The Storm of Echoes

by Christelle Dabos

  “You have requested admission to our observatory,” the woman declared, ensconcing herself in an armchair and placing her document-holder in front of her. “I’m listening to you.”

  Once seated, Ophelia first ensured that she could see her interviewer’s reflection in the windowpane. She was neither Eulalia Gonde nor the Other, as far as that test could be trusted. Fine. She took off the turban concealing the administrative stamp on her forehead.

  “I’ll be brief. A doctor advised me to join your program. I know you already hold a file in my name. I don’t really understand why, but one thing of which I am certain is that this observatory is my last resort to avoid being deported from Babel.”

  Ophelia didn’t have to try hard to seem desperate. Her fear was real. Beyond the ground beneath her feet, here and now, the rest of the world had become a giant question mark.

  The woman flicked through the pages clipped to the document holder. Ophelia would have liked to be perched on her shoulder, instead of the beetle, to read the information the observatory held on her.

  “In other words, Mademoiselle Eulalia, it’s a request for sanctuary?”

  “I’m volunteering for whatever you might find interesting about me.”

  The woman tilted her head so she could maintain her focus through the dark lenses of her pince-nez. She handed her a blank piece of paper and a fountain pen.

  “Must I sign somewhere?”

  “No, Mademoiselle Eulalia. Please just write: ‘But this well was no more real than a rabbit of Odin.’”

  “Sorry?”

  Ophelia was taken aback. What well? What rabbit? And above all, why Odin? Wasn’t that Farouk’s old name?

  “‘But this well was no more real than a rabbit of Odin,’” the woman repeated, with a fixed smile. “Write, s’il vous plaît.”

  Ophelia obeyed. The woman immediately took her page, in exchange for a blank one.

  “Parfait. Rewrite that sentence, but with your other hand this time.”

  “I can’t write with the other hand.”

  “Of course you can,” the woman calmly assured. “We are not asking you to write well. Merely to write.”

  Ophelia obeyed once again. The words came out hideously through the metal nib. Even when concentrating, she inverted most of the letters. The woman paid no attention to the result. It was Ophelia, and only Ophelia, that she was observing with polite attention through the dark prism of her pince-nez. She didn’t have the eyes of a Visionary. What was her family power? Was she using it at this very moment?

  “Parfait.”

  The leather of her gloves creaked when she added the two pages to her document-holder. Each of her gestures was excessively methodical, as if handling highly toxic chemicals. She stood up and put the turban back on Ophelia’s head. She pushed it down so hard, in order to cover the stamp, that it felt uncomfortable. She then made her enter a closet that was as narrow as it was dark, and closed the door. The darkness was so intense and so hot, it took Ophelia’s breath away. She could no longer see the glasses on her own nose. This explained the turban: darkness was seemingly part of this experiment.

  “Don’t move, s’il vous plaît.”

  There was a flash of light, sudden as lightning. Then a second one. Then yet another one. Was the woman taking a photograph of her? Ophelia was so dazzled that she didn’t immediately notice that the closet door had been reopened.

  With a smile, the woman indicated the desk to her, on which, this time, a little lacquer box awaited her.

  “You are an Animist, Mademoiselle Eulalia.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  “To the eighth degree,” Ophelia lied.

  “Specialized in the reading of objects.”

  Once again, it wasn’t a question. If the Deviations Observatory had had access to Ophelia’s file from her admission to the Good Family, there was nothing new she could tell them. And yet the woman seemed to be waiting for confirmation from her.

  “I am indeed a reader.”

  “Would you mind awfully giving a little demonstration?”

  Still half-blinded from the flashes in the dark closet, Ophelia approached the box.

  “There is a sample inside,” the woman explained.

  Ophelia slid back the panel on the box. A tiny lead ball sat on a red cushion. Her blood instantly started to throb beneath the entire surface of her face. An organic din hammered her ears.

  “Might we proceed with your reading, Mademoiselle Eulalia?” the woman inquired, politely.

  She seemed to be struggling to limit her smile to professional proportions.

  Ophelia unbuttoned her gloves, one after the other. Until this moment, she had felt in control of the situation. She had come here by choice. She was submitting to this observatory’s tests because she was willing to do so. She was showing them only what she had decided to show them of herself.

  That was how things had been supposed to happen.

  “I have to ask you the question,” she said, in a tone she hoped was detached. “Is this object the property of the observatory?”

  “Absolutely, Mademoiselle Eulalia.”

  A lie.

  Ophelia breathed in to prevent anger from darkening her glasses. Don’t shake. Don’t give yourself away. She focused entirely on the ball of lead in the box. The projectile from a cartridge. She knew that what lay before her eyes was impossible—it should have been—but, stunned as she was, there was one domain in which she couldn’t be deceived. She knew personally every item in the collection of Anima’s Museum of Primitive History. And this one in particular.

  She seized the lead ball with her bare hands. Nausea seared her throat. It wasn’t her own nausea but that of the last person to have handled this exhibit without protection. A pathetic simpleton, in a bowler hat, who wanted to know about the wars of the old world, whom Ophelia had wanted to teach a good lesson. That was four years ago; it felt like forty to her. As she went back further and further in time, passing from reader’s hands to reader’s hands, from nausea to nausea, she prepared herself for the impact that was inevitably coming. The pain, abstract but genuine, hit her straight in the stomach. The agony of the soldier whose internal organs had been punctured by this cartridge, several centuries ago, became her agony. This time, it was her own nausea that overcame her, so violently that she almost vomited over the desk.

  She placed the projectile back on its cushion, closed the box, and pressed her fist against her trembling lips. A tear spilled onto her cheek. How could she have inflicted that on someone else?

  No, she corrected herself, once the powerful surge of empathy had subsided. Why had that been inflicted on her? By what improbable combination of circumstances had the Deviations Observatory obtained this exhibit from the museum in which she, Ophelia, not Eulalia, had once worked?

  “Would you care for some water, mademoiselle?”

  The woman’s eyes hadn’t left her, before, during or after her reading. They shone behind the dark lenses of her pince-nez, a gleam heightened by curiosity.

  “Would you like my evaluation?” Ophelia asked her, coldly.

  “No, Mademoiselle Eulalia, that wasn’t the purpose of the exercise.”

  “What was it, then?”

  The woman took out an inch-thick document from the desk drawer. Ophelia put her gloves back on before taking hold of it. Agreement between the subject and the Deviations Observatory: consent to the act of studying protocols I to III of the alternative program and relative confidentiality clause. The title on its own made one dizzy.

  “The Lords of LUX lay down the laws,” declared the beetle woman, “but none is above the medical secrecy that we have applied here for several generations. For as long as you remain within our walls, you will no longer be accountable to the outside world.”

  Ophelia didn’t understand a single line o
f the dozens of pages that made up the agreement. This jargon required serious legal expertise.

  It was no longer of any importance. She signed.

  The woman’s smile had almost imperceptibly increased as Ophelia returned the document to her. The future would determine which one of them had fallen into the other one’s trap.

  THE GLASSES

  Ophelia stifled a shriek. Her eyes widened behind the hair streaming over both eyebrows. From boiling, the water had turned to freezing, before stopping just as suddenly, leaving her gasping and hugging a body reddened by such extreme temperatures. The steam cleared, evacuated by the ventilation, revealing the yellow-sari-clad figure that had just released the shower pull-chain. Even without glasses, Ophelia saw the smile. This beetle woman made no attempt to respect her modesty. She watched her awkwardly getting out of the tub, skidding on the tiled floor, and then rubbing herself down fastidiously.

  “Where are my clothes?”

  Ophelia found none of the belongings she had left on the bench. Instead, what awaited her were neatly folded, pocketless sarouel trousers and a sleeveless tunic. The observatory definitely wanted her to have nothing to hide. They had even confiscated her sandals.

  “My gloves,” she requested.

  The woman politely shook her head to say no.

  “I need them, and you know it.”

  Another shake of the head. Ophelia didn’t understand. No they wouldn’t return her gloves, or no she wouldn’t need them?

  She got dressed, grimacing each time her hands, involuntarily, read the fabric. She visualized a humble workshop deep in a souk, a second-rate sewing machine, the casual whistling of a dyer: at least no one had ever worn these garments before her.

  “My glasses?”

  Yet another shake of the head. Ophelia felt her breathing quicken, and forced it to slow down. She had prepared herself for the likelihood that nothing would be easy here; above all, she mustn’t let them get the upper hand.

  On the woman’s shoulder, the mechanical beetle opened out a mirror. It was so tiny that it only reflected fragments of Ophelia’s face. She at least had the satisfaction of seeing that her forehead was finally cleansed of its stamp. The luminous ink had dissolved under the shower; maybe this water had alchemical properties.

  “And now?”

  With a courteous gesture, the woman invited her to follow her. As soon as she moved off, she lost definition, merging confusingly with the decor. Ophelia had better quickly get used to walking in a blur, without gloves or shoes. Playing at spies was going to prove harder than anticipated, but if the observatory really was determined to make her task harder, she would get her own back at it.

  As they passed through a series of corridors, Ophelia was struck by the electric lightbulbs: they all crackled and flickered, without exception.

  Finally, she emerged into the fresh air, where the morning sun dried her hair instantly. The flagstones roasted her toes. The woman led her through fragrant jungles, shady galleries, and an endless succession of doors.

  Although all Ophelia could see of the world was colorful pointillist painting, she could hear its sounds very clearly. She picked up the buzzing of an insect here, a mechanical whirring there, and, passing a window, the brassy tones of a trumpet. She heard, too, children’s laughter and parents’ anxious questions—“Is he making progress?”, “Is she safe here?”—and sensible voices assuring that progress was excellent and security guaranteed; that young and less young alike flourished at the observatory more than anywhere else; that the standard program had always worked wonders, but everyone was clearly free to go home whenever they wished to.

  Were Eulalia Gonde’s secrets to be found somewhere here, within earshot?

  Ophelia never took her myopic eyes off the woman, whose silk sari undulated before her. She couldn’t shake off the nausea triggered by her reading of the exhibit from the museum in Anima. When and how had that woman got hold of it? The Genealogists were right about one thing: this observatory was way ahead of her. But to what extent? What did they know about her? Of her past? Of her abilities? Of her intentions?

  And what about Thorn, she wondered, digging her fingernails into her now uncovered palms.

  Thirty-one months. Thirty-one months during which Ophelia had lived under the watchful eye of the Doyennes, unable to set foot outside her parents’ house without their Rapporteur being hot on her heels. Thirty-one months during which she had stopped herself from going in search of Thorn because of them, for fear of putting him in jeopardy. If Archibald hadn’t succeeded in slipping through the net to get her out of there, she would still be on Anima. But what if she had been mistaken? If, during all this time in Babel, where she had believed herself free of Eulalia Gonde’s surveillance, she had in fact remained a prisoner of it? If Eulalia Gonde had led her straight to Thorn?

  Basically, Ophelia had no idea who was really in charge of this observatory. Maybe it wasn’t Eulalia Gonde. Maybe it was someone else. Someone who knew her very well.

  Whoever this person might be, did they know that Sir Henry was in fact an escaped prisoner? Was Thorn in danger within these walls, as the Genealogists’ previous informer had been? And what if Ophelia had got there too late? If they had made him disappear, too?

  She screwed up her eyes. The woman had just passed under an ornamental porch, on which was carved, in large letters:

  OBSERVATION

  The porch led to a hall of such immaculate whiteness that it was painful. Ophelia couldn’t make out the architectural details, but if she went by the smooth chill beneath her feet, it was a veritable marble palace. The casement windows flooded the interior with sunlight.

  The beetle woman joined the ranks of what Ophelia noticed, as she got closer, was a pretty impressive assembly. Figures draped in yellow silk and clutching clipboards peered at her through their pince-nez. Observers. Finding herself the focus of all these eyes, exposed in the brightest of light, couldn’t have felt more uncomfortable. With her bare arms, calves, and feet, and her bedraggled curls, Ophelia looked like a street urchin.

  A young girl whispered:

  “You requested to be present at each arrival and each departure. The inverted person here present is a rather particular case, monsieur. Her deviation falls within the remit of the alternative program.”

  By way of response, there was just a resonant tap-tap. Ophelia did her best not to show the relief that made her every muscle relax. One by one, she released her fingernails from her palms. Thorn was here. He was well. She tried, above all, not to search for his face among those, sketchy and anonymous, surrounding him.

  No one bothered with introductions.

  A man made Ophelia sit down on what resembled a piano stool, as white and as cold as the floor. He adjusted the height so Ophelia’s feet were properly flat on the ground. Without ceremony, he applied a stamp to her forearm; the ink of the interlaced “A” and “P” glistened. And that was it. She had just swapped one stamp for another.

  Next, the man started measuring her: her head with cephalic calipers, then her right middle finger and her left foot with a tape measure. So total was the silence, the clicking of the instruments echoed around the hall. The man’s eyes were hidden behind the dark lenses of his pince-nez, and although he didn’t really smile, a persistent dimple hovered at the corner of his mouth, which Ophelia found disturbing. On his shoulder he carried an automaton in the form of a lizard.

  Quite affably, the man asked her to stand up, and then sit back down on the stool at a different angle, which didn’t make things easier. She was now directly facing Thorn, whose characteristic silhouette stood out from the rest of the assembly. In the end, she was grateful to have been deprived of her glasses. Like that, she couldn’t be tempted either to meet or avoid his gaze. What little she could make out of his face was full of shadows, despite the brightness of the place. He had been seated in a separ
ate armchair, positioned to one side of the front row, so he could watch proceedings while remaining on the sidelines. He had crossed his arms in a detached way that suited his new role of chief family inspector.

  He was observing the observatory.

  A young girl stood near him, with, on her shoulder, what appeared to be a mechanical monkey. Ophelia thought she recognized the Babelian who had received her on her first visit to the observatory. She was holding out a tray of refreshments for Thorn, and everything about her demeanor suggested the utmost respect.

  In fact, he was even very well.

  The lizard man had finished taking Ophelia’s measurements; now he was silently giving her a checkup. He made her close one eye while raising the opposite arm, and then the reverse. There followed a very lengthy series of similar movements that, although apparently innocuous, made Ophelia feel increasingly uncomfortable. Perhaps because she was not wearing her corrective lenses, she began to feel a migraine rumbling deep inside her head. From being required to keep switching from right side to left side, she ended up unable to tell the one from the other. All around her, everyone assembled was religiously taking notes, amid a constant rustling of paper, exchanging comments in hushed voices, as though attending some rare performance.

  Ophelia found the situation completely ridiculous. She was just hoping not to become even more so herself when the lizard man slapped her in the face.

  It was such an unexpected slap that, for a fraction of a second, Ophelia was unable to think. With head flung toward shoulder and cheek on fire, she couldn’t fathom what had just happened.

  What she was very swiftly aware of, on the other hand, was the grating of metal echoing around the hall. Thorn had stood up.

  “Ne vous inquiétez pas, Sir Henry,” the monkey girl whispered. “The procedure must surprise you, but it is in accordance with the first protocol. The invert present here is consenting, no city rule has been infringed.”