Calabash

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘I take your point. I shall assuage his inquisitiveness. Upon his next arrival, we must take the boy on a tour of the kingdom. There shall be no question we refuse to answer bravely and honestly.’

  ‘No question?’ The Semanticor raised his thick grey eyebrows.

  ‘No question.’

  ‘And suppose he then chooses not to tarry here? What will become of us?’

  ‘You might well ask what will become of them,’ replied Trebunculus philosophically. ‘What would they do without us? You can’t have one without the other. Balance, harmony and light. Thus is it written.’

  The Semanticor pulled a grim and disbelieving face. ‘Or eternal darkness for all,’ he warned.

  Chapter 19

  The Benefits of Progress

  ‘Because in Calabash,’ explained Trebunculus with a certain amount of exasperation, ‘some things are taken for granted. For example, everyone knows that singing is compulsory on Feasting Day, visible sorrow has been forbidden without a signed warrant from the Sultan, there must be no sharpness of sound or movement in any areas trodden by the royal foot, and the discussion of court affairs must cease when Scammer is in the chimney.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘The last part, I mean.’

  ‘Because Scammer is a spy in the pay of the Lord Chancellor. Just as the royal monkey can be relied upon to bite the Lord Chancellor whenever he stamps on its tail, so Scammer reports back each dusk with his latest discoveries.’

  ‘Why does he stamp on its tail?’

  ‘Oh, he says it has the jettatura, the evil eye. Our Lord Chancellor finds the evil eye almost everywhere he looks. It is said that he carries his last will and testament in his robe, next to his heart, for fear that his life will be taken at any moment.’

  ‘So the state of Calabash does have enemies, then?’

  ‘Evil can breed in any dark corner, even in Paradise,’ replied Trebunculus evasively.

  I sat back and allowed the sun to warm my face while I considered the point. The queasiness of my crossing had already faded. Although it had been raining when I left, I had chosen my clothes more carefully for this, my latest trip. On the pier’s lower platform I had tied my plastic Pakamac to one of the iron posts and waited patiently in the sheeting drizzle, confident of my ability to cross over. Underneath the mac I wore the shirt I had borrowed from Sean. It was a little long in the sleeve, but was made of cheesecloth and had a wide orange collar with looped buttonholes. I untucked it as soon as the transition had been made, allowing the sumptuous warm air that enveloped me to dry it out.

  As always, the doctor had been there to greet me. This time he was accompanied by the Princess Rosamunde, who had apparently insisted on coming. She was wearing a tunic of lemon cotton and had strings of tiny yellow flowers in her hair, and she greeted me with a hug after Menavino had touched my arm in friendship. Behind them, fringed with vivid green date palms, stood Calabash. It was the shape and tone of an apricot stone, a city of calm arcs and flourishes, glittering in sunlight, the lives within it unfolding in graceful curves, like the bolts of cloth in the merchants’ displays, like the wings of cranes in lazy, looping flight. Existence in Calabash was a series of rich ellipses, each one gliding into the next. In a sapphire sky unseamed by cloud, a pale crescent moon receded. In the air hung the sharp tang of orange blossom. My shirt steamed on my back. I could hear crickets rasping in the grass, the distant incessant ticking of a samba beat, and felt drunk with pleasure.

  We had begun to walk around the city. Rosamunde looked over at Trebunculus, then raised her finger slyly to her lips as she slipped her hand in mine. The doctor had not noticed. He was too busy pointing out various locations as the sites of scandals and legends, reciting parts of tales within tales that had no end.

  ‘And here,’ he explained, pointing to a large rusty nail embedded in the ground, ‘is the spot where the Akond of Manchia met his gruesome fate. On a visit to our Sultan’s great ancestor, Ahmet the Obscure, it is told that the Akond brought with him the rare gift of a golden salamander for our court alchemist, my distant predecessor, in exchange for a barge of onyx so intricately carved that it was said to float upon the waves by trapping air bubbles in its fretwork frame. The salamander is, of course, a symbol of cleansing fire. It lived inside flames and looked like a gigantic worm, and made a skin around itself that could be spun and woven into a cloth so pure that any garment fashioned from it would emerge from the fire forever clean, and would protect its wearer even within the hottest inferno. Ahmet’s most favoured concubine wove him a shirt from the salamander’s skin, but she failed to notice that her thread had become entangled with the thread of an ordinary silkworm, and the shirt was impure, so that when Ahmet wore the shirt and stepped into a cauldron of fire to impress his adversaries, he was greatly burned.

  ‘Furious that his enemies had been able to witness his suffering, Ahmet ordered that the Akond be taken to the town’s old marketplace, which was here, and had this nail driven through the left foot of the well-meaning visitor, pinning him to the ground. He then ordered coals to be banked around the Akond in a circle. The coals were set ablaze, and the Akond was forced to turn himself around the nail, constantly facing his least-burned side to the searing heat. In this way he was scorched with such evenness that he was perfectly cooked, and upon his collapse was fed to the palace dogs. The salamander was returned in the onyx barge, which had its air bubbles punctured with a thousand gold pins, causing it to sink, thus drowning the salamander and extinguishing its flame forever.’ Trebunculus looked with satisfaction at the blood-rusted nail. ‘I think there was a war,’ he concluded with a resigned heave of breath, ‘but it was all a long time ago.’

  Rosamunde rolled her eyes at me, bored by the doctor’s tale, and allowed her smooth brown fingers to roam over my arm. The doctor moved hastily on from this location to the next. Every site revealed its own fable, but gradually his stories grew shorter and shorter. ‘I must get you back to your father, Princess,’ he told her.

  ‘Although of course I respect and honour my father,’ said Rosamunde hotly, ‘he is not my keeper, and I am free to roam wherever—and with whomever—I see fit. I may return to him when I choose, until the time comes for me to marry. It is the lot of women to be obedient to their husbands, but until then I shall decide the course of my own actions.’

  ‘I meant no disrespect,’ the doctor apologised, removing his velvet hat and mopping his brow.

  ‘Then let us rest for a while. Poor Kay’s head must be spinning from your stories.’

  Finally, not a little footsore, we came to a halt in the shade of a twisted old fig tree, where a small, clear stream ran across pale stones.

  ‘Everything is so still.’

  ‘Calabasians are not much given to movement,’ said Trebunculus with some pride. ‘It expends too much energy.’ He reached down and cupped his hand in the stream to sip some water.

  ‘We wish to enjoy our days,’ said Rosamunde. ‘Why hurry through your life?’

  ‘What do your people do with their time?’ I asked.

  ‘They celebrate the beauty of their world, in verse, in work, in duty, in repose, in being,’ Trebunculus replied. ‘Although there are lunar clocks and sundials in the royal palace, their purpose is purely decorative. As I explained, our people do not mark the passing time with hours or minutes. They have no use for measuring instruments. It is enough for them to know that they are born and will die. The rest is simply being alive. This is not to say that I entirely agree with their philosophy. Menavino and I have devised our own systems for the calibration of time and distance. We are progressives.’

  Rosamunde dipped her hands in the stream and raised her cupped palms to her lips, gesturing for me to do the same. The water tasted cold and sweet.

  ‘The Sultan encourages your investigations?’ I asked, wiping droplets from my chin.

  ‘Indeed not. But we are all curious about our enemies, no? And the Sultan cannot feast upon a honeycomb without demanding t
o understand the flight of bees.’

  ‘And political intrigue? Does he demand to know the strengths and weaknesses of his rivals?’

  ‘The Royal Sultanate has no rivals. Our old enemies are ravaged, shattered and dispersed. This era has known only peace. Most of our political concerns now stem from the deployment of our army, and these matters are under the control of the Lord Chancellor.’

  ‘Septimus Peason. Hm.’ There was something bothersome about him that I had yet to determine.

  ‘Enough. Come, let us return to the city.’ The doctor rose on creaking knees, brandished his malacca cane at the distant walls and set off at a brisk pace.

  ‘I still don’t understand where I am,’ I said, as we passed beneath the curving archway of the East Gate. ‘Where exactly is Calabash?’

  Rosamunde looked at Menavino and tittered silently, as if I had asked the most foolish question imaginable.

  ‘It is,’ Trebunculus paused to frame his answer, ‘on the other side of the world.’

  ‘But not in my time.’

  ‘Always you must know about time,’ said Rosamunde with a sigh. She paused before another fountain in the shadow of a vine-skeined wall, and raised one small foot, tipping a stone from her slipper.

  ‘I just want to learn.’

  ‘Hah! I knew you were also a progressive,’ laughed Trebunculus. ‘It is a rare thing to find such a person. Look up there.’ I raised my head, shielding my eyes with my fingers. Ahead of us a small dark stain darted across the gleaming blue tiles of a roof, vanishing behind a golden dome. ‘Scammer is going about his work.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Why does Septimus Peason need a spy?’

  ‘It is the duty of a Lord Chancellor to search for enemies, even if they are imagined.’

  ‘And what happens if he should catch one?’

  ‘Why, they are taken to the detention house, where he extracts confessions and then puts them to death. A traditional method. Slow compression of the testicles.’

  ‘It sounds unnecessarily cruel.’

  ‘Cruelty is only unnecessary when it achieves no purpose. Calabash is as old as it is new, and has its own unique way of going about its affairs.’

  ‘I see,’ I said doubtfully.

  ‘No, I don’t think you do.’ Trebunculus looked upon me with kind, knowing eyes. ‘You think we are not democratic, that we are some kind of benign plutocracy, and perhaps there is some truth in that. But there is a balance here.’

  ‘And harmony.’ The Princess made this last word almost musical.

  ‘Then how should I think of you?’

  ‘Why, as your inspiration.’

  ‘Look there now, Kay.’ I followed Rosamunde’s pointing finger to a tall turret shingled in shining gold. ‘Every evening our Queen Mother, my grandmother, the Gracious Fathmir of Cordoba, sits in that tower with her maids of honour, and weaves a tapestry that chronicles the lives of the people all around her. It is said that just as the sun slips below the horizon, it touches her stitches with tongues of fire, and for a brief moment it brings to life all of the characters she has created, and in this moment she can see the fate of everyone within the tapestry. And if she should see something that saddens her, she unpicks the stitches and remakes their destinies.’

  I was going to ask Rosamunde something about kismet, but did not wish to appear foolish. I couldn’t help associating the idea with terrible old Hollywood films. Legends and fables were all very well, but they failed to explain the life of the city.

  ‘Do you have electricity?’ I asked the doctor instead.

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Most certainly. It accumulates in the sky when storms bring the rain, and is discharged into the earth. You must have it too, it is a part of nature.’

  Whenever we embarked upon a question-and-answer session, it never seemed to get us anywhere. ‘Then do you have television?’

  Trebunculus gave the word some consideration. ‘I think I understand what you mean,’ he replied uncertainly.

  ‘Little moving pictures you can watch, in a box.’ I attempted to demonstrate with the use of my hands.

  ‘Ah. No. We are clearly not talking about the same thing. I thought you had truncated the words. Telescope-Vision. Television. Seeing distances. Now you’re saying some kind of puppet-theatre.’

  Rosamunde dropped down onto the mossy edge of the fountain beside Menavino, giggling again. ‘Kay is making fun with you, Doctor.’

  ‘I’m not,’ I replied in some earnest. ‘We have an invention, a box like a little theatre, it runs on electricity. You plug it into the wall.’

  ‘You have electricity in the wall?’

  ‘Yes.’ I could see that we were about to be sidetracked again.

  ‘You catch it from the air?’

  ‘No, we make it ourselves.’

  They all had a good laugh at that one.

  ‘But seriously,’ said Trebunculus when they had settled once more. ‘It is in the walls of your houses?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘It is carried by wires from the places which make it, great big turbines that build up huge amounts of electricity, very powerful, millions of volts, and then it comes into our houses and we turn on the little box and it gives us the news.’

  ‘A messenger.’

  ‘Sort of. And adverts. Selling things.’

  ‘A merchant.’

  ‘And it tells us what the weather will be.’

  ‘An oracle.’

  ‘And it acts out stories. It shows you what life is like.’

  ‘A prophet.’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘But what can it do that a man cannot?’

  ‘Well, nothing really.’

  ‘And for this you have to make your own storms?’ They shrugged at me. ‘Seems a lot of effort.’

  I tried to think. Every time I asked questions about Calabash, I ended up having to justify something about my own world. ‘All right,’ I said, finally thinking of something useful, ‘we can light a room with electricity.’

  ‘So can we, with candles.’

  ‘But not very well.’

  ‘How much light do you need?’ Trebunculus gave Rosamunde one of his looks.

  ‘Ah, but a candle burns you if you stick your finger in the flame.’

  They laughed again. ‘Of course, if you stick your finger in the flame, but why would you be so stupid?’ asked Rosamunde.

  ‘So electricity does not hurt if you stick your finger in it?’ asked the doctor.

  ‘Well, yes, it hurts very badly. It can kill you.’

  ‘There you are. Better to stick with candles.’ We were back to where we had started. The doctor’s bones cracked as he folded his long legs and joined us in the shadow of the vines.

  ‘Why do you distrust electricity so?’ I asked.

  ‘Because it belongs in the natural place of things, in the angry summer air, not in boxes. If it can be put in a box and used to drive mechanical devices, and set to a multitude of uses, cannot its masters then be tempted to wage war against those who do not possess such science?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ I conceded.

  ‘So be it. What else have you got?’

  ‘Cars.’

  ‘Short for…’ Trebunculus searched. ‘Caravans, yes?’

  ‘No. Not short for anything, really. You drive them about.’ I performed a hopeless mime. ‘Open the door, get inside, start the engine, off you go.’

  ‘Ah! An engine!’ He leaned forwards to nod knowingly at Menavino.

  I ignored the diversion I was being offered. ‘Then you drive away. You can travel at great speed, get where you’re going a lot faster.’

  ‘Faster than a horse?’

  ‘Faster than many horses.’

  ‘This thing, what is it made of?’

  ‘Metal alloy. Steel. On wheels, like a cart, but you get right inside it, and it’s much, much faster than any old horse or camel.’

&nbs
p; ‘Why?’

  ‘What do you mean, why?’

  ‘Why go so fast?’

  ‘So you can get there quicker.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To…arrive there…earlier.’

  I could see that this wasn’t going to lead anywhere useful either. The doctor raised a bony tanned forefinger. ‘And.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If it is made of metal and going very fast, why does it not hit things?’

  ‘It does if it’s not driven properly. You have to have lessons.’

  ‘People go to school for this?’ asked Rosamunde. ‘To not hit things?’ Behind them, Menavino snorted with laughter.

  ‘I’ll tell you what. Forget about the cars.’

  ‘No. Now I am interested. They run on electricity?’

  ‘No, on oil.’

  Incredulous faces. ‘Like the lamps?’

  I had a brief vision of streets in Cole Bay choked with traffic. ‘Look, let’s change the subject. We’ll talk about something you have here.’

  ‘Good.’ Rosamunde cocked her head to one side. ‘Listen. You hear those sounds in the distance? Do you like the songs of the samba?’

  ‘Very much,’ I replied, baffled and cheered. ‘The beat. It’s sort of like dance music.’

  ‘Oh, yes, it makes you want to do like so—’ She rose and shook her hips seductively.

  ‘Come. Let’s go and dance. Menavino will stay here with the doctor.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t, um…’ I made a face. ‘I’ve got two left feet.’ They all looked down at my feet. ‘Uh, it’s just a saying.’

  ‘Oh, come, we dance. I will teach.’ Rosamunde grabbed my hand and gently reeled me up to her. She had a tiny silver ring in her navel, on which an ice-blue diamond turned.

  ‘I’m sure Kay would rather learn about our kingdom,’ huffed the doctor. ‘I’ve much to show him. We’ve barely begun the tour.’