Heart of Water

the gift of water

lies within itself running

fresh and always new

--Peter S. Quinn

One mathematician has calculated that if Columbus spilled a glass of water into the sea back in 1492 and if that glass of water was by now thoroughly mixed in all the oceans and rivers of the world, then every glass of water drawn from every faucet in the world would contain as many as 250 molecules from the original water Columbus spilled.

***

People often ask me: "Oswald, do you miss the villainy?" To which, I always reply, with a magnanimous air: "As Penguin, I risked becoming a caricature of myself. As Oswald, no one thinks of risk." This invariably elicits a polite twittering of laughter. As much as I covet a position with the movers and shakers of Gotham, as much as their patronage sustains the Iceberg Lounge, giving me the necessary funds to hire accomplished ice sculptors and gelato- makers and whatnot, their senses of humor often seem woefully underdeveloped.

Indeed, no one has worked harder than I to make the nightclub a success. It is my precious, precocious child--all gleaming stainless steel and artfully placed mirrors. Glitter reflects inside its silver surface, making everyone appear more glamorous than they truly are.

The police often ask me: "What are your dealings with Rupert Thorne?" To which, I always reply: "Few and aboveboard, gentlemen. Would you care for a martini?" Truly, it would be rude of them to reject such a gentlemanly offer and, as yet, none of them have.

Business is slow in the middle of the week and Wednesday night was no exception. I counted only three and a half celebrities. That half belonged to Richard Grayson--I do not consider him much more than a glorified hanger-on, but he is ward to one of the world's richest men.

I greeted him with the proper measure of respect. "Mr. Grayson! What a pleasure to see you! You and your lovely companion. Miss...?"

"Ms. Gordon. Barbara." She flashed me a quick smile.

"Ah, Gordon. Of course. You wouldn't, by chance, be any relation to..."

"My father."

I considered it wiser to keep the couple moving. "Right this way, please. It's always such a pleasure to see you here, Mr. Grayson," I said, leading them around tables, across the empty dance floor. "And your guardian? How is he? He hasn't been in here for nearly four months. The last time was with Ms. Kyle, I believe." I let my nose wrinkle just a bit at that. It was the worst kept secret in town that Selina Kyle doubled as Catwoman in her copious spare time; a lesser known secret was what she used to do to earn money before burglary turned her into a philanthropist. She lacked an essential class.

"Bruce is out of town on business," Dick said cheerfully. "I hope he comes back soon. Alfred and I are knocking around the mansion without much of anything to do."

"I'm sure you have the lovely, Ms. Gordon to keep you company."

Only Dick blushed at that. Barbara regarded me steadily. I suppose I hadn't won any points for the "Miss." Damn women's lib.

"Ah. Well..."

"Forget I said anything." I pulled out their chairs for them and backed away. "Enjoy."

If you want to succeed in the restaurant business, you learn to perfect the art of hovering--not in some obvious or intrusive way, just remaining at the fringes of conversation, senses twitching to anticipate the customer's every need before he knows he has it.

As soon as they thought I was safely out of earshot, Barbara hit Dick's shoulder lightly.

"What was that for?" he complained.

"All-purpose," she murmured. "He gives me the creeps. It gives me the creeps to be out on the town when Bruce is...I mean..."

He covered her hand with his. I think she had her other hand on his knee under the table. Young love can't stop caressing itself, even in the depths of some unspecified personal crisis. The evening was becoming very interesting indeed.

"Don't worry, Babs."

"I'm not that worried. Not really. He'll come back in due time. But you seem almost too calm." She stopped and considered him. I knew the look: gently probing, the kind that leaves one feeling as if he has just been smoothly stripped of all affectations and bravado. She rested her cheek on her palm before continuing. "You're so like him sometimes. Hard to read."

"I don't know if I'd put it that way myself," Dick replied. There was an odd edge to his voice that I couldn't quite place. I assumed they were talking about Wayne and I wondered if Dick resented the comparison to the empty-headed playboy.

Barbara shook her head, strands of red hair falling across her cheeks in a most becoming manner. The effect was not lost on Dick. "I don't want to talk about him anymore tonight, okay?"

"What would you like to talk about instead?"

"Isn't that a bit 'Monty Python' of you?" His response was a puzzled look. "That sketch where the couple go into the restaurant and the server brings them a topic to talk about?"

"'Meaning of Life' wasn't it?"

"I think so."

"I see you have brought the machine that goes 'ping'!" he quoted neatly. Barbara chuckled and I drifted back into the room.