trip to D.F. a year ago, there was no question of him taking a chance like that again. Across the street an argument was taking place between two drivers, who’d got out of their battered and dirty cars to trade insults. Since their abandoned vehicles were holding up the traffic, the rather half-hearted battle (consisting entirely of feints and shouting) was accompanied by a cacophony of angry car-horns.

La Torre was something of a landmark in the area, its exterior covered with tiles, and windows with external ornate grilles. A three-storey building with a peaked roof, and erected in the colonial era, it had been a haunt for literati of all stripes, novelists, poets and assorted hangers-on, since the 1950s. During the period in which La Condesa had been gentrified some of La Torre’s former seedy charm had diminished and, as well as selling books, it had diversified into stocking DVDs and compact discs upstairs. Part of the ground floor had been converted into an expensive eatery, whilst the first floor now half occupied a café-bar from where drinkers could peer over the centre of the storey down into the level below, watching diners pick at their food and browsers lingering over the books on shelves and on the display tables. As a consequence of these improvements, the space for poetry readings upstairs had been entirely done away with, and Juan San Isidro haunted its former confines as if in eternal protest at the loss of his own personal stage.

As Armstrong entered he glanced up at the floor above and saw the poet already waiting for him, slumped over a table and tracing a circle on its surface with an empty bottle of Sol beer. His lank black hair hung down to his shoulders, obscuring his face, but even so his immense bulk made him unmistakable.

Armstrong’s gaze roved around and sought out the stairway entrance. He caught sight of the only other customer in La Torre, besides himself and San Isidro. This other person was dressed in a dark grey linen suit, quite crumpled, with threadbare patches at the elbows and frayed cuffs. The necktie he wore was a plain navy blue and quite unremarkable. His shoes were badly scuffed and he must have repeatedly refused the services of the D.F.’s innumerable boleros. They keenly polished shoes on their portable foot-stands for anyone who had a mere dozen pesos to spare. The man had an olive complexion, was perfectly clean-shaven, and about forty years old. His short black hair was parted neatly on the left-hand side. He had the features of a mestizo, a typical Mexican of mingled European and Native Indian blood. There was something in the way that he carried himself that told of a gentleman down on his luck, perhaps even an impoverished scholar given his slight stoop, an attribute often acquired by those who pore over books or manuscripts year after year.

He was browsing through the books on display that were published by the likes of Ediciones Valdemar and Ediciones Siruela that had been specially imported from Spain. These were mostly supernatural fiction titles, for which many Mexican readers had a discerning fondness. Armstrong was glad, for his own anthologies invariably were comprised of tales depicting the weird and uncanny, a market that, at least in the Anglophone countries, seemed to have self-destructed after a glut of trashy horror paperbacks in the 1980s. But these were not junk, they were works by the recognised masters and a quick glance over the classics available for sale here in mass-market form would have drawn the admiration of any English or American devotee. Here were books by Arthur Machen, Algernon Blackwood, M.R. James and Ambrose Bierce, amongst dozens of others. Most striking however, was the vast range of collections available written by H. P. Lovecraft. The browsing man in the dark suit picked up one after the other, almost reluctant to return each to its proper place, although if his down-at-heel appearance were an indication, their price was surely beyond his limited means. New books in Mexico are scarcely ever cheap.

Armstrong looked away. He could not understand why this rather ordinary gentleman had stirred his imagination. He was, after all, merely typical of the sort of book-addict found anywhere and at any time. Meanwhile Juan San Isidro had noticed Víctor’s arrival and called down to him.

“¡Ay, Víctor, quiero más chela! Lo siento, pero no tengo dinero.”

Armstrong sighed, and made his way up the stairs.

When they were eventually sat opposite one another, Armstrong with a bottle of Indio and San Isidro with a fresh bottle of Sol, the Mexican switched from Spanish to English. He was always keen to take whatever opportunity he could to converse in the language. A huge bear of a man, he’d recently grown a shaggy goatee beard and the T-shirt he wore bore the logo of some outlandish band called “Control Machete”, whose music Armstrong did not know and did not want to know. Years ago Armstrong had foolishly mentioned San Isidro’s literary efforts to the publisher of a small press imprint in California who was looking for cosmic or outré verse. The result had been a chapbook with a selection of San Isidro’s Aztec-influenced work translated into English, and thereafter Armstrong had never been able to entirely shake off his “discovery”.

“So,” he said, “how are things with you? Still editing those antologías?”

“There’s scarcely any money in them, Juan,” Armstrong replied, “unless I’ve managed to wrangle something original out of Steve King, the publishers want to nail my balls to the wall.”

“You know him? King? Do you think he’d give me a loan? He’s very rich, no? Help out a struggling brother artist?”

Armstrong tried not to smile inappropriately. He could only imagine how quickly San Isidro would piss away any handouts he’d receive on booze. No one other than their agents, accountants, lawyers or publishers milks cash-cow authors.

“He’s a busy man. I don’t think he’d appreciate my…”

“You mean he’s a pinche cabrón. Keeps his money up his culo where no one else can get at it. That’s why todos los gringos walk around with their legs apart, like cowboys, no? All those dollar bills stuffed in there.”

Armstrong was relieved to be British. Even liberal Americans who came south, seeking to atone for the recent sins of NAFTA and a long history of land grabbing, were objects of ridicule here. They might get away with such conscience posturing in the north, in cities like Monterrey that were closer to the border and which looked to rich U.S. states like Texas for inspiration, but in Mexico D.F. gringos are only ever pinches gringos and no amount of self-loathing or atonement on their part could ever erase the fact. The British, on the other hand, despite their Imperial past, were redeemed by virtue of having given the Beatles and association football to the world.

“Why did you want to see me, Juan?” Armstrong asked, taking out his packet of Faros and putting them on the table. His companion looked at the cheap brand with amused contempt. Nevertheless, this attitude did not stop him from smoking them.

“I want you to take a look at some cuentos,” San Isidro replied, puffing away on the cigarette he’d taken. “Read them and make me an offer. They’re in your line of work.”

He delved into a shoulder bag lying underneath the table and took out a pile of papers, individuated into sections by rubber bands, and handed them over.

“I thought you didn’t write short stories,” Armstrong said.

“I didn’t write them. I’m acting as the exclusive agent. They’re in English, as you see, and they’re the type of horror stories you like. I handle all his stuff.”

“Who’s this author,” Armstrong said, looking at the top sheet, “Felipe López? I can’t say I’ve heard of him.”

“El señor López has only been writing for a couple of years. He’s my personal discovery, like you discovered me, no? Es un autor auténtico, not some hack. Mira al cabellero down there, the one who’s looking through the books? That’s el señor López. He doesn’t want to meet you until you’ve read his stuff. I told him I knew you, and that you weren’t the same as all those other culeros who’d rejected him.”

So that man in the crumpled grey suit was San Isidro’s first client, Armstrong thought. He hesitated for a moment but then relented. At least this man López had the appearance of being literate.

“Alright,” Armstrong said, “I’ll take them away with me and call you once I’ve read them. I can’t promise anything though.”

“Why not sit here and read them now, compañero? I tell you, these things are a goldmine. We can have a few more chelas while I wait for you to finish. He also does his own proofreading, so you won’t need to trabajar mucho yourself.”

“Short stories,” Armstrong riposted, “are fool’s gold, Juan. I told you, there’s no real money in them anymore. Have another on me if you like, but I’ve got to go. I’ll be in touch.”

With that closing remark Armstrong stood up, left a hundred pesos note on the table, and made his exit. He didn’t notice whether or not el Señor López saw him leave.

* * *

Over the next few days Armstrong almost forgot about the stories by Felipe López. He hated being asked to read fiction by an unknown author that had been praised by one of his friends. All too often he had to prick their enthusiasm, usually fired by beer and comradeship rather than from an objective assessment of literary merit. And San Isidro had never acted as an agent for anybody before; he was far too consumed by his own literary ambitions. So it appeared obvious to Armstrong that San Isidro was paying back a favour of some sort. Though it seemed unlikely given the down-at-heel appearance of López, but perhaps it was a case of San Isidro owing him money.

Armstrong was staying close to Cuauhtémoc metro station in an apartment owned by Mexican friends of his, a couple, Enrique and María, who were in London for a few weeks, staying in his flat there in an exchange holiday. It was something they did every other year to save on hotel bills. There were only three days left before they were due to cross each other high over the Atlantic in flights going in the opposite direction. Enrique and María were both involved in publishing themselves, and he’d struck up a friendship with them in 1995 whilst attending a fantasy and horror convention held in San Francisco.

Since he was staying in an apartment belonging to friends, Armstrong paid little attention to the telephone, as he knew he’d just be taking messages for his absent hosts. Anything desperately important that needed to be passed on to them would be left on the answerphone machine. When he got around to checking it, there were three messages, two for Enrique and María, and one for him. It was left by Juan San Isidro:

“Oye,¿qué onda? Man, don’t fuck me over. Have you read los cuentos? I think not. Otherwise you’d be chasing my ass like a puto. You don’t leave Mexico until I hear from you, ¿te queda claro?”

Despite his reluctance, Armstrong didn’t see any alternative but to look the stories over. He took them out onto the little balcony overlooking the privada in which the apartment was situated. It was pleasantly warm outside in the evening, being October, and since the only traffic passing below consisted of pedestrians it was easy to concentrate. He sat down on the chair he’d moved out there, put the papers that he’d retrieved from his suitcase on his lap, and looked them over.

San Isidro had given him four stories, the longest of which was the third at around forty thousand words.

Armstrong had seen this type of story on dozens of occasions in the past, usually sent for his consideration by “fan authors” who were obsessed with the life and works of H. P. Lovecraft. Most of these pastiches contained long lists of clichéd forbidden books and names of unpronounceable entities to be incorporated into the so-called “Cthulhu Mythos”. As he turned the pages of the first of López’s tales though, he was surprised to discover that they did not also contain the other feature associated with Lovecraft fan pastiches: there were no obvious grammatical, spelling or common textual errors. The work had already been gone over by an author with a keen eye for copyediting. Additionally, it had to be the case that Felipe López was fluent in English to the degree of being able to pass completely for a native. The text contained no trace of any Spanish language idioms indicating his Mexican nationality. Indeed, López even favoured the British spelling of certain words, rather than that used in the United States, in exactly the same fashion as Lovecraft had done himself.

Despite his disdain for pastiche, Armstrong kept reading. Eventually, to his surprise, he found that López’s mimetic skills were so expert that he could almost believe that he was reading a previously undiscovered work written by Lovecraft himself. The story had the exact same sense of nightmarish authenticity as the best of the Providence author’s tales. By the time he’d finished reading the first story, Armstrong was in a state of dazed wonder. Of course he realised, on a professional level, that the thing had no commercial potential. It smacked far too much of an in-joke, or a hoax, but it was nevertheless profoundly impressive in its own right. He began to wonder what this López person might be able to achieve were he to wean himself from the Lovecraft influence and produce fiction utilising a distinct authorial voice. It might result in another modern-day writer of the order of Thomas Ligotti.

Armstrong was dimly aware of the telephone ringing in the background. He ignored the sound, allowing the answer-machine to deal with whoever it was. He supposed that it could be San Isidro again and that it might have been better to pick up, but he was too eager to discover whether the story he’d just read was a fluke or not. Since the mosquitoes were now busy in the night air, he took the manuscripts inside and carried on reading.

* * *

Whoever had left the weird message on Enrique and María’s answer-machine was obviously some crank, thought Armstrong. He played it back again the morning after it was recorded.

There was click on the line and the sound of unintelligible voices conferring amongst themselves and then a jarring, discordant muttering in English. The voice had a Mexican accent but was unknown to Armstrong. It said:

“He belongs to us. His products belong to us. No-one will take him from us.”

That was all.

After listening to the message one more time, Armstrong wondered if it were not simply San Isidro playing a joke on him, pretending to be another rival party involved with the works of Felipe López. Perhaps he thought the idea of some competition might spur Armstrong to a quick decision. If so, it was an unnecessary ploy.

After having read the second of López’s tales he was convinced that the author had unmatched imagination and ability, despite being almost ruinously handicapped by his slavish mimicry of Lovecraft’s style and themes. However, there was more than enough pure genius in there to convince Armstrong to take the matter further. If he could meet with López in person, he was determined to press upon him the necessity of a last revision of the texts: one that removed entirely the Cthulhu Mythos elements and replaced the florid, adjective-ridden prose with a minimalist approach.

When he telephoned Juan San Isidro it was no surprise that the poet-turned-agent was deeply suspicious about Armstrong’s insistence that he must meet López alone.

“You want to cut me out of the deal, ¡estás loco! Forget it, man. Now you know que es un maestro, lo quieres todo para ti.”

“I only want to suggest a few changes to the texts, Juan. Nothing sinister in that, really. You’ll get your commission, I’ll not cheat you, believe me.”

Their conversation went round in circles for ten minutes before Armstrong eventually convinced San Isidro that he had no underhand motive with regards to López’s work. Even so, Armstrong realised that there was something more going on between the two of them than the usual protective relationship between an agent and his client. Nevertheless he successfully elicited a promise from San Isidro that he would ensure López met with him alone in the Café la Habana on La Calle de Bucareli at 2:00 pm that same afternoon.

* * *

The Café la Habana was a haunt for distinguished old men who came to play chess, smoke their pipes or cigars and spend the better part of the afternoon dreaming over coffee or beer. It had a high ceiling and was decorated with framed photographs of Havana from the time before Castro’s revolution. Many communist exiles from Batista Cuba came here, having fled persecution, and its fame dated from that period. The number of exiles had dwindled as the years passed, but it still had a reputation amongst all those who championed leftist defiance. The place had a long pedigree, having been a favourite meeting place, in even earlier decades, of those Spanish Republican refugees who’d settled in D.F. after escaping the wrath of General Franco’s regime.

Armstrong sat in a corner, lingering over a glass of tequila with lime, when López walked in. He was half-an-hour late. His lean form was framed in the doorway by the brilliant sunshine outside. López cast his glance around the place before spotting Armstrong and making for the table at which he sat.

López had changed his dark grey suit for a cream-coloured one, and this time he was wearing a matching panama hat. He gave a nod of recognition towards Armstrong as he approached.

Before he sat down he shook Armstrong’s hand and apologised in English:

“I hope that you will excuse my tardiness, Mr. Armstrong, but the truth is that I was distracted by a particularly fascinating example of 18th Century colonial architecture whilst making my way over here.”

Armstrong did not reply at once. He was taken aback by López’s accent. Unless he was mistaken, it was pure, authentic New England Yankee. There was not a trace of Mexican in it.

“No need to apologise,” Armstrong finally said, “can I get you a drink; some beer or tequila perhaps?”

“Thank you but no. I never partake of alcoholic beverages, even for the purposes of refreshment. However, a cup of coffee, perhaps a double espresso, would be most welcome.”

Armstrong ordered López’s coffee and asked for another tequila with lime to be brought to their table.

“I liked your tales very much, it was quite an experience reading through them I can tell you. Of course they’re overly derivative, but I imagine that you easily could tone down all the Lovecraft elements…”

“I’m afraid, Mr. Armstrong,” López said, with a chill tone entering his voice, “that alterations of any sort are completely out of the question. The stories must be printed as written, down to the last detail, otherwise this conversation is simply a waste of my time and your own.”

The drinks arrived. López calmly began to shovel spoonful after spoonful of sugar into his cup, turning the coffee into treacly, caffeine-rich syrup. Armstrong looked at him incredulously. Now he understood what was going on. San Isidro was definitely having a joke at his expense. He must have coached this López character, telling him all about H. P. Lovecraft’s mannerisms and …to what end?

“Why are you persisting with this absurd Lovecraft impersonation?” Armstrong blurted out. “It’s ridiculous. San Isidro put you up to it, I suppose. But what I can’t figure out is why, so let me in on the joke.”

López looked up from his coffee and his eyes were deadly serious. And here it comes, boy and girls, thought Armstrong; here comes the line we’ve all been waiting for:

This is no joke, Mr. Armstrong, far from it, for I am in reality Howard Phillips Lovecraft of Providence, Rhode Island.

“Surely the only rational answer has already suggested itself,” López replied, very calmly and without any melodrama, “you are in fact sitting across the table from a certifiable lunatic.”

Armstrong leaned back in his seat and very carefully considered the man opposite. His manner betrayed no sign of humour and he spoke as if what he’d suggested was an established truism.

“Then despite your behaviour, you know that you’re not really Lovecraft?” Armstrong said.

“Howard Phillips Lovecraft died in agony on the morning of Monday the 15th of March 1937 in Providence’s Jane Brown Memorial Hospital. I cannot be him. However, since Tuesday the 15th of March 2003, I have been subject to a delusion whereby the identity of Lovecraft completely supplanted my own. I currently have no memories whatsoever of having once been Felipe López of Mexico City. His family and friends are complete strangers to me. Meanwhile everyone Lovecraft knew is dead. I have become an outsider in this country and in this time. Unless one accepts the existence of the supernatural, which I emphatically do not, then only the explanation I have advanced has any credence.”

Armstrong was taken aback by these remarks. This was like no madman he’d heard of: one who was not only able to recognise his derangement, but who also was totally a slave to it. It was more like some bizarre variant of a multiple personality disorder.

“What did the doctors here have to say?” Armstrong asked.

“They did their best, but with no appreciable effect, let alone any amelioration, upon my malady. They tended to agree with my analysis of the situation,” López said, after taking a sip of his coffee.

“What about López before this happened? Did he have any interest in Lovecraft prior to your—umm—alteration? I can’t believe something like that would come out of nowhere.”

It was annoying, but Armstrong found himself questioning López as if he were actually addressing Lovecraft inhabiting another body.

“Quite so. I have discovered that López was a fanatical devotee of Lovecraft’s life and work. Moreover, he was one of that rather contemptible breed of freaks who adhere to the outlandish belief that, rather than writing fiction, Lovecraft had unconscious access to ultra-mundane dimensions. The group to which he belonged, who styled themselves ‘The Sodality of the Black Sun’, advocated the piteous theory that Lovecraft was an occult prophet instead of a mere scribbler. This indicates to me a brain already on the brink of a potential collapse into total chaos. You see before you the inevitable consequence.”

There are a lot of sad crazies out there, thought Armstrong, who believe in nothing except the power of their own imaginations to create whatever they want to create from a supposedly malleable reality. A whole bunch of them had doubtless fastened upon Lovecraft’s mythos for inspiration, but he doubted that any others had wound up like Felipe López.

“Well,” Armstrong said, “I don’t know what to make of all this. But surely one consideration has occurred to you already? If you really were Lovecraft, you’d know certain things that only he could possibly have known.”

“An ingenious point,” said López, “but with all his contemporaries in the grave, how then to verify that information? Mr. Armstrong, I must remind you that the idea of Lovecraft’s consciousness not only surviving the death of his physical form, but also transferring itself to another body, is patently ridiculous. I make no such claim.”

López stared at him wordlessly and then, having finished the dregs of his coffee, got up and left.

* * *

When Armstrong arrived back at Enrique and María’s apartment, he found the door already ajar. Someone had broken in, forcing their entrance with a crowbar or similar tool judging by the splintered wound in the side of the door’s frame. He was relieved to find that the intruders had not torn the place apart and seemed to have scarcely disturbed anything. When he examined his own room however, he noted at once that the López manuscripts were missing. He unmistakably remembered having left them on his bedside table. However, in their place, was a note left behind by whoever had stolen them. It read:

Do not meddle in our affairs again, lest the darkness seek you out.

Obviously, this was a targeted burglary by the people who’d left that answerphone message warning him off having dealings with López. They must have wanted to get hold of the López stories extremely badly, and, whoever they were, must have also known that San Isidro had passed them to him, as well as knowing that Armstrong had an appointment with López, thus giving them the perfect moment to strike while he was out.

It was difficult to figure out what to do next. Everyone in Mexico City realises that to call the police regarding a burglary has two possible outcomes. The first is that they will turn up, treat it as a waste of their time and do nothing. The second is that things will turn surreal very quickly, because they will casually mention how poorly paid police officers are, and, in return for a “donation”, they are able to arrange for the swift return of your goods with no questions asked. Given that the burglary was not the work of organised crime but some nutty underground cult, Armstrong thought better of involving the police.

Great, thought Armstrong, now I’m in trouble not only with the local branch of occult loonies, but with San Isidro and López for having lost the manuscripts. The first thing to do was give San Isidro the bad news. Since a matter of this delicate nature was best dealt with face-to-face Armstrong decided to make his way over to the poet’s apartment, after he’d arranged for someone to come over and fix the door.

* * *

A cardinal, though unspoken, rule of travelling by metro in Mexico City is not to carry anything of value. If you’re a tourist, look like a tourist with little money. The security guards that hover around the ticket barriers are not there just for show. They carry guns for a reason. D.F. is the kidnapping capital of the world. Armstrong had always followed the dress-down rule and, although he stood out anyway because he was a pale-skinned güerito, he’d encountered no problems on his travels. The stations themselves were grimy, functionalist and depressing. Architecturally they resembled prison camps, but located underground. Nevertheless Armstrong enjoyed travelling by metro; it was unbelievably cheap, the gap between trains was less than a minute, and it was like being on a mobile market place. Passengers selling homemade CDs would wander up and down the carriages, with samples of music playing on ghetto blasters slung over their shoulders. Others sold tonics for afflictions from back pain to impotence. Whether these worked or not there was certainly a market for them, as the sellers did a brisk trade.

One of the carriages on the train that Armstrong took must have been defective. All its lights were out and, curiously, he noticed that when anyone thought to board it anyway changed their minds at once and preferred to either remain on the platform or else rush over into one of the adjacent carriages instead.

Armstrong alighted at Chapultepec station, found his way through the convoluted tunnels up to the surface and turned left alongside the eight-lane road outside. The noise of the traffic blocked out most other sounds, and the vehicle fumes were like a low-level grey nebula held down by the force of the brilliant afternoon sunshine. People scurried to and fro along the pavement, their gazes fixed straight ahead, particularly those of any lone women for whom eye-contact with a chilango carried the risk of inviting a lewd suggestion.

A long footbridge flanked the motorway, and was the only means of crossing for pedestrians for a couple of miles or so. At night it was a notorious crime spot and only the foolhardy would cross it unaccompanied. However, at this time of the day everyone safely used it and a constant stream of people went back and forth.

Juan San Isidro’s apartment was only five minutes walk from the bridge, and was housed in a decaying brownstone building just on the fringes of La Condesa. Sometimes Armstrong wondered whether the poet was the structure’s only occupant, for the windows of all the other apartments were either blackened by soot or else broken and hanging open day and night to the elements.

He pushed the intercom button for San Isidro, and, after a minute, heard a half-awake voice say:

“¿Quién es?”

“It’s me, Victor, come down and let me in, will you?” Armstrong replied, holding his mouth close to the intercom.

“Stand in front where I can see you,” he said, “and I’ll give you mis llaves.”

Armstrong left the porch, went onto the pavement and looked up. San Isidro leaned out of one of the third floor windows, his lank black hair making a cowl over his face. He tossed a plastic bag containing the keys over the ledge, and Armstrong retrieved it after it hit the ground.

The building had grown even worse since the last time he’d paid a visit. If it was run-down before, now it was positively unfit for human habitation and should have been condemned. The lobby was filled with debris, half the tiles had fallen from the walls and a dripping waterpipe was poking out from a huge hole in the ceiling. Vermin scurried around back in the shadows. The building’s staircase was practically a deathtrap, for if a step had not already collapsed, those that remained seemed likely to do so in the near future. As Armstrong climbed he clutched at the shaky banister with both hands, his knuckles white with the fierce grip, advancing up sideways like a crab.

San Isidro was standing in the doorway to his apartment, smoking a fat joint with one hand and swigging from a half-bottle of Cuervo with the other. The smell of marijuana greeted Armstrong as he finally made it to the fourth floor. Being continually stoned, he thought, was about the only way to make the surroundings bearable.

“Hola, compañero, good to see you, come on inside.”

His half-glazed eyes, wide fixed smile and unsteady gait indicated that he’d been going at the weed and tequila already for most of the day.

“This is a celebration, no? You’ve come to bring me mucho dinero, I hope. I’m honoured that you come here to see me. Siéntate, por favor.”

San Isidro cleared a space on the sofa that was littered with porno magazines and empty packets of Delicados cigarettes. Armstrong then sat down while San Isidro picked up an empty glass from the floor, poured some tequila in it and put it in his hand.

“Salud,” he said “to our friend and saviour Felipe López, el mejor escritor de cuentos macabros del mundo, ahora y siempre.”

“I want you to tell me, Juan, as a friend and in confidence, what happened to López and how he came to think and act exactly like H. P. Lovecraft. And I want to know about the people that are after him. Were they people he knew before his—um—breakdown?” Armstrong said, looking at the glass and trying to find a clean part of the rim from which to drink. At this stage he was reluctant to reveal that the López manuscripts had been stolen. San Isidro was volatile, and Armstrong wasn’t sure how he might react to the news.

San Isidro appeared to start momentarily at the mention of “H. P. Lovecraft” but whether it was the effect of the name or the cumulative effect of the booze and weed, it was difficult to tell.

“So he told you, eh? Well, not all of it. No recuerda nada de antes, when he was just Felipe López. No importa qué pasó antes, sure, there was some heavy shit back then. Si quieres los cuentos, primero quiero mucho dinero. Then maybe I’ll tell you about it, eh?”

“I’ll pay you Juan, and pay you well. But I need to understand the truth,” Armstrong replied.

What San Isidro told Armstrong over the next half-hour consisted of a meandering monologue, mostly in Spanish, of a brilliant young gringo who had come to Mexico in the 1940s to study Mesoamerican anthropology. This man, Robert Hayward Barlow, had been Lovecraft’s literary executor. Armstrong had heard the name before but what little he knew did not prepare him for San Isidro’s increasingly bizarre account of events.

He began plausibly enough. Barlow, he said, had taken possession of Lovecraft’s papers after his death in 1937. He had gone through them thereafter and donated the bulk to the John Hay Library in Providence, in order to establish a permanent archival resource. However he was ostracised by the Lovecraft circle, a campaign driven by Donald Wandrei and August Derleth, on the basis that he had supposedly stolen the materials in the first place from under the nose of the Providence author’s surviving aunt.

However, what was not known then, San Isidro claimed, was that Barlow had kept some items back, the most important of which was the Dream Diary of the Arkham Cycle, a notebook in longhand of approximately thirty or so pages and akin to Lovecraft’s commonplace book. It contained, so San Isidro claimed, dozens of entries from 1923 to 1936 that appeared to contradict the assertion that Lovecraft’s mythos was solely a fictional construct. These entries are not suggestive by and of themselves at the time they were supposedly written, for the content was confined to the description of dreams in which elements from his myth-cycle had manifested themselves. These could be accepted as having no basis in reality had it not been for their supposedly prophetic nature. One such entry San Isidro quoted from memory. By this stage his voice was thick and the marijuana he’d been smoking made him giggle in a disquieting, paranoid fashion:

A dream of the bony fingers of Azathoth reaching down to touch two cities in Imperial Japan, and laying them waste. Mushroom clouds portending the arrival of the Fungi from Yuggoth.

To Armstrong, this drivel seemed only a poor attempt to turn Lovecraft into some latter-day Nostradamus, but San Isidro clearly thought otherwise. Armstrong wondered what López had to do with all of this, and whether he would repudiate the so-called “prophecies” by sharing Lovecraft’s trust in indefatigable rationalism. That would be ironic.

“How does all this tie in with López?” Armstrong said.

“In 1948,” San Isidro slurred, “there were unos brujos, se llamaban La Sociedad del Sol Oscuro, cheap gringo paperbacks of Lovecraft were their inspiration. They were interested in revival of worship for the old Aztec gods before they incorporated Cthulhu mythology. The gods of the two are much alike, no? Sangre, muerte y la onda cósmica. They tormented Barlow, suspected that’s why he came to Mexico, because of the connection. Barlow was a puto, he loved to give it to boys, and soon they found out about the dream-diary. That was the end. Blackmail. He killed himself in 1951, took a whole bottle of seconal.”

“But what about López?”

“They had to wait cincuenta años para que se alinearan las estrellas. Blood sacrifices, so much blood, the police paid off over decades. But it was prophesised in his own dream-diary: El espléndido regreso. Even the exact date was written in there. López was the chosen vessel. ”

“How do you know all this, Juan?”

“I chose him from amongst us, but I betrayed them, the secret was passed down to me, and now I need to get out of this pinche country rápido, before mis hermanos come for me. López, he wants to go back to Providence, one last time,” San Isidro giggled again at this point, “though I reckon it’s changed a lot, since he last saw it, eh? But, me, I don’t care.”

He’s as insane as López, Armstrong thought. This is just an elaborate scheme cooked up by the two of them to get money out of someone they think of as simply another stupid, rich foreigner. After all, what evidence was there that any of this nonsense had a grain of truth in it? Like most occultists, they’d cobbled together a mass of pseudo-facts and assertions and dressed it up as secret knowledge known only to the “initiated”. Christ, he wouldn’t have been surprised if, at this point, San Isidro produced a “Dream Diary of the Arkham Cycle”, some artificially-aged notebook written in the 1960s by a drugged-up kook who’d forged Lovecraft’s handwriting and stuffed it full of allusions to events after his death in 1937. They’d managed to pull off a pretty fair imitation of his stories between themselves and whoever else was involved in the scam. The results were certainly no worse than August Derleth’s galling attempts at “posthumous collaboration” with Lovecraft.

At last, as if San Isidro had reached a stage where he had drunk and smoked himself back to relative sobriety, he lurched up from the easy chair in which he’d been sitting. He ran his fingers through his beard, stared hard at Armstrong and said:

“We need to talk business, how much are you going to give me?”

“I’ll give you enough to get out of Mexico, for the sake of our friendship, but I can’t pay for the stories, Juan, anyway someone has stolen them,” Armstrong replied.

Probably you or López, he thought cynically.

The only reaction from San Isidro was that he raised his eyebrows a fraction. Without saying a word he went into the kitchen next door and Armstrong could hear him rattling around in some drawers.

“If you’re going to try to fleece me,” Armstrong said, raising his voice so that he could be heard in the adjacent room, “then you and López will have to do better than all this Barlow and the ‘Sodality of the Black Sun’ crap.”

When San Isidro came back into the room, his teeth were bared like those of a hungry wolf. In his right hand he was clutching a small calibre pistol, which he raised and aimed directly at Armstrong’s head.

“Cabrón, hijo de puta, di tus últimas oraciones, porque te voy a matar.”

Sweat broke out on Armstrong’s forehead. His thoughts raced. Was the gun loaded or was this only bravado? Another means of extorting money from him? Could he take the chance?

Just as Armstrong was about to cry out, everything went black. Despite the fact that it was the middle of the afternoon, with brilliant sunshine outside, the room was immediately swallowed up by total darkness. Armstrong could not believe what was happening. He thought, at first, that he had gone blind. Only when he stumbled around in the inky void and came right up against the window did he see the sunlight still outside, but not penetrating at all beyond the glass and into the room. Outside, the world went on as normal. Armstrong turned back away from the window and was aware of a presence moving within the dark. The thing emitted a high-pitched and unearthly whistle that seemed to bore directly into his brain. God, he thought, his train of reasoning in a fit of hysterical chaos, something from Lovecraft’s imagination had clawed its way into reality, fully seventy years after the man’s death. Something that might drive a man absolutely insane, if it was seen in the light. Armstrong thought of the hundreds of hackneyed Cthulhu Mythos stories that he’d been forced to read down the years and over which he’d chortled. He recalled the endless ranks of clichéd yet supposedly infinitely horrible monstrosities, all with unpronounceable names. But he couldn’t laugh now, because the joke wasn’t so funny anymore.

So he screamed instead—

“Juan! Juan!”

Armstrong bumped into the sofa in a panic, before he finally located the exit. From behind him came the sound of six shots, fired one after the other, deafeningly loud, and then nothing but dead, gaunt silence. He staggered into the hallway and reached the light outside, turned back once to look at the impenetrable darkness behind him, before then hurtling down the stairs. He now gave no thought, as he had done when coming up, as to how precarious they were. He did, however, even in the grip of terror, recall that the building was deserted and that no one could swear to his having been there.

* * *

After what had happened to him, Armstrong expected to feel a sense of catastrophic psychological disorientation. Whatever had attacked San Isidro, he thought, carrying darkness along with it so as to hide its deeds, was proof of something, even if it did not prove that everything San Isidro had claimed was in fact true. At the very least it meant that the “Sodality of the Black Sun” had somehow called a psychic force into existence through their half-century of meddling with rituals and sacrifices. Armstrong had no choice but to discount the alternative rational explanation. At the time when day had become night in San Isidro’s apartment he had been afraid, but nothing more, otherwise he was clear-headed and not prone to any type of hysterical interlude or hallucinatory fugue. Rather than feeling that his worldview had been turned upside-down however, he instead felt a sense of profound loneliness. What had happened had really happened but he knew that if he tried to tell anyone about it, they would scoff or worse, pity him, as he himself would have done, were he in their position.

Enrique and María returned to their apartment on schedule and Armstrong told them of his intention to remain in Mexico City a while longer. They noticed the curious melancholy in him, but did not question him about it in any detail. Nor would he have told them, even if prompted. Armstrong moved out the next day, transferring his meagre belongings to a room in a seedy hotel overlooking La Calle de Bucareli. From there he was able to gaze out of a fifth-floor window in his cuartito and keep watch on the Café la Habana opposite. His remaining connection to the affair was with Felipe López, the man who had the mind of Lovecraft, and he could not leave without seeing him one last time. He had no idea whether San Isidro were alive or dead. What was certain was that it was inconceivable that he attempted to make contact with him. Were San Isidro dead, it would arouse suspicion that Armstrong had been connected with his demise, and were he alive, then Armstrong had little doubt that he’d want to exact revenge.

Days passed, and Armstrong’s vigil yielded no results. There was no sign of López and he had no way of contacting him directly, no phone number, and no address. He was fearful that the Mexican police might call upon him at any instant, and scanned the newspapers daily in order to see if there were any reports mentioning San Isidro. He found nothing at all relating to him and recalled what he’d been told about the authorities having been paid off with blood money over decades. When Armstrong left his room it was only to visit the local Oxxo convenience store in order to stock up on tortas de jamón y queso, Faros, y tequila barato. The last of these items was most important to him. He spent most of the time pouring the tequila into a tumbler and knocking it back, while sitting at his pigeon-shit stained window, hoping to see López finally enter the Café la Habana in search of him. All he saw was the endless mass of frenzied traffic, drivers going from nowhere to anywhere and back in a hurry, oblivious to the revelation that separated him from such commonplace concerns, and which had taken him out of the predictable track of everyday existence.

And then, twelve days after he’d rented the room in the hotel, he finally saw a slightly stooped figure in a grey suit making his way towards the Café la Habana. It was López; there could be no doubt about it.

* * *

López was seated in a table in the corner of the Café, reading a paperback book and sipping at a cup of coffee. As Armstrong approached he saw that the book was a grubby second-hand copy of Los Mitos de Cthulhu por H. P. Lovecraft y Otros. The edition had a strange green photographic cover, depicting, it appeared, a close-up of a fossil. López immediately put down the volume once he caught sight of Armstrong.

“San Isidro seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth,” he said. “I’ve been endeavouring to contact him for the last two weeks, but all to no avail. I admit to feeling not a little concern in the matter. Have you crossed paths with him of late?”

Armstrong could not take his eyes off the man. Could “The Sodality of the Black Sun” have succeeded? Was the creature that conversed with him now actually the mind of Lovecraft housed in the body of some Mexican occultist called López? God, what a disappointment it must have been for them, he thought. What irony! To go to all that trouble to reincarnate the consciousness of the great H. P. Lovecraft, only to find that after his return he denied his own posthumous existence! But why keep such a survival alive, why allow the existence of the last word on the subject if it contradicted their aims? It made no sense.

“I’m afraid,” said Armstrong, “that San Isidro has vanished.”

“I don’t see…” said López.

“Not all of Lovecraft came back, did it? I don’t think they salvaged the essence, only a fragment. A thing with his memories, but not the actual man himself. Some sort of failed experiment. You’re the one who’s been leaving me those warning notes, aren’t you?” Armstrong said, interrupting.

“You presume too much, Mr. Armstrong, and forget,” replied López, “that I have not, at any stage, asserted that I believe myself to be anything other than the misguided individual called Felipe López.”

“That’s just part of the deception!” Armstrong said, getting to his feet and jabbing his finger at López, “that’s what you know Lovecraft would have said himself!”

“How on earth could I be of benefit to the designs of an occult organisation such as ‘The Sodality of the Black Sun’ if I deny the very existence of supernatural phenomena? You make no sense, Sir.”

López’s lips had narrowed to a thin cruel line upon his face and he was pale with indignation. His voice had dropped to a threatening whisper.

Everyone in the Café la Habana had turned around to stare, stopped dreaming over their pipes, newspapers and games of chess, and paused, their attention drawn by the confrontation being played out in English before them.

“The Old Ones are only now being born, emerging from your fiction into our world,” Armstrong said, “the black magicians of ‘The Sodality of the Black Sun’ want to literally become them. Once they do, the Old Ones will finally exist, independent of their creator, with the power to turn back time, recreating history to their own design as they go along.”

“You, Sir,” said López, “are clearly more deranged than am I.”

“Tell me about the notebook, Lovecraft, tell me about your ‘Dream-Diary of the Arkham Cycle’,” Armstrong shouted.

“There is no record of such a thing,” López replied, “there are no indications that such an item ever existed amongst Lovecraft’s papers, no mention of anything like it in his letters or other writings, no evidence for…”

“Tell me whether history is already beginning to change, whether the first of the Old Ones has begun manipulating the events of the past?”

As Armstrong finished asking his question he saw a shocking change come over López’s features. Two forces seemed to war within the Mexican’s body and a flash of pain distorted his face. At that moment the whites of his eyes vanished, as if the darkness of night looked out through them. But then he blinked heavily, shook his head from side to side, and finally regained his composure. As he did so, his usual aspect returned. The change and its reversal had been so sudden that, despite how vivid it had been, Armstrong could have just imagined it. After all, his nerves were already shredded, and he jumped at shadows.

“I can tell you nothing. What you are suggesting is madness,” López said, getting to his feet and picking up the copy of the book he’d left on the table. He left without looking back.

* * *

Armstrong did not return to London. He acquired a certain notoriety over the years as the irredeemably drunk English bum who could be found hanging around in the Café la Habana, talking to anyone who would listen to his broken Spanish. However, he was never to be found there after nightfall or during an overcast and dark afternoon. At chess, he insisted on playing white, and could not bear to handle the black pieces, asking his opponent to remove them from the board on his behalf.

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