Charles Portis - Masters of Atlantis

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Table of Contents

ALSO BY CHARLES PORTIS

Norwood
True Grit
The Dog of the South
Gringos

YOUNG LAMAR JIMMERSON went to France in 1917 with the American Expeditionary Forces, serving first with the Balloon Section, stumbling about in open fields holding one end of a long rope, and then later as a telephone switchboard operator at AEF headquarters in Chaumont. It was there on the banks of the Marne River that he first came to hear of the Gnomon Society.

He was walking about Chaumont one night with his hands in his pockets when he was approached by a dark bowlegged man who offered to trade a small book for two packages of Old Gold cigarettes. The book had to do with the interpretation of dreams. Corporal Jimmerson did not smoke, nor did he have much interest in such a book, but he felt sorry for the ragged fellow and so treated him to a good supper at the Hotel Davos.

The man wept, overcome with gratitude. He said his name was Nick and that he was an Albanian refugee from Turkey. After supper he revealed that his real name was Mike and that he was actually a Greek from Alexandria, in Egypt. The dream book was worthless, he said, full of extravagant lies, and he apologized for imposing in such a way on the young soldier. He apologized too for his body odor, saying that nerve sweat or fear sweat made for a stronger stink than mere work sweat or heat sweat, or at least that had been his experience, and that he was always nervous when he spoke of delicate matters.

Perhaps he could repay the kindness in another way. He had another book. This one, the Codex Pappus, contained the secret wisdom of Atlantis. He could not let the book out of his hands but, as an Adept in the Gnomon Society, he was permitted to show it to outsiders, or Perfect Strangers, who gave some promise of becoming Gnomons. Lamar, who was himself an Entered Apprentice in the Blue Lodge of the Freemasons, expressed keen interest.

It was a little gray book, or booklet, hand lettered in Greek. There were several pages given over to curious diagrams and geometric figures, mostly cones and triangles. Mike explained that this was not, of course, the original script. The original book had been sealed in an ivory casket in Atlantis many thousands of years ago, and committed to the waves on that terrible day when the rumbling began. After floating about for nine hundred years the casket had finally fetched up on a beach in Egypt, where it was found by Hermes Trismegistus. Another nine years passed before Hermes, with his great powers, was able to read the book, and then another nine before he was able to fully understand it, and thus become the first modern Master of the Gnomon Society.

Since those days the secret brotherhood had seen many great Masters, including Pythagoras and Cornelius Agrippa and Cagliostro, but none greater than the current one, Pletho Pappus, whose translation this little book was. Pletho lived and taught in the Gnomon Temple on the island of Malta, with his two Adepts, Robert and a man named Rosenberg.

Lamar was embarrassed to say that he had not heard of this Society, nor was he aware that flotsam of any description, literary or otherwise, had ever been recovered from Atlantis. What was the book about? Mike apologized again, saying he was bone tired. Could they continue their discussion another time? He could hardly keep his eyes open and must now find himself a dark doorway where he might curl up and try to get a little rest. But Lamar would not hear of this and he arranged for Mike to be put up in the Hotel Davos.

Their friendship flourished. They had many meals together and many long talks. Lamar paid for Mikes food and shelter and cigarettes, and even bought him a cheap suit of clothes. Bit by bit the truth came out. Mike confessed that his real name was Jack and that he was an Armenian from Damascus. He was here on a mission. Pletho, with an eye to expanding the activities of the secret order to the New World, had sent him here to Chaumont, disguised as a beggar, to look over the Americans and determine if any were worthy of the great work. So far he had found only one.

Lamar was embarrassed again. But Jack insisted that yes, Lamar was indeed worthy and must now prepare himself for acceptance into the brotherhood. Lamar did so. First came the Night of Figs, then the Dark Night of Utter Silence. On the third night, a wintry night, in Room 8 of the Hotel Davos, Lamar Jimmerson folded his arms across his chest and spoke to Jack the ancient words from AtlantisTell me, my friend, how is bread made?and with much trembling became an Initiate in the Gnomon Society.

This work done, Jack said that he was at last free to divulge his true Gnomon identity; he was Robert, a French Gypsy, and he must now hasten back to Malta to report his success to the Master, the success of the American mission. He would leave the Codex Pappus in Lamars care, for further study, and as a kind of token of good faith, or surety, and he would return in a month or so with more secret books, with Lamars ceremonial robe and with sealed instructions from Pletho himself. There was a $200 charge for the robe, payable in advance. This was merely a bookkeeping technicality, one of Rosenbergs foolish quirks, and all rather pointless, seeing that Lamar would begin drawing $1,000 a month expense money as soon as his name was formally entered on the rolls. Still, Robert said, he had always found it better to humor Rosenberg in these matters.

Lamar saw no more of Robert and heard nothing from Malta. He wrote letters to the Gnomon Temple in Valletta but got no answers. He wondered if Roberts ship might have been torpedoed or lost in a storm. There was no question of his having run off with the robe money because he, Lamar, still had the Codex, along with Roberts Poma, a goatskin cap he had left behind in his room. This Poma was a conical cap, signifying high office, or so Robert had told him.

The Armistice came and many of the doughboys set up a clamor to be sent home at once, though not Corporal Jimmerson, who remained loyally at his switchboard. He even volunteered to stay behind and help with all the administrative mopping-up tasks, so as to replenish his savings. In May 1919, he received his discharge in Paris, and went immediately to Marseilles and got deck passage on a mail boat to the island of Malta.

On arrival in Valletta he took a room at a cheap waterfront hotel called the Gregale. He then set out in search of the Gnomon Temple and his Gnomon brothers. He walked the streets looking at faces, looking for Robert, and clambered about on the rocky slopes surrounding the gray city that sometimes looked brown. He talked to taxicab drivers. They professed to know nothing. No one at the post office could help. He managed to get an appointment with the secretary to the islands most famous resident, the Grand Master of the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem, but the fellow said he had never heard of Gnomons or Gnomonry and that the Grand Master could not be bothered with casual inquiries.

Lamar found three Rosenbergs and one Pappus in Valletta, none of whom would admit to being Master of Gnomons or Perfect Adept of Hermetical Science. He tried each of them a second time, appearing before them silently on this occasion, wearing his Poma and flashing the Codex. He greeted them with various Gnomon saluteswith his arms crossed, with his right hand grasping his left wrist, with his hands at his sides and the heel of his right foot forming a T against the instep of his left foot. At last in desperation he removed his Poma and clasped both hands atop his head, his arms making a kind of triangle. This was the sign for Need assistance and was not to be used lightly, Robert had told him. But Pappus and the Rosenbergs only turned away in fright or disgust.

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