As they hurried down the windowless corridor where gaslights flickered palely against the yellowed walls, Alistair had to lengthen his stride to keep up with the irrepressible McPhee, despite the octogenarian’s silver-topped cane.
“Mr. McPhee, may I remind you that I am twenty-three years of age and therefore entitled to be addressed as such,” he said in a peeved tone.
“Indeed, boy, indeed,” his employer responded distractedly, patting down his long silver curls, coattails flying behind him, and a ridiculously high lacy collar framing his prunelike face like that of a demented bishop. Alistair despaired of ever receiving a modicum of respect from the octogenarian.
They arrived at a door marked, perplexingly, Office 142. McPhee swung around dramatically and stared for a moment at the young man’s navel before casting his eyes upward, his employee being a good twelve inches taller than himself.
“Now I know ye think me a man incapable of any sentiment whatsoever…” He hesitated hopefully, as if waiting for his apprentice to protest the statement, but to his secret disappointment Alistair held his silence. Sanguinely the professor continued, “…but I intend to surprise ye. I am about to offer ye the opportunity of a lifetime, a chance to distinguish yourself at an early age as an archaeologist and curator of the highest distinction. But be warned: I expect ye to make a good fist of it. Do we understand each other?”
Amazed by the curmudgeon’s change of tone, and now bursting with curiosity as to what might lie inside the room, Alistair nodded with great solemnity. Satisfied, McPhee again smoothed down his greasy locks and opened the door.
A woman—clearly a lady—sat on a Windsor chair, her back held stiff, her bosom high. Her veil was down, her hands were covered by the finest kid gloves, and she wore a bustled coat of the latest fashion. Alistair had a strong sense that what lay beneath the veil could only be beautiful, for the woman held herself with the confidence of one who was completely conscious of the effect she had upon others: desire. A valet, smartly dressed in her colors, stood by her side awaiting instructions.
Alistair’s eyes were next drawn to a long table covered with objects of varying sizes and shapes, each in turn covered by a silk kerchief. Thus were the artifacts beneath completely concealed.
“Your ladyship,” McPhee simpered. The woman, without standing, held out her gloved hand. “McPhee,” she murmured in a velvety tone that immediately pricked at Alistair’s crotch. McPhee grasped her hand eagerly and, much to Alistair’s hidden disgust, planted a slobbering kiss upon the leather.
“Ever your faithful servant,” he replied in a docile but croaky voice. Then, straightening himself, he pushed Alistair before him.
“May I introduce the young man I made aforemention of: Mr. Alistair Sizzlehorn, formerly of Cambridge, a most talented archaeologist. Mr. Sizzlehorn, meet Lady Whistle.”
Alistair, blushing now to the roots of his blond hair, bowed deeply, praying the aristocrat would not notice the cheap fabric of his breeches.
“Charmed, my lady.”
“Indeed.”
She flicked up her veil, causing the archaeologist to inhale involuntarily. She was a mature woman, of forty-six years or so, but she still held her beauty—a full handsomeness of wide cheekbones, a strong nose, and a dangerous mouth. Her skin was impossibly pale and Alistair suspected the copious application of cosmetics. Her coiffured hair was raven black and her body of generous proportions, particularly her bosom. When she smiled he noticed that her pearly white teeth were perfect and ever so slightly predatory.
“Let us not indulge ourselves in subtle niceties, Mr. Sizzlehorn. I need a curator of sorts. I need a discreet individual with excellent Latin and a good drawing hand to catalogue and translate for me. McPhee tells me you are that man.”
“Indeed, I hope to be, my lady.”
“In that case, before we begin let me ask you: are you familiar with the phrase gabinetto degli oggetti riservati, once known as gabinetto degli oggetti osceni?”
Her Italian was flawless and Alistair wondered whether she might not in fact be of Italian descent.
“The Cabinet of Restricted or Secret Objects, from Pompeii?” he replied, trying unsuccessfully to keep his nerves from showing in his trembling voice. He had heard rumor of the secret room in the Museum of Naples, which was said to house a collection of erotic objects of explicit and magical nature. Objects that had been rescued from the doomed Roman city of Pompeii, infamous for its worship of Bacchus and love of carnality.
The legend of the secret cabinet had circulated the corridors of Cambridge in whispered conversations among his fellow students, the heirs of the landed gentry, many of whose families held similar erotic collections in their own vaults. Aware of his impoverished background and experience Alistair had always been too intimidated to pass comment, fearing he would be exposed and humiliated both as a virgin and a pauper. But the descriptions of grotesque but titillating ithyphallic statues and erotic murals had captivated him nevertheless.
“The very same.” Lady Whistle’s velvet tones drew him sharply back to the present.
“The Italian archaeologist Antonio Bonucci is a close friend of mine. When the Risorgimento began in Italy last year he approached me with the idea of cataloguing and documenting some of the objects, in case that upstart Garibaldi destroyed the collection. I have brought you some of the objects entrusted to me—I have, of course, documentation to accompany each artifact. But before I reveal them, I should warn you that these are not for the eyes of the innocent or the puritan.”
Alistair blushed again, worried that his virginity might suddenly blossom on his skin like some hideous stigmata. His eyes slid sideways to McPhee, who stood stoically by the table, his hand absentmindedly stroking the top of his walking cane.
“If you don’t mind, my lady, an upstanding gentleman of the Presbyterian persuasion such as myself would prefer to step outside to avoid the corrupting nature of such objects,” McPhee murmured, his voice thick with embarrassment.
Lady Whistle nodded, a glint of amusement playing in her eyes. Before the bantam octogenarian left the room he turned to his prodigy. “Now, Mr. Sizzlehorn, promise me that when you look upon these demonic items of worship you will view them with the cold eye of the archaeologist and dismiss all licentious thoughts.”
“I should never have the audacity to approach such antiquities otherwise, Dr. McPhee,” Alistair replied, mustering all the sincerity he could.
After McPhee had left, Lady Whistle stood, a steam of perfume rising with her. She was even more statuesque standing and seemed to be only an inch or so shorter than Alistair who was a good six feet tall. She turned to her manservant. The archaeologist now noticed he was a remarkably handsome lad of no more than fifteen. Grinning mischievously like a dusky Puck who had just stepped from the shadows of a forest glade, the valet stared back brazenly. His gaze revealed a maturity far beyond his years; an observation that disturbed Alistair profoundly.
“Toby, I believe we are ready now,” Lady Whistle said a trifle impatiently.
With tantalizing slowness the valet pulled away the silk kerchiefs one by one, as if conducting a peepshow.
The revealed items were extraordinary. Astonishing in their beauty, they also displayed a complete obscenity, a gleeful celebration of the pornographic.
The centerpiece was a marble statue some three feet in height: the figure of a beautiful youth, his arms raised up as if he had once clasped a water jug, his back arched. Extremely realistic, it was as if the boy had been turned into marble with the wave of some arch wizard’s staff. One’s eye was immediately drawn to the statue’s huge semierect penis. It was impossibly thick, veined, the bulge of the head clearly visible under the foreskin, which was still drawn over the tip. Its very tumescence was a pornographic celebration of existence, of life force itself. The startling contrast between the feminine beauty of the boy and his ultramasculine organ created an erotic counterbalance that further enhanced the exquisite artistry of the stat
ue.
If he followed the ways of the Latin poet Catullus, he could fall in love with such a youth, Alistair found himself thinking.
Lady Whistle’s seductively deep voice broke his reverie. “From the House of the Vettii. The statue would have been part of a fountain—the sex organ is, of course, a water spout.” Her tone was objective, as if she were describing a rare species of butterfly.
The young archaeologist, scarlet to the roots of his hair, had to force himself to look up; as he did, he had the distinct impression that the valet, Toby, was winking at him.
“And these?” Alistair asked, covering his embarrassment with a deep baritone timbre. He pointed to a series of bronzes of comical dwarfs with satyrlike faces, each completely overshadowed by a humungous erect phallus taller than themselves.
“The Romans attributed magical powers to dwarves. These were powerful talismen—both for luck and virility. The phallus itself, as you can see by the carving on these small clay slabs”—she indicated squares of red travertine each with a crude bas-relief of an erect phallus with a Latin inscription—“was considered to bring both happiness and good luck to a household, and a representation was often to be found hanging above the door. Hence the inscription: Hic habitat felicitas. I have no doubt that, with such a plethora of penises available, happiness indeed dwelt therein. But I digress; it is this that I am most interested in.”
She indicated a scroll Alistair hadn’t noticed. She pulled off her gloves to handle it and Alistair immediately observed that her hands belied her age, which he now realized was far closer to fifty. She unrolled the manuscript to reveal an elaborate sketch of what appeared to be an orgiastic rite. The participants were evidently followers of Pan: some of the women were half-goat and many of the men bearded satyrs—all engaged in a variety of sexual congress, from sodomy through to bestiality. Each face was etched with a strange bliss akin to religious ecstasy, as if they were striving for a higher goal than just carnal pleasure.
Struggling with his own tumescence, the courageous archaeologist attempted to adopt the detached professional air he had promised McPhee.
“I assume this is a bacchanalian ritual—the central figure looks like Bacchus or the Greek equivalent, Dionysus, with his beard and goblet. He appears to be the master of ceremonies.”
“Indeed. But the real fascination is the transcription of the text beneath this mural—found on the walls of the Villa of the Mysteries. Its Latin is too complex for my schoolgirl grasp, but I am told it suggests that this particular orgy was undertaken in the quest for eternal youth. A quest that was, so the inscription implies, successful in its outcome.”
Lady Whistle’s gaze, although candid, held a far more salacious implication. The ghost of premonition passed over Alistair, causing him to shiver.
“My lady, you do realize that the mural would have been metaphoric—most likely a device to stimulate the clientele of a brothel or the staid marriage of a rich merchant?”
“Perhaps so, perhaps not. I have evidence that leads me to believe it is a literal explanation. But that does not concern us now—let us return to the matter at hand. I wish to employ you for two purposes: your official role will be as compiler of a catalogue of the collection, for the museum and for posterity. Your second, secret, task is to translate and break the riddle of this Dionysian rite. I will pay you well for the former, but for the latter I will reward you with riches undreamed of.”
With riches undreamed of…her language was strangely old-fashioned, as if English were indeed her second tongue. The story of Faust and his pact with the devil floated up from the recesses of Alistair’s memory.
Beneath the lace shawl he became aware of an ivory cleavage that plunged into tantalizing shadow; lower down, her waist—pressed no doubt into such an impossibly narrow shape by a steely corset—looked as if he could encircle it with one hand. Even farther down he caught a glimpse of her delicate ankles clad in pearly gray kid leather. She would be a seductive patron, of that he had no doubt. But it was the promise of freedom from poverty and the status he would achieve by having his name attached to such a catalogue, not to mention the appeal of breaking the terrible ennui of his current laborious and repetitious duties, that really fascinated him.
It was all too much for the archaeologist, who had supped on nothing but milk toast for two nights; Alistair found himself suddenly weak at the knees. Lady Whistle, noting his faintness, clicked her fingers. Immediately Toby slipped a chair beneath him, into which he collapsed thankfully.
“Take the offer, sir. You won’t regret it…trust me,” the valet whispered conspiratorially.
Smiling sardonically Lady Whistle addressed the hapless archaeologist. “I ask only one condition: that you tell no one, not even your employer, of the second task. You must understand, the mural was copied illegally from the walls of the House of Mysteries itself—you are only the fifth person to see it in recent history. And, as you may appreciate, I have my reputation to consider.”
“And Madam’s reputation is impeccable,” her servant piped up. The gentlewoman stroked her valet’s cheek in a decidedly nonmaternal fashion.
“Thank you, Toby. I am fortunate that Lord Whistle is such an understanding husband.” She turned back to Alistair, her fingers still caressing her valet. “He is so fond of his horses. Why, his jockey hardly ever leaves his side. Isn’t that right, Toby?”
“Indeed, my lady.”
“So, my dear archaeologist, have you reached a decision?”
“I will take the commission.”
“Both of them?”
“Both of them,” Alistair answered, swallowing nervously as the image of his father staring disapprovingly from the pulpit floated down before him.
That evening the young archaeologist returned to his boardinghouse by way of a hansom cab. As he parted with the shilling he could ill afford, Alistair consoled himself with the notion that the luxury was a celebration, a way of accustoming himself to his future prosperity. Therefore it was not without some satisfaction that he noticed his landlady, Mrs. Jellicoe, spying from behind the dingy length of material she optimistically referred to as her curtains.
“In the money I see, Mr. Sizzlehorn,” she remarked as Alistair entered the darkened hallway of the boardinghouse.
“A temporary aberration that I hope will soon become permanent,” he replied cheerily, smiling into the gloom of the spacious but sadly neglected terraced house.
Mrs. Jellicoe clicked her dentures in disapproval, her jowly face framed by the yellowed bonnet she was never seen without. Gambling—the lad must have taken to the turf, she thought disapprovingly, already wondering what poor unfortunate she could replace him with if he should fall to rack and ruin. Ruminating over the possibilities, she returned to the parlor, where she settled into her knitting like a fat spider content in her web.
At the top of the stairs Alistair opened the door to his garret room with the rusty key Mrs. Jellicoe had entrusted to him with as much ceremony as if she were handing over the keys to the Royal Mint itself.
The garret was dark except for a strand of moonlight struggling to penetrate the dingy skylight set high in the slanting roof. The air was chilly. Shivering, Alistair scurried across the bare floor to light a mutton-fat candle on the three-legged desk propped up by a quantity of Latin texts.
The wick spluttered into flame, illuminating the room that was a mishmash of strange angles and awkward beams running across the ceiling with no apparent logic. An oil painting of Dante’s Inferno hung on one wall; an inferior piece reminiscent of the work of Hieronymus Bosch, Alistair had rescued it from a pawn shop on High Holborn. Attracted by the garishness of the writhing Dante besieged by temptations, he had tempered the dramatic effect of the canvas with a cheap lithograph entitled The Elysian Fields, which hung opposite. In contrast this was a colorful rendition of Utopia, showing a meadow populated by angelic shepherdesses and cherubs playing lyres. The diaphanous nature of the maidens’ garments had not been lost on
the lonely youth, who often imagined himself lolling in such a field, his head in the lap of one of the nymphs.
There was little else in the garret apart from these two paintings: a rickety bed, with a painted brass headpiece his mother had insisted he transport from home; a pathetic hearth blackened with soot; and a chipped china washstand equipped with an enamel jug, the water in which was guaranteed to be freezing no matter the season. In the corner was his desk, with a miniature of his parents and his certificate of graduation attached to the wall above.
After poking the struggling fire until it ignited into some semblance of warmth, Alistair fell in exhaustion upon the bed. Suddenly the whole house shook as a train headed into nearby Euston station. It was an event that occurred every twenty minutes or so, day and night, adding to the atmosphere of uncertainty that permeated the rambling boardinghouse. Every week saw some tenant being evicted and a new one installed, for Mrs. Jellicoe fancied herself a wronged woman and happily displayed a healthy lack of respect for the male of her species, particularly those who deluded themselves regarding the power of their charms. In Mrs. Jellicoe’s world, economy would always triumph over sentiment. “I got no time for yer story-spinners and fly-by-nights. Forty long years I put up with the gropings of an incontinent dipsomaniac and these four walls is all I have to show fer it, God curse Mr. Jellicoe’s drunken heart,” the landlady would often confide to no one in particular during one of her own inebriated moments.
Alistair listened to the last of the train’s rattling fade with one final hoot into the distant clatter of the city, then glanced over to his Latin dictionaries. He had topped the subject at Cambridge—the legacy of his father who had insisted that if his child were to roam wild he should at least roam in Latin.
The vision of Lady Whistle’s fine white hands drifted like a wisp of smoke across his thoughts, followed incongruously by a troop of whirling dwarfs, each encumbered by an inordinately colossal member. Disturbingly, many carried McPhee’s grim visage upon their squat dancing bodies. Just as Alistair was despairing of exorcising the whimsy, Lady Whistle entered the scenario, clad in the garb of the goddess Venus, her generous bosom resplendently visible. Alistair relaxed into the delicious fecundity of the phantom’s breasts and sex to lose himself in the insistent throbbing of his fantasy.
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