Aurorarama

by Jean-Christophe Valtat

  That world now consisted almost entirely of Stella’s place, a collective apartment at the edge of Novo-Arkhangelsk. The Apostles’, as the demure-looking building was called, was the former site of the offices and warehouses of the now defunct Mirrilies & Muir department store. There, artists, bohemians, and dropouts had installed studios and Spartan rooms, where they shared costs, bottles, beds, and just about anything else.

  Not that Gabriel—his mind open like a ruin where draughts circulate through banging doors or unhinged windows—either cared for or condemned the lifestyle in itself. After all, as someone trustworthy had once said, “the whole business of man is the arts and all things common.” It was even, in a way, what he had been looking for. But, a bourgeois among bohemians, he would sooner have considered sharing his girlfriend (as long as she wasn’t Stella) than a bathroom with strangers. The promiscuity made him secretly unhappy and bothered him more than he admitted, for he did not want to criticize, let alone lose, Stella’s hospitality.

  Among the Apostles, he was surprised to come across Mugrabin, lurking in the shadow and busy plotting with an Inuk who looked a lot like the one who had defended the Eskimos at the Inuit People’s Ice Palace. On seeing Gabriel, Mugrabin flashed a knowing false-toothed smile and winked a glass-eyed wink. “Ah!!! Did not I tell you that you would join us?” he sputtered in Gabriel’s face. Shaking his hands violently, he then informed him that “great things are on their way.” The idea of Mugrabin living a few yards away from him and probably fiddling about with homemade incendiary bombs had not quite helped Gabriel to relax. He later interrogated Stella about the man, but she had just tapped her forehead in an unambiguous estimation of the man’s sanity.

  But what Gabriel could not forget about Mugrabin were the insinuations he had made about Stella and Free Love during his visit to Gabriel’s apartment. Another aspect of the local communism that did not sit very well with him was that every time he met a party of people somewhere within the Apostles, one of them turned out to be one of Stella’s former lovers. His efforts to forget everything about the Ingersarvik would be blown to smithereens, and sharp pangs of jealousy pierced him through and through, as if he were an unfortunate assistant in a failed sword-box illusion. Though Stella did her meagre best to reassure and soothe him, he often felt anguished and shameful, a laughingstock for people who probably could not care less.

  He found he loved Stella too much, not in regard to what she deserved—for he wished everyone to be loved madly—but in regard to how much he could handle. Of course, she was cute, curious, quick-witted, deliciously debauched, and clownish as a kitten, but his obsession went far beyond her objective qualities. Every trifle from her was quatrefoil to him. Any word she said or move she made provoked instant salivation, like an electrode in a dog’s severed head. The way she danced with her fists clenched and biting her lips with her perfectly aligned little teeth, the way she put both of her small hands around a hot mug to drink the worst coffee he’d ever tasted, the way she, well … She was like the girl you fall in love with when you’re three years old and never quite recover from, the little child whose features you catch by surprise in the prettiest of your girlfriends. The sight of her receding buttocks as she got up from the bed in his St-Anthony-Pateyville Polars hockey top (which had, sewn on its back, a number that was, curiously, an exact count of the girls he had known before her), or, as she sat on her heels, the vision of her toes that were like little orphans huddling together, filled his heart with a curious blend of bliss and distress. When she fell asleep at his side, either he would prowl around her nude, half-covered body like an old hungry wolf, or he would simply bend over her and cry with what could equally be the tenderness of a father or the loneliness of an abandoned child.

  He was, in a word, ridiculous.

  It had even got to the point where he’d acquired a new tattoo from a nearby shop, as a token of commitment and complicity. He’d got the idea from a bizarre book that said that the scions of old families from the Bourbonnais (where the Alliers allegedly originated) used to have needles stuck in their napes to indicate the initials of the fixed star under which they had been born. The book further affirmed, even less credibly, that this was how the magnetic attraction of needles toward the North Pole had been discovered. Gabriel, his lucidity in tatters, had found the tradition worthy to be revived.

  Stella, who between stage contracts also earned a living as an astrologer, had studied his natal chart and found that, with Scorpio rising, a star called Agena had been in conjunction with Neptune and exerted a strong influence on his life. She taught him that it was the tenth-brightest star in the sky, which perfectly contented Gabriel’s unassuming modesty (he had already accepted living, after all, on an island that was only the tenth-biggest in the world). Its rays made him “sharp,” “headstrong,” and “original”—which he was only too eager to admit—but Stella did not hide from him that their influence could also result in “poor executive ability, loss through law and speculation, obstacles to success, many false friends and enemies, and liability to accidents or death by colds or fevers.” He’d sniggered and gone for it, mostly as a dare, drawing for the tattoo artist a sigil that he thought would look fine at the base of his neck. He was marked for life, but that was exactly what he felt like feeling anyway.

  Then he’d had a row with Stella, when he reproached her for having let him shake the hand of one of her former beaus. Another nerve snapped (he wondered with curiosity when he would reach the last one, but there always seemed to be something more in him that could be severed, crumpled, trampled, or broken), and he remembered Brentford’s wedding as, if not a good idea, a good excuse to get out of the house. Surely, pneumatic dispatches from the worrying groom were accumulating in his apartment. He would go there and fetch a decent suit and then, instead of reading St Paul as he was supposed to, he would tell everyone from the pulpit what the bride was doing in her spare time at the Ingersarvik, or maybe not, and then the Gentlemen of the Night would do him in for having communicated with his friend, who wouldn’t be his friend anymore. That would be a great evening. Twinkle, twinkle, little fixed star.

  The Orsini family had done things on a grand scale. They had rented the Splendide-Hôtel on the Icy Heights of Circeto, the crowning achievement of the d’Ussonville chain of hotels that had been so instrumental in the city’s foundation. Winding along a ravine, two majestic, immaculate avenues met in front of the monumental stairs that rose to the Casino, where guests were welcomed by the newlyweds, and to the Kursaal, where tables had been installed for the banquet. The weather conditions were both atrocious, because of a cold that made Celsius feel like Fahrenheit, and enchanted, because the frozen snowstorm had decorated the roofs, gutters, and balconies with a crystalline lavishness of icicles that money couldn’t have bought—though, to speak frankly, money hadn’t spared its efforts, either. Brentford doubted that the two hundred or so persons who had been invited could make it to the highest point of the city on roads that were like curling sheets, but then, he could not care less, for he knew precious few of them.

  Caught between the outer darkness and the dazzling brightness of the lustre, between icy draughts from the revolving door and warm waves from the rooms behind, he stood in the lobby and smiled at perfect strangers so bejewelled that they, too, seemed to have been frosted. He did not feel quite at ease. First, because he had never been much of a socialite. Then, because these guests were, after all, the people A Blast on the Barren Land had been partly written against, though they had done nothing to him except, tonight, offer gifts and blessings. Brentford’s true loyalty, he reckoned, was with the Scavengers, and the Inuit, maybe. But they had not been invited, and so there he was, part outlaw, part son-in-law, a gentle Judas to all the classes he wished to reconcile.

  He could comfort himself with the idea that things had been relatively under control so far. The church ceremony had been, thank God, rather short. Gabriel had finally deigned to appear just in time for the ce
remony, dressed in a purple velvet frock coat that matched, with a true dandy’s sense of detail, the rings around his eyes, and sporting a floppy ascot that was exactly the wavelength of the northern lights. As a former Navy Cadet, Brentford knew a loose cannon when he saw one, and promised himself to keep an eye on his friend. The best man botched his assigned epistle, reading with the voice of an automaton running on low batteries and staring at Sybil in a curious, almost reproachful way, while, lost in her thoughts, she simply ignored him. As for the priest, he looked like some second-rate beau at a Circus Of Carnal Knowledge premiere, and only the ladies paid attention to his routine. Brentford could not help thinking that if he raised his eyes he would see Arkansky doing coin tricks with the hosts, interlocking the wedding rings like Chinese links, or changing the wine to water on the altar. And that as he lifted the veil of his bride to kiss her, he would see either Little Tommy Twaddle flashing his bright square teeth at him or the Ghost Lady whispering something important he would only half grasp. But in the end it had all gone smoothly enough.

  Suddenly Brentford saw Mason storming toward him through the lobby of the Splendide-Hôtel. He had a satchel slung on his shoulder and under his fur coat was wearing a field uniform, on which a holster strap cut a bend sinister. Brentford sensed immediately that trouble was brewing.

  “Congratulations!” Mason said, bowing to Sybil and giving her a nonchalant baisemain. He turned to Brentford, and taking his arm while shaking his hand, drew him a few steps away.

  “Sorry about this, but can we talk for a minute?”

  Brentford looked around him, then moved toward Sybil and, whispering in her ear, excused himself for a moment.

  “This way,” he said, leading Mason into an empty, dimly lit smoking room.

  “I had no choice. I’m leaving tonight,” Mason explained to Brentford, handing him a folder he took from the satchel.

  “You’re leaving. On a mission?”

  “Yes. You remember those Eskimos with rifles? They have been seen by one of our spy balloons on Prince Patrick Island. Near what seems to be an airship base. I am leaving immediately.”

  Brentford wasn’t that surprised. This had been bound to happen sooner or later. He wondered if he should say Good Luck or something. But Good Luck to whom?

  “And what is this?” he said instead, opening the folder.

  “My wedding present. I’m not sure you’ll like it, though.”

  Brentford spotted the letterhead, the moon-shaped C surrounded by seven stars.

  “With the seal of the Council on it, it’s indeed possible that I will not.”

  “These are my final instructions for the so-called hunting campaign.”

  “The numbers seem impressive.”

  “It’s not only that. How do you like fox as a food, Mr. Orsini?”

  “Fox-hunting? It means either fun or furs.”

  “I’m afraid that in this case it means furs.”

  “The fur trade is reserved to the Inuit.”

  “The Inuit are game, now. Not hunters.”

  Brentford looked up at Mason, who stared straight in front of him and nervously bit his lips.

  “Have the four Inuit fugitives been found, by the way?” asked Brentford in a voice that he hoped would sound detached.

  Mason hesitated.

  “I do not think so. As you know, these police matters are not within our responsibility.” He hesitated for a while, and finally said, turning toward Brentford, “Which I’m thankful for, as I suspect they could be innocent.”

  “They are, believe me.”

  Brentford browsed through the folder. It was a nightmare come true. The idea was to kill two birds with one stone, and then get the whole flock falling dead from the sky. Driving the Inuit out of the land by depleting the game and reclaiming a fur trade that would bring increased profits was only the first step. Then, Brentford knew, the cleaned-up land would be offered to the Forty Friends for all kinds of probes—oil, gems, gold, whatever. They would turn the greenhouses into drug facilities, and import food that only about half of the population would be able to afford. Everything that A Blast had tried to warn against. That would teach him to preach in the desert, especially if the desert is -30°F.

  Mason hemmed.

  “I’m sorry. I cannot stay longer,” he said.

  “You know what they are driving at, don’t you?”

  “I can guess, I think.” He paused for a while, afraid to have said too much. He finally stumbled on a stricture that seemed to satisfy him. “I do not like the idea of my men being trappers.”

  What did he think of his men being killers, Brentford wondered. Shooting a few Eskimos who had never hurt anyone so far? Surely, Mason had considered the motives behind it all. What they were asking him to do. Where it would lead. Brentford handed him the folder, saying nothing, knowing the moment would come for him to speak, or hoping it would. Any move now would be awkward.

  Mason hastily put the folder back in the satchel.

  “Would you sign this for me before I go?” he said, pulling out his copy of A Blast on the Barren Land and handing it to Brentford.

  Too big a trap, thought Brentford. But smart enough for a kind of pact. But what sort of treaty could that be? Peace, alliance, neutrality? He took the chance, knowing Mason would appreciate just the courage it took to do so. Brentford opened the book, and accepted Mason’s pen. He simply wrote B.O. and handed it back.

  “I may have more inspiration later.”

  “That will do fine for the moment.”

  Mason saluted and went back to the door. Neither of them said good-bye.

  It was only when he was about to leave the smoking room that Brentford saw the painting. Even in the dim light, he could, he thought, recognize her: the dark hair in a bun, the aquiline nose, the mouth that had a crease of sadness as she smiled. The Ghost Lady. Wearing, it seemed, the same black dress he had seen her wearing in the magic mirror. She had posed in a drawing room, and through an open door behind her Brentford perceived another painting that represented two nude women in a bathtub, one pinching the second one’s nipple. He walked toward the portrait and read the caption. Isabelle d’Ussonville, by Alexander Harkness.

  And then, everything snowballed into Hell.

  Gabriel arrived in the Kursaal as people were gravitating for dinner around circular tables that bore the names of planets. He noticed that he was not to sit with the bride and groom. Allegedly, the extra room needed for Brentford’s mother’s wheelchair had caused his own relocation to Saturn. He did not mind that much, for he had little desire to face Sybil’s eyes. He was very unsure whether she remembered anything, but consciously or not, her usually dormant dislike of him had clearly become an adamant snubbing. As for Brentford’s mother, pulsating waves of anxiety almost in the visibility spectrum, she would not have amused him much either, as she did not seem in the mood for her usual witticisms and erudite poetry quotations. But then, neither was he.

  Even marooned on another planet, he had to admit the place had its pleasant side. Everything around him—lustre, smiles, candles, Sybil, jewels, eyes, glasses—seemed to dazzle, glitter, or glint when it did not twinkle or sparkle. But his fresh tattoo hurt, like rusty nails in his neck, and he could feel that, quite like the feeble February sun, his mood, which had not been exactly bright to begin with, was plunging into deeper darkness with every minute that passed.

  He did not know the people he sat with, but he found them a bit loud and annoying in the way friendly people can be to the melancholy man. A buxom brown girl, on his left side, seemed to take a vivid interest in him, but she was not Stella (she did not exist). There was wine, a Pol Roger ’89, which in a place where even bad wine is the most expensive thing around was to be honoured in the only possible way. He hit the bottle heavily, raising his glass to Brentford as he crossed his worried look, and then hit the bottle again without even touching the excellent Petits Patés Pivotaux prepared by the French chef of the Splendide-Hôtel.

>   Neither did he touch the scallion-crusted arctic char. The wine was secreting a time of its own, curiously dissociated, accelerated on the outside (courses came and went more quickly than he could react), yet suspended inside him. He registered everything around him down to the most trivial detail—cutlery tings, stains on starched shirts and napkins, whispers at nearby tables, discarded fishbone with skin attached on filigreed fine bone china—but it all slid over his black-ice indifference. This was, he thought, the way God saw the world. His brain was levitating an inch behind his head, in a curious blend of Olympian detachment and mischievous curiosity about how badly the rest of him was behaving. He had relinquished all responsibility for his conduct, as if it were someone else’s unruly child whom he could not stomach but had no business chastising. The girl babbled on somewhere in the vicinity of his left ear, about what Circeto could possibly have meant. He turned toward her and gave her a big, slobbering kiss, which silenced her, and the whole planet, for a while.

  By and by the evening turned into hypnagogic sequences of related and slightly absurd events he had little control over, beyond a faint, unconvinced hope that he would eventually black out. He went to Brentford’s table to carry a toast that embarrassed everybody for a reason he could not quite understand, for all he’d done was salute the bride’s universal appeal. A few reels later in the phantascopy, after Brentford and Sybil had opened the ball with a rather stiff waltz, Gabriel found himself in the ballroom signalling to the drummer of the Cub-Clubbers that he was going to cut his throat, which made the drummer miss a beat and complain to Brentford at the first opportunity. The next scene found Gabriel, much to his sorry surprise, pulling down rabidly the bodice of a squealing blonde girl who was seven inches or so taller than he was (she did not exist). This could have been what caused Hasan Rumi, Brentford’s friend and occasional right arm, to tow Gabriel away from the crowd and toward the winter garden swimming pool, coaxing him into doing some laps while making sure that he did not drown. As a true New Venetian, Gabriel did not miss that chance to get rid of all his clothes. “Party Naked for a Sign,” he kept muttering to himself, as some sort of automated motto.