by Paul Haines
Anton took Eliana’s hand in his, cupping the two rings in the space between their palms. He looked over the lake again. He felt a warmth in his body that he’d never experienced before, flowing from his heart outwards. He wondered at it, and searched for the words to describe it. It was an entirely new form of pleasure. One he hadn’t before experienced. Contentment—that’s what it was—a kind of wholeness, a feeling that everything was in its right place.
After a moment, he turned rapidly and pushed Eliana onto her back. As he fell upon her as she laughed. “My dress!”
After that day, something changed between them. Each time they met at the Hotel, their lovemaking seemed more passionate, more intimate. Anton attended to Eliana’s every movement: her tiny exhalations of breath, the way she turned slightly onto one side of her body, then onto the other, the rapid fluttering of her eye-lids, and then, finally, her half-muffled cry of his name. Through all this he held back, denying himself the momentary pleasures, until finally he seemed to reach a kind of transcendental bliss where he lost sense of his very body, and a sense of hers, and somehow they left the material plane intertwined, surrounded by nothing but white light. When they finished, Anton, who considered himself a master of the amorous arts, lay speechless and breathless.
Eliana said, “How is it that you hold on for so long?”
He smiled and said, “It’s an unusually cold winter this year, don’t you think?”
He expected one of her usual loving barbs: “You’re such a rascal” or “You’re cruel.” He liked the way she would play with him in that happy way, following the words with a light-hearted laugh.
Instead, Eliana started to cry.
He knew he should leave her there, as he had done many times to others, but the sight of her tears running down her cherubic cheeks, the way she brushed her hand across her small upturned nose, kept him pinned on the bed as if under some great weight. And now, as she said nothing and looked away, as if defeated, Anton felt something shift inside him—a tiny little pain that cut him somewhere deep.
“He’s going to find out,” she said.
“No, he won’t. He spends all his time in his office—you’ve said so yourself.”
“He’ll kill you. You know that. Or worse.”
“Neither of us is going to die. I’ve always been lucky. Things work out for me.”
“It will have to end, won’t it? We can’t go on together, you and me.”
To his own surprise, Anton found himself saying, “Perhaps we should run away. It’s not as if anyone would miss us.”
She looked at him with those ice-blue eyes that had first attracted him. Her face lost its sadness and was now amazed: her bloodshot eyes wide, her cheeks glistening after the tears. “He’ll hunt you down.”
“He’ll take another wife and he’ll find another philosopher-assassin.”
She threw herself onto him and pinned him on the bed. “You’re teasing me, you rascal.”
He looked up at those eyes, his own alight with mischief. “Eliana, would I do such a thing?”
“I . . . I . . .” She was flustered and her face reddened. She turned her head from side to side and he understood her, and the words she could not say.
Something shifted inside him again, and in that moment Anton was convinced that that there would be nothing more natural or romantic than to run away with her to Varenis, or perhaps south to a little fishing village where they could finally live in peace away from the internecine struggles of the Houses.
“Just say the words,” she whispered to him, closing her eyes as if she were praying. “I can’t bear this life any longer.”
“Bring your things next week and we’ll run away. We’ll go south to a fishing village.”
Later, as he slipped out of the rear door of Hotel du Cirque into the dark alleyway, he felt confused. He had been wrong to give in to the romance of the moment. No fishing village could ever hold him, just as he could never limit himself to one woman—he was not a gratificationist for nothing. Now he would have to break it off with her and he hoped that Eliana didn’t burn her bridges with Lefebvre as she left. That would be disaster. Their affair would be unveiled and all would come apart.
Wrapped up in these thoughts, he was only vaguely aware of a figure standing at the other end of the alleyway. He cut through the winding cobblestoned alleyways towards the white cliffs, and back towards his apartment. A few minutes later he stopped. He kicked himself. This affair was ruining his instincts. There had been something suspicious about the figure, and he had simply passed by. Something about its presence disturbed him, like a dream half-remembered in the morning, shadowy and unreal.
* * *
To avoid thinking about Eliana, Anton gorged on Lika-flowers so the days became moments of kaleidoscopic beauty where he found himself in the endless now, each moment perfect and whole. The world seemed filled with luminous truth and incandescent beauty. When these effects lifted, he snorted uderri-powder and rampaged through the nights fighting and drinking, waking in the morning bloodied and bruised, his memories of the night before mostly gone, his head pounding, yet his disposition happy enough.
The day before he was to meet Eliana, Anton stopped at the La Tazia café, drank two shots of black coffee and ate spiced fruit for breakfast.
Pehzi, the wisened old café owner, passed Anton a message from his former lover, Madame Demoul. Anton tore it up without reading it and left it on the table in front of him. Shortly afterwards a slight and effeminate message-boy entered the café and passed Anton a second letter, this one from Director Lefebvre. He was to come to the House Arbor Palace.
“God, everyone wants me!” said Anton cheerily to Pehzi. “Well they can all wait.”
“You’re too self-confident,” said Pehzi, picking up the sleek white cat that sprawled around the café as if it were the true owner. The cafés in Caeli-Amur were known for their cats—black, or silver, or speckled, and especially white—which lounged around in the sun or rubbed up against the citizens’ legs.
Anton laughed and popped a piece of melon into his mouth.
“There’s a war on, you know,” said Pehzi, still holding the cat, its rear legs hanging placidly down. “Anyway, it’s not my job to look after you.” That week the cafés along the cliffs had been filled with stories of the increasingly vicious actions between House Arbor and House Technis—broken agreements, waves of assassinations, intrigues and machinations, secrets stolen—while House Marin circled in the background like a carrion bird waiting for the spoils.
Pehzi believed that the wars were cyclical and never-ending, and thus ultimately farcical, like three friends who every week drank joyously together, only to end up fighting clumsily in the streets before heading home to repeat it all a week later.
Anton looked out of the café’s window, across the open sea beyond. “There’s sun falling on the water. There’s coffee and fruit. There are pretty girls passing through the markets in the square. And you are worried about a war?”
“You may not care about the war, but the war cares about you.”
Anton left the café and made his way south-west, around Caeli-Amur’s white cliffs up to the oldest and wealthiest sections of the city, away from the steam-trams, to where black caparisoned horses pulled carriages and lines of bulb-trees followed the curve of the streets.
Like Lefebvre’s mansion, House Arbor’s Palace was surrounded by Toxicodendron Didion, creeping thickly over the bluestone walls, its leaves gently undulating in the sun, ever wary for prey that might stumble into it. The archway was guarded, but Anton was allowed to pass and continue on up the tree-lined path. At several points the path reached great circular fountains with magnificent statues of the gods: Aya in struggle against the others, Pandae crying out alone on her ship surrounded by the surging sea, or Demidae holding up his great three barrelled lightning rod to the sky. Far away he could hear the soft wailing of tear-flowers and he resisted the urge to leave the path and find them.
> The stately palace was an imposing and yet delicate construction. From the path, the first thing that struck the viewer was the high windows and above them the grand balconies onto which double-doors opened. But as the visitor approached the palace, they noticed the long five-storey wing that was held up by arches over a lake like a massive bridge enclosed by walls and roofs. Doormen in their ridiculous Arbor uniforms (with tails that flapped behind them limply in the breeze) stood in the surrounding gardens. They took no notice of Anton who passed into the wide marble-floored halls, chandeliers hanging over them that in the night gleamed like clusters of shining stars.
Lefebvre sat in his spacious office, light shining through the wide windows to his left, Jean-Paul standing behind him. “Always late,” said Lefebvre, shaking his head. “If you weren’t my most trusted agent, I’d take you to the dungeons myself.”
“But you love me like a son,” joked Anton, slouching into a chair.
Lefebvre closed his eyes as if he were suffering. His voice grew serious then, and for the first time Anton noticed tiny lines of worry appear between Lefebvre’s eyebrows. “I have a task that is not only of importance to the House, but is of personal importance to me—a task that the other Directors must know nothing about. You remember my wife?”
“Why yes of course,” said Anton, “Elena.”
“Eliana,” corrected Lefebvre. “It is most unfortunate, this business, but as you know, House Technis have discovered a number of our secrets to do with thaumaturgical zoology. It appears that my own wife, who means more to me than . . . It appears that she has been meeting with a Technis Agent. It is most unfortunate, but we can only conclude that she is the source of our misfortunes.”
“No! . . .” Anton reached out towards Lefebvre, as if to touch him, though the man was on the other side of his desk.
“Jean-Paul followed her some days ago. They have a regular rendezvous once a week at Hotel du Cirque, close to the city’s Southern Gate. Jean-Paul saw the man leave but could not ascertain his identity.”
“Surely there is another explanation,” said Anton. “Perhaps it’s not as you think. Perhaps she is only meeting an old friend. Or at worst a . . . lover.”
“A lover? That’s impossible. Eliana is not a sexual creature. She’s more like an innocent child. And if she had such desires, I would be able to satisfy her.” Lefebvre took a vial from one of his draws and placed it onto the table. “This is most valuable—it takes years to grow. It is Fungus Veritas—Truth Mould. I want you to place it on her skin. When it is inside her she will only speak the truth.” Lefebvre smiled grimly and Anton was disturbed by the thought of the thing in Eliana.
“Why not use it on the . . . spy?” asked Anton.
Lefebvre looked at Anton as if he didn’t understand and Anton realised this was about more than just discovering a spy, it was about controlling Eliana. It was about Lefebvre’s own sense of dignity.
Anton shifted in his seat. “And the spy?”
“You are a philosopher-assassin are you not?” Lefebvre stood up and walked around the desk. He placed his hand on Anton’s shoulder and spoke softly. “I knew I could trust you.”
Jean-Paul walked Anton from the room and along the palace halls, couriers criss-crossing in their uniforms, a massive cake balanced carefully in the hands of two porters, and several of the House officials yelling orders.
Jean-Paul spoke calmly, “You understand the delicacy of this task.”
“The House’s honour is at stake,” said Anton.
“He’s furious,” said Jean-Paul. “I should hate to be the Technis agent when the Director gets his hands on him.”
“Perhaps it’s simpler than it seems. Perhaps it’s simply a love-affair,” said Anton.
Jean-Paul ignored him. “This is a new low for House Technis. To bed a man’s wife for information—have they no honour left? Once there were strict codes. What kind of people would do this?”
“I suppose we’ll find out soon enough,” said Anton heavily.
“We must do whatever we can to protect the Director, even against himself if need be,” said Jean-Paul, and for a moment his voice tightened as if he too was angry.
Anton walked back along the long path from the Palace, thinking. His luck would hold. There would be a path from this mess. In the background the tear-flowers wailed.
* * *
Back at La Tazia, Anton wondered how he would he get word to Eliana. He might have to break into Lefebvre’s mansion and speak to her directly. Anton came out of his reverie to find Pehzi looking at him expectantly. As if to justify himself, Anton instinctively said, “We must take pleasure when offered to us, for life is but a brief spark in the darkness. We must live in the moment, and live fully.”
Pehzi downed a shot of strong black coffee and looked at Anton for a moment. “Pleasure does not always bring satisfaction. Often it brings the opposite, a discontentment that eats away at you, even though you try to sate it with momentary diversion.”
The following day, Anton waited in a carriage in the broad street; the heat emanating from the line of bulb trees dissipated in the winter air. Only the Mansion roof was visible above its surrounding great walls. By his side sat one of the street-urchins—a bony little boy with hard eyes—who he regularly used for such tasks. Though it was the middle of the day, fog hovered over the city like a menacing shroud, as if the very air was permeated with portents of sorrow. Anton’s thoughts, usually so light-hearted, had become fearful. All he could see in his mind was Eliana wiping tears from her cheeks. Why did this vision plague him so much? Why couldn’t he forget her like he did all the others?
His plan was simple: pass a note to Eliana’s maid cancelling the rendezvous. Eliana would not betray him—she loved him. She would be heartbroken, but would carry her burden in silence. She would explain that there had been no passing of secrets, that it was all just a terrible misunderstanding. And Lefebvre would forgive her, slighted though his pride would be. But questions rumbled at the edge of his mind: would Eliana really react the way he hoped? Did Lefebvre possess more of the fungus? Anton pushed the thoughts away.
Anton watched the comings and goings at the gate of Lefebvre’s mansion. Workmen carried long timber planks, a grocer’s cart carried a vast array of meats and vegetables. Five dark-skinned men carried buckets of Numerian red-fruit. After about twenty minutes, Anton saw Eliana’s handmaid, a demure and mousy young woman, make her way out of the side door with the morning’s laundry basket.
“Now—that maid,” he said to the boy, who scampered out and to the mansion gate. The boy called to the maid, who looked up and frowned. She approached the gate and the boy seemed to speak briefly to the maid before passing her the message. As the boy scampered back, the maid continued to frown.
Once the boy was back in the carriage, it took off, its wheels clattering against the cobblestones.
The following evening, Anton threw himself onto the bed at the Hotel du Cirque, boots on. He pulled Gratificationism and Desire by Eran Metripole from his bag and flicked through the pages. But he was unable to concentrate. Perhaps it was the bed, but images of Eliana kept springing into his mind. They had lain in this bed, the bedclothes twisted, their limbs entangled, Eliana’s face flushed. They had spoken in whispered voices. He was struck by a sudden desire to see her. But it was impossible—their time was over.
Now Anton would simply wait for Lefebvre to arrive with Jean-Paul and say, “I’m sorry monsieur, but they have not arrived. Perhaps there was no spy? Perhaps it was simply an old friend after all.” A part of him was pleased that he had been able to forestall the disaster. Yet at the same time he felt a pressure, almost like a weight in his stomach, draining him of his usual joyousness. It was a kind of despondency, as if meaning had been leached from things.
Anton heard feet tapping along the corridor. The sound was familiar. His heart leaped, and he sat up rapidly. Again another storm of emotions roiled within him.
The doorknob rattled and
Eliana ran across the room and threw herself onto him. “I’ve missed you,” she said. “I could barely wait for the week to pass.”
Anton was speechless. He finally managed to force out, “What are you doing here?”
She raised her head from his chest and said, “It has been all I could think about. And the most awful things have happened this last week.”
“I sent you a message.” Anton pushed her away and strode to the door, which he bolted.
“What?” said Eliana, confused and staring at him from the bed. Hesitantly she spoke again. “I brought my things. They’re downstairs.”
Anton moved to the window and looked at the carriage that waited underneath. He dropped the tone of his voice so that it came out measured, cold. “What for?”
Eliana looked at him in silence, her eyes wide.
Anton’s spoke spitefully, as if to punish Eliana for the situation. “The Director was right. You’re nothing but a child.”
Eliana looked at him stricken. “I don’t understand.”
Anton turned away from her again. Would it be so hard for the two of them to run down to that carriage, to hold each other as it rattled through the streets south, away from Caeli-Amur? He steeled himself. “Don’t you understand? It was always just a fantasy.”
“I thought you loved me.” Beneath her trembling voice was an accusatory tone.
Turning back, he found that she now stood before him. “You’re a fool if you think that’s why I pursued you. I don’t love you.” The words cut him, though he didn’t know why.
She cried out as her face twitched and trembled with terrible emotion. She pushed him. He stepped backwards, but his heel struck his bag. He lost his balance, fell and felt something sharp in his side as he hit the ground. He put his hand to his back and brought it away. Blood. He raised himself up on his hands to avoid whatever had cut him and looked down but there was nothing there. He looked back at Eliana, who eyed him with equal confusion. He looked back at the window: perhaps he had been shot? But the glass was intact. Puzzled he looked down at the ground again and scratched his neck, where he felt something furry, like the high neck on a Numerian coat. He brought his hand away, struggling to comprehend what was occurring. Now his jaw was itchy and he scratched it, feeling again something furry.