‘Pathétique,’ she read off a label at random. ‘I’ll take this.’
I wrapped up the scabia and slipped the instructional booklet into the crate, keeping my eye on her all the time.
‘Don’t look so alarmed,’ she said with amusement. ‘I’ve never heard anything like that before.’
I wasn’t alarmed. It was that thirty years at Vermilion Sands had narrowed my horizons.
‘How long are you staying at Vermilion Sands?’ I asked her.
‘I open at the Casino tonight,’ she said. She told me her name was Jane Ciracylides and that she was a speciality singer.
‘Why don’t you look in?’ she asked, her eyes fluttering mischievously. ‘I come on at eleven. You may find it interesting.’
I did. The next morning Vermilion Sands hummed. Jane created a sensation. After her performance three hundred people swore they’d seen everything from a choir of angels taking the vocal in the music of the spheres to Alexander’s Ragtime Band. As for myself, perhaps I’d listened to too many flowers, but at least I knew where the scorpion on the balcony had come from.
Tony Miles had heard Sophie Tucker singing the ‘St Louis Blues’, and Harry, the elder Bach conducting the B Minor Mass.
They came round to the shop and argued over their respective performances while I wrestled with the flowers.
‘Amazing,’ Tony exclaimed. ‘How does she do it? Tell me.’
‘The Heidelberg score,’ Harry ecstased. ‘Sublime, absolute.’ He looked irritably at the flowers. ‘Can’t you keep these things quiet? They’re making one hell of a row.’
They were, and I had a shrewd idea why. The Arachnid was completely out of control, and by the time I’d clamped it down in a weak saline it had blown out over three hundred dollars’ worth of shrubs.
The performance at the Casino last night was nothing on the one she gave here yesterday,’ I told them. ‘The Ring of the Niebelungs played by Stan Kenton. That Arachnid went insane. I’m sure it wanted to kill her.’
Harry watched the plant convulsing its leaves in rigid spasmic movements.
‘If you ask me it’s in an advanced state of rut. Why should it want to kill her?’
‘Her voice must have overtones that irritate its calyx. None of the other plants minded. They cooed like turtle doves when she touched them.’
Tony shivered happily.
Light dazzled in the street outside.
I handed Tony the broom. ‘Here, lover, brace yourself on that. Miss Ciracylides is dying to meet you.’
Jane came into the shop, wearing a flame yellow cocktail skirt and another of her hats.
I introduced her to Harry and Tony.
‘The flowers seem very quiet this morning,’ she said. ‘What’s the matter with them?’
‘I’m cleaning out the tanks,’ I told her. ‘By the way, we all want to congratulate you on last night. How does it feel to be able to name your fiftieth city?’
She smiled shyly and sauntered away round the shop. As I knew she would, she stopped by the Arachnid and levelled her eyes at it.
I wanted to see what she’d say, but Harry and Tony were all around her, and soon got her up to my apartment, where they had a hilarious morning playing the fool and raiding my Scotch.
‘What about coming out with us after the show tonight?’ Tony asked her. ‘We can go dancing at the Flamingo.’
‘But you’re both married,’ Jane protested. ‘Aren’t you worried about your reputations?’
‘Oh, we’ll bring the girls,’ Harry said airily. ‘And Steve here can come along and hold your coat.’
We played i-Go together. Jane said she’d never played the game before, but she had no difficulty picking up the rules, and when she started sweeping the board with us I knew she was cheating. Admittedly it isn’t every day that you get a chance to play i-Go with a golden-skinned woman with insects for eyes, but never the less I was annoyed. Harry and Tony, of course, didn’t mind.
‘She’s charming,’ Harry said, after she’d left. ‘Who cares? It’s a stupid game anyway.’
‘I care,’ I said. ‘She cheats.’
The next three or four days at the shop were an audio-vegetative armageddon. Jane came in every morning to look at the Arachnid, and her presence was more than the flower could bear. Unfortunately I couldn’t starve the plants below their thresholds. They needed exercise and they had to have the Arachnid to lead them. But instead of running through its harmonic scales the orchid only screeched and whined. It wasn’t the noise, which only a couple of dozen people complained about, but the damage being done to their vibratory chords that worried me. Those in the seventeenth century catalogues stood up well to the strain, and the moderns were immune, but the Romantics burst their calyxes by the score. By the third day after Jane’s arrival I’d lost two hundred dollars’ worth of Beethoven and more Mendelssohn and Schubert than I could bear to think about.
Jane seemed oblivous to the trouble she was causing me.
‘What’s wrong with them all?’ she asked, surveying the chaos of gas cylinders and drip feeds spread across the floor.
‘I don’t think they like you,’ I told her. ‘At least the Arachnid doesnșt. Your voice may love men to strange and wonderful visions, but it throws that orchid into acute melancholia.’
‘Nonsense,’ she said, laughing at me. ‘Give it to me and I’ll show you how to look after it.’
’Are Tony and Harry keeping you happy?’ I asked her. I was annoyed that I couldn’t go down to the beach with them and instead had to spend my time draining tanks and titrating up norm solutions, none of which ever worked.
‘They’re very amusing,’ she said. ‘We play i-Go and I sing for them. But I wish you could come out more often.’
After another two weeks I had to give up. I decided to close the plants down until Jane had left Vermilion Sands. I knew it would take me three months to rescore the stock, but I had no alternative.
The next day I received a large order for mixed coloratura herbaceous from the Santiago Garden Choir. They wanted delivery in three weeks.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jane said, when she heard I wouldn’t be able to fill the order. ‘You must wish that I’d never come to Vermilion Sands.’
She stared thoughtfully into one of the darkened tanks.
‘Couldn’t I score them for you?’ She suggested.
‘No thanks,’ I said, laughing. ‘I’ve had enough of that already.’
‘Don’t be silly, of course I could,’
I shook my head.
Tony and Harry told me I was crazy.
‘Her voice has a wide enough range,’ Tony said. ‘You admit it yourself.’
‘What have you got against her?’ Harry asked. ‘That she cheats at i-Go?’
‘It’s nothing to do with that,’ I said. ‘And her voice has a wider range than you think.’
We played i-Go at Jane’s apartment. Jane won ten dollars from each of us.
‘I am lucky,’ she said, very pleased with herself. ‘I never seem to lose.’ She counted up the bills and put them away carefully in her bag, her golden skin glowing.
Then Santiago sent me a repeat query.
I found Jane down among the cafés, holding off a siege of admirers.
‘Have you given in yet?’ she asked me, smiling at the young men.
‘I don’t know what you’re doing to me,’ I said, ‘but anything is worth trying.’
Back at the shop I raised a bank of perennials past their thresholds. Jane helped me attach the gas and fluid lines.
‘We’ll try these first,’ I said. ‘Frequencies 543–785. Here’s the score.’
Jane took off her hat and began to ascend the scale, her voice clear and pure. At first the Columbine hesitated and Jane went down again and drew them along with her. They went up a couple of octaves together and then the plants stumbled and went off at a tangent of stepped chords.
‘Try K sharp,’ I said. I fed a little chlorous acid into the tank and the
Columbine followed her up eagerly, the infra-calyxes warbling delicate variations on the treble clef.
‘Perfect,’ I said.
It took us only four hours to fill the order.
‘You’re better than the Arachnid,’ I congratulated her. ‘How would you like a job? I’ll fit you out with a large cool tank and all the chlorine you can breathe.’
‘Careful,’ she told me. ‘I may say yes. Why don’t we rescore a few more of them while we’re about it?’
‘You’re tired,’ I said. ‘Let’s go and have a drink.’
‘Let me try the Arachnid,’ she suggested. ‘That would be more of a challenge.’
Her eyes never left the flower, I wondered what they’d do if I left them together. Try to sing each other to death?
‘No,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow perhaps.’
We sat on the balcony together, glasses at our elbows, and talked the afternoon away.
She told me little about herself, but I gathered that her father had been a mining engineer in Peru and her mother a dancer at a Lima vu-tavern. They’d wandered from deposit to deposit, the father digging his concessions, the mother signing on at the nearest bordello to pay the rent.
‘She only sang, of course,’ Jane added. ‘Until my father came.’ She blew bubbles into her glass. ‘So you think I give them what they want at the Casino. By the way, what do you see?’
‘I’m afraid I’m your one failure,’ I said. ‘Nothing. Except you.’
She dropped her eyes. ‘That sometimes happens,’ she said. ‘I’m glad this time.’
A million suns pounded inside me. Until then I’d been reserving judgment on myself.
Harry and Tony were polite, if disappointed.
‘I can’t believe it,’ Harry said sadly. ‘I won’t. How did you do it?’
‘That mystical left-handed approach, of course,’ I told him. ‘All ancient seas and dark wells.’
‘What’s she like?’ Tony asked eagerly. ‘I mean, does she burn or just tingle?’
Jane sang at the Casino every night from eleven to three, but apart from that I suppose we were always together. Sometimes in the late afternoons we’d drive out along the beach to the Scented Desert and sit alone by one of the pools, watching the sun fall away behind the reefs and hills, lulling ourselves on the rose-sick air. When the wind began to blow cool across the sand we’d slip down into the water, bathe ourselves and drive back to town, filling the streets and café terraces with jasmine and musk-rose and helianthemum.
On other evenings we’d go down to one of the quiet bars at Lagoon West, and have supper out on the flats, and Jane would tease the waiters and sing honeybirds and angelcakes to the children who came in across the sand to watch her.
I realize now that I must have achieved a certain notoriety along the beach, but I didn’t mind giving the old women – and beside Jane they all seemed to be old women – something to talk about. During the Recess no one cared very much about anything, and for that reason I never questioned myself too closely over my affair with Jane Ciracylides. As I sat on the balcony with her looking out over the cool early evenings or felt her body glowing beside me in the darkness I allowed myself few anxieties.
Absurdly, the only disagreement I ever had with her was over her cheating.
I remember that I once taxed her with it.
‘Do you know you’ve taken over five hundred dollars from me, Jane? You’re still doing it. Even now!’
She laughed impishly. ‘Do I cheat? I’ll let you win one day.’
‘But why do you?’ I insisted.
‘It’s more fun to cheat,’ she said. ‘Otherwise it’s so boring.’
‘Where will you go when you leave Vermilion Sands?’ I asked her.
She looked at me in surprise. ‘Why do you say that? I don’t think I shall ever leave.’
‘Don’t tease me, Jane. You’re a child of another world than this.’
‘My father came from Peru,’ she reminded me.
‘But you didn’t get your voice from him,’ I said. ‘I wish I could have heard your mother sing. Had she a better voice than yours, Jane?’
‘She thought so. My father couldn’t stand either of us.’
That was the evening I last saw Jane. We’d changed, and in the half an hour before she left for the Casino we sat on the balcony and I listened to her voice, like a spectral fountain, pour its luminous notes into the air. The music remained with me even after she’d gone, hanging faintly in the darkness around her chair.
I felt curiously sleepy, almost sick on the air she’d left behind, and at 11.30, when I knew she’d be appearing on stage at the Casino, I went out for a walk along the beach.
As I left the elevator I heard music coming from the shop.
At first I thought I’d left one of the audio switches on, but I knew the voice only too well.
The windows of the shop had been shuttered, so I got in through the passage which led from the garage courtyard round at the back of the apartment house.
The lights had been turned out, but a brilliant glow filled the shop, throwing a golden fire on to the tanks along the counters. Across the ceiling liquid colours danced in reflection.
The music I had heard before, but only in overture.
The Arachnid had grown to three times its size. It towered nine feet high out of the shattered lid of the control tank, leaves tumid and inflamed, its calyx as large as a bucket, raging insanely.
Arched forwards into it, her head thrown back, was Jane.
I ran over to her, my eyes filling with light, and grabbed her arm, trying to pull her away from it.
‘Jane!’ I shouted over the noise. ‘Get down!’
She flung my hand away. In her eyes, fleetingly, was a look of shame.
While I was sitting on the stairs in the entrance Tony and Harry drove up.
‘Where’s Jane?’ Harry asked. ‘Has anything happened to her? We were down at the Casino.’ They both turned towards the music. ‘What the hell’s going on?’
Tony peered at me suspiciously. ‘Steve, anything wrong?’
Harry dropped the bouquet he was carrying and started towards the rear entrance.
‘Harry!’ I shouted after him. ‘Get back!’
Tony held my shoulder. ‘Is Jane in there?’
I caught them as they opened the door into the shop.
‘Good God!’ Harry yelled. ‘Let go of me, you fool!’ He struggled to get away from me. ‘Steve, it’s trying to kill her!’
I jammed the door shut and held them back.
I never saw Jane again. The three of us waited in my apartment. When the music died away we went down and found the shop in darkness. The Arachnid had shrunk to its normal size.
The next day it died.
Where Jane went to I don’t know. Not long afterwards the Recess ended, and the big government schemes came along and started up all the clocks and kept us too busy working off the lost time to worry about a few bruised petals. Harry told me that Jane had been seen on her way through Red Beach, and I heard recently that someone very like her was doing the nightclubs this side out of Pernambuco.
So if any of you around here keep a choro-florist’s, and have a Khan-Arachnid orchid, look out for a golden-skinned woman with insects for eyes. Perhaps she’ll play i-Go with you, and I’m sorry to have to say it, but she’ll always cheat.
The Screen Game
Every afternoon during the summer at Ciraquito we play the screen game. After lunch today, when the arcades and café terraces were empty and everyone was lying asleep indoors, three of us drove out in Raymond Mayo’s Lincoln along the road to Vermilion Sands.
The season had ended, and already the desert had begun to move in again for the summer, drifting against the yellowing shutters of the cigarette kiosks, surrounding the town with immense banks of luminous ash. Along the horizon the flat-topped mesas rose into the sky like the painted cones of a volcano jungle. The beachhouses had been empty for weeks, and abandoned sand-yachts s
tood in the centre of the lakes, embalmed in the opaque heat. Only the highway showed any signs of activity, the motion sculpture of concrete ribbon unfolding across the landscape.
Twenty miles from Ciraquito, where the highway forks to Red Beach and Vermilion Sands, we turned on to the remains of an old gravel track that ran away among the sand reefs. Only a year earlier this had been a well-kept private road, but the ornamental gateway lay collapsed to one side, and the guardhouse was a nesting place for scorpions and sand-rays.
Few people ever ventured far up the road. Continuous rock slides disturbed the area, and large sections of the surface had slipped away into the reefs. In addition a curious but unmistakable atmosphere of menace hung over the entire zone, marking it off from the remainder of the desert. The hanging galleries of the reefs were more convoluted and sinister, like the tortured demons of medieval cathedrals. Massive towers of obsidian reared over the roadway like stone gallows, their cornices streaked with iron-red dust. The light seemed duller, unlike the rest of the desert, occasionally flaring into a sepulchral glow as if some subterranean fire-cloud had boiled to the surface of the rocks. The surrounding peaks and spires shut out the desert plain, and the only sounds were the echoes of the engine growling among the hills and the piercing cries of the sand-rays wheeling over the open mouths of the reefs like hieratic birds.
For half a mile we followed the road as it wound like a petrified snake above the reefs, and our conversation became more sporadic and fell away entirely, resuming only when we began our descent through a shallow valley. A few abstract sculptures stood by the roadside. Once these were sonic, responding to the slipstream of a passing car with a series of warning vibratos, but now the Lincoln passed them unrecognized.
Abruptly, around a steep bend, the reefs and peaks vanished, and the wide expanse of an inland sand-lake lay before us, the great summer house of Lagoon West on its shore. Fragments of light haze hung over the dunes like untethered clouds. The tyres cut softly through the cerise sand, and soon we were overrunning what appeared to be the edge of an immense chessboard of black and white marble squares. More statues appeared, some buried to their heads, others toppled from their plinths by the drifting dunes.
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