Among all these faces, Ophelia saw only the one that was missing. She had finally come to accept it, even if with far more disappointment than she cared to admit: Thorn wasn’t among the Good Family.
She felt alone in the middle of this throng of uniforms. When she had lived through testing times in the past, she had always been able to rely on solid support. Today, she no longer had Aunt Rosaline, or great-uncle, or Berenilde, or Fox, or Gail, or Archibald, or scarf by her side. Apprentices were allowed a visit, but who could she have invited? She had bombarded Ambrose with telegrams, and his only response had been:
YOUR BAG IS STILL WITH ME. SHOULD I SEND IT TO YOU?
Suddenly, all the apprentices stood to attention, raising fists to chests. The banging together of their heels produced a burst of sound that reverberated against all the glass. This time, Ophelia didn’t need to stand on tiptoe to see who had just moved onto the rostrum. Helen’s elephantine figure towered over the assembly, her optical appliance surveying every face. Her limbs were all so unbelievably ill-proportioned, one wondered how she managed to keep her balance. Ophelia understood how when she heard a high-pitched squeaking against the floor of the gymnasium: Helen’s enormous dress was stretched around a crinoline on casters.
Another family spirit accompanied her. It was Pollux himself. The lines of his body and face were as harmonious as his twin’s were chaotic. He needed no apparatus to correct the range of his sight, and his eyes blazed like beacons out of his dark skin. Yet it was his smile that struck Ophelia the most: a smile full of kindness, which she had never witnessed from Helen, or Artemis, or Farouk.
“My dear children, thank you for all gathering here.” Pollux’s voice was deep, warm, mellifluous, like the rich resonance of a cello. A father’s voice. With his eyes, he embraced the entire assembly of apprentices, as if they were all his descendants, irrespective of skin color or power.
“Twenty-one family spirits,” thought Ophelia, “but each one unique.”
“You are the apple of our eyes, both my sister’s and mine,” continued Pollux. “You are not all destined to become virtuosos, but you represent no less the future of the city, each in your own way, whatever position awaits you there once you leave the conservatoire.”
Ophelia frowned. Lady Septima was standing to the back of the rostrum, among the Lords of LUX, and her lips were moving at the same time as Pollux’s. She was watching him out of the corner of her eye, as a teacher would a pupil from whom a perfect recitation was expected.
The young Animist observed the profiles of the apprentices around her. They were lapping up this speech with such fervid expressions, it was clear that, for each of them, the only position in the world worth having was that of virtuoso. Only one within each division, however, would attain that honor.
On the rostrum, Pollux’s smile widened. “I can hear your hearts beating. They gladden my own. Thanks to your parents, and thanks to the parents of your parents, we are living in an era of peace and prosperity such as the old world never knew. A peace and prosperity that you are preparing yourselves, in turn, to protect.”
Pollux allowed a long silence to descend, such as Ophelia had rarely heard in a packed room. The kind of silence that always gave her an irresistible urge to cough. She resisted the even stronger desire to raise her hand and ask him to tell them, indeed, a little more about this old world. They were made to learn by heart the history of the various technologies, the geological formations, the linguistic evolutions, and even the smallest ramifications of the great interfamilial tree, but no reference was ever made to the state of humanity before the Rupture.
“And now, my dear children, I would like to speak to you . . . speak to you about . . . ” Pollux broke off. He had forgotten the rest of his speech. In a fraction of a second, the charismatic father figure seemed as lost as a child. He exchanged a look with Helen, who made very sure not to come to his aid, enormous lips resolutely pursed, telescopic glasses turned elsewhere.
Ophelia noticed the way Lady Septima moved her lips once again, from the back of the rostrum, and the way Pollux instinctively turned toward her. This family spirit was a puppet. A gigantic, magnificent puppet.
“Ah, yes,” said Pollux, reviving his broadest smile. “My sister and I would like personally to thank the LUX patrons who subsidize this conservatoire. They endeavor to instill into each of you the very essence of citizenship. A citizenship that, of its own accord, curbs its least noble, most subversive instincts. My dear children, it is your turn to speak now: confess!”
Ophelia was taken aback. Who had to confess what?
At the end of the very front row, an apprentice took it upon himself to step forward and declare in a loud voice: “I solemnly swear that I have not lied, or cheated, or stolen, or in any way contravened the law of the city.”
“Good,” Pollux responded, with utmost gentleness. “If anyone has an objection to make, let them speak now.”
No one made an objection. The apprentice returned to his row, and his neighbor in turn stood forward to make the same declaration. And so it continued, with each member of each division of each company. Occasionally, one or another would publicly admit a fault, like the boy who wasted food by not finishing his plate, or the girl who had secretly copied a friend’s notes because she had been inattentive in class. The head of the company would then propose a punishment, and Pollux would nod his chin to approve it.
Ophelia was astounded. She understood what pushed the guilty to denounce themselves when she witnessed the first challenge. An apprentice lawyer had just sworn that he had respected the law and a hand instantly shot up in the crowd: “Objection! I heard him say a word forbidden by the Index.”
Whispering spread across the entire gymnasium, and Pollux’s kindly smile faltered, as if he had just been personally struck right in the heart.
“Apprentice, what is your response to this objection?” It was Helen who, for the first time during the assembly, had just spoken, her sepulchral voice extinguishing the murmuring. She manipulated the detachable lenses of her optical appliance to see the accused clearly. It was one of her Godsons.
“I protest,” said the apprentice lawyer. “It wasn’t really . . . ”
“Either it is, or it isn’t,” Helen cut in. “Did any other witnesses hear the forbidden word being uttered?”
Several hands went up. Ophelia could see the ears of the apprentice lawyer, two rows in front of her, turn crimson. She was feeling pretty uncomfortable herself. This examination of conscience was turning into a public trial.
“I offer my sincerest apology,” stammered the apprentice lawyer. “I may have once said, during a rhetorical debate, that it was pointless to fight, but it was obviously to be taken figura—”
“You have tripled your guilt,” Lady Septima instantly intervened. “By having committed a sin, by not having admitted it, and by having committed it once again. The choice of punishment is yours, Lady Helen, but all I can suggest to you is quarantine.”
“Amen to that,” Helen approved, impassively. “Apprentice, you are put in quarantine starting from right now. For forty days, you will be allowed to speak to no one, and no one will be allowed to speak to you. You are temporarily excluded from all group activities and deprived of all your privileges. No leave. No visits. No letters. You will follow your lessons in silence and will only have the right to speak if a superior asks you a direct question.”
Ophelia saw the apprentice lawyer’s ears go from bright red to very pale. Her own were buzzing like beehives. She had felt alone earlier; she didn’t dare even imagine how lonely he would feel. Punishing someone that harshly for using the verb “to fight”? Was that what working for peace meant? Ophelia turned her glasses in all directions, but there was no one in the ranks who would protest. She forced herself to contain her emotion when her eyes met those of Octavio, who was watching her through his long, black fringe.
> The examination of conscience resumed and Pollux, who had already forgotten the incident, regained all his fatherly bonhomie.
When Ophelia’s turn finally arrived, her heart was pounding so loud, she hoped neither Helen nor Pollux could hear it from the rostrum. Her dormitory colleagues had gone before her, and none of them had confessed to stealing her gloves. What would happen if she raised the matter now, in public? She felt she had no right to cause a scandal, not with false papers in her locker.
“I solemnly swear that I have neither lied nor cheated nor stolen nor contravened in any way the law of the city.” Ophelia’s small voice didn’t carry far, but she was relieved when Pollux smiled at her without asking her to repeat herself.
“Good. If anyone has an objection to raise, let them speak now.”
Ophelia saw a hand go up to her right. The blood in her veins caught fire. It was Octavio. He had fixed his red-eyed gaze straight ahead, causing the gold chain to quiver against his cheek.
He knew.
He knew and he was going to denounce her.
“This is not an objection, but a request,” Octavio announced, his tone measured. “Apprentice Eulalia needs new gloves. They are tools, and are indispensable for her to pursue her apprenticeship. Given that she is still in her probationary period, I’m asking on her behalf for exceptional leave so that she can go into town.”
From the rostrum, Lady Septima gave her son an even more incandescent look than usual. If she was disconcerted, Ophelia, herself, was completely staggered.
“Leave granted,” Helen declared, simply. “Next confession.”
Ophelia chewed her lips, longing for the end of the examination of conscience. As soon as the apprentices were authorized to fall out, she made a beeline for Octavio.
“Thanks.”
The word had, unintentionally, sounded mistrustful. He had helped her. Now she wanted to know what he wanted in return.
Octavio arched his eyebrows, so black and well-defined that they resembled two circumflexes. He was the spitting image of his mother: the slightest changes of expression became imposing on him. He had no need of height or muscles. His charisma sufficed. “It’s the conservatoire’s interest that I defended, not yours. If you must fail to become a virtuoso, it must be due to a lack of competence, not equipment.” And without allowing Ophelia time to respond, he continued, matter-of-factly: “When you go into town, go to the home of Professor Wolf. He should be able to help you.”
“Professor Wolf?” Ophelia repeated, increasingly disconcerted. “Is he a glover?”
“No, an Animist. Not born and bred, but a reader, like you. You won’t have any difficulty finding him. When he’s not researching at the Memorial, he shuts himself away at home.”
Ophelia heard nothing more after that. The racket in her chest had drowned out the rest of the world.
THE READER
Ophelia didn’t feel the burning sun bearing down on her. Neither did she hear the buzzing of the flies around her. Nor see the sea of clouds that the gondola with a sail she sat in was slowly cleaving through. All her attention was focused on a single, recurring thought: she was going to meet another reader, a reader who wasn’t born on Anima, a reader who was doing research at the Memorial.
‘It can’t be Thorn,’ she repeated to herself, over and over again. ‘My Animism made him a mirror traveler, not a reader.’ And yet Ophelia couldn’t stop herself from wondering. Hadn’t her own claws shown themselves belatedly, weeks after the marriage?
With a professional flourish, the Zephyr sailing the gondola gently deflected the breeze to draw alongside the quay smoothly, and then lowered the mechanical gangway. Ophelia disembarked with the other passengers without having to pay for the crossing. For that day, the Good Family had given her a perforated card she just had to insert into the ticket machine of any public service. It was an illusory freedom: inserting the card allowed the conservatoire to check that students weren’t out and about beyond the times permitted by their leave. Ophelia had been allowed three hours to do what she had to do. No more, no less.
She pushed her glasses up on her nose. The island she had just landed on was at the edge of the archipelago surrounding Babel, whose aqueducts and rotundas could be seen as distant silhouettes distorted by the heat of the afternoon. The splendor of the city hadn’t extended this far. The houses were all piled up, one against the other, like a single block of granite, with not a garden or fountain to soften the general effect. Neither were there cobbles on the roads, whose red dust, lifted by the wind, sizzled like embers. There was, however, an entire population of dodos waddling around the street, with the gait of obese pigeons.
Until then, Ophelia had asked her way to public signaling guides, but here she found no statue-automaton even remotely resembling one.
“Professor Wolf’s house, please?” Ophelia had addressed a passerby, who looked her uniform up and down before pointing out the direction to her without saying a word. She soon noticed that the locals turned as she passed, looking hostile. They all wore togas and turbans that would have been white had the surrounding dust not turned them red. They were the powerless. She was struck at seeing so many youngsters among them, sullen and idle, playing dice on the doorsteps. They were a startling contrast to the hyperactive automatons of the city center.
Ophelia had to keep asking the way until she finally reached a dilapidated building shrouded in creepers. A toucan, perched on the handrail of the front steps, screeched loudly as she approached, and a dozy old lady opened the door. Ophelia’s uniform had the effect of a bucket of water on her.
“Mademioselle?” she asked, staring wide-eyed.
“I’m looking for Professor Wolf.” Ophelia hadn’t managed to stop her voice betraying the emotion she had, however, been trying to curb since her conversation with Octavio. That was a hope she just mustn’t allow herself.
“I’m his landlady,” the old woman replied, now looking bored. “He has his own entrance around the back, but I don’t mind warning you: he’s an awkward customer, that lodger.”
Ophelia ignored as best she could the cramp that had just wrenched her stomach. “Is he at home?”
“Oh, yes, mademoiselle, that he is. Even a bit too much, in fact. He never goes out any more since his accident. What a shame, such an intelligent man!”
Another cramp gripped Ophelia’s stomach. “His accident?”
“It’s not for me to tell you, mademoiselle. Just go around the house and knock on his door. Maybe he’ll open to you. Maybe not.”
Ophelia went to the back of the building. The creepers were even more abundant here than at the front, to the extent of having entirely covered the closed shutters of the ground floor. A veritable plant prison.
‘A hiding place,’ Ophelia couldn’t help but correct, swallowing what little saliva she had left. There was no plaque, no letter box to indicate the identity of the place’s occupant.
She jumped. Barely had she neared the door than the knocker had struck it to announce her arrival. It had animated itself.
The smallest noise, from the other side of the door, indicated that someone had lifted the spyhole cover. Ophelia stretched as high as she could to be seen. After a long silence, the door opened barely a crack, restrained by a chain. The man didn’t show himself. He said nothing, either. Only his breathing—tense, deep—testified to his presence.
He was waiting.
Incapable of uttering a word herself, so tight was her throat, Ophelia slipped the Good Family’s administrative reference through the crack. She saw long, gloved fingers snatch it before disappearing into the darkness.
A rustling of paper. Another interminable silence.
The man slammed the door shut, released the security chain, and opened to Ophelia.
Barely had she set foot in the hall when the door closed itself behind her. The many bolts instantly slid into
place themselves with a series of resounding clicks. Still dazzled from the sun, Ophelia and her glasses took a while to get used to the nocturnal atmosphere that prevailed inside. For now, the man was just an anonymous shadow, tall and stiff as a hat stand. The floorboards creaked beneath his wary steps. His eyes, like two small, nervy sparks in an oven, kept darting back and forth, from the paper he was holding to the uniform of his visitor.
“Gloves, h’m? There’s an uncommon request.”
Ophelia agreed, forcing herself to smile politely. Professor Wolf was gradually revealing himself to her. His hair, eyebrows, and goatee were as black as his skin was pale. Lines furrowed his forehead and around his mouth, giving him the appearance of a prematurely aged forty-year-old.
It wasn’t Thorn.
She had spent the day forbidding herself from hoping. So why did she suddenly feel like leaving with a slam of the door?
“Are you mute, as well as everything else?” Professor Wolf’s accent was neither entirely Babelian nor really Animist, but a singular mix of the two. Perhaps because he no longer left his home, he didn’t respect the city’s dress code: his suit and his gloves, also black, resembled those worn by the scientists at Anima’s great observatory.
“No,” Ophelia finally muttered. She didn’t know what his “everything else” referred to, and she didn’t care. This man wasn’t Thorn, nothing he might think of her interested her.
“If I’m to believe your document, you are yourself a reader,” Professor Wolf continued, curling his lips on the last word. “A reader who goes about with bare hands, moreover. What have you done with your gloves?”
The Memory of Babel Page 13