Soot

by Dan Vyleta

  “Neel what?” the captain adds as he draws up the contract.

  “Niemand.”

  “K-n-e-e-m-a-n-d,” Pratt spells out laboriously. “From where?”

  “Dutch Antilles.”

  “Well, get ready, Dutch boy, we sail in the morn.”

  Back in the boardinghouse Nil lies flat on his back and whispers a word.

  “N’tib.”

  Eyes closed, he can feel the scuttle of legs upon his naked chest.

  LETTER FROM PROFESSOR S. L. BOLANDER, AMOS EATON CHAIR OF BOTANY, HARVARD UNIVERSITY, TO THE CONGRESSIONAL SUBCOMMITTEE ON THE IMPORT, DISTRIBUTION, AND LEGALITY OF SMOKE SUPPRESSANTS KNOWN AS “SWEETS.” APRIL 1909.

  Dear Sirs,

  I am writing in response to your request, dated 27 March 1909, to clarify the plant source and chemical nature of the Smoke suppressants known under the unfortunate tag of “sweets.” As you requested, I shall endeavour to do so in layman’s terms.

  I must start by pointing out that, as you yourself acknowledge in your letter, our knowledge of the organic source of sweets is limited to little more than hearsay rather than being based on any systematic research. The plant that is understood to be the primary ingredient in the manufacture of sweets—Papaver fuliginosa richteria, colloquially known as the “Black Poppy” or “Smoke Poppy”—does not grow in North America. The Company embargoes its export from India (to which it is presumed to be native), and to my knowledge neither seed nor live specimen exists on American soil. The industrial and chemical processes by which flower is turned into sweet is an even more tightly guarded secret; again the Company holds a complete monopoly on this knowledge and it is reported that the Indian factories resemble fortresses in which workers are sequestered like slaves.

  What we do hold here in our plant collection at Harvard is a single pressed and dried flower; a second such flower is kept in New York City’s new Metropolitan Museum. From the morphological features of the plant it is evident that it is not a true Papaver at all but rather some broadly related genus, or a subspecies of Papaver that was arrived at through hybridisation. In its dried state it is impossible to speculate about its soil requirements; reports from visitors to Bihar who have seen the poppy plantations from afar allude to peculiar modes of fertilisation and to the quick exhaustion of the soil in which this pseudo-poppy is grown. The dried specimen does suggest that the plant is sufficiently poppy-like as to support reports that the harvest of the active ingredient for sweets involves the tapping of ripe seedpods and the extraction of their latex.

  Our understanding of the biological operation of sweets is somewhat more advanced than that of their manufacture. The sweet does not operate merely by absorbing the Smoke generated by a given organism into its physical substance. In other words, it is not simply a sponge soaking up the unseemly vapours exuded by the body before they can cause public remark (though it is true, of course, that the sweet turns black during its use, just as a sponge would turn black if it were used to mop up tar, suggesting that this physical absorption plays some part in the process). Chiefly, though, sweets are not sponges but drugs, which is to say they work directly upon the chemistry of our bodies. As we slip a sweet into our mouths, our saliva begins to dissolve it. The sweet enters our bloodstream and organs, suppressing the affective response of he who consumes it, making him incapable of experiencing strong emotion.

  I should also add that according to a well-regarded theory by our respected French colleague, Louis Radot of the Sorbonne, the process used in the manufacture of so-called Smoke cigarettes—i.e., dispensers of Smoke based upon dark Soot that is temporarily and briefly “quickened” (i.e., reanimated)—also depends on the self-same flower. According to Radot, the substance that allows for the limited and ephemeral reanimation of the cigarette’s Soot appears to be derived not from the latex won from the seedpod but from the processing of the petals (or perhaps of the stems) in some unknown way. It is entirely possible that different subspecies of P. fuliginosa—or flowers of different sexes—are used for the two processes. In the absence of any research into the pseudo-poppy’s reproductive cycles, we are in the realm of pure speculation.

  Allow me to conclude by stating that it would be a violation of my conscience, and of my duties as a citizen, were I not to give voice to my personal feelings about the proposed new laws governing the import of sweets. While, as a man of science, I have nothing but admiration for a world in which dissolute passions are replaced by dispassionate reason, I cannot, as a lover of virtue, advocate the legalisation and state-approved trade of a substance that places us in moral as well as financial hock to an entity such as the Company, which knows neither nation nor creed and exists simply to further its own profits.

  Sincerely yours,

  Sereno Lunqueer Bolander

  Amos Eaton Chair of Botany, Harvard University

   TEMPEST

  [ 1 ]

  Smith takes them by the easiest of means.

  The players board their ship one blustery morning. It is a midsized steamer carrying cargo along with a small number of passengers; the prow very high and painted a deep oxblood red. One after another they walk across the quivering gangway, then settle into their lodgings. When the ship casts off the quay they think themselves free. The open ocean lies ahead. Then the pilot ship stops its engines and strands them halfway out the harbour. A second, smaller steamer pulls alongside and soon a single skiff is rowed across. Between the two sailors manning its oars stands a single passenger, one foot on the gunwale, looking like a painting of Columbus. He must have bribed the pilot. Perhaps, thinks Eleanor, he has bribed all pilots of all ships heading for the high seas. But no, this is no speculative visit: Smith knows they are there. Balthazar sees him only when the Company man is already clambering up the lowered ladder and runs back to his cabin at once. Within a minute, Smith follows, one hand clamped onto the crown of his hat. Its brim is flapping in the wind.

  Eleanor cannot say she is surprised when, soon after, he presents himself at the door of the cabin she shares with Etta May.

  “Miss Renfrew,” Smith says very simply. His hat is in his hands now, his bald pate flushed and sweaty. “Let’s go.”

  Etta May makes a movement as though to shield Eleanor with her bulk. But the cabin is so small that she inadvertently shoulders Eleanor forward, trapping her between two mighty pairs of bosoms, Smith’s and her own. Eleanor turns, hugs the Soother, then reaches past her for the handle of her suitcase, still unpacked. Up on deck Balthazar stands remonstrating, unspooling coils of Smoke into the wind.

  “This is illegal, Smith! Kidnapping and theft. The captain will arrest you.”

  But there is a gun in Smith’s belt and no real fight in Balthazar’s stark features. Eleanor wonders for a moment whether the old man sold her out. The Smoke whipping past her carries shame within its anger; seagulls snatch at its grit as it turns to Soot in the warm air. She reaches out to the old player with both her hands and tugs herself close, so they stand nose to nose.

  “You should have stayed in Saint John,” he says into the wind. “I’ll write a play for you.” It is as though he has already consigned her to the dead.

  She kisses him all the same.

  For an instant, while climbing down into the rowing boat, Eleanor contemplates throwing herself in the sea. Perhaps she can swim back to shore and seek shelter in the law. Balthazar is right, after all: Smith has no legal authority over her; the Company holds no special powers in the United States. But the act seems so desperate, the sea so very black and cold, that she hesitates. A moment later her feet touch the floor of the boat and one of the sailors helps her in. Smith follows, rump first, surprisingly nimble on the ladder. Arrived, he sits down and shakes his big head.

  “The old fool threw his last vial out the window. He made sure I saw it—all out of spite! Well, at least I got the photograph
s before he could chuck them, too. And you.”

  Her heart sinks at the words. “How did you find me out?”

  “Oh, very simply. I was intrigued after we met. You seemed unusual. Remarkable. So I made inquiries. A few telegraphs to our men in Canada—that’s all it took. It turns out the mayor there had recognised you. He was about to write to your uncle. I told him not to bother.”

  Within twenty pulls on the oars, they are alongside Smith’s Company steamer and Smith is helping her up the ladder, apologising quite earnestly as he pushes her up by her backside. Across the black water she can see the players, lined up on deck. Etta May is waving, Balthazar scowling, Ada dabbing at her tears. But it is shy Meister Lukas, stumbling late onto the scene, who is inconsolable, hiding his face behind his fine-boned hands, a tangle of Smoke whipping out of him, crimson and tan, infecting the others until they all stand racked by sobs.

  “Love,” observes Smith, evidently moved. “Did you know?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Too bad,” says Smith. “He should’ve told you. It’s a waste to love in silence.”

  And then he holds open the door and ushers Eleanor to her cabin belowdecks.

  [ 2 ]

  Smith locks her in. This is no more than Eleanor expected, though her captor apologises profusely and promises he will release her the moment they are “shot of land.” She reviews her feelings, finds dread inside herself, and the bud of excitement.

  England.

  Her uncle.

  It’s like when a death is announced. There is a longing to run to it and see.

  Midafternoon Smith releases her and invites her to stretch her legs. “Have a look around the ship,” he says affably. “I trust you will find it to your liking.”

  Indeed it is a handsome vessel, small and well proportioned, with an air of luxury about its wooden panelling and polished brass fixtures. The crew comes from all corners of the world and sports all shades of skin: from the freckled pallor of an Irish deckhand to the blue-black of the cook and the parchment hues of the Malay entrusted with the rudder. Eleanor notes this variety with interest: it suggests the steamer is chartered rather than being Company-owned. She is the only woman on board.

  At the tip of the ship’s bow, leaning into the railing and struggling against nausea, she can see the players’ ship on the horizon, perhaps a half mile ahead, dipping and rising on the roll of the sea.

  Smith finds her there an hour or two later, still leaning against the railing, her stomach climbing into her throat, and invites her to join him for dinner. She attempts to demur, citing her sickness, but he promises a tonic “that will set you straight very quickly”: his brow furrowed in concern; golden whiskers harried by the breeze. Eleanor finds she is interested in him, intrigued. She is used to finding a distance between herself and the outside world, imposed by her awkwardness, by that strangeness in her soul that marked her out to Balthazar. Smith appears genuinely oblivious to it. She, for her part, finds herself unable to get any clear sense of the man. For all his verbosity and indiscretions, he stands hidden behind the pallor of his skin; disinclined to speak in blood and vapours.

  Englishmen don’t smoke.

  But then: Smith isn’t English.

  [ 3 ]

  Dinner is already on the table when they enter Smith’s suite. The main cabin is filled with bags and cases, the latter tied down lest they shift in a storm. A desk is laden with papers and what appears to be picture frames, wrapped in brown paper. Through a narrow door one can see his bedroom with its simple bunk. Out in the living area, the table is screwed into the floor.

  While Eleanor sits, Smith fusses over the “tonic,” which turns out to be largely concocted from brandy and some herbal additive that leaves a bitter flavour on her tongue. She drinks it obediently and notes a slight settling of the stomach. Even so, she declines the bread and cold cuts on offer and winces when Smith bites into a pickled gherkin and fills the air with the tang of its brine. He eats, licks his fingertips clean, dabs at his lips with the thick of his napkin. His eyes are shrewd on her, patient. It is for her to speak.

  She does so at last.

  “What now, Mr. Smith?” she asks in her even, rehearsed manner. “Now that you have me, what will you do with me?”

  “Do? Oh, nothing very ghastly. Nothing at all, as a matter of fact. You’re an asset, that’s all.”

  “Like a thing, you mean.”

  He shrugs. “Like a house, or a horse, or a piece of art. Like this ship and its crew.”

  “And when we get to England, you will cash me in.”

  “In a sense. You are a gift—my letter of introduction. A rather fortuitous one to boot. But come, are you really so offended by the laws of trade? Here, try the wine. It’s Portuguese. They line the barrels with Soot they harvest from brothels. No, really! They say it adds something. And who knows, perhaps it does at that.” He drinks, smacks his lips, smiles. “Now tell me something. Something about yourself. How does it feel, being Miss Renfrew? The girl who grew up in a harness. Does your uncle want you back so he can punish you, or is it to keep you safe from future sin?”

  Smith is asking, not heckling, his voice neither mocking nor condescending but perfectly in earnest, a curious man unabashed by his will to know. And so the emotion that rises in Eleanor is not directed at him but elsewhere, rises from the chest, from the very place, in fact, where she once wore a dial that would allow her to constrict her ribs and contain her evil by means of her pain. She does not suppress the feeling but lets it emerge in a faint frothy twist that drops from her lips like a hiccup and makes its way across the table. Smith notes and inhales it; wipes at the little stain it leaves on his starched tablecloth. But it seems to provide him with no answer, leaves him entirely unmoved, a tone-deaf man shrugging off Chopin as a tinkle of notes.

  “If he punishes me,” she says at last, “it will be from love. That’s the worst part of it, don’t you think?” Then: “They say my uncle has gone mad, Mr. Smith. Is it true?”

  Smith snorts. “Madmen don’t run companies, Miss Renfrew. Not well, that is. And your uncle came from nowhere to become something very like a king.”

  “A country isn’t a company.”

  “Is it not? I suppose there is a difference. Countries get bogged down in their myth of themselves, in traditions and genealogies. But despite all that…You see, the laws of nature still apply.” He sighs, with satisfaction not regret; doles out a spoonful of rice pudding for himself, then smothers it in custard. “Have you heard of a chap called Hegel, Miss Renfrew? His march of the World Spirit? No, I suppose he’s long gone out of fashion. Hegel writes of moments of historical crisis. When one epoch transforms into another, transforms under the weight of its own contradictions. We are on one such seam. But what it takes, you see, is for one man to shoulder the World Spirit, to become its incarnation. A hero. Hegel thought Napoleon…But what did Napoleon do other than fire some cannons and redraw some borders?”

  Smith pauses, shovels some rice pudding into his mouth, and for a moment he is just like a child, fuelled by sugar and alive to an idea. “So here we are, teetering on the threshold. The Age of Sin is almost over. The Second Smoke was its last hurrah.”

  “Then what comes next? After sin?”

  “Rationality,” answers Smith, growing more thoughtful with the answer. “The end of all illusions. Of sentimentality. When all the veils are torn asunder and we see things clearly, for the first time in all of history.”

  “And my uncle? Is he one of those heroes who will deliver this new age?”

  “Your uncle? Good God, no! He is a regression. History’s blind alley. A champion of the past.

  “You know,” he continues after a moment’s silence. “It is curious. The path of history runs counter to my deepest inclinations. I felt it in that theatre of yours: the temptation to
let go. Dissolve in passion. In the crowd. It’s so much harder to be all alone, sealed up in your skin like stuffing in a goose.”

  “Poor you,” whispers Eleanor. “You want to revel in life. But you have to host the World Spirit instead.”

  To her surprise it draws a giggle from Smith, then a full-throated laugh.

  “Now you are sneering at me! But go on, I deserve it. It’s this blasted Portuguese wine. And my joy in having escaped Braithwaite’s accounts—a pox on them, eh? But go on, try the pud. The cook here, he puts cinnamon and raisins in it, then boils it in coconut milk. You won’t believe how good it is until you try.”

  [ 4 ]

  Smith rings a bell. It is an electrical bell, set into the wall behind him; he has to lean back in his chair and stretch in order to reach it. A moment later the door opens and in comes the cabin boy and sets to clearing up. He does so deftly, carrying out the crockery and serving dishes, then offering tea. He is a young man, about Eleanor’s age, with the caramel hue of a mulatto and a soft lilt to his English; is handsome, loose-jointed, bright in his smile.

  Eager to please.

  Eleanor tries not to stare at him. Smith, for his part, ignores him other than requesting a cup of black coffee. A few minutes later the Company man has shifted to the armchair and kicked off his boots, pulled a blanket over his lap and reached for a stack of newspapers.

  “Yesterday’s news. Last month’s, actually. These here are from the Continent, and those are from the Americas. And here’s a little rag we print in Bombay to prove to ourselves we are beacons of enlightenment! No British papers, alas, though I’ve heard Minetowns is trying to set up a press. Well, good luck to them, though I fear it’ll be called something dispiritingly worthy like The Worker, or The Sentinel. Or Truth, God help us!”