What Lot's Wife Saw

by Ioanna Bourazopoulou

  “Yes, I unfortunately read it carefully, and unfortunately you haven’t spared me this disappointment either. To begin with, the Epistleword that they referred to is dated the 11th of February and not July as presented. The widow must have brought the wrong supplement up or Bianca Bateau has mixed things up in her mind. I won’t claim that I wasn’t flattered by her nearly pathological interest in Epistlewords, but it’s obvious that she’s failed to grasp some of the basics. Allow me to read what she says about it.”

  Book looked amongst the piles spread over the table, found the page in question and read the part where Bianca Bateau, having read aloud the question whose answer would be one across, had added the following explanation:

  “… Book is most certainly referring to the combination of the black suit with the blue tie of Mr G, but the most common pitfall of the Epistlewords is that you 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 fail to find the key transformation, you’ll never find what you’re looking for.”

  “Hear, hear!” exploded Mr Book. “What personal paranoia of hers led her to invent such a rule? As should be obvious, naturally the questions should be answered in the form they’re presented, it never even passed through my mind to reverse them. I couldn’t ask such a thing from potential solvers without mentioning it in the guidelines. Truthfully, I fear that the problems that beset this miserable young lady are much more important than whether she’s understood Epistlewords. In any case, the Epistleword that I’ll give you will have, more or less, the following format.”

  He opened his notepad and showed the man his diagram of a totally square crossword with three branches “across” and three “vertical”. In this form, there was no space for a “diagonal” since the diagram had but two dimensions. The man pointed out this fact with obvious annoyance. Book answered drily that he’d only been given six letters, so where could he find the seventh that would enable him to construct the diagonal?

  The man picked up the notepad, brought it close to his face and tried to imagine how this misbegotten square could take the place of an elegant three-dimensional meandros. His frustration was written all over his face. Book fervently hoped that he wouldn’t be punished for his honesty; he’d tried, but in the end couldn’t betray his art.

  “I swear that I’ll do my best because I need the money. I’ll attentively absorb everything the six ‘strangers’ have to say, transcribe their off-putting discordant sounds and hideous hues on paper, but don’t demand the impossible, please don’t ask me to corrupt my meandros!”

  The man pointed to some blank squares along a horizontal direction and was preparing to pose a relevant question but Book forestalled him. He pressed his midriff with his hand. “Sir, I really must visit the toilet. I promise that next time I need to leave the room I’ll give you an hour’s advance warning, but now could you please be merciful?”

  The man gave a curt nod and stood up to lead the way. Book walked mincingly behind, still applying pressure with his hand. Once out of the door of the lounge, they traversed the corridor, at the end of which the well-known sign, WC Men, beckoned. Book’s escort sat on a leather couch in the corridor and announced that he’d wait. Book, picking up the pace, overtook him and with a little moan plunged into the Men’s. There was a line of marble washstands, each under a sparkling mirror, then a few stand-up urinals and, at the far end, a number of stalls behind doors. He rushed past the urinals and disappeared behind a door. He carefully shut and locked it behind him and collapsed against it out of breath. He’d never have believed that he’d have had the guts or the requisite acting ability to pull off his performance. He tried to focus his reserves of concentration. He was sure that there were surveillance cameras in the lounge that followed his every move, but he refused to believe that they’d planted any in the toilets. He crossed his fingers for good measure.

  He turned out the shoulder of his jacket and silently tore at the lining under the padding. The lining fell open and he pulled out some of the cardboard padding. Using his palm, he spread it wide and, trembling with excitement, began sketching a meandros with his fingernail, like a man dying of thirst who’s just had a glass mercifully placed in his hand. He had to sketch as fast as he could, before what he’d read in the lounge slipped from his memory since he hadn’t dared even one tiny note in case the cameras were high resolution.

  In all his very long experience, he’d never come across six letters which merged so amazingly strongly. They were like the powerful jets of water from the overspill of a dam that thundered separately from the pipes, only to join in a demonstration of raw power as they crashed into the gorge to celebrate wildly their release. He felt that they were drowning him. Their daring counterpoints intoxicated him, their masterful permutations had driven him mad, their mystical harmonies exhilarated him. He flexed his muscles and clenched his teeth to stop himself from being overcome by emotion and bursting into tears. The union of the writers was anything but ordinary and benign, it was explosive, torrential, desperate without, despite the intensity, any discordance, as if orchestrated by the metronome of a conservative conductor. He’d been that close to swearing that the authors had succumbed to the delirium of their pens, as if they were sentenced to death and were desperate to confess to a lifetime of sins before the axe fell, yet at the same time the pulse of their writing was throbbing in such a rhythmic and calculating way that he’d been shocked.

  He’d carefully checked for the emanations of vanity and futility he expected from the stray droplets of ink but instead his nostrils had picked up a tantalising waft of some magical freshness. He could taste the blood that had been spilt, his mouth filled with it, but was he dreaming or was it more like the heady bouquet of the blessed liquid of communion?

  He faced the most enchanting enigma of his long career, as hard to crack open as the most stubborn oyster, the most unconventional Epistleword and, simultaneously, the one with the richest permutations, the most challenging and the most dangerous. The six authors had pushed him way into unknown territory. Instead of feeling that he was exposing them, he felt that they were exposing him. They’d thrown him back in time, to those original seven letters, the archetypal seven musical notes which had become entwined in the very core of his being. For years he’d been searching to discover even a pale echo of their power in the letters of strangers. He’d never dared hope that he’d ever come across their equals, let alone any that might surpass them!

  Perhaps the most wondrous thing about these six letters was that they flew in the face of the Epistleword rules and demanded a new framework in which to express themselves, a new set of precepts. They resisted falling into the categories of “across” and “down”, instead it was the right-angle joints between the struts that were strongly defined, so it’d be necessary, but tricky, to chop them into chunks himself (a bit like what they’d admitted doing to their freshly deceased leader), but chop them without severing them one from the other.

  Book was trembling like a surgeon performing his first operation, as he arranged the first pages of each letter in his mind and tried to visualise the blank squares along the first horizontal strut of the meandros. He didn’t hesitate when it came to identifying where the first incision should be made since the rhythm of the six letters changed automatically, in unison, from “horizontal” to “vertical”, as if responding to the baton of a conductor. The “horizontal” part was comprised of a single baritone chord made up from the combination of the six opening passages that formed the foundation stone, the base of the structure. Following that, and this was amazing, the “vertical” was split into four separate “soprano” escalations that retained elements of the “horizontal” and so formed a system of five interconnected, nested meandroses, like a repetitive reflected image in a mirror. The “vertical” struts were distinct but linked by implicit “horizontals” at right angles to them and so, mysteriously, the whole structure could be drawn wit
hout lifting the pencil from the paper. Speechless from the magic and complexity of the reflection, Book sketched the two dimensions. The body of the Epistleword was ready but the reason for its existence was still missing – the diagonal letter which would give shape to the third dimension and colour the words with meaning.

  The lack of a diagonal meant that the meandros didn’t have a solution, the “why” of it all. Without doubt, not one of these letters had the characteristics to be the diagonal. Was there a seventh letter that the Seventy-Five hadn’t revealed or perhaps in the new model Epistleword the six revolutionary composers had inaugurated, breaking the bonds of the old rules, the “diagonal” would not be offered in the form of a letter but of something else, something he must discover and wrench out of its camouflage?

  He brought back to his mind the soundhues of the raging torrents which surged under the lines of the six texts, hoping that by combining them mentally, he’d get a clue as to where to search. Try as he might, he felt that some cloud of mist was preventing him from seeing where the confluence was leading and that he’d have to find a way to penetrate it. He bit his lips, suffering from an unrequited longing for the solution. The gods were torturing him by malevolently dangling these six magical chords, which he knew were the very definition of perfection, the consummate Epistleword, and yet, here he was, trapped in his own labyrinth, denied his catharsis. They’d whetted his appetite but denied him access to the feast. He clenched his fists and reminded himself that he had been the first that visualised Epistlewords, he wasn’t just some puzzle-solver, he was Phileas Book, creator of the meandros. As such, it wasn’t possible that he’d fail to find what he sought, he couldn’t be prevented from finding the secret source, even if it meant devoting the rest of his life to the task.

  There was a loud knock on the toilet door and Book jumped, startled.

  “Is everything okay in there, Mr Book?” asked the man from outside the door.

  Book hurriedly flushed the toilet, applied some saliva on the padding and put pressure on it with his fingers so that it’d stick back on the jacket. He buttoned himself up and came out.

  “I’m afraid that something upset me, I think it was the mint tea,” he said as he washed his hands under the scrutiny of the man.

  They returned to the lounge where the table was ready and the wine poured into his glass. Book settled himself comfortably, unfolded the napkin and tucked it into his collar. The man seemed to accept that Book should eat in peace, so he wished him bon appétit and headed for the door.

  Book’s gaze followed him out as he served himself pork fillets. “I wonder, sir, why you’re so keen on my opinion of the contents of the letters. Perhaps you’re expecting me to confirm your suspicions? Haven’t you made up your mind yet about the culprit’s identity?”

  The man’s stride faltered, trying to recover from his surprise. He succeeded much sooner than Book could’ve imagined although, by not turning his head, his expression remained hidden. His voice, though, sounded confidently hearty.

  “I give you my word, Mr Book, that neither of us two will emerge from this cooperation with a sense of loss.”

  Book, however, wasn’t so sure about that. Despite his misgivings, he poured the delicious smelling gravy over his fillets with an air of detachment.

  23

  Letter of Arduino Tiberio Flagrante

  (page 42)

  DOCTOR FABRIZIO

  …How those two fiends manage, without fail, to misguide me with their lies has no logical explanation unless the blame lies with the exhaustion and psychological strain of the past days. As soon as Judge Bateau and Priest Montenegro told me that they’d supposedly seen a Black Ship traverse the bay, I immediately saw it too, despite the fact that the sun on the terrace was blinding me, the emanations from the saltworks were limiting visibility and even though it’s always difficult to distinguish port activity details from Hesperides. The truth is that I’d felt physically and mentally at the end of my tether and I’d lacked the strength to think straight. I’d made a firm resolution that I’d never allow myself to repeat such a ridiculous performance like tossing passengers off a berlinga and ranting like a halfwit. I resolved to strengthen my resistance, retain my calm and escape from their influence.

  I hurried back to my villa and got straight into bed. I swallowed two pills to force sleep upon me, hoping that it would help me shed the memory of those embarrassing experiences and the shame that stung me. Markella, my housekeeper, became worried since I never sleep in the afternoon. She brought up some cologne to rub on my legs but I ordered her to disappear so that I could sleep and on no account to make the slightest noise. If I heard so much as a spoon falling on the floor I’d fire her. She silently withdrew and shut the door. I buried my head in the pillow and started to cry. Recently, I’d become prone to tears and was often moist around the eyes, inconsolable, without good reason. My nerves were as taut as piano wires.

  I slept flat-out for five uninterrupted hours and that did me a world of good. For three of those five hours a sandstorm had been howling outside but thankfully I’d heard nothing. I arose rested, not cured, but calm at least. I then immersed myself in a scalding bath that made my skin come up in angry, red protest, but I felt very refreshed afterwards. Outside, the dusk was gathering and there was that peculiarly peaceful lull that always follows a sandstorm. I decided to go to the Infirmary to resume my normal life.

  I needed to get moving, it had been two days since I’d last been to the Infirmary and my office. I asked Markella to serve me some breakfast on the veranda. “Breakfast? But it’s suppertime,” she complained. For me this was the start of a new day, everything that had happened earlier belonged to the previous day and I’d no wish to remember it. I passed by my small conservatory and saw that my acacia had survived the sandstorm and that bucked me up a bit. After long hours of studying scientific publications and with tender care and perseverance, I’d managed to keep acacias, but alas, not roses, alive in the Colony’s atmosphere for over eighty hours. I took a cup of coffee with me and sat on the veranda. Markella yelled at me that she hadn’t had time to sweep the veranda so I’d track sand into the house.

  Peace still reigned in Hesperides. A carpet of sand had obscured shapes and colours so that you couldn’t make out roads, pavements or squares. From a distance I could hear the clamour of a cleaning gang approaching my villa, the swish of the brooms and the staccato scrapes of the shovels as they were thrust into the mounds of sand. I felt that there was an internal cleaning crew whisking away the traces of my delusions. Delicious aromas were emanating from the kitchen. The auspicious smell of eggs and bacon cooking was accompanied by Markella’s carefree singing of some of her country’s old favourites. A warm, sweet glow suffused my being. I ate with gusto as the veiled sun set behind the managers’ houses. I whistled as I shaved and even teased Markella because she’s afraid of my caterpillars and never cleans their jar properly. I was feeling my old self again.

  At the Infirmary, I found that the sandstorm had caused its usual havoc. I told them to hose the grounds down so that the dust would settle and not keep swirling back into the atmosphere. The Respiratory Clinic would have its work cut out this evening. I entered the building, conscious of the crunching of my shoes on the ubiquitous sand. The cleaners were looking desperate as they mopped the hallways. There wasn’t a nook or cranny that didn’t boast its own little pyramid of sand that defied brooms, cloths, brushes, mops and even hairpins.

  Sometimes I despair of running a clean Infirmary and console myself by thinking of my conservatory. The Colony’s sand is unique, the grains are so fine that they can’t be seen by the naked eye. They are the devil’s own molecules that penetrate everywhere, into cupboards, drawers, pipes, noses and ears. You will find them in the stuffing of mattresses, between the pages of books, in sealed water bottles and in unopened tins. They ruin paints, erode wood and corrode metals. Our lungs are already affected by the salt fumes, so when a sandstorm hits, the worst
cases struggle to breathe and some even die from lack of oxygen.

  There’s no material that’s impervious to the sand. You try to blow it off your watch but you get nowhere since the sand’s embedded on and under the glass and is even getting a free ride on the minute hand. We wrap a wound with reams of gauze for protection but when we remove the dressing we find the wound under an inch of sand. The problem makes surgery a nightmare. As soon as we hear that a storm’s closing in, we hang layers of thick nylon sheeting, but it’s futile since any incision receives its first grains as it opens. If we don’t lose the patient from whatever afflicts him we’ll definitely lose him to infection. When the winds subside, the colonists come in droves to the Infirmary with all kinds of respiratory problems but also from dermatological infections, since the sand invades the very pores of the skin. Decongestives are the prescriptions of choice, irrespective of diagnosis, and the oxygen wagon stops at every bed. An unencumbered, clean and satisfying breath is a luxury that’s never crossed the borders into the Colony.

  Passing outside the Intensive Care Unit, I saw that the sandstorm had left fourteen victims behind, counting the bodies that the orderlies were removing. It could have been worse. I walked into the surgical ward to see how the casualties of the cave-in were faring. The previous week, a section of the crater had collapsed, dragging down or crushing eleven galleries along with their hapless workforce. We’d never before amputated so many arms and legs. The operating tables were hopelessly outnumbered; we operated in beds, on cots and all over the floor. Even the incinerator was overworked with severed limbs, so we’d had to light fires on the roof terrace before they started to decompose and then we’d really have been in trouble.