What Lot's Wife Saw

by Ioanna Bourazopoulou

  I set my platoon in a line abreast to sweep the square. I told them to continually touch the next man down the line, and to make sure that it was guard, not miner, they were touching. They should avoid speaking and making loud noises with their boots. We couldn’t see the miners but at least we could try to listen for them.

  The guards followed my orders, their ears straining to locate the rebellious miners. In total darkness we could quickly lose our sense of orientation and become too afraid to move. Miners were cowards and wouldn’t be stupid enough to attack a formation of troops, but they could see us and we couldn’t see them. We felt totally exposed.

  Suddenly, we heard a shot being fired and turned in its direction with pistols raised. I asked what’d happened and who’d fired. It transpired that someone had just tried to illuminate the scene. I shouted at them not to use live ammunition; these were miners, damn it, not Mamelukes. Anyone shooting a live bullet from now on would be expelled! That idiot Navalle had armed them as if they’d been going on a foray in the desert. If I could’ve just used my brain for once, I would have collected the bullets before setting out into the unlit square, since it was quite possible the guards would panic in the dark and let loose. But I hadn’t thought ahead; I never do these days.

  We continued our uncertain advance over the square. We couldn’t estimate how far along we were but we were expecting to fetch up against the statue in the middle. Too often, one of us jerked in alarm and let fly a pointless dart. We heard them ricochet off the stones. At some point, a muffled cry was heard that meant that a dart had found a target. The miners were here. We fired a salvo in the direction of the cry and were rewarded with more cries and the sound of bodies falling. We’d found them. But the cries seemed to encircle us. They were everywhere. We started to stumble over the prostrate bodies and became disorganised. A number of guards were felled by stray darts in the confusion. I ordered the others to keep to their line and shoot low to avoid hitting anyone in the eyes (which was a punishable offence) but to be careful not to shoot at anyone who was already down since a double dose was dangerous.

  We had become an amorphous mass, the quick and the tranquillised. The lines had been disrupted. We were blindly shooting away without knowing who the person next to us was. Guard or miner, friend or target? I should’ve notified the ambulance berlingas to be standing by before we’d entered the square. I should’ve held back and sent someone for lanterns before precipitating this mess. I should’ve resigned since I’m only capable of causing disaster, not averting it.

  A shot rang out and the one that caught the bullet grunted in pain as he fell wounded, not asleep. I felt my way towards the sound, bellowing not to use bullets, for God’s sake, no bullets! There was a second shot from the weapon, a face was lit up from the discharge. It was a stony-faced Batourim.

  I tackled him, and wrestled for his gun but he hit me like a maniac. I finally pinned him down. I brought out my fish-oil lighter and held it near his face. His eyes were crazed.

  “Batourim, are you out of your mind? Do you want us all to be exiled? Didn’t I scream ‘no bullets’?”

  He blew out the flame and hugged me.

  “I’m scared, Captain,” was all he said.

  33

  Letter of Xavier Turia Hermenegildo

  (page 66)

  JUDGE BATEAU

  … The Colony seemed to be burning up from an inner fever. Fear spread from quarter to quarter like an epidemic. Everyone started to find broken shells, dried-out starfish, goat bones, human teeth and so on, in the galleries of the mines, under paving stones and under the floorboards of their homes.

  The most worrying aspect was that deathly silence had taken the place of all the talk and speculation. Streets were deserted and no one could be seen on the squares after dusk. Almost every evening we had incidents, while on one day a huge brawl broke out between the loaders and the transporters, which quickly spiralled out of control. Countless dock workers waded into the fray and cheerfully laid about. Half-dressed colonists coming out of their houses and passengers of berlingas jumped at the chance of a free-for-all. Port officials tried to break it up but on being attacked by both sides they quickly withdrew. Bags packed with salt were thrown into the sea where they floated awkwardly. The guard was called in and it fired a barrage of hypnotic darts at the combatants. The battle raged until the hill of tranquillised bodies turned into a mountain. The enforced calm allowed a desperate stream of ambulance berlingas to start transporting the casualties and the sedated to the Infirmary. The absence of the Governor’s shadow on proceedings had unnerved the colonists and filled them with a sense of foreboding as the anniversary celebrations drew nearer. The pent-up stress was like a volcano ready to erupt at the slightest provocation and manifested itself in daily vandalism and violence. Employees wouldn’t show up for work, fines went unpaid and managers were ignored.

  I continually postponed trials because the courthouse began to be surrounded by bands of suspicious-looking people who seemed to be waiting for any excuse to attack and leave nothing standing in their wake. I could even hear those proverbial blind, deaf and dumb cyclists grinding their teeth under their wide hats and I no longer felt safe in their vehicles. Only a scant week had passed since the death of Bera, and the Colony was falling into anarchic chaos like a neglected child who becomes wilder and wilder in the hope of, in the end, gaining the attention of his indifferent parents. Unfortunately, the Palace remained impassive, sealed and silent.

  So it was that we came to Thursday the 27th of August. Like every Thursday, I had to transport the Green Box to the Palace but I considered that it had become too dangerous to parade through the Colony carrying something so valuable and provocative. With the colonists at such a fever pitch, I doubted that it’d survive intact. I had repeatedly attempted to inform the Governor but each time he’d interrupted me, pointing to the Purple Star on my chest. “Live up to the demands of your position,” he’d say, and then he’d renew our rendezvous for the next lunch. Either he was blind to the pandemonium outside or he just pretended not to care.

  I’d met with Captain Drake the previous evening and had begged him to send guards to the port to escort the Box’s procession. Drake complained that he was using all the available forces to quell the unrest and that for each caravan he was also forced to allot a company, which would then go on three days’ enforced leave to recover, so that depleted the fighting strength of the Guardhouse. Street patrols were woefully inadequate as a result but, grudgingly, he would do the best he could.

  I wasn’t reassured. Drake had changed and was quite lackadaisical about his duties lately. All he cared about was tending to his caravans and it consumed all his energy. Ever since he spent time in the desert without spotting a single Mameluke, his mental screws had been dangerously loosened. He was so relieved to have been excused from the luncheon meetings that the middle of the desert seemed a downright paradise. He took naps on the bags of salt as he was wheeled through the desert and then stacked them in neat “B” and “L” shapes at the destination. Meanwhile, the Colony was stewing in its own juice. The three officers that were delegated to command in his place, Navalle, Gomez and Smailovitz, could never agree on any issue so they constantly bickered. The men who were sent on crowd control were given only vague orders on tactics. The disorganisation permeated headquarters and the whole compound and Drake was never there to solve anything. The colonists sensed the reduced capabilities of the guards and had grown even wilder.

  In my villa I’d waited in vain for Drake’s promised guards till eight in the evening. Thus, I went down alone, hoping that I might find a contingent at the port. There were a number of colonists gathered around the phosphorescent white line which delineates the route that the Green Box takes and that increased my worry that they’d attack it. I’m not paid enough to expose myself to that kind of danger, damn it. My contract didn’t stipulate that I lay my life on the line every Thursday.

  I found Secretary Siccouane d
own at the docks biting his fingernails with worry. He whispered that there was considerable tension in the air and the dock workers were at it again. From the quays and wharves just out of our line of sight, we heard swearing and the sounds of flesh slamming into flesh. The fracas seemed to be heading our way and a few casualties hit the ground only metres away. Drake’s men, all six of them, hadn’t bothered to get up and were lounging silently on comfortable coils of rope. Fed up with the contradictory directives from above, the troops had replaced Navalle’s bullets, Gomez’s darts and Smailovitz’s nightsticks with their own favourite – avoidance. They watched from a safe distance and placed bets.

  The Secretary rubbed his jaw. “You know what I’m thinking, Bateau? That this is some experiment. The Seventy-Five are testing the running of the Colony without a Governor.”

  “If this keeps up, Siccouane, there won’t be a Colony, just its ruins.”

  “Bateau, you have no idea. In the end, fear, anger and lawlessness will transform into something that you don’t suspect. It’s all been planned, down to the last casualty. Listen to me, I tell you. I’ve studied the Seventy-Five.”

  I edged closer to sniff his breath to check whether he had become inebriated for the first time but concluded that he was drunk on his own sophistries. He seemed both impressed and frightened. He told me that the reason the pirate had stayed out of sight was that the experiment had a slight chance of failing. If this happened, the disaster would be blamed on the deceased Bera, since, ostensibly, he was still the Governor and it was his signature that legalised all the dubious decrees. That’d be a time when the pirate would appear, properly dressed, under his real name, and take over as the people’s Saviour. Who’d believe us if we swore that this man had been holed up all those days in the Palace, dressed as a corsair and forging Bera’s signature? Not a soul.

  He took on the smug air of an expert. “I know the Seventy-Five inside-out!” he repeated.

  “Siccouane, take your precious Seventy-Five and get lost somewhere together!”

  Luckily, the Correspondence Ship hove into view at that moment, before I vented my pent-up frustrations on the puny Secretary. The unwieldy vessel made slow progress towards the quay. Grappled fore and aft, it was unceremoniously reeled landwards – how degrading for a proud sea-going ship! I’ve seen dead fish hauled on board with more decorum. My thoughts jumped to the frigate IEREMOI that must be in the throes of advanced decomposition by now, and my heart lurched from pain. We were truly unpardonable, I more than the others. I, the poor excuse for a Judge and an embarrassment to justice. I had never brought the guilty to trial, let alone convicted him, while there was still time to avert the catastrophe. I let Bera live like a king, and to choose his own time of death like a god. He was extinguished peacefully, ceremonially dressed and smiling – but unpunished. Bera didn’t deserve such a peaceful death; he was the instigator of all our guilt, the mentor of our decadence and guile. I should have strangled him while looking him straight in the eye so he could feel the magnitude of his crime and get a taste of what he had created. Now the opportunity had passed and the debt I owed weighed heavily on my shoulders. The hands that had not been wrapped around the neck of the one who had made them so dangerous could now only wrap themselves around my own neck.

  Shame suffused me. Thank heavens that this Correspondence Ship was not captained by Cortez, whose glass eye managed to read the depths of your soul and whose nose could sniff your despair on your breath. As we watched the captain descend the gangway we could see how lucky we were. It was Captain Arnaud, glowing with bonhomie. Arnaud couldn’t see a crime even if you pointed at it. He was talkative, jolly, unbearably effusive and displayed the minimum amount of intuition and tact that a Consortium captain could have. He beamed his way down to the quay and promptly gave me a hearty whack around the shoulders.

  “Bernard, my good Bernard, how the hell is it going in this Gold Coast?”

  “We’re getting by, Arnaud.”

  “Come now, understatements don’t become you people, your monthly salary is larger than the all ship’s crew put together. Charles, my tiny friend, have you shrunk further or is it only my impression?”

  “I try not to take up too much space,” Siccouane replied testily.

  Arnaud guffawed. “Witty, always witty, that was a good one, Charles. Okay, fancy making your way to my cabin to pick up your parcel?”

  His hefty arms gave both of us a shove in the right direction, trying our tolerance. In the Colony we rarely used first names but Arnaud insisted on behaving here as if he was in civilisation. He introduced us to his first mate, who’d be the fourth member of the procession, and led us into his cabin.

  I was thinking that the upheaval we were witnessing here might have associated ripples in the halls of the Consortium but I wasn’t at all sure that Arnaud was the best person to provide the intelligence. As Siccouane was unlocking the vault, I asked the captain how things were in Paris.

  “It rains continually.”

  “I mean, is everything fine with the Consortium? Have you seen anything new, anything strange?’

  “Bernard, are you pickled again?”

  “I’m asking because news takes such a devil of a time getting to us.”

  “The demand for salt is increasing and the Seventy-Five are grousing, as usual, about your lousy port. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  Siccouane sent me a warning glare to keep quiet. As if we could say anything to arouse this oaf’s curiosity. He opened the vault and asked me to help with the Box. We pulled it out and got it off the ship.

  The streetlights were shining brightly enough so Arnaud decided that visibility would be sufficient and that we didn’t need to rope ourselves together. Siccouane and I immediately protested that the rope was absolutely necessary, today more than ever. Arnaud gave in to our insistence and he passed the rope through the hoops on the Box and then tied it around our waists. We tested the knots and, having instructed our escort to repel any colonist that got too close, we set off at a rapid pace. Startling the two officers with our haste, we nearly dragged them over.

  “Damn it, you’re killing us,” Arnaud gasped.

  “The Governor is waiting, he’s in a hurry!” Siccouane yelled, frightened by the crowd that was closing in around us.

  As we drew near the Palace, we could see that the crowd had fused into a solid mass that had left only a narrow corridor leading to the gate. It was like open jaws that would crash together as soon as we attempted the gauntlet. We hurried forward and the crowd pressed in as we advanced. As I reached for the gate, a woman spat in my face and cursed me. “God will punish you!”

  We ran across the garden and banged on the entrance door but Regina didn’t respond.We kicked the door and pleaded with her to open it. The mad woman had barred the doors, frightened by the menacing gathering. We were forced to show her the armed guard before she complied. Once in, the Secretary dropped the Box and grabbed her by the hair. Beside himself, he asked whether she’d intended to allow the crowd to lynch us. Regina stammered that she’d been doing us a favour and that inside the Palace tonight it was more dangerous than anywhere out of it and we should leave as soon as possible. We sent the officers off and instructed the six troops to patrol the garden until further notice. Siccouane fled weeping and sought refuge in his tiny office.

  Wrought, I paced the lobby shouting for the Governor to show himself and see what his precious Colony was coming to. This couldn’t go on anymore. Regina was watching my outburst while clutching the banister as if her life depended on it. I fiercely demanded that she tell me where the pirate was. “In his room,” she answered in a quiet voice, but advised me not to disturb him. I pushed her aside and stormed upstairs.

  On the floor where the bedrooms were, the fish-oil lamps were out and I couldn’t see the tip of my nose. I tried to orientate myself by memory. Flush against the wall, I felt my way along until I reached the Governor’s room. I barged in without knocking. It was in total darknes
s, but definitely inhabited. I could sense his presence but that was all. I repeatedly called him with no response. I looked in my pocket for my lighter and lit it. My mouth was totally dry from fear.

  In the flickering of the flame I distinguished the late Governor Bera, the dead Bera, lying in bed. The corpse was on its stomach, wearing the ceremonial uniform with patent leather shoes and a hat with peacock feathers. He was exactly as we had found him dead a week ago, only this time his face was jammed into the pillow and his arms and legs were spread out. I was trying to understand how something like this could possibly have happened, since I remembered that we had torn that uniform in search of the key and that we had incinerated the Governor – in fact I myself had flung his dismembered body into the oven.

  “Someone is superfluous in this room, Bateau.”

  I jumped in terror. The corpse was talking, and was talking in the voice of the pirate. My lighter fell from my fingers and continued to burn on the floor as fish-oil lighters never extinguish, even when you want them to. The corpse didn’t fit the voice. I tried mumbling the name of Governor Bera without being sure which of the two Governor Beras I was addressing; the one I saw or the one I heard.

  “The Judge must punish the guilty,” said a voice, which scratched me so deeply that I tasted my own blood.

  This judge punishes only the innocent, the guilty slip through his hands. I was inexcusable, pitiful. I shouldn’t have waited so many years. It was too late for revenge.

  “It is never too late,” said the voice.

  What did it mean? That I could punish a dead man? Was a second chance being given to the cowardly Hermenegildo, who always belatedly remembered his duty? Who’d waited for Europe to be covered by the sea before he realised what he’d lost, that’s to say what he was always missing.

  I approached the bed without believing I deserved such luck. I made out the nape of the dead man’s neck in the gloom and decided that this time I wouldn’t hesitate. I sat down carefully on the edge of the bed and wrapped my fingers round his neck. I felt a vein pulse under my fingers. He was alive. So dreams can come true! Hell had sent him back for me to punish. His arms and legs were spread-eagled as they’d been tied to the bedposts. The pirate was making this too easy for me. Even I could kill such a helpless victim. I didn’t want him facing away, however; I had to look into his eyes. I turned him over and his hat slipped down and released his black locks onto the pillow. From under the hat flashed my daughter’s terrified white eyes. Her mouth had been gagged and it was her limbs tied to the bedposts. All she could do was move her neck slightly under my vengeful grip.