What Lot's Wife Saw

by Ioanna Bourazopoulou

  25

  Letter of Selim Duden Bercant

  (page 43)

  CAPTAIN DRAKE

  … We all stared at our full plates and wondered what to do with them. Dr Fabrizio pulled himself together, wiped his tears and continued, “You understand, sir, what a difficult situation we face now. The silent Palace is raising questions among the colonists, which are quite justified, in my opinion. I cannot face my colleagues in the Infirmary, I daren’t venture into the streets. I’ve no answer to those who ask why the Palace shutters don’t open, why the servants have been fired, the garden is unswept and the Governor has vanished off the face of the earth.”

  The pirate filled his glass with wine and with the tip of his knife tapped the medal on the Doctor’s chest.

  “You mean to say that you’re incapable of living up to the responsibilities of your position, Dr Fabrizio? Unless you believe that the sole purpose of that star that you have the honour of displaying on your lapel is to reserve a box seat at the Opera.”

  Fabrizio’s mouth opened once or twice but no sound came from it. Judge Bateau cleared his throat and said politely that the medal bearers had never been expected to do more than the itemised duties described in their employment contracts. The pirate boned the fish on Bianca’s plate while fixing the Judge from the corner of his eye.

  “What I expected from an intelligent fraud like yourself, Bateau, is to have suspected that it isn’t possible that we provide you with a villa, domestic staff and quintuple the salary of other judges, only to leaf through regulations and play with the bell on the bench. You’re forcing me to suppose that you’ve never wondered why we chose you particularly to preside as High Court Judge when you lack a legal degree.”

  “I thought,” stammered Bateau in surprise, “that I’d been awarded that honour because the departed Bera had recognised my conscientiousness …”

  “Your what?” the pirate laughed malevolently. “Bateau, you amuse me.”

  Montenegro returned at that point to the dining table and sat next to me. I felt his hand on my knee. Two taps. No. I stroked my moustache nervously. The Priest had been the third to dash up to the terrace to search the port in case that accursed Black Ship should put in an appearance again. Our last hope had been to see whether it appeared only at that particular time of day and was only visible from the Palace terrace, in which case it might’ve been a product of a combination of optical tricks due to the sun’s position and illusions brought on by salt fumes. Alas, apart from that once, no one else had seen it. I had to reluctantly accept that I must simply have imagined it. What hell-spawned mass delusion could this have been, seen, identically and simultaneously, by all six of us?

  Beside me Bateau was trying to explain our situation to the pirate. He’d forbidden us to tell the truth and then had locked himself away in the Palace before sending us out, thus emasculated, to deal with everyone’s questions. All we could do was stammer excuses and platitudes and be disbelieved.

  The pirate slowly folded his napkin.

  “Gentlemen, let’s not waste more of my valuable time on this subject. The Consortium is paying you very generous wages, it has provided you with luxurious villas and pandered to your vices. It favours you and protects you and all it asks in return is that you use your most singular talents, your capacity to deceive and to defraud! Transitional periods are the most critical for every administration, and we’re in the midst of one now. Delicate handling is called for because fundamental changes are in the works. You’re not called on to worry yourselves about them, you basically don’t have anything to do but your endlessly repeated routine; in fact you don’t even need to use your brains. How much simpler could I make your duties? So don’t ever bother me again with ridiculous excuses, which insult my intelligence and underline your laziness rather than expose your incompetence. Prove to me that the Consortium wasn’t mistaken when it chose you for such positions of responsibility. Tomorrow, at two, I expect you all here for lunch.”

  He waited for Bianca to get up out of her chair before standing up himself, and then the others followed suit.

  “You, Captain Drake, follow me to my office. I’d like to have a word with you in private …”

  All their heads turned towards me with pity evident in their eyes. When old Bera had been alive and the Governor singled someone out to join him in his office, the others had been envious. Now they felt sorry for me.

  “… And afterwards I’ll speak with you, Doctor. Kindly wait in the antechamber.”

  The corners of Fabrizio’s eyes started to well up as he went off as instructed, clutching his napkin in his hand.

  Feeling ashamed, I followed the pirate. We’d been reduced to trembling at this youth’s shadow. We entered the room and he asked me to shut the door behind me. He reminded me of the previous day’s discussion about the lack of storage and loading capacity at the docks. I vaguely remembered that we’d been discussing it, but during that meal we’d been preoccupied with the sightings of the Black Ship from the terrace and so hadn’t been paying much attention to the talk around the table. It was nothing new, however, because discussing the inadequate capacity of the port had been one of old Bera’s favourite subjects. I personally couldn’t envisage a viable solution unless we were to demolish the port and build it up from scratch. It’s true that production has increased and that demand has risen as well, but the bags pile up in the warehouses because the rate of daily export cannot be increased. Even were they to build more ships there wouldn’t be enough berths to accommodate them. If production stays at these high levels, only larger storerooms could temporarily relieve the pressure but wouldn’t solve the long-term problem. I was completely out of constructive ideas. The pirate, however, after accurately describing the problem, seemed to have come up with a novel solution.

  “Maintaining large quantities of salt in warehouses is expensive and doesn’t address the vertical rise in demand that we face. In the world market, windows of opportunity can shut as easily and quickly as they can open. The excess quantity must reach the distribution system at all costs and this is the reason why I’ve been sent to the Colony. I’m going to risk attempting what my predecessor hadn’t dared, either because the time wasn’t yet ripe or because the need hadn’t been so imperative. The salt will leave and travel through the desert.”

  He spread a map on the table and showed me the red line he’d drawn on it, which led out of the northern borders of the Colony. I patiently explained to him that the desert couldn’t be traversed so it was futile even to think about it. No matter what he’d been told by his superiors in Paris to raise his hopes, no matter what they’d promised him, I could assure him that the desert around the craters was impassable. The only ones that could cross the desert and live were the Suez Mamelukes, but they can burrow in the sand and they are probably half-dead anyway, like desert zombies. I fervently hoped that he wasn’t thinking of trying to negotiate with them – they were as open-minded as the edge of their blades. I’ve lost men in the outposts when they relaxed the tension of their trigger finger for a split second. The Governor interrupted me.

  “I was thinking out loud, Captain, and you’ve obviously misunderstood. I’m not asking for your opinion nor do I expect you to provide me with solutions. I’m not negotiating my decision with you. All I expect is obedience. By the time we celebrate the Colony’s anniversary we’ll have become a centre of production with two distribution routes, one by sea and the other over land, just as the Seventy-Five envisaged. And we’ll be able to supply the market with thirty percent more product. As you can imagine, the new system will entail drastic changes to the operation of the Colony, its transportation, shifts, optimum supply routes, the geographic distribution of its workforce and to everyday life. I’ve prepared detailed instructions for the relevant managers, and I demand these to be carried out to the letter, in the time frames I specify and utilising the methods I describe. You’ll be in charge of implementing this and if you meet any resistance
don’t hesitate to shoot. That’s an order!”

  He removed four directives from his drawer and signed them. There was one each for the General Managers of Transportation, the Saltworks and the Storage and Loading Department. The fourth was for me, authorising me to shoot anyone who didn’t fully cooperate. I’d begin by delivering the Saltworks’ directive, which specified that one-third of the daily production wouldn’t be forwarded to the port but would remain stored in the rear warehouses. Then on to the Storage and Loading Manager, who was called upon to transfer two hundred of his finest loaders to those warehouses and then, finally, I’d deliver the directive that demanded that the Transportation Manager dedicate fifty berlingas daily, with fresh crews of cyclists. Starting tomorrow, one-third of the daily production would be loaded onto the berlingas and would go north over land, escorted by a company of guards under my command.

  I was so terrified I couldn’t produce an intelligible sound. All the intended recipients of these directives would summon the Infirmary psychiatrists to commit me. To start with, it wasn’t my business to get involved with transportation, storage or the loading of salt; the Managers would be justified in laughing at my expense. Furthermore, if we withdrew fifty berlingas from circulation, the transportation system would collapse, and I could vouch that despatching a whole company of guards would leave the Colony vulnerable to threats. The most fundamental objection, however, was that the route to the north was impassable.

  The Governor took my obvious dejection in his stride and continued to speak. He explained the exact way I’d be able to orientate myself in the featureless desert and how I was to accurately calculate the kilometric distances so that I’d reach the precise spot shown on the map. Once there, I’d unload and return since the bags would be collected by our agents, who’d pass them on to their correspondents, and so on until the salt reached the Black Sea, where the Consortium was building its second large port. Taking the hostile conditions into account, distances had been calculated so that all the corresponding caravans wouldn’t be exposed for more than sixteen hours to the harmful desert climate. Leprosy was always waiting to pounce. I’d leave at daybreak and would make sure to be back before sunset. The next day, with a new crew, the exercise would be repeated, and so on. He shoved a pile of papers with instructions and figures over to me. He’d calculated the weight of the salt, the speed of the berlingas, the equipment needed, the amount of provisions like food and water that we’d take with us, down to the number of bullets for our weapons and the berlinga tyre pressure necessary for travel in the scorching heat.

  I interrupted him because I was losing my sanity. Was he talking about sixteen hours in the desert?We wouldn’t last half an hour beyond our outposts. This desert was like no other. It was a desert without a sky because you couldn’t see the firmament through the thick cloud. You were never even consoled by any flora or fauna. At least other deserts tease you into some semblance of normality with dry bushes and shrubs, cold-blooded reptiles and thick-skinned insects. It is a desert of death. In the hottest deserts of the planet, you could last four hours without water; here you’d get dehydrated in forty minutes because the heat of the fumes of the salt-bearing craters was dry and parched, and it sucked the water from your body like a sponge. As if that wasn’t enough, the desert conjured up frequent sandstorms that raised clouds of dust that reduced visibility to zero, blinding you completely. Whenever the wind blew, it moved the mountains of sand and so dunes literally raced across the desert at such a speed that you’d never see them coming. When the Colony was being built, it was said that whole crews had been swallowed along with their equipment.

  “Captain, you’re becoming tiresome. You may go now,” he said, pushing the papers towards me and indicating the door. He turned his back to me.

  I gathered up the papers and walked out of the office in a daze. This man was, beyond doubt, a lunatic. If I were to carry out his orders, the Colony would descend into chaos and every day we’d write off fifty berlingas and their crews, swallowed by the desert, not to mention a company of guards as well.

  Walking past Dr Fabrizio in the anteroom, he questioned me with a twisting gesture of his hand. “What did he want you for?” Before I could answer, the Governor’s voice was heard calling for him. Fabrizio jerked upright, crossed himself and strode towards the office.

  Regina was on her knees in the entrance hall, polishing the handle of the door as if she was trying to strip off its outer layer. Regina restricted this frenetic activity to the interior, so that the colonists could never see her plight – that they could plainly see the unpolished handles outside, across an unswept garden, didn’t seem to disturb her. She saw me and smiled sadly.

  “From what I see, it’s your turn now. You exude fear from every pore.”

  I felt like pouring out my troubles to her, although she hadn’t seemed to be at all normal lately and I’d never really liked her, but despair was gripping me and I had to share it with someone. She prevented me, however, as if she knew that she wouldn’t be able to bear hearing me out, so she sealed my lips with her fingers and whispered in my ear, “He brought you face to face with your worst fears, right? That’s what he’s done to all of us. So what’s your worst nightmare, I wonder? Oh, the Suez Mamelukes, what else?” She kissed me desperately on the mouth. “Poor Drake, now you’ll have to address your nightmares and get through some very tough nights.”

  She asked me to tread carefully for she’d just mopped, and turned back to manically rubbing the handle. The futility of her efforts depressed me. Her ministrations didn’t improve the condition of the Palace, only underlined its sorry state. She was capable of slaving at one door handle all day or devoting herself to a single silver spoon, while shutting out all thoughts about the litter, the sand, the dust, the stains adorning the walls and floors, as if they were invisible to her. I edged carefully around the patch that she must’ve considered mopped, judging from the fact that the sand was muddy and uniformly spread, and stepped out of the Palace.

  My mind was stunned, empty. I wandered the streets feeling completely lost. Hammering my palm against my forehead failed to bring enlightenment. I spied a quiet bar in Hesperides and went in. I ordered a cognac and wondered what I should do. What should I decide? How should I act? I couldn’t imagine myself dragging so many souls behind me into the desert like some Archangel at the head of a column of the condemned, marching them to the next world. Once the Mamelukes caught a whiff of that salt, once they saw it crossing their domain and landing in their laps, they’d descend like a swarm of wasps on honey. Those Suez vermin aren’t fazed by danger, they don’t think before they attack, they aren’t deterred by casualties so you’ve no way of dealing with them. Their attack is like a storm that never stops until the last one dies. That’s their strength: indifference.

  By now it was six o’clock and my head was getting heavy from the cognac, but I still hadn’t found the courage to make a decision. I’d briefly flirted with a number of ideas: resignation, disappearance, shooting myself, doing nothing and sitting in this chair until I rotted and was thrown into the incinerator … None of these thoughts relieved me. I suddenly heard the voice of Secretary Siccouane and lifted my head. He was standing at the entrance, with only one foot in the door.

  “He said that it’s time you purchased the wire.” He articulated his words in an effort to speak quietly, but the distance between us wouldn’t permit him to lower his voice any further. You could see the sweat beading on his forehead from his frustrating efforts to shout softly.

  “What are you murmuring, Siccouane?”

  He gestured me to keep my voice down, looked right and left and repeated out of breath, as if there was a posse at his heels, “He sent me. He said that I’d find you here, unable to make up your mind. He said you’re not to think. It is six o’clock. The wire!”

  I looked down the timetable I’d been given to programme my duties and, sure enough: Time 18:00 hours: purchase of wire.

  “How the
hell did you find me?”

  Siccouane shrugged his shoulders. “Ask him – did you think that I’d found you? Come on, get up. I’m standing in a Hesprides establishment and I don’t need any new scandals. Isn’t it enough that he sent me to your Metropolis?”

  Once he’d ascertained that I was on my feet, he rushed off. I could see the customers’ heads turning towards the entrance, wondering whether they’d really seen the Personal Secretary in an establishment barred to his rank or had they just imagined it.

  I drew a deep breath and put my cap on. I might as well succumb to the inevitable. I admit that death terrifies me, it spooks me, but I’d never imagined before that there was another fear even greater and more torturous: the fear of having to obey an illogical, inapplicable order. I looked at my watch and bit the bullet. I bought ten kilometres of wire, and purchased the pulleys and the poles. I ordered the planed planks, the dry provisions, the crates of water. The instructions were so detailed that they specified the exact length of rope necessary to tie the cargo and the amount of lubricant for the springs of the berlingas.

  My biggest problem was the three General Managers. I wasn’t sure how I’d face them since I disagreed with what I was asking them to do. I’d no convincing arguments apart from a pistol.

  I mustered my courage and went into the General Manager for Transportation’s office to have done with this odious chore. I felt like a gangster’s enforcer who, using raw muscle, makes sure that his shadowy boss’s insane folly is carried out to the last detail. I took the manager by storm, not allowing him time even to properly greet me, giving me the advantage of momentum. I shoved the two written directives, his and mine, under his nose, and suggested that he read them very carefully. He did, and burst out laughing.

  “You must be joking, of course. Are you really expecting me to withdraw fifty berlingas from the streets and send them out into the desert?”