I listened to Bianca’s footsteps recede and then waited to hear her door shut before I ventured to her room. I stepped over piles of newspapers, supplements and magazines as I searched for the latest edition. The walls were festooned with weird crosswords in the shape of a meandros, with the answers written in various colours of ink, which showed that they’d taken several weeks to be completed. I picked up the half-open Times from her bed and climbed up to my room – I shouldn’t write “my” room but my hand refused to obey me.
I found Bianca standing pressed to the window with her hands on the fastened shutters. She was greedily sucking in air through the slats, as if the air inside the Palace was no longer breathable. I pulled her back, then chose a nightgown and helped her undress. Her naked body, like a thin and undernourished twig, was like an unkept promise of a woman’s body. My elegant nightdress was totally wasted on her with her flat chest, body like a test tube, no hint of thighs and matchsticks for calves. The satiny, snowy silk underlined the paleness of her eyes, all goggled up and vacant. Her irisless pupils, two tiny pinpricks, swam about in her egg-white eyes like crazed specks of pepper.
I shoved her into bed myself. She lay on her front, tightly holding her Times. I sat on the edge of the bed to calm her but the trembling didn’t abate. Every once in a while, her body would be wracked by spasms and I feared that she’d fall ill and I’d inevitably be blamed.
To get her mind off things, I asked her to tell me what was interesting in the papers, what was in these Times’s anyway? She shrugged and said that she hadn’t had a chance to read them yet. How was that possible since she’d been absorbed in it since yesterday! She admitted that she’d been struggling with Book’s Epistleword. From what I understand, there’s a puzzle in the Sunday Times Supplement which has seven rows of blanks which you fill in after reading the excerpts of certain letters. These were the small crosswords that she’d plastered all over her room and that had provided her with her mental exercise. There were Epistlewords that’d taken her weeks or even months to solve and one had taken her several years. The trembling ceased and I could sense that her breathing was back to normal, so I continued the subject as it seemed to relax her. I’d never had a conversation before with my maid, I’d never thought her capable of a proper discussion, and this wasn’t a satisfactory one but it served its purpose and I could endure her ramblings with a smile.
She confessed that Book’s Epistleword had been her only pleasurable pastime since she could remember. Her dull and lonely childhood had been spent in drunken Bateau’s empty villa, with an occasional trip to an Infirmary bed thrown in, so that she could be monitored, like a fish in a bowl, by the doctors. Only the peculiar labyrinth of the Epistleword relieved the tedium.
Ever since Priest Montenegro had taught her to read and write, she’d started to explore the paths that that man, Phileas Book, had pioneered with his meandroses and she’d lose herself in his mysterious world. It was no mean feat to interpret his clues and she’d found herself forced to keep up-to-date with current events through reading a number of European newspapers and the encyclopaedia as a source of reference. There’d been many instances when she couldn’t comprehend something and, there being no one that’d ever tried to help her, she’d had to wait until some pertinent article or letter appeared to enlighten her. To her amazement, more than her enchantment, she discovered that the people mentioned were plagued by a never-ending multitude of problems and issues, like the protection of endangered mountain bears, or whether smoking should be banned in railways, or whether the dimensions of tulip leaves could be optimised … What did a tulip look like, anyway?
I told her that I felt a migraine coming on and it was a pity that I couldn’t prolong the delightful conversation, so it’d be best if she kept quiet and read her newspaper until sleep overtook her. She told me that she’d plenty to do still since she hadn’t filled in one across yet. Using her little finger she pointed at the blank white squares on the left-hand side of the meandros. She’d reread a letter from Mr G countless times but that hadn’t helped and she still couldn’t answer Book’s question-clue. I pretended to be interested in the question, which referred to the letter of Mr G, who’d been wearing his black suit with the blue tie when he’d gone to the post office to receive his mother-in-law’s parcel. He’d been given another one by mistake, which had contained samples of knitwear. I covered her up, hoping that her eyes would shut soon and give me some peace. She knitted her eyebrows and brought the paper closer to her face and read, “The red with the blue is a daring combination, the two blues are boring, the shades of grey are too conservative and, impossible though it may seem, I’m resisting the paleness of the green but I have not yet come across a spirit so brave that fails to shed tears when black and blue combine. Are you trying to communicate your sadness to us, Mr G, or are you just trying to surprise us?”
Bianca explained that Book must certainly be referring to the combination of the black suit with the blue tie of Mr G, but the most common pitfall of Epistlewords is that you can rarely answer the question as put but usually a related one that can be deduced by reversing the meaning of one of the key words. If you failed to find the key reversal, you would never find what you were looking for. I said I hoped she’d enjoy herself and gently shut the door behind me. Bianca should have grown up among her peers and have had a normal upbringing, now I’m afraid she’s one mental foot in the real world and the other in a haunted dreamland.
I couldn’t resist going back to see how the incineration had progressed. I carefully opened the oven door. I’d thought that the human body would’ve been consumed faster, unless perhaps the corpse, having absorbed the water from the ice, was resisting the flames. I’d relax when I could see that my husband’s smile had finally disappeared. Unfortunately, I could still feel its sneer as I shut the door.
I decided to prepare something light for my lover to snack on while he worked – I wasn’t even fooling myself. I wanted to see him again and to let him see me as one of us wasn’t seeing properly. I sliced ham and cheese, boiled some eggs, made sandwiches and squeezed some oranges. I arranged his plate and the tray as attractively as I could and headed for his office. He was just coming out as I reached it. That splendid profile with the wheaten complexion, those generous sculpted lips, that handsome brow, taut and clear, apart from the thick dancing ringlets of his hair – he flooded the corridor with beauty, a far cry from the ugliness with the stingy, thin veneer of charm which was all these halls could muster before his appearance. Spring swept into the Palace. He locked the door and headed for the stairs. I gave a dry cough to attract his attention and asked him shyly if he’d like something to eat. His excruciating voice, the memory of which was always driven from my mind by his godlike countenance, took me by surprise every time and skinned and filleted my insides.
“Remind the group who’ll collect the Box that the vessel sails at midnight sharp. They should already be here. See to it that the six will dine with me tomorrow at two. Have them bring their Purple Stars.”
He disappeared from the top of the stairs and the corridor resumed its drabness and its attempt at superficial elegance. I raised my voice and repeated my question, embellished by a flattering description of the tray’s contents. My third and loudest attempt was interrupted by his answer, delivered from behind Bera’s half-closed door. “Ask Bianca if she’s hungry.”
My lover was going to sleep in my husband’s room. He’d left it in an extraordinary state of tidiness as if he’d known that his replacement would be sleeping in it by the end of the day. We, however, had devastated the room today with our ice and rags. The floorboards had swollen, there were still soaking towels, slimy mud and debris all over the floor. I’d expected to hear a roar of rage at the state of the room but silence reigned from above.
… The six? Did he say the six? I was one of those. Tomorrow, I’d dine with the Governor! I ran into the kitchen and looked through the cold stores to find something to cook. I found lamb,
fowl, venison and large fish. Thankfully the cold stores were sufficient to feed a small army. I went into the larders and found them well-stocked and the cellars still boasted two hundred labels. I heaved a sigh of relief.
20
Letter of Selim Duden Bercant
(page 27)
CAPTAIN DRAKE
… I filled the chamber of my gun with bullets and shoved it in my belt. After these recent events, I’d rather be armed with real ammunition even though it’s against regulations. I locked the armoury door behind me.
The sky had cleared. No hint of moon and stars of course. I climbed up the circular stairs of the tower and stepped out onto the observation platform. The lookout was napping as he slumped against the railing so I kicked him to wake him. He jerked upright and saluted, bringing the binoculars up with the wrong end meeting his eyes. I was in no mood to punish him and, in any case, there’s very little point to the night watch since the desert is plunged into total darkness and it’s impossible to see even the outline of the dunes. Cartography is useless as well since by the next day the dunes have shifted, propelled by the wind. The kingdom of the desert is ruled by the sun and the wind; who rules the realm of the salt I wonder?
I leant over the railings of the platform and took in the night-time Colony that was unaware of the existence of its New Governor. The fish-oil street lamps cast their faint light on the streets that delineated the borders of the quarters. The Palace brooded in total darkness apart from one faint light that flickered through the kitchen shutters. The rest of the major buildings around Hesperides Central Square and the enormous statue of the Linked Arms and the bandstand that stood on the square were equally dark. The only bright object to be seen on the horizon was the Opera, which had trays of burning fish oil on every windowsill. The streets behind it led to the port, which I could imagine but not see – bad designing by some city planner.
I’d come to the Guardhouse just to load my weapon but now I was beginning to realise that I didn’t want to tear myself away from this canvas which encapsulated so well the essence of my being. Inside the walls of the Guardhouse, my words carried weight, a slight change in my expression would provoke reactions, a miniscule inclination of my head would have an immediate effect. There I could define myself, I could feel the shape of my body as I walked among my guardsmen and felt them brace themselves against the pressure of my shadow. I knew that I had eyes because I saw them react to my glance, I knew I had a voice because my command was obeyed. Anything outside the walls of this cylindrical building frightened me, dismantled me, confused me.
I shouted, “At ease,” at the lookout and went down to my office. I sat and swivelled in my chair, sharpened my pencils and moved the pencil case around on my desk, but lacking anything constructive to do I decided to inspect the dormitories. I paused by the door and listened to the sleeping guards’ snores. The more I listened the more they appeared to combine like complementary musical instruments until they became a harmony. I enjoy those sounds and was accustomed to them, as I did the indelicate aromas of their sweaty boots. The Guardhouse was my home, my work, my whole life. Would they take that away after so many years’ service? Who could I possibly be if I wasn’t Captain of the Guards Drake, and where the hell could I go?
Escaped prisoner of the Ümraniye Jail, long-term convicts’ wing. Helicopters took to the air over Istanbul when I wasn’t found in my cell – Istanbul might’ve been obliterated by the Overflow but Interpol still hangs onto my files. Where could I hide, if not under the violet cloud which cloaks you better than a tombstone? I’m truly grateful to the Consortium which hired me despite my questionable papers and my criminal record, and provided me a refuge and a life, but its protection should be permanent, not withdrawn when a Governor changes. I felt old and tired, and lacked the energy to repay the debts of my youth’s transgressions. I was no longer criminal citizen Bercant (armed robbery) but upstanding Captain of the Guards Drake, colonist.
I suddenly found the peacefulness of the Guardhouse unbearable. I decided to go to the Opera, whose restaurant stays open through the night, to listen to some music, have a drink and forget my troubles. I found my dinner jacket in the locker, in need of laundering, but who’d notice? I tied my bow tie, filled my pouch with tobacco, pinned my Purple Star, transferred my pistol to my coat pocket and set off.
The restaurant is on the bottom floor of the Opera, only half exposed above ground. This is because the engineers hadn’t correctly calculated the bearing capacity of the ground which has subsequently subsided under the weight of the theatre. You are therefore led down some steps before you reach the main glass doors, which get totally blocked by sandstorms and some day we might even be buried alive down there.
The restaurant is frequented by the high society of Hesperides, and only them, as the lower ranks are denied entrance. They are, however, allowed to attend the performances. Every once in a while various performances reach the Colony from the civilised world, generally second-rate opera productions and, less often, theatre companies, troupes of ballet dancers and variety show performers. There is no other form of entertainment in the Colony, so every performance is a special event. I should also mention that twice a month the Guards’ Band plays with free admission, but to empty seats.
As I entered the restaurant through the glass doors, my nostrils were reassuringly assailed by a mixture of smells, well-cooked food, packed perfumed bodies and choice brands of tobacco. The piano was playing the standard Friday repertoire which we’d learnt so well that we could tell which day of the week it was from the music and often, the time of day as well. The pianist isn’t allowed to vary his programme without the approval of a relevant application, but he’s too lazy to submit one, so every time he mistakenly mixes his sequences up, we are quick to correct him.
At least the Opera has the best kitchen and the finest selection of wines in the Colony. A visitor from the outside world might find the semi-sunken space, the half-blocked windows, the dusty fish-oil lamps on the walls, the long tasselled tablecloths that always drag on the unswept floor and the sweaty waiters with the stained white gloves a good deal short of salubrious, but for the Colony’s elite it’s the apex of nightlife. Our sensibilities have adapted to the harsh conditions, our vision has been impaired and our sense of smell attenuated by the salt fumes. Our skin has stopped reacting to being continually covered by soaking clothing and the Colony’s pervading smell of our sweat no longer registers in our nostrils. It generally takes you a few weeks to realise you’re fighting a losing battle against the humid heat and so you just give up. Every time you subsequently wash, you do so out of habit rather than cleanliness.
The violet salt and the sand infiltrate everywhere and cover everything. The streets that are designed to provide a firm surface for the wheels of berlingas might be paved but evidence of the proximity of the desert, the salt mines and the saltworks is so ubiquitous that it can never be banished from your consciousness. Alcohol is a refuge and a comfort, and because there’s no regulation that covers the amounts one can drink off duty, we consume it like storm drains and overindulge our precious scrap of freedom. The idea that this land we’re given the use of is so limited and so hemmed in is very depressing. There is nothing beyond the borders of the Colony. We run around in tiny circles, using up all our energy but never getting anywhere. We continuously bump into the same people and talk about the same things.
The isolation and the oppressive regulations fuel our tempers while limiting our patience, friendships rarely last long, relationships founder and the Judge signs more divorce papers than the Priest blesses weddings. In any case, marriages between colonists are mostly due to the generous benefits the Consortium bestows, in the hope of a second reproductive miracle, so they’re marriages of convenience. The right to the subsidy is renewed with each wedding, so there’s substantial advantage in changing partners frequently. We continuously navigate through the maze of regulations to increase our incomes yet this obsession seems odd
since money is nearly useless here and few intend to return to the outside world and use their capital. Our bank balances expand but we don’t produce any descendants that could inherit them or make up our minds to go where we could use them ourselves, so what’s left? Alcohol.
The maître welcomed me respectfully using my full title and I again felt that stab in the heart since my title’s lifespan was limited. I saw the tables jammed with the managers of the mines, the saltworks and the ports all dressed in rumpled tailcoats, stained gowns, dust-encrusted shoes, with half-extinguished cigars protruding from lips and the glaze of alcohol dulling their eyes.
I made out Priest Montenegro and Dr Fabrizio at one of the tables in the back. Their freshly washed hair gleamed, they were well turned out and their heads nearly touched, absorbed as they were in some deep conversation. I desperately wanted to avoid them so I hid behind the maître – I couldn’t stand the sight of them. The reason I was here was to forget their disgusting faces.
I quickly filled in a cheque and placed it in the maître’s hand, asking him to take me to a table as far away from theirs as possible – no form of money circulates in the Colony, you even pay for a shave by cheque. He placed me in a corner behind the piano. The pianist was playing with his eyes shut; perhaps he was asleep. I often think that the mighty piano lacks strings, and that the piano player is an expert mime, but since the melodies were so familiar, the clientele would reproduce them from memory, thinking they were listening to a live performance.
“At your service, Captain Drake,” the maître declared obsequiously.
“Cognac on the rocks, please.” In the Colony we drink everything with ice, from cognac to soups, hoping to cool our insides. The Opera and the Palace are the only buildings that have their own ice-making machines so they don’t use the ice distributed centrally and can afford to put a generous amount in each glass, as you would in any civilised country.
What Lot's Wife Saw Page 17