by Jesse Ball
—We are pleased, she said. You do no disservice to your own twisted reputation.
—I thank you, he said, and did a manic little bow.
Meanwhile, the ugliest of women stood by, worrying at the sleeve of her shift.
—Where did you find her? asked the empress in the tone of voice a botanist might use in conversation with a colleague, a tone of clinical curiosity.
—In Szarthel, said the minister. She is the daughter of a wealthy merchant. For many years he kept her in his house, her only company the many books that lined the walls. One of my soldiers saw her through a window, and brought me word.
The empress nodded. Her lovely features tensed a moment in a paroxysm of cruel thought.
—Organize for me, my minister, said the empress, a parade of misshapen and frightening folk. Bring me dwarves and giants, beasts and patch-skinned dogs. Arrange for me a parade. For I mean to marry the Count M. to this our lady, and I mean to have a wedding party that the world shall remember.
Out then the minister went, and he gathered together the makings of this parade. As per the empress’s plan, he commissioned the building of an ice palace at one end of Moscow. The parade was to begin at the other.
The day in question dawned slowly and silently. The empress went down in the dissipating darkness to the room where the ugliest of women was being kept.
—You, she said.
The ugliest of women said nothing.
—Today you are to marry the man whom I once loved. Do you know this?
Still the ugliest of women said nothing.
—I am giving to you possibly the most remarkable man that was ever born and raised in this our land of Russia. He is a king among men. His tastes are the most refined tastes, his passions the most refined passions. I am giving him to you, forcing you upon him, because I know how horrible it will be for him who was once raised above all other men to taste the wares of a creature as despicable as you. What do you have to say to that?
To that, the ugliest of women said nothing, and the empress went away. But there in the dawn, the ugliest of women smiled, and she said to herself, Still I will make him happy. Ugly as I am, I will please him, if he is so great a man.
The guard who had admitted the empress came then again to the ugliest of women.
—There is someone to see you, Kolya, he said.
—Thank you, said Kolya quietly. I would like that.
Then a young woman entered the room, dressed strangely. She sat down beside Kolya and took her hands into her own.
—This is how things are going to proceed.
And she told Kolya the remainder of the story. This heartened Kolya tremendously, and she thanked the girl, even going so far as to kiss her hand. The girl gave Kolya a drawing that looked like this:
and then went away. The guard came soon after, with waiting women who bore Kolya’s wedding gown. Bells rang out across Moscow. The populace was roused. All the major nobles were forced to be in attendance upon the empress for the spectacle that was about to unfold.
Out then into the street came the ugliest of women, dressed in a gown so lovely that none who saw it could report ever having seen anything its equal. The empress was a brilliant general in this her war, and she had realized the glorious touch that a faultless gown would give to the proceedings. She had hired the best dressmakers in all of Russia, and even brought in an expert from France who was later strangled in a town near the border.
The ugliest of women stood defiant as the crowded street prodded her with jibes and the throwing of small stones. The empress had approved the throwing of stones no larger than a certain size. Such stones, she reasoned, would not harm the parade’s participants, but might help in breaking their will. She had many stones of the precisely correct proportion distributed along the parade route in buckets stamped with her insignia. Such preparations she had made.
The ugliest of women waited, but not long, for after a moment a gate behind her was thrown open, and out of it poured the parade, gamboling on its hind legs, crawling and lurching, laughing and shrilling madly back and forth. But she did not stir from her expression, or tense a muscle towards flight. Quietly she turned her back upon the parade, and began to walk.
The empress was ahead, awaiting the coming of the parade, her court about her. And, tethered, as he had once tethered many a bear, the Count M. in rags, he too awaiting the coming of the parade. He did not know what was to happen, for he had been kept until this time in an oubliette beneath the empress’s chamber. However, since emerging he had heard already six of the fifteen rumors that were circulating.
Up the boulevard, the ghastly parade! It rounded a slow curve and emerged into view. The Count M., seeing for the first time his fate, recoiled slightly. In his defense, perhaps he recoiled less at the horror of the features of the ugliest of women, and more at the lengths he suddenly saw that the empress had gone to in order to destroy him. By God, he thought. That woman must really have loved me. And for a moment he regretted having spurned her.
The empress’s lovely breast meanwhile was heaving with pleasure and grand anticipation. She had seen the count twitch, and she had desired no more than that, had, in fact expected far less. For as we have said, the count was a redoubtable man, and not to be shaken easily.
The sound of bells as lepers ran around the edges of the pack. The rushing back and forth of the giants, trampling even into the crowd. The dwarves upon dwarves’ shoulders, lighting fires and shouting the names of all the great wizards of the past. At their heels, the patchcoat dogs, and at the fore, the ugliest of women.
She approached the makeshift dais, and mounted one by one the stairs, prodded by soldiers with bills and halberds. Her dress was already filthy from the dwarves’ Greek fire and the dirt of the street. She went before the empress and looked for the first time upon the Count M. He returned Kolya’s gaze, held it gently in his own and did not look away.
For that I thank you, thought the ugliest of women.
Up then the priest onto the dais, elbowing his way through the throng. Shouts and cries abounded, and though it was winter, the heat of the press made sweat run down the hungry faces.
The count was untethered and forced to the side of his soon-bride. A stave brought them both to their knees, and as they fell, the count whispered in her ear,
—Pretend that you love me. I will do the same.
The ugliest woman nodded. To herself, she thought, You will love me yet, and not in jest.
The priest pronounced over them a joining, and to it they gave their agreement. The count and his new bride were raised then to their feet. The empress climbed onto horseback, with the members of her court. A great quantity of hounds was brought then into the streets.
—My count, called out the empress. And for the first time the count turned his eyes upon her.
—My count, she said, we will harry you through the streets as once you and I followed prey on the paths in the country of my youth. Do you see the palace in the distance?
Turning, the count beheld a palace of ice at the edge of the city.
—To that you must go. Raising a horn to her lips, the empress blew a loud clear note.
The count took the hand of the ugliest of women.
—Do not stumble, he said.
—I am ugly, she said, but I am quick.
And they were off.
It is lucky that they had the parade of dwarves and giants and patch-skinned dogs between them and the hunt, for otherwise they would not have reached the palace in safety. Yet as it was, the hounds took great pleasure in ravaging the lepers, who rang their bells for all they were worth, but did not fare so well in the hounds’ sharp teeth.
Soon they were come, breathless and half-mad, to the ice palace. Rarely in the history of the great Russian Empire had such an ice palace been seen. A replica of the empress’s own, this palace had in addition to many of the other rooms a bedroom set apart from the rest, with a bed constructed of ice, and a viewing cha
mber beyond.
As the Count M. stepped onto the threshold of the ice palace, the empress dismounted with her court. Soldiers once more took charge of the count and his bride. Together they were delivered to the bedchamber and made to stand fast by the bed of ice, facing the viewing chamber.
Into the viewing chamber, then, the court in general, and at its head the empress. All the nobles, the lords and ladies that the count had known, now looked upon him with a cruel and sneering eye. But what they saw in the count was nothing they had seen before. He looked back at them as though he were a man staring up into the night sky, with nothing more than idling and evening in his hand.
Out of a small door, then, the third minister. To the soldiers, he said,
—Off with their clothing. Force them onto the bed.
The count closed his eyes, then opened them. Without a word, he removed his own clothing and stood, naked, shivering only slightly from the deep cold.
For her part, the ugliest of women could not remove her dress on her own, for she had been sewn into it. With sharp knives the soldiers cut it off, and all of her was soon visible to the count’s eye. He looked at her still and did not look away.
For this too I thank you, thought the ugliest of women. To him then she spoke.
—I am Kolya, she said.
—Think no more of the cold, Kolya, than of the audience, for they are the same. Here we will do what we must. If there is life beyond this, so be it.
The Count M. took Kolya to him then, and began to kiss her. In the viewing chamber the empress looked away. Tears started from her eyes, and she rushed from the room.
—Kolya, murmured the count. They lay upon the cold bed of ice, side by side. An hour had passed, and they were wrapped now in their rags and torn clothing. All the court had left, and all the soldiers too. They were alone, and had become inured to the ice.
—My count, said Kolya. My life has been till now a life of books. My father never took me out upon the street, to the marketplace or the promenade along the river. I never had schooling, or lessons on how to sew or cook. He kept me instead in his study and he told me, Learn all of this. Read every book and understand the things there writ. This will be your path to joy.
There was a book there, she continued, my favorite of them all. It constructed architectures, impossible places, dreams of impossible places. Of these a needle, larger than the tallest house, stabbed down into the sand at the sea’s edge. It rises from the sand only enough for a single plank, a walkway, to run out from its center. This plank runs out across the sea, inches above the shuddering waves. It runs for miles, and a curious thing begins to happen as the walkway tends farther and farther from the shore.
—I have read this book, said the count. Beneath the plank, the sea begins to fall away, and the plank becomes steeper and steeper, and harder to climb. Miles pass in this way. Finally, there begin to be handholds, and footholds, ladder rungs in the plank. For one has come so far that one must climb. At the top, one finds that one has reached another needle, this sunk into an island so far offshore from the first needle that it was not visible, though from the top of the second needle the first needle is plain in the far distance, as the path’s terminus.
—It is so lovely, said Kolya, how then there is another ladder, down along the side of the needle. One proceeds to the island of the anchored needle, where a small cabin sits, and someone is waiting with a bit of lunch and a pot of tea. Someone kind whom you have known a very long while. She comes to the door and plain upon her face is her joy at your arrival.
—You have come along the needle? said the count, in the voice of the someone-who-waits-in-the cabin. How long and tiring the route of needles, for it passes through the core of things.
—To this you say nothing, said Kolya, but only smile, admitting to the general truth of her words. And she brings you into the house and sets before you a fine meal. And afterwards, there is dancing and laughter, and it is the dancing one does when one is not observed, which is the best dancing of all.
—And all the while, said the count, someone murmuring, Who can say therefore where a certain person is, for what is it that anchors a person? Is it their place in the story to which you are a part? Many stories hereabouts run side by side, and you cannot be at pains to unpin them, for they are sharp, and you will only sting the tips of your fingers.
Their voices grew quiet, and they lay, staring up at the icy ceiling. The count ran his fingertips along the back of her neck, and a look of helplessness came over her face.
—The empress was right about you, she said.
—No one has ever been right about you, said the count.
—Not yet, said Kolya. Not yet. But this is my debut.
The count began to say something about the events of the day, but Kolya put her hand over his mouth and stopped him.
—Today we will speak only of absurd and improbable things, things far from us.
The count nodded.
—Of absurd things, and of the World’s Fair 7 June 1978. An impossible date, said the count. The world will have ended long before that.
—And a good thing too, said Kolya. There is nothing so awful as a world that continues after it ought to have failed.
—I had a dream once, said the count, and as he drew in his breath to speak, it seemed the very air around him grew insubstantial, a dream in which I was visiting friends at a country estate. They were people I had never met in my true life; however, in this dream we were the best and oldest of friends. I arrived in some kind of mechanical apparatus, and was left by the gate, holding a sort of leather rucksack with my clothes and things. My friend’s wife ran down to meet me from the house. She was wearing a thin cotton dress with a flowery print. I dropped the bag and caught her up in my arms. In the dream I remembered then a past in which she and I had been lovers, long ago, when we were young, and how all that was behind us, and there would be no more of it, but that it had been a glorious thing for us both, and still was, and that she was glad that I had come, and I was glad to have come, and it felt good to lift her up and feel her body against my own. We walked up to the house, talking of nothing, of small things, really, of cats and the distance of the sun. My friend came out into the doorway, tall, strong, a man of whom one says afterwards, I wish that he were here, for our troubles could be dealt with so easily. He embraced me too, and with him there was a sudden and long past, brought up like a bucket the size of a well out of a well the size of the sea. And how we had missed each other. How so many times I had resorted to remembering things he had said or done and how that had pleased me in my time. I was welcomed into their house and our holiday began.
They lived on a sort of vineyard, and in the first days they began to teach me how one keeps a vineyard, how one cares for the grapes, how certain fields lie fallow and others bear fruit. I learned about the shade of the porch in the long afternoon, where we would sit, drinking iced drinks from tall glasses, and watching the dogs sleep and wake and sleep again.
But something began to happen. There were other people present too, people who worked at the vineyard, as well as a few servants to see to the house. There was a sort of human drama always going on, with people entering rooms and leaving them. One man would stick his head in a window, another would emerge from a cellar. People were always conversing and talking about this or that. At some point I was walking, crossing a field beside my friend. He was dressed, I recall, in a linen shirt with deep brown pants, rolled up, and bare feet. His hair was unkempt, and his eyes had that incredible quality that eyes have that are blue and also long beneath the sun.
He began to speak to me on some subject, and I responded. Someone shouted something from across the field, and then I realized what had been lurking just beyond the edges of my comprehension: the things that people were saying to one another, the way that one action blended into another, the shifting times of day, and the pleasures of companionship, but most of all the dialogue: we were in a novel. There was no other e
xplanation. No one spoke like this in ordinary life, picking up every inch of what had been said, and delivering it back with a twist and a nuance. It had not happened just once. I felt that each remark somehow carried with it the implication of all others previous. One felt very clearly a comprehending intelligence strung through the air, setting each new moment into motion. I wrested myself out of the necessity to do and say without decision, the leash that had accompanied my passage hitherto through the book that was all about me, and a further thought occurred to me: how could a person wander into a novel? It must be a dream. Then, realizing that I was in a dream, all became possible.
I said to my friend, This is a dream. And he looked at me blankly.
—That’s ridiculous, he said. But funny. Imagine that! You, Robert, saying that this is all a dream with that dead serious expression on your face. I can’t wait to tell Isabel. She’ll laugh and laugh. Let’s go back to the house and tell her.
He pulled on my arm, touching me with that tacit permission that is between the best of friends.
I looked at him sadly. For we had had such a fine time, but now it was all over.
—Good-bye, my friend. I’ll miss you.
—I’ll see you at dinner, he said, still smiling, unbelieving, and turned away, already crossing the field.
But I, I rose up straight into the air, and saw beneath me the vineyard spread out, and beyond that, unestablished country, unestablished for I had not yet flown over it and decided in my passage what might or might not exist, creating it even as I glanced in depth upon each thing in turn.
Yes, I was flying and dreaming and shooting through the air at blinding speed. The feeling is glorious, and better than anything in this world. But at some point the dream can again take hold, and one forgets that one is dreaming. One stumbles, and again is bound to the dictates of something half created, half imagined.
—You see! he said, striking his hand upon his knee. That’s the difficulty. Things must be done easily and well or not at all. For instance, in the city even now a young man has entered the Seventh Ministry building. It is a fine and beautiful day in the fall. Fall is, of course, the best season in that city of cities.