§ § § -- March 1, 1980
The weekend's two fantasies were well in hand, fortunately, for it was an unusually warm day for March, even in a tropical place such as Fantasy Island. Hazy heat shimmered in the air and there was almost no breeze. Leslie had gone to the pool with her friends, so the main house was quiet. Roarke was deeply absorbed in a book in the study, having unexpectedly found a spare hour or so that he could call his own. For some time he had been experimenting with a new potion for a future fantasy, but had reached a temporary impasse and was trying to divert himself so that he could come back to it later with a fresher outlook. Just as a reminder to himself, he had left the glass containing the colorless, transparent formula on the corner of his desk, so that when he was ready to return to the problem, it would be right there waiting for him.
The book he was reading was of such ancient vintage that he doubted anyone had ever heard of it; besides, it was in a foreign language of no earthly origin. It had been a favorite of his in his long-ago childhood, and every several years or so he came back to it. It never failed to engross him, to the point of such totality that he could utterly forget the world around him. So it was this time as well. In fact, Roarke had that in common with Leslie; they were both devoted bookworms, and it always warmed him when he saw Leslie curled up in a chair with a good book. He often regretted that he himself had so little time to read, but this merely heightened his enjoyment of it whenever he did manage to carve out an hour or two for it.
He was well and truly lost in the events of another time and another place when Tattoo, back from his routine rounds and a bit overheated, paused at the desk, mopping his brow. "Hi, boss," he said automatically, his mind on a tall, cold drink.
"…Hmm?" murmured Roarke after a moment.
Tattoo folded the handkerchief and stuffed it into his pocket, so thirsty that when he spied the glass on the desk, he found himself unduly interested in it. "Boss, what's in that glass?" he asked, thinking maybe he could have Mana'olana whip up some for him.
Roarke turned a page and said absently, "Uh…nothing, nothing." Tattoo eyed him, looked at the glass, then shrugged and promptly drained its contents. It was a little thick, but it tasted good going down and went a long way toward quenching his thirst.
"But I wouldn't drink it if I were you," Roarke said then.
Tattoo froze in place. "Why not?"
"It's a special formula that makes people invisible," Roarke replied.
"Invisible?" Tattoo echoed in horror.
"Mm-hmm," Roarke murmured again.
"Sacre bleu!" Tattoo gasped. The exclamation finally caught Roarke's attention and he looked up from the book for the first time, only to find himself apparently alone in the room. He sat up in his chair, puzzled.
"Tattoo, where are you?" he asked.
"I'm right here, boss, right here!" came Tattoo's frantic voice.
Roarke shook his head once, wondering if something was wrong with his eyesight. "Where? I can't see you," he protested.
"I'm right here in front of you and you can't see me?" Tattoo cried, panicking.
Again Roarke looked around the room but still saw no sign of his assistant; but something looked out of place, and he frowned and glanced down, only then seeing the empty glass. "Tattoo," he exclaimed, some horror now etched into his own features, "you didn't drink this, did you, huh?"
"I did, boss," Tattoo groaned in despair. "How long am I gonna be invisible?"
"Oh, that's simple, my friend," Roarke said with a fatalistic shrug. "When I can see you again." With that, he picked up the empty glass and left the room, headed back for the cellar to mix a new batch of the potion in its current form so that he could get back to work on it. Tattoo watched him leave, completely stunned, and then happened to notice his own hands. He turned them over as if they belonged to someone else.
"But how come I can see myself?" he wondered aloud. He cast one more anxious glance in the direction Roarke had gone, then sighed deeply and decided there was no point in making any more rounds, or indeed even leaving the premises, until the stuff wore off. And he was afraid he'd have to settle in for a good long wait. With that in mind, he wandered over to the bookshelves, wondering if Roarke happened to have any books that were written in French.
About an hour later Roarke came back into the room and stopped short when he saw an open book hovering in mid-air. "So you're still here, Tattoo," he said.
"Hi again, boss," Tattoo replied and sighed deeply.
Roarke shook his head a little. "My friend, quite frankly, seeing that book apparently floating all by itself is disconcerting enough as it is. But if you think it bothers me, imagine what would happen should a guest walk into the room and see it?"
The book abruptly dropped about a foot. "Oh," Tattoo's voice mumbled sheepishly. "I didn't think of that. Sorry, boss."
"I had thought you would be out making more rounds, at any rate," Roarke added, going to the desk and opening an ornate gold box in which he kept car keys.
"Looking like this?" Tattoo demanded incredulously.
"Looking like what?" Roarke countered. "May I remind you, my dear Tattoo, that you are invisible. You could be wearing a clown suit or a ballroom gown, or a barrel for that matter, and no one would ever know."
"That may be," Tattoo promptly shot back, "but think of all the heart-attack cases that the hospital would be swamped with if I tried to drive my car like this."
Roarke paused and considered this. "You have an excellent point, my friend," he conceded, taking out a set of keys and closing the gold box. "Well, in that case, I suppose there is nothing else to do but have you wait here. I'll have to get Leslie from the swimming pool, since you are...uh, out of commission at the moment." He sighed audibly as he crossed the room and remarked offhandedly, "I think it's time to begin teaching her how to drive."
"Well, leave me out of that," Tattoo said emphatically, picking up his book again.
Roarke stopped and would have given him an exasperated look, except that he didn't know exactly where to direct it. "Really, Tattoo," he said instead, and left the house before Tattoo could find another riposte.
At the pool, he spotted his ward sitting at a table with all five of her friends. Leslie was clearly surprised to see him. "Is something wrong, Mr. Roarke?" she asked.
"No…it's only that Tattoo had a slight mishap, and I may have to send you out to do some of his errands," Roarke told her and surveyed her friends. "Hello, girls. I'm afraid Leslie's free time has just ended, but if all is well, you might come by for her tomorrow."
Leslie's friends looked at one another in curiosity, but they didn't ask questions; like most of the islanders, they generally expected Roarke to be cryptic. They simply nodded in acceptance and said goodbye to Leslie, who waved back and trailed Roarke out of the pool area and to the car. "Where is Tattoo?" she asked.
"At the house," Roarke said and then added under his breath, "I hope." Starting the car, he asked Leslie if she had enjoyed her swim, the answer to which kept her occupied for the short drive back to the main house. He parked the car near the fountain and followed her into the house, where once she got inside, she tossed her towel across a chair and started to lean down to remove her sandals.
Before she could move more than a fraction, or Roarke have time to react, the towel went flying right back into the air again. "Watch where you're throwing things!" squawked an indignant voice.
Leslie's eyes popped and stark terror radiated from her face; she stumbled backwards toward the stairs, and nearly tripped on the bottom step. As it was, she sat down hard enough to make Roarke wince on her behalf. Speechless, she gaped at Roarke and pointed at the chair, mouth open, eyes enormous and her entire arm shaking.
"Yes, I know," Roarke replied calmly, picking up the towel. "Take that upstairs, if you would be so kind, and then change your clothing." He watched Leslie attempt to gather her widely scattered wits for a long moment, while he stood holding the proffered towel at her and very carefully controlling a smile. Finally she took the towel from him and eased up the stairs backwards, one wary step at a time, all the while staring at the seemingly empty chair. Roarke watched her go for a moment, then shook his head and retreated behind his desk.
"I scared her to death, didn't I," Tattoo's voice remarked.
"Undoubtedly you shortened her lifespan by at least five years," Roarke agreed and spread out some balance sheets across the desk. Tattoo chuckled, and Roarke quirked a smile before putting his full attention to the paperwork.
It took Leslie an unusually long time to return downstairs, and when she did come back, she took the steps warily, carefully scanning the room. By then Roarke was adding up columns of figures, and the room was quiet. But when she finally stepped off the last stair tread and stopped there, Roarke looked up. "What's the matter, Leslie?"
"You said Tattoo was here," she said accusingly. "But he's not."
"Oh yes I am," Tattoo immediately responded, all wounded dignity. "I'm right in this room, the same as you. So you better watch out where you sit."
"I don't get it," Leslie finally exploded in exasperation. "Would someone kindly tell me what's going on around here, or are you having too much fun at my expense to bother?"
Roarke relented then, chuckling. "The reason you can't see Tattoo is because he accidentally drank the invisibility potion I've been working on," he explained to her. "So far he shows no signs of becoming visible again, and as you can see if you think it over, that makes it difficult for him to carry out most of his usual duties."
"Oh," said Leslie softly, drawing out the word as she considered the ramifications of this explanation. "So that's what this is all about. Well, then, Tattoo, if you don't want me accidentally squashing you, you might want to tell me which chair you're sitting in."
"The same one you threw the towel on," he said pointedly.
"Oh," she said again, this time sheepishly. "Sorry about that." She rounded the chair Tattoo claimed to be occupying and took the one beside it, all the while eyeing the first chair as if she expected Tattoo to abruptly reappear in it. "So what's it feel like?"
"What, being invisible? I don't feel any different," Tattoo said. Silence fell for about fifteen seconds; then he lost patience. "What're you staring at?"
"Nothing," Leslie answered before she thought; then she gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth, her guilty gaze shifting to Roarke, who burst out laughing. Stricken then by the funny side of her remark, she slumped in her chair, convulsed with giggles.
"Oh, very funny," snapped Tattoo in irritation. "You know, I'm not so sure you two aren't playing a little joke on me. I can see myself, after all, so how do I know the two of you can't see me?"
"Honest, Tattoo, I can't see you," Leslie insisted, trying to control her merriment. "I know you're in that chair only because you say you are, but…" At that point Tattoo, testing her, picked up the book he had laid aside earlier. From Leslie's point of view it suddenly floated off the floor, and she yanked her entire upper torso to one side, shock all over her face. "Oh my God," she blurted.
"Well, I suppose that proves you can't see me at least," Tattoo said. "Come on, boss, tell me the truth…you can see me, right?"
"No, Tattoo, I can't," Roarke said serenely, having regained his composure.
"Really, boss, you can tell me," Tattoo persisted.
Roarke shook his head. "Truly, my friend, I can't see you at all. In actual fact, that wasn't my intention with regard to that potion. It leaves far too much room for malicious intent, and I can't have that. I'll have to adjust the formula again."
"I would too," Leslie said, shuddering slightly despite the heat. "It's really creepy not knowing if somebody's there or not—look what Tattoo did to me when I first walked in here with you." A shutter banged closed then on one of the windows and she started violently in her seat, gasping loudly.
"Tattoo," Roarke admonished.
"Just checking, boss," Tattoo said blithely.
"I believe we have established that you cannot be seen by anyone, and certainly not by Leslie," Roarke reminded him a little testily. "If I had any doubt that the formula isn't ready for use, you have utterly eradicated it. Enough is enough."
"Oh, all right, boss," Tattoo said, sighing. "But I can't help myself. I'm bored and I was just trying to have a little fun."
"I can live without that kind of fun," Leslie said shortly.
Roarke resumed adding figures. "Perhaps you'd better return home after all, Tattoo," he said. "You can't do much in your current situation, and there is no way to know when the formula will wear off. So consider this an afternoon off."
"Oh, okay, thanks, boss!" Tattoo said, sounding considerably more cheerful. They heard the sounds of his shoes crossing the floor and climbing the steps into the foyer; the door opened, then closed again. Leslie blew out a breath and relaxed at last.
"Thank you," she said wholeheartedly to Roarke. "I might've gotten up and throttled him if you hadn't done that…that is, if I could've found him first."
Roarke laughed again. "Have a little patience, child. Any potion, by its very nature, is temporary, so Tattoo won't be able to enjoy his transparent state permanently."
‡ ‡ ‡
Tattoo got a few odd looks Monday morning at the plane dock as they bid their guests farewell, but neither he nor Roarke nor Leslie let on that anything was amiss, so that they sent several people off with distinctly bewildered expressions. When the plane had taxied away across the lagoon, Roarke checked his gold pocket watch, gazed thoughtfully at Tattoo without really focusing on him, and remarked absently, "I have quite a full schedule today, and that includes some further tinkering with that formula."
Tattoo scowled in discomfort. "Boss, cut it out," he finally protested. "It's as if you're looking right through me."
"Maybe that's because he is," Leslie suggested wickedly and adroitly dodged the swat he aimed at her—for Tattoo, while finally visible again, was transparent!
"Leslie, that will do," said Roarke mildly. "And, incidentally, I must ask you to come straight home from school today. You'll have to take on some of Tattoo's errands, since he won't be able to do anything today."
"Why not?" demanded Tattoo warily.
"Well, my friend, since you've already proven that the formula still needs work, you'll have to be my…uh, guinea pig. There's the car, Leslie…have a good day in school."
Leslie nodded and then eyed Tattoo as the station wagon stopped nearby. "Don't look so upset, Tattoo," she suggested. "You've made history—the first invisible man in the world, outside movies."
"Get out of here!" Tattoo snapped, patience completely exhausted now, and took a threatening step or two towards her. She scrambled into the car, but as it pulled away, both Roarke and Tattoo could hear her laughter. Tattoo threw his hands into the air and turned to Roarke. "Boss, isn't there any way we can keep this a secret?"
Roarke studied him and his ghostlike appearance. "I very much doubt it, with the way you look now," he said frankly. "Half the island has already seen you in this state, so I daresay it's a bit late to keep this under wraps."
"Not only that," Tattoo groused, "but Leslie's probably gonna tell her friends all about it in school today. If that's her way of paying me back for teasing her yesterday afternoon, then I'd say we're even by now. Zut alors, I'll never live this one down."
"And whose fault is that?" Roarke said pointedly, leading the way to a jeep parked nearby and climbing inside. Tattoo hastily followed suit, and Roarke started the vehicle. "You know, Tattoo, there's a certain cliché you might be wise to keep in mind from now on."
"What cliché would that be?" Tattoo asked, eyeing him warily.
" 'Curiosity killed the cat'," Roarke quoted and pulled out onto the Ring Road.
"Thanks a lot, boss," grumbled Tattoo and glared blackly at the passing scenery all the way back to the main house. Roarke sighed gently and reflected that it was probably going to be a very long day.
§ § § -- April 6, 2006
Speaking loudly to be heard over Christian's and Julie's laughter and Rory's gleeful howling, Leslie put in, "What about the time he tried to fool us with that dummy?"
Roarke nodded recollection, his eyes warming. "Ah yes. I remember it well."
"Father wasn't above playing a little trick or two," Leslie said with a grin, catching but ignoring Roarke's deliberately blank look. "Here's what happened…"
§ § § -- May 17, 1980
"You've been doing this all day long," Leslie complained to Tattoo, watching him set up a ventriloquist's dummy in Roarke's chair. "I'm trying to study for my final exams, for Pete's sake. You're really distracting me."
Tattoo gave her a look. "Can't you do your studying in the evening, when the boss doesn't need you for stuff? Besides, you're the one who always goes so crazy to help him out every weekend. Give yourself a break."
"I can't," Leslie said. "Even Mr. Roarke told me I'd better get in whatever studying I can, whenever I can. He wants to see me make it to tenth grade as much as I do." Leslie had just turned fifteen, and she was within a couple of weeks of completing the ninth grade; the next week would begin final-exam week and she had been nervous about it for the last several days, prompting Roarke to suggest she study as much as possible.
Tattoo grunted, "You know what they say about all work and no play." She shot him a dirty look, which he ignored. Instead he inserted one hand into the dummy's back and experimentally maneuvered the controls that opened and closed the mouth, then made the dummy "say" a few phrases in French—without once trying to disguise the movement of his lips—while Leslie watched, helplessly distracted.
"You know, you can outpaint Picasso and Renoir, but you'll never be the next Edgar Bergen," she finally told him.
"You just wait," Tattoo retorted, and she shrugged. Just then they heard the outer door open, and he winked at her and ducked behind Roarke's chair, leaving the dummy sitting there by itself and Leslie apparently keeping it company.
Roarke came in, preoccupied with a report, and stepped into the study with a quick greeting glance at Leslie. Before either he or she could speak, however, Tattoo's voice came out from behind the chair. "Hi, big fellow. Whaddaya want? Oh, I bet you have a big problem!" He let out a chuckle, and Leslie shook her head and rolled her eyes expressively. Roarke followed suit, rounded the desk and peered pointedly behind the chair at Tattoo.
"Actually, I am Mr. Roarke, your boss, and I am in a hurry," he said crisply. "Leslie, are you studying?"
"Trying to," she grumbled, and to her surprise, he smiled briefly with understanding as Tattoo sheepishly emerged from behind the chair.
"Oh, hi boss," he said, peering hopefully up at Roarke, who had flipped open a large book on the desk and was rapidly leafing through pages. "How do you like our new act? Do you think we're ready to go on the stage?"
Slowly Leslie turned her head and stared at him, and thus caught Roarke's initial expression of disbelief before he seemed to think of something and then turned to Tattoo with a knowing little smile. "Let me see you do it without moving your lips. Go ahead."
Tattoo tried, but all he did was emit a long series of muffled grunts and mumbles, while Leslie watched with a wide-open smirk and Roarke looked on, his expression saying Well, there you are. Tattoo sighed and leaned onto the desk. "Well, boss, I think we need a little more practice."
"You're telling me," Leslie couldn't resist murmuring under her breath.
Tattoo heard, but he had no chance to do more than cast her a be quiet! look before they both saw the dummy's head swivel a full 180 degrees till it was looking at Tattoo. In a high-pitched voice it said, "You sure do! Let's go to your place and rehearse!"
"That's a good idea—" Then it sank in, and Tattoo jerked back around to stare at the dummy while Leslie blinked at it, mouth wide open. The dummy had sounded unmistakably like Roarke attempting (with no success whatsoever) to disguise his voice. Leslie looked at her guardian, but he seemed to be completely engrossed in his report and gave no indication at all that he had any clue what was going on.
"Hey, boss! He talked!" Tattoo burst out, gesturing at the dummy.
Roarke looked up, as if he had no idea what Tattoo meant, then raised his brows and remarked, "Really? That's amazing, Tattoo!" He clucked his tongue a few times and turned back to the book. And a moment later, the dummy's head turned back around, and suddenly Tattoo seemed to get it.
"Boss…? You did it," Tattoo said with a knowing grin.
Roarke looked up again. "What?" he asked blankly.
"Come on, boss, you did it!" Tattoo insisted, grinning. Leslie watched the byplay, sure that Roarke had in fact been responsible for the dummy's act, but enjoying witnessing Tattoo's reaction. Roarke, for his part, stared in utter confusion at his assistant, and Tattoo ventured, "Didn't you?" If anything, Roarke looked even more confused, perhaps a touch annoyed as well, then turned back to his work with another headshake. Leslie watched the bewildered Tattoo turn to the dummy and nudge its shoulder questioningly, trying to get it to respond; and that was when Roarke, apparently catching the movement out of the corner of his eye, sneaked a look at Tattoo and smiled, just a little, before winking at Leslie and going back to his report once more. She smirked again, quickly hid it before Tattoo saw it, and diligently bent her head to her books.
§ § § -- April 6, 2006
"Leslie Enstad, you fraud!" Christian accused teasingly, and she broke into laughter. "Poor Tattoo, he must have been left wondering all those years who really did that!"
"I doubt that," Roarke noted dryly. "He was into another hobby within days, and no more mention was ever made of that ventriloquism act."
"What he really wanted to do," Leslie said, "was grant fantasies. He sure gave it his best shot…several times, actually. I still remember the fall of that same year, the first time you faced Mephistopheles after I'd come here. What a nerve-killer that was."
"Just how many times have you gone up against Mephistopheles anyway?" Christian wanted to know. "Sometimes it seems as if you have to confront him every six months."
"Occasionally I feel that way myself," Roarke quipped, and they laughed. "We're long-time nemeses, I must admit. But at that time, it had been a good decade or more since we had butted heads, and I was a little slow to understand what was really happening when my guest proved to be unusually secretive about her fantasy."