The Ecliptic

by Benjamin Wood

  And so, at the end of the miserable afternoon, the boy was tossed into the sea like fish guts, and I was left with a deadness in my belly, a shame that I feared might never subside. The provost’s eulogy had rung hollow. I wished that I could have spoken in his place, but I was not invited to, and what exactly would I have said? Aside from a few personal things the boy had shared with me—about recurring dreams, and Japanese scribblings, and listening to old records at his grandfather’s house—I had no great insight into his life. He was not someone who deserved to be spoken about in half measures.

  The dour sky was darkening still. I held on to the crook of Mac’s elbow and she steered us off the escarpment. The mansion surfaced above the treeline: what an ugly grey hulk it was in the drizzle, what a mangy old dump. Nazar scurried by us, bounding through the scrub. ‘I guess it’s feeding time,’ Pettifer said from behind. ‘At least some of us are thinking clearly, eh?’

  ‘Shut up, Tif,’ Mac said.

  ‘Just trying to raise a smile.’

  We were only yards from the clearing where my mushrooms grew—they were just beyond the coppice to my left, and my chest tightened at the thought of them.

  As we came through the pines, I saw the provost waiting in the mulch by the studio huts. I did not want to speak to him, but he was loitering in an official way, as though he had some form awaiting a signature. Nazar ran to him, circled his feet, sniffing. He was without an umbrella. ‘Go around him,’ I told Mac.

  ‘You sure?’

  She tried to veer away, but he moved to intercept us. ‘Can you spare a moment?’ he said. ‘Both of you.’

  Tif and Quickman were just a few strides behind.

  ‘What’s going on over at the house right now?’ Q asked.

  ‘I’ve asked Gülcan to make her special köfte,’ the provost replied, ‘in honour of the boy. You don’t have to join us if you aren’t feeling up to it. It’s been a very long day.’

  ‘His appetite’s taken a hit,’ Tif said. ‘But I’m keen.’

  ‘As you wish.’ There was an awkward pause. ‘Well, if I might borrow the ladies for a moment?’

  ‘They’re not ours to lend,’ said Quickman.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said.

  They left us alone, and Nazar hurried after.

  The provost waited for them to be out of earshot. He folded his arms. ‘You know, I was beginning to wonder if the trustees really understand how this place functions. But, in your case, MacKinney, they’ve proven me wrong.’

  ‘I’m not following you, sir.’

  ‘It seems our appeals have been heard, after all. They’re going to let you stay.’

  ‘Are you serious? Oh, that’s—oh, my goodness, thank you,’ she said.

  ‘I’m just glad they came to their senses.’ He scraped the mulch off his shoe. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of cancelling tonight’s reading. Hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘We would’ve cancelled it anyway,’ Mac said. ‘Given the circumstances. But, really, sir—thank you.’

  ‘I knew you’d understand.’

  ‘Can I keep the same room?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’ He peered towards the mansion. ‘Unless you’d prefer to change. I wouldn’t want to hold you there against your will.’

  ‘No, no, I’m happy where I am.’ She managed to quell the jubilation in her voice, but it seeped out onto her face, tugging at the corners of her mouth, mottling her skin. ‘This is going to make all the difference to my work, sir—I can’t tell you. It won’t be long before I’ve finished it.’

  ‘I have no doubt you’ll use the time productively.’ The provost reached for his pocket watch, shielding it as he flicked it open. ‘You haven’t said anything, Knell. I thought you’d be grateful for a bit of good news today.’

  After the pitiless way he had dispatched Fullerton, I could only feel sceptical. It seemed that this sudden backpedalling was intended to placate us—to quiet any impulsions we might have had to scream the boy’s name from the mansion roof, or, in Mac’s case, to confess what she had witnessed to her friends back on the mainland. ‘I’m pleased Mac gets to stay,’ I said. ‘If that’s what you need to hear.’

  ‘She’s a bit exhausted,’ MacKinney said contritely. ‘I ought to take her back now.’

  ‘Yes, she does look quite run down.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said. She tried to walk me forwards, but I resisted. There was plenty enough strength in me yet. ‘I’m sure their sudden change of heart has nothing to do with dumping the boy out there.’

  ‘Knell,’ Mac said.

  A wen of rain dripped from the provost’s brow. ‘The trustees aren’t infallible. They’ve acknowledged their mistake, and I don’t think we should be asking questions if the outcome is the right one in the end, do you?’

  I felt Mac pulling at my elbow again.

  The provost turned his back on us, resting his cane upon his shoulder. ‘I suggest you try to get some rest now, both of you,’ he called, treading the path. ‘Provost’s orders.’

  There was little sense in sleeping. But, with everyone convening in the mess hall under the pretence of mourning, I did not want to be around the mansion until lights-out. So I took a shower and changed my clothes again (everything I wore seemed to be possessed by memories) and then I cleared my studio, washed up my equipment and organised my materials. Afterwards, I made a cup of tea and sat down on the couch to take the weight off, and I must have leaned my head back a degree too far, because I woke up in lamplight with the teacup full and cold. I was out of kindling for the stove and could not light it. There was plenty in the mansion stores, I knew, and Ender would replenish my stocks come morning. But the rain had left the evening damp and rheumy on the lungs; I needed to stay warm.

  Ender had a room on the ground floor—not much more than a storage space with a single bed and bathroom fixtures screened off behind muslin. His door was closed when I got there, and he did not respond when I knocked. Upstairs, there was movement on the landing, and I went up to see if he was in the mess hall or the kitchen. But there was only Lindo, the Spaniard, and a few of his short-term friends. They were playing shove ha’penny on our table and making quite a din. When Lindo spotted me, he gestured for the group to quieten. ‘Is everything OK?’ he asked. The other heads turned. I barely recognised their faces: gormless, spongy, self-amused.

  ‘Looking for Ender,’ I said. ‘What are you doing on our table?’

  The Spaniard shrugged. ‘The game requires it.’ He held my gaze, unflinching. ‘Ender is not here. We have not seen him. Should I tell him you were looking?’

  The serving pass was shuttered and the kitchen door was closed. ‘No, that’s all right,’ I said. Lindo nodded and returned to his shove ha’penny. For a short while, I dawdled on the landing, expecting Ender to emerge from a stairwell or a corridor, but he did not. In fact, the mansion was curiously still, as though Gülcan’s special supper had left everyone so sedated they had all retired to bed.

  Quickman’s room was at the near end of the hallway, separated from MacKinney’s by the landing and the library. I rarely disturbed him in his own space. Of the four of us, he was the most guarded about his lodging and it was simpler just to wait for his appearance every mealtime than try to lure him out—if he was absent at lunch or dinner, we assumed that he was in a solitary mood. But I was feeling less in thrall to Quickman’s need for privacy than usual. I went to knock for him.

  It took no time at all for him to answer. My knuckles were hardly off the wood. He peeked out through the gap, lifting his chin at me. ‘Thought it might be you,’ he said, and let the door hang open. His room had changed since my last visit: generally less cluttered, but something else, too. Quickman must have sensed me trying to work it out, because he thumbed towards his desk and said, ‘Used to be under the window, if that’s what’s bothering you.’

  ‘Tired of the scenery already?’ I said.

  ‘It helps to change your view every now and again, I’ve foun
d.’ He went to sit down in his swivel-chair, a high-backed rosewood thing with metal casters and a few turned spindles missing (his hands reached back into the space where they should have been). ‘And I get distracted by the birds. If you stare at them for long enough, they develop personalities. Now I can’t look up in case I see myself in the mirror. One glimpse of this face is like a dose of salts.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve often thought so.’

  He almost smiled. There was subdued light about the place, like some rare-book shop. A lamp was poised over the empty surface of his desk. ‘You’re not working?’ I asked.

  ‘I never write and entertain at once,’ he said. ‘I’m not Gertrude bloody Stein.’

  The last time I had ventured into Quickman’s room, seasons before, I had seen a stack of pages on his bedside cabinet: handwritten, curling, weighed down by some dull brass ornament. The stack had been thick as a breezeblock. The same papers were still there, except the ream was just a quarter of the size, and a pot of ayran rested on it with its cap peeled back. ‘I was trying to find Ender,’ I said. ‘Didn’t want to interrupt you.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know where the old man is, but I’m glad you stopped by.’ Using his heels, he swung the chair round and shuffled to a set of drawers. From the topmost, he pulled out a bundle of cloth. ‘I’ve not been able to concentrate all day. I tried to sleep but I don’t think I’ve been this restless since the war.’

  ‘You were in the war?’ It surprised me that Q had volunteered this information, though I had always assumed he would have served in some capacity. There was a forlorn silence that belonged to men his age, in which you could detect reverberations of experiences too bewildering to relay.

  He inhaled, nodding. ‘I was indeed. The Sappers. Saw a bit of action out in Nijmegen, and then got shot in the foot. Shot myself in the foot, quite literally. So don’t be staring at me all misty-eyed or anything. I’m no war hero.’ Wheeling himself back to the desk, he set the bundle down and unfolded the fabric. It was a T-shirt, pale blue, with crusted marks about the armpits. And, inside it, were the boy’s index cards. The entire block of them, jointed with tape. Some of the ink was smudged here and there, but the Japanese was still legible.

  ‘Where’d you get those?’ I said, stepping forward.

  Quickman stared down at them. ‘I took them from his table before you brought the provost.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve been wondering that myself. A sense of duty, I suppose. Even though—’ He broke off, drawing his pipe out of his pocket, biting on it. ‘Even though I hardly knew the lad. But, God, I don’t know, Knell. Once you’ve held somebody in your arms like that, someone as young as him, so dead, you just—it does things to you. I had this awful feeling, as if I’d failed him somehow. And then I saw the cards and, that was it. I took them.’

  Under Quickman’s desk light, the boy’s scrawled notes seemed like preserved exhibits. I still did not know what they meant. ‘Did you translate them yet?’ I asked.

  ‘Some of them,’ Q said.

  ‘And?’

  ‘They’re extremely odd. Not dissimilar to the boy himself, in all honesty.’ He picked up the cards and turned back through them. ‘These ones, for example. They read like advertising copy. Some sort of public health notice from the United Fruit Company—I’m not joking. I’ve translated to the best of my ability, but still, there’s something awkward about the language. See what you make of it.’ He slid open the drawer of his desk and brought out a yellow notepad with his own writings in pencil. And removing his pipe, he read:

  ‘How to add life to your years—dot, dot, dot—and years to your life—exclamation mark. You’ve probably noticed it among your own acquaintances. Some people at sixty or even seventy seem to be doing more, and having more fun at it, than others who are fifty, or even forty—exclamation mark. Chances are, if you could look closer into their lives, you’d learn a few things. They chose the right parents. Open bracket: Heredity—possibly lineage, that word, not sure— has something to do with it. Close bracket. They find joy in their work. Open bracket: That has a lot to do with it. Close bracket. You might discover that the people who live longest and enjoy life most are people who eat enough of the right kind of foods. For a properly balanced diet, medical scientists—possibly just doctors there, but medical scientists seems more correct—medical scientists can literally slow up the ageing process. Slow up. Sounds very American, doesn’t it? Hang on. Lost my place now . . . That means plenty of proteins—the building blocks that keep your body in a state of good repair. Vitamins and minerals—the protective foods that keep your eyes shining, your hair and skin in good condition—dot, dot, dot— and your whole outlook on life brighter. Energy foods—the fuels your body has to burn to give you vigour and enthusiasm.’ Q widened his eyes. ‘I’m not sure you need to hear the rest.’

  ‘Is that all of it?’ I said.

  ‘No, there’s more. Plenty more.’ He leafed through his notepad, clearing his throat. ‘That is not to say you have to eat a lot. In fact, as we grow older, we need less food. The important thing is to eat a wide variety of the right foods. For instance, take a banana. Take it—exclamation mark—peel it, eat it—exclamation mark. It’s satisfying and nourishing. Vitamins and minerals are there in well-balanced supply and wholesome natural sugars to give you energy. Slice a banana into a bowl and pour milk on it—dot, dot, dot—you’re adding proteins to keep your body in good repair, as well as consuming—don’t know what that word is—and bone-building—possibly bone-growing, there—calcium. Easy to fix. Again, that’s quite American. Easy to fix. Easy to eat. Easy to digest. In fact, doctors often recommend bananas in cases of severe digestive disturbances. And you don’t have to feel very hungry—open bracket—or even be very old—close bracket—to enjoy this simple treat—exclamation mark. And then the tagline: United Fruit Company. For health, eat and enjoy a plentiful variety of the right foods.’ Quickman tossed the notepad aside and clamped down on his pipe again. ‘If you can tell me what any of this relates to, I’d be very glad to know. Because I’ve spent the past few hours working on all that and it still baffles me. I mean, who the heck was this lad, anyway, if this was the nonsense filling his head?’

  I did not have the answers for him. ‘All I know is that we didn’t do enough for him while he was here.’

  Q said nothing.

  ‘Have you translated any more?’

  He sighed. ‘About half of them. There’s an ad for Cadillac and the Encyclopaedia Britannica, and one for Zenith hearing aids. I’m officially bemused.’

  ‘Please keep at it,’ I said. ‘They’re all that’s left.’

  ‘I will.’ He scratched his beard, leaning back. ‘Any distraction at the moment is a welcome one. Except—’ He straightened up, swivelling to catch my eye. ‘They’re not quite all that’s left. I mean, he came here with a bagful, didn’t he? There must be other things in his lodging we can save.’

  Fullerton’s window was boarded with plywood. ‘Just for now,’ Ender said. ‘I can order tomorrow some glass.’ He unlocked the door for me, flipped on the wall-switch. A stark fluorescent haze brightened the studio. I tried not to look towards the threshold of the bathroom, where my last sighting of the boy was still imprinted in the space like some trick of the light. There was a stink of Ajax in the air. The concrete floor had been mopped dry and the boy’s bed had been stripped. His guitar was stored above the wardrobe. ‘What’s wrong with the lamps?’ I asked, seeing they were all unplugged.

  ‘For safeness,’ Ender said. ‘We have to test.’

  The boy had a large drafting table, similar to Pettifer’s, though his was tilted at a sharper angle against the wall. There were no sentimental images from home tacked up on the plaster behind it, no inspiring prints or clippings, as you might have found in other studios. The materials on his workbench were quite meagre: a few coloured pens and pencils; a pot of red ink, a pot of blue; a graphite stick and blotting tissues. ‘I will come back soon, yes?�
�� Ender said.

  I nodded. ‘Thank you.’ But it struck me that I should not let the old man leave without pressing him for answers. ‘Hang on. Ender?’

  He was halfway out the door. ‘Evet.’

  ‘Did you come across a note at all? When you were cleaning up the place?’

  ‘Excuse me. My English . . .’

  ‘A note—’ I made the action: left hand paper, right hand pen. ‘Did the boy leave a note?’

  ‘Foolertin?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Fullerton.’

  The old man shrugged. ‘There was nothing like this, I don’t think.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes. Very sure.’

  ‘The provost doesn’t have it?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. No. There was nothing like this.’

  I had been thinking all day about the circumstances of the boy’s death, and I had concluded that nothing ought to be assumed. Everyone was behaving as though Fullerton had killed himself—even Quickman had swept to judgement on the matter, though he seemed to be wavering on it now—and I still had misgivings. I had seen the odd effects of the boy’s sleepwalking, after all, the full influence of his dreams, and I reasoned that his drowning in the bathtub might well have been its consequence. Accidents like these were possible.

  ‘I can go now?’ the old man said.

  ‘Yes. I won’t be long.’

  ‘I will come back for you soon. To lock it. The wood I leave outside your door, OK?’

  I nodded.

  The neatness of the room was troubling—it had been forced back into order after cleaning, and the placement of the boy’s possessions was too overtly conscientious. I dragged the desk-chair to the wardrobe and brought down the guitar. Its wooden hips were damp at the edges, watermarked. As I thumbed the strings, it made the most unmusical sound. The thinnest strings were missing, in fact, and so were the little white pegs that secured them. When I laid it on the bed, I heard something clattering inside the body of the instrument. I had to shake it upside down, expecting the pegs would drop out, but a jeton fell onto the mattress instead.