The Memory of Babel

by Christelle Dabos

  During a long silence, the gallery was invaded by the twilight clamor of the birds. Ophelia felt an insect settle on her cheek, but made not the slightest move to chase it away, for fear of betraying herself even more. “Why allow me to remain in the Good Family if you deem me unworthy of being there?”

  Octavio’s skin furrowed at the corners of his mouth. “The better to keep an eye on you.”

  He turned on his heel and walked off, his Forerunner wings catching the last ray of sun as it sank behind the jungle. Night fell abruptly, dark and muggy.

  He knows nothing, Ophelia repeated to herself, watching the boy’s shadow disappear into the darkness of the walkway. He knows neither my real name nor my real motives. He has suspicions, but he knows nothing.

  “Apprentice Eulalia, you are requested to return to your division!” the gallery megaphones ordered. She turned toward one of the watchtowers that surrounded the gardens. Binoculars glinted from it, like a cat’s pupils in the dark. Now that Octavio was gone, the supervisor on duty had miraculously regained her sight and voice.

  Ophelia set off once more with a resolute step. She would let no one spoil her victory.

  She found an empty dormitory, on her return to the Hall. Her colleagues weren’t back yet. The reading groups alternated during the day between Pollux’s Forerunners and Helen’s; because the time of the sessions could vary between six o’clock in the morning and eleven o’clock in the evening, they had their own airship at their disposal.

  Ophelia unfolded her mechanical bed and fell onto it, fully clothed. Tomorrow, she thought, looking out to the Memorial, shining like a lighthouse through the mosquito screen on the window. Tomorrow, it will be me who’s over there.

  She must have fallen asleep without realizing it, because, when she reopened her eyes, her division colleagues were there. Around her bed. They hadn’t lit the lamps and were all standing at her bedside, contemplative and silent, as though attending a funeral vigil.

  She immediately wanted to get up, but dozens of hands held her down on the mattress and gagged her mouth. None of them hurt her. Their actions were methodical, implacable.

  “My cousins have a riddle for you, signorina,” Mediana’s smooth voice whispered in the darkness. “What happens here to all those who receive their wings?”

  With her glasses skew-whiff, Ophelia made out rather than saw her face. Incapable of moving or speaking, she was too astonished to be afraid.

  “You will swear allegiance to Mediana,” predicted all the Seers in a single, united whisper.

  “I’d like to show you something, signorina.” Mediana had just turned on a flashlight, which lit up all the precious stones set in her skin. She made a sign to Zen, who had remained in the background until now. Her oriental doll’s face was contorted with anxiety, and yet she obeyed the silent command unhesitatingly. She opened the drawer of the bedside table until it came right away from it.

  “Look, little reader,” Mediana gently instructed.

  The Seers’ hands immediately sat Ophelia up on the bed, using no force at all, to make her head lean to one side. She felt like a marionette. At first, she saw nothing but the bottom of a drawer she had never used. Suddenly, she noticed them: minuscule shadows, caught by the flashlight.

  “Your mattress, your uniform, and your gloves,” Mediana specified, with a slightly apologetic smile. “It’s not theft, you see. They’ve been there all along, in your drawer.”

  Ophelia looked up at Zen, who instantly looked away, ashamed.

  “Yes,” said Mediana, “it is she who miniaturized them. Oh, she took no pleasure in doing so, believe me. No more than my cousins are taking pleasure in manhandling you right now. Do you know why they are doing it all the same? Because I asked them to. All those here present hate me, and see how they obey me!” The flashlight’s beam accentuated the half-masculine, half-feminine features of her illuminated face, making her at once a queen and a king. “Do you remember what I told you, when we first met? There are a thousand ways to torment someone without inflicting the slightest physical suffering on them. You have made the choice to remain among us, signorina, so I’m going to explain to you exactly what is going to happen.”

  Mediana’s melodious accent had become hypnotic. Ophelia had to admit that she had obtained her fullest attention. The dormitories were among the few places shielded from the surveillance periscopes, and Elizabeth slept in an individual room, at the other end of the Hall. She mustn’t count on any assistance.

  “Only one apprentice in this room will become an aspiring virtuoso, and it will be me,” Mediana continued, in a whisper. “I have dreamt of being a Forerunner ever since I was old enough to pronounce the word. I will die with wings on my feet. As from tonight, you will put your little hands on the back burner. Impressing Lady Septima is strictly prohibited. You will keep a low profile, keep to yourself, and seek to please just one master: me. If you relinquish first place to me, I won’t be ungrateful,” she said, sensually rolling each “r” in her sentence. “When the time comes, when I have reached the top, I’ll make you my assistant.”

  “But . . . I thought . . . it was supposed to be me,” Zen stammered, as she was replacing the drawer.

  Mediana smiled without even glancing at her, all her attention being focused on Ophelia. “Favoritism isn’t approved of in Babel. I’ve already promised posts to all of my cousins, I’m hardly going to employ two assistants.”

  One of the Seers finally removed the gag from Ophelia’s mouth, giving her a chance to respond. She needed no persuading:

  “Keep Zen as your assistant. I’m not interested.”

  Mediana directed her flashlight’s beam straight at her glasses. Ophelia was too dazzled to see her expression, but a rustling of uniform indicated to her that she was moving. A winged boot came down right on her hand, at the edge of the bed. The pressure was minimal, and entirely painless, but Ophelia couldn’t extricate herself from it, and was forced to remain still. An act of pure domination.

  “You didn’t listen to my cousins, signorina? You will swear allegiance to me. Repeat after me: ‘I will do all that you ask of me.’”

  Ophelia said nothing. To go to such lengths, this Seer must really think that Ophelia had the potential to overshadow her. In a way, it was pretty flattering. However, when she was no longer blinded by the flashlight and could see Mediana’s eyes shining with covetousness, she got really worried.

  “Turn her over.”

  Acting as one, the Seers flipped her on to her stomach. It was done without brutality, without insult, without obscenity, and yet, with her head plunged forcibly into the pillow, Ophelia had rarely experienced something so violent. Much as she struggled, she couldn’t put up any resistance to these arms that were doing with her as they pleased. Why weren’t her claws coming out to repel them?

  “Calm down,” breathed a whisper against her ear. “I won’t take long.”

  Anxiety turned into panic in Ophelia’s stomach. Mediana had often teased her with her family power, but it had always remained merely words. Just as readers had no right to touch objects without the permission of their owners, Seers couldn’t delve into the past and future of someone without their consent. It was much more than a rule of etiquette; it was a family taboo, the sort one wouldn’t break lightly.

  It was with an exasperating sense of powerlessness that Ophelia felt a hand sliding under her collar and stroking her nape. An icy chill tore down her back, where the spinal cord branched out. Once, in the past, a Chronicler had subjected her to a memory search; Ophelia had felt like a boring book whose pages one skims through.

  What Mediana made her endure was not comparable. Ophelia was invaded from within by an intrusive presence, burning with curiosity, keen to absorb her most private self. Her life immediately began to scroll backwards, in the form of kaleidoscopic images, as though a slide projector had started up inside her head.
Octavio’s red eyes. Elizabeth pinning the wings to her boots. Ambrose’s wheelchair stuck between the cobbles. The cutting of the hair in the garden shed. Archibald handing her the false identity papers. The spectacular escape from the public restrooms.

  It wasn’t only images. It was every thought she’d had, every emotion she’d felt. Ophelia bit into the pillow, resisting this invasion of her memory with all her might, but she couldn’t prevent the inevitable. Thorn finally sprang up in the course of a memory. He appeared to her as clearly as if it were yesterday, in the middle of his prison cell, constricted in his too-short shirt, struggling to stay upright due to his broken leg.

  Facing God.

  Ophelia returned to the present moment as soon as Mediana let go of her nape. She tried, with difficulty, to catch her breath against the pillow. Her glasses were digging into her skin. Her shirt was soaked in sweat.

  “Bene, bene, bene! I knew you were a secretive little one, but then that! That!” Mediana’s voice was weaker, as if this trip in time had physically tested her, but she was exultant. “Don’t worry, signorina. Your secret . . . All your secrets will remain mine as long as you are a nice, obedient girl. No one, not even my cousins, will know what brought you to Babel and who you really are. You just have a few words to say.”

  Ophelia swallowed. She felt nauseous. She would have liked to spend the rest of her days buried in this pillow, but the Seers turned her back toward Mediana as soon as the latter snapped her fingers.

  “I’m listening.”

  Ophelia heard herself reply in a tiny voice, as though she were listening to another person: “I will do all that you ask of me.”

  Mediana smiled at her and planted a kiss on her forehead.

  “Grazie. Welcome to the Good Family.”

  SURPRISE

  “Popping a pie in the oven, come on, it’s hardly a big deal!”

  “Take a good look at these hands, my dear. Are they, in your opinion, the attributes of a commoner?”

  “Don’t put on your grand airs. I’ve lived with you long enough to know that you’re built the same as ordinary mortals, top to bottom, in front and behind.”

  “I would ask you not to be vulgar in front of my daughter.”

  “Your daughter’s hungry.”

  “I received the education of a court lady. I serve one of the finest teas in all of Citaceleste.”

  “Well, if it’s with tea you think you’ll meet her needs, she’s not about to walk normally soon. In pepperpot’s name, Berenilde! I’m your friend, not your maid. I’m not going to run this manor myself, at sleeve’s length!”

  Squeezed into the baby high chair, now too small for her age, Victoria’s eyes followed Mommy and Great-Godmother as they ran from window to window to get rid of the smoke. On the dining-room table, a dish covered with a black crust was giving off a very unpleasant smell.

  The house had changed since the arrival of Great-Godmother. Looking stern, she cut open the crust of the dish to examine what lay beneath. “Burnt to a cinder. And our larder’s growing bare. You should write to Mr. Farouk.”

  Victoria coughed, bothered by the smoke. Mommy immediately rushed over to her to flap her fan in front of her face.

  “I write to him every day, Madame Rosaline, but I do so to support him, not to importune him. Never will I stoop so low as to beg.”

  “Who said anything about begging for our food?”

  Great-Godmother put her fists on her hips. She always looked angry, Great-Godmother, but she never really lost her temper. Victoria no longer found her at all intimidating. Father, on the other hand, terrified her, and even though she didn’t really understand the conversation, she hoped there was no question of getting him to come to the house.

  Father didn’t love her.

  “What I’m talking to you about is deserving our food,” continued Great-Godmother. “Let’s get out of here, offer our services, show them what we’re made of!”

  Between two flutters of the fan, Victoria saw a dimple appear in Mommy’s porcelain skin, just at the corners of her lips. It was a different smile from the ones before. A smile that had appeared from one day to the next, just when Great-Godmother had. A smile that made Victoria want to smile, too.

  It wasn’t the house that had changed; it was Mommy.

  “Well, there’s a brilliant idea, Madame Rosaline! I’m sure all the nobles will be ready to cover you in diamonds so you repair their bits of paper.”

  Great-Godmother frowned, but a bell rang in the house as soon as she unclenched her teeth. “Were you expecting a visit?”

  “No. Let’s go and see who it is.”

  Victoria wasn’t displeased when Mommy snatched her from that too-narrow chair and took her in her arms. The dimples were still there, at the corners of her lips, but she was trembling like the pearls of her earring.

  They went to the music room and Great-Godmother made straight for a cupboard that Victoria knew was the front door to the house. There was another one, right at the back of the fake garden, but no one used it apart from Godfather.

  “It’s Madam Cunegond,” said Great-Godmother, as she clamped her eye on the spyhole in the cupboard. “By Jove, she’s really aged!”

  “Has she come alone?”

  “As far as I can see, yes.”

  Mommy, who was gripping Victoria so tight it was winding her, relaxed her hands with relief. Even if she didn’t speak of it often, everything that went on outside the house worried her. And yet Victoria would have so loved to walk around out there! Her adventure with Godfather was a long time ago, now. The days felt long to her, and she found her little journeys here less and less satisfying. She had explored everything to be explored.

  “You can let her in,” Mommy finally decided.

  “Really?” Great-Godmother asked, amazed. “The actual sister of Baron Melchior? I’ve seen you turn away every visitor, refuse every parcel, but opening your door to a Mirage whose brother was killed by your nephew, that doesn’t seem unwise to you?”

  “We’ve always stood together, she and I. Times have become difficult for the Mirages. Illusions are no longer well perceived, the era of frivolity is over. Since she became bankrupt, Dame Cunegond lives alone, I know not where, but above all, not a word about that in front of her—keeping up appearances is all she has left. Open to her, Madame Rosaline.”

  Great-Godmother turned the key of the cupboard. A tinkling of jewelry and a smell of perfume, even stronger than that of the burned pie, instantly swept into the music room.

  “Good day, ladies!”

  Victoria felt her heart race with excitement. The Golden Lady! Every time she came to the house, it was a real party. She called Victoria “my little dove,” and always had surprises for her: showers of cherries, acrobatic bear cubs, dancing dolls, and many other illusions, too. So Victoria was very disappointed when the Golden Lady didn’t even glance at her. She only had eyes for Great-Godmother, as her wide, red mouth stretched from ear to ear.

  “You, here! So the rumor was true?”

  “What rumor?” muttered Great-Godmother.

  “The one announcing the departure, or, I should say, return of our little reader!” The Golden Lady turned in all directions, making the golden pendants on her veil tinkle, as though looking for someone else in the music room. Victoria, thinking it was her, hoped she would finally notice her in Mommy’s arms, call her “my little dove,” and blow confetti into her hair.

  “Don’t look for Ophelia, dearest friend,” sighed Mommy. “The rumor’s wrong, I myself don’t even know where she is.”

  “What a shame!” The Golden Lady was smiling, but Victoria thought she saw her fingers, with their long, long red nails, clenching.

  “May I offer you some tea?” said Mommy, in her sweetest voice. “In exchange, I’ll take all the news from the court you’d care to give me!”

&n
bsp; “I’m not staying,” said the Golden Lady. “In fact, I was hoping to find our ex-ambassador at mine. I mean, at yours.”

  Victoria looked up at Mommy, sensing her arms slacken. She, too, seemed disappointed.

  “It’s just that, you see, Archibald isn’t here any more often than Ophelia is.”

  “Why are you looking for him?” asked Great-Godmother.

  “It so looks, I mean, it so happens that he ordered an illusion from me and never announced his intention to purchase it. If you could at most indicate to me where to reach him, he’s so elusive!”

  The Golden Lady had always been a bit strange, but she was even more so today, and that intrigued Victoria, greatly. Perhaps it was because of her mouth. She hesitated over every sentence she uttered, as if she’d had too much of what Mommy called “illusions for grown-ups.”

  “I’m so sorry, my dear Cunegond, you find me as in the dark as you,” said Mommy. “Archibald must still be hanging around in goodness knows which Compass Rose! He’ll be back. He always comes back.”

  The Golden Lady had listened to Mommy with the utmost attention. Her thick, tattooed eyelids had opened wider, along with her smile. “In that case, I’ll be back, too.” With those words, she left through the cupboard, just as she had arrived.

  Victoria followed her without even thinking. The long-awaited surprise hadn’t come to her, so she would come to the surprise. She left her heavy, stupid body behind, in Mommy’s arms, to leap outside, light as a thought.

  She skipped behind the Golden Lady, who kept twisting her ankles on the street’s cobbles, not suspecting she had company. Victoria had already been out into the street a few times, but never on a journey. It was completely different. The sounds made by the Golden Lady’s heels and pendants had become hazy. The lampposts rippled, as if turned into rubber, and their light became a large white blot against the darkness. Victoria saw the same carriage passing and re-passing in the road, seconds apart; when she journeyed, she sometimes saw or heard things double, so it didn’t surprise her.