Victoria became afraid as she saw the man-woman opening a hand with gigantic fingers and moving it toward Godfather, as if wanting to imprison his head inside it.
Then something happened both very slowly and very swiftly. Victoria saw the great shadow detaching itself from the man-woman, twirling in the air in a swirl of smoke, and landing on the pavement, just behind Godfather. An instant later, the man-woman was there in turn. He had taken the shadow’s place without needing to move.
He gave Godfather a great slap on the back, sending his hat flying to the ground.
“On second thought, I don’t think you’re powerful enough to cause such instability in space.”
Victoria turned her attention back to the Fake-Ginger-Fellow. While he remained calm and still, his shadows were all going crazy. They were squirming at his feet and stretching their arms—so many arms!—toward the man-woman, as if wanting to snatch away his shadow, but not managing to.
Godfather picked up his hat and, with a twirl of his hand, replaced it on top of his messy hair.
“That instability, Don Janus, is probably the work of God. You should apply yourself to extracting him from his hiding place, instead of lecturing me. You have founded a whole family of Arkadians who mess around with space, and among them, you have an elite group of Needlers capable of finding anyone anywhere. Forcing them to go underground like moles . . . what a waste!”
Victoria didn’t know what Godfather had said that was so interesting, but the Fake-Ginger-Fellow’s shadows became even more agitated.
The man-woman plunged his fingers between the folds of his giant ruff, as though rummaging inside his actual neck, and pulled out a book that was almost as big as Victoria. Father had a similar one that he carried with him at all times.
“Don’t bother coming back at me with that,” said the man-woman, shaking his book. “I am not like my brothers and sisters, my memory is in perfect working order. My Aguyas will remain impossible to find until I have decided otherwise. As for that person whom you call ‘God,’ I haven’t forgotten their real name, either.”
“Their real name,” Archibald repeated, sounding very intrigued.
“A name I won’t give you without getting anything in exchange. You’re going to have to win back my trust, niño. Know at least this: that person and I have never been close. Speaking geographically, of course. Since being old enough to use my family power, I’ve been incapable of staying put. I wasn’t with that person on the day the world was torn apart. Neither was I there when that person tore away a page from each of my brothers’ and sisters’ Books, depriving them forever of their memory. I must say, it didn’t exactly make me feel like seeing that person again. I decided to keep my distance, I hid in LandmArk, in a fold of space, and that was it. I don’t get involved in that person’s business, they don’t get involved in mine, and that’s suited everyone fine for centuries.”
The Funny-Eyed-Lady, who had remained silent until then, moved forward with a determined look. She let her lit cigarette fall to the ground, crushed it with her heel to put it out, and, with her funny eyes, looked the man-woman straight in the eye.
“Coward.”
The people on the balcony started to shout horrid words and hurl oranges. Godfather caught one as it flew past, and calmly began to peel it.
“And I’m the one who collects diplomatic incidents?”
If Godfather’s smile hadn’t been there, Victoria would have been really worried. As for the Funny-Eyed-Lady, she wasn’t laughing at all.
“That has ceased to be true, Janus, and you know it. That person is after your family power, and that’s why Mother Hildegarde—”
“. . . did her duty.”
With a slide of his fingers, the man-woman tweaked the spirals of his moustache.
“She may have been my descendant,” he added, “but she still betrayed me by changing her name and distancing herself from family politics. Neutrality rules with us. Doña Mercedes Imelda meddled far too much in the business of the other families, yours in particular. She was merely rectifying that mistake. As for that person, we’re all just going to remain quietly here, between ourselves, until they return to a better frame of mind.”
Victoria saw the Funny-Eyed-Lady’s fist tighten around the handle of her hammer, but Godfather chose that moment to slip between her and the man-woman.
“I’m offering you a deal, Don Janus. If we succeed in proving to you that LandmArk is already implicated in the machinations of that person, we will take them on together, with belt and braces.”
Victoria may have understood nothing of all these adult discussions, but she did at least recognize the word “braces,” as Godfather was pulling his own up and over his shirt, and gripping them in a determined way. He looked like a hero. He had always been her hero. So why couldn’t he see her?
The man-woman thrust his book back into the folds of his ruff.
“It’s a deal. In the meantime, niño, I forbid anyone on LandmArk to have the slightest dealings with you and your gang. You’re far too bad an influence.”
The people at their windows immediately withdrew inside; the balcony folded away again, like pleated paper; and soon all that remained were rows of white stones.
Victoria saw the man-woman’s shadow take flight, like a great bird of smoke. The next moment, he, in turn, had disappeared.
The Funny-Eyed-Lady looked hard at Godfather for a long time. She now seemed to want to use her hammer to break his smile.
“We won’t be chatting to an Arkadian any time soon, and we’ll never prove a thing to them. And you, you don’t give a damn!” she muttered angrily, suddenly turning toward the Fake-Ginger-Fellow. “The world’s getting blown apart, the Mother died for nothing, and you just stay there, in your corner, not batting an eyelid. Sometimes, you still behave like a valet.”
Victoria saw that there was pain in the anger of the Funny-Eyed-Lady. She seemed to expect something of the Fake-Ginger-Fellow that was very important to her.
He didn’t even look at her.
“Shame,” he said.
He was gazing at the pavement on which the man-woman had just been standing. His shadows still lurked around his feet, reaching out in all directions, as if desperately looking for something they couldn’t find.
When Victoria saw one of those shadows creeping toward her, she was torn between the desire to run away and the need to stay.
Suddenly, shadows and sun were all mixed up. Victoria’s view of the world, as from the depths of a bathtub, became even more blurred. Forms and colors combined into one giant whirlpool. There was no more Fake-Ginger-Fellow, no more Funny-Eyed-Lady, no more sun, no more street. No more Godfather. Victoria had never experienced such a thing on any journey. She couldn’t understand what was happening. She felt herself being sucked into this whirlpool, as if it sought to dissolve her into the entire universe.
“No!” she thought, and the whirlpool reversed its direction, then slowed its pace. Forms and colors gradually fell back into place. The street regained an almost stable appearance. It was empty. And dark. The sun no longer shone down between the roofs.
Victoria looked all around her. Godfather had gone. Where? She walked straight ahead, turned right, went up some stairs, turned left. The sky, high above the streets, was increasingly less blue. Turning around a park, Victoria spotted a silhouette she thought was Godfather’s, but it was in fact a lamplighter, with his pole on his shoulder. Doors sometimes appeared on a façade; they always opened on unknown people going out into the street to exchange murmurs, walk the dog, and return home, wishing each other goodnight.
Victoria stopped in the middle of the highest bridge in the town and looked down onto the dotted lines of lamps below. Masses and masses of streets zigzagged off into the darkness.
She really had lost Godfather.
She looked up at this real sky, som
ething she had always longed to see when at home. It wasn’t at all blue anymore. She was alone. Alone, and lost. She thought of the Other-Victoria with all her might—had she real eyelids, she would have closed them with all her might, too—to be as one with her once more. Her journeying body curled up tight. She hadn’t uttered a word since her birth, but the silence screamed within her.
Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy.
“I haven’t awarded the blurred.”
The Fake-Ginger-Fellow was there.
He had leant over Victoria to the point of hiding the stars. His gaze passed through her without seeing her, but he was screwing up his eyes and frowning with his big eyebrows, as if that helped him to make out her presence in the middle of the bridge. Victoria struggled to see him herself, due to the dark and the journeying. And yet, strangely, she could make out the shadows beneath his feet very clearly. They were all pointing their fingers in her direction.
“Abandoned the world,” continued the Fake-Ginger-Fellow. “I haven’t abandoned the world.”
His muscular body then began to shrink, while, conversely, his hair grew and grew and grew. The Fake-Ginger-Fellow was now a bespectacled little lady. Victoria had only seen Godmother once, but she reminded her a little of her. But more than anything, she reminded her of Mommy. It was the way her eyes searched for her own in the darkness. Like a void just seeking to be filled.
“My name is Eulalia. And I won’t abandon you either, little girl.”
The Bespectacled-Little-Lady went back to looking like the Fake-Ginger-Fellow, and turned around with a stumble, as if it were tricky for her—for him—to make their body move in the opposite direction, and then waited.
After much hesitation, Victoria decided to follow them, her—him—and those shadows.
THE WHITENESS
“What do you think they felt?” asked Ambrose. “Those who fell into the void.”
Perched on the wheelchair’s rear running-board, Ophelia couldn’t see his face. She couldn’t see a great deal, in fact. The young whaxi driver had opened a mechanical parasol above her, which kept falling in front of her glasses, and when she managed to push it away, a giant turban then obstructed her view. The scarf hadn’t wanted Ambrose to go out without it; it had clung on to him with its every stitch, as if wanting to meld with his hair and become part of him. Owing to the dress code, he had swathed it in white fabric, which was now billowing out from his head.
Try as she might to reason with herself, Ophelia still felt deprived of a little part of herself.
“I don’t know.”
“I already told you my father attempted to explore the void between the arks, didn’t I? He wanted to photograph the core of the world but didn’t manage to descend that far. No one has ever managed to. Maybe they’re not vraiment dead, those who fell? Maybe they’re all down there, prisoners of those perpetual thunderstorms? Or then,” continued Ambrose, having only just avoided a dodo crossing the road, “maybe they reemerged on the other side? Maybe they’re now a world away from here, in the vicinity of another ark? That would contradict the principle of planetary memory—you know, the one that says all arks occupy an absolute position among themselves—but I prefer that concept to . . . eh bien . . . you know.”
Ambrose had at least this in common with Lazarus: he could talk enough for two—and then some.
“My father set off on his travels at the worst time,” he sighed, gazing at the sky that stood out between the roofs of Babel. “I hope he’s doing well. He’s often away, I don’t always understand all he’s up to, but he loves me,” he assured, as if fearing that Ophelia had doubts on the subject. “He always told me I was très important, despite my inversion.”
“Have you ever been to the Deviations Observatory?”
“Never, mademoiselle. When he’s back in Babel, my father sometimes goes there to deliver new automatons to them. The directors of the observatory are among his biggest clients! My father says, in jest, that they would find it more interesting actually to dissect him—you know, because of his situs transversus—but he’d rather wait until he’s dead to donate his organs to science, even if they are on the wrong side.”
Ophelia visualized the huge, full-length portrait of Lazarus that had pride of place in his home. Yes, that was just the kind of thing he would say.
“I would like to ask you something else. Something personal.”
“Bien sûr, mademoiselle!”
“What became of your mother?”
Ambrose looked around at Ophelia with surprise, and almost crashed into the rickshaw that had stopped ahead of him. All the highways were congested. This had been the case since the Babelians had started to flee from the outskirts and the neighboring minor arks. They only felt safe in the town center. Ambrose’s wheelchair could thread its way around the omnibuses and carts, but there were also the delivery tricycles, luggage trolleys, animals, machines, and crowds of pedestrians taking up every stretch of public highway to contend with. Some of them made a beeline for the stopped vehicles to beg their occupants to take them in, just until they found somewhere to stay.
Everywhere, the air was ringing with “S’il vous plaît! S’il vous plaît! S’il vous plaît!”
Ophelia refused to feel any guilt over the landslide, but that didn’t stop her feeling bad for all these people. Several among them had the same stamp as her on their foreheads. She had almost grazed her skin from scrubbing hers with soap, without the ink so much as fading.
Ambrose pulled his wheelchair out of the gridlock by cutting across the jungle of a public garden, where entire families had put up tents.
“I would like to know the answer to that myself,” he finally replied. “I didn’t know my mother, and my father ceases to be talkative whenever she comes up. I couldn’t even tell you which ark she comes from, or whether I look like her.”
His voice had lost some of its cheeriness. Ophelia felt silly for having been jealous of him because of the scarf.
He parked his wheelchair in front of a majestic marble building, on the pediment of which was engraved:
OFFICIAL JOURNAL
“You have reached your destination, mademoiselle. What took place,” he added, gently, “it’s not your fault, you do know that?”
Ophelia stepped down from the running board and looked Ambrose straight in the eye.
“Let it be clear, I don’t wish to find the Other because I feel at fault, or because I promised your father to do so.”
“You’re doing so because that’s your decision,” he finished for her. “I have understood that, parfaitement, yes.”
Ophelia smiled at them—at him and the enormous turban billowing on his head. She wanted to make her own choices; the scarf had the right to make its choices.
“One day, Ambrose, I really must repay you for your services. You have many qualities, but a business sense isn’t one of them.”
She went into the journal’s offices, alone this time. The hubbub inside was a combination of ringing telephones, clicking rotary presses, competing voices, and, dominating this high-pitched din, the deep counterpoint of the ceiling fans.
“Désolé, mademoiselle, we can’t tell you anything.”
Ophelia hadn’t even been given a chance to ask her question. The employee at reception, with one telephone receiver in his hand, and another wedged between chin and shoulder, indicated the exit to her with his elbow.
“I would just like to know—”
“Read our journal,” the employee cut in, shoving a dispenser of copies forward with his foot. “It contains all one needs to know.”
“. . . where I might find aspiring-virtuoso
Octavio,” continued Ophelia.
“Eulalia?”
A tall stack of files had suddenly turned toward her. Beneath the stack gleamed some boots with silver-wing spurs. When these pivoted around, Ophelia found herself looking straight into Octavio’s red eyes. They glowed like embers under two circumflex eyebrows, raised in surprise, before turning to the employee, who instantly put his two receivers down.
“I request your permission to let this person in. I know her.”
“Very good, my lord. Désolé, my lord.”
“That employee addresses you as if you were the editorial director,” Ophelia remarked, as she followed Octavio through the various departments of the journal.
He didn’t react, as he deposited files on every desk corner, and responded reluctantly to the journalists’ excessive expressions of gratitude—“Thank you, my lord! Do present my respects to Lady Septima!”—until his entire pile was distributed. He then took Ophelia into a room that was amazingly quiet compared with the other departments, and on the door of which a plaque was fixed saying “ARTS CRITICISM.” A radio was broadcasting a piano piece in there, a performance Ophelia would have found splendid had it not been endlessly marred by echoes. An Acoustic was listening to it with a dubious expression, ears pricked up like a cat’s, and letting out the odd “ooh” and “aah.”
Octavio indicated to Ophelia to sit at a vacant meeting table, in the light divided by a curtain at the window. The piano, and the “oohs” and “aahs,” immediately stopped. Here they were in a soundproof zone. For as long as they remained seated there, they wouldn’t hear the rest of the world, and wouldn’t be heard by it, either.
“I’m relieved to see you,” Octavio declared, straight off. “When that landslide occurred in the northwestern district, I realized I had no idea where you were living, since your departure from the Good Family.”
Ophelia studied the patina on the table, in which their two faces were reflected. She had put Ambrose through the same scrutiny on the silver salvers at breakfast. It was a disagreeable precaution, but necessary. She had to put her feelings aside, and never consider the identity of the person before her as authentic. She didn’t know how the Other and Eulalia Gonde would appear to her when the time came, but if the former really was the reflection that the latter had lost, only mirrors could reveal their identity and make the masks fall.
The Storm of Echoes Page 7