The Memory of Babel

by Christelle Dabos

  Total ostracism. Spontaneous and unanimous. Just a few days from the grade-awarding ceremony.

  Ophelia was greatly relieved to see the winds falling as the sun set. The airship reserved for the company of Forerunners took off at dusk, into a scorching, sulfurous sky. Ophelia looked for a seat where she wouldn’t prompt a disapproving cough. Strange as it might seem, there were times when she almost missed Mediana. In disappearing, the Seer had left a great void that just kept widening all around Ophelia.

  She found herself at the back of the airship, beside Elizabeth, who was calmly writing notes in her notebook, seemingly oblivious to both the pervading animosity onboard and the distress of her neighbor.

  “How did you manage to become an aspiring virtuoso?”

  “Hmm? Thanks to lots and lots of coffee.”

  “Please,” Ophelia sighed. “I began my apprenticeship after the others, and I’ve turned Lady Septima against me. I have little time left to make a good impression. Some advice would be welcome.”

  Elizabeth continued to send her pencil racing across the paper, stringing together numbers, letters, and symbols that apparently made sense to her. “Remain neutral,” she finally declared, placidly. “Observe without judging. Obey without arguing. Learn without taking a stand. Take an interest without becoming attached. Fulfill your duty without expecting anything in return. That’s the only way not to suffer,” she concluded, crossing out a series of instructions. “The less one suffers, the more efficient one is. The more efficient one is, the better one serves the city.”

  Ophelia looked at Elizabeth’s hands, with their constellation of freckles. They were writing, crossing out, starting again from scratch, without flagging.

  “Do you never feel alone?”

  “We are always alone.”

  When the airship landed at the Memorial, Ophelia disembarked more disillusioned than when she had boarded.

  The catalography session seemed interminable to her. She had to meet her quota as quickly as possible if she wanted to garner herself enough time before her meeting with Thorn at the Secretarium. Her head was buzzing with so many questions that, in the meantime, it was hard for her to concentrate. Why had Mademoiselle Silence secretly destroyed the complete works of E. G.? Was it linked to Thorn’s research? Why would an author of old books for children be in the possession of some information that allowed one to be become “God’s equal”? Was what happened to Mediana and Professor Wolf in any way connected to this secret?

  If you seek E. G., the other will find you.

  Of course, it was only a dream, but Ophelia tended to take seriously all that rose to the surface of her subconscious. This memory that she shared with God seemed to know much more than she did.

  So who was that other whom the caretaker had feared so much? Was he the same as the one Ophelia had released from the mirror? And there again, what was the connection with E. G.?

  She absolutely had to speak to someone. She glanced over the latticed partition of her cubicle, in the hope of spotting Blaise, but her eyes met only those of the Seers in the neighboring cubicles. Beneath their brilliantine-slicked moustaches, smiles played on their lips that made her feel uneasy. When she had finished her catalography and rose from her chair, their voices murmured in unison: “Evening forecast: heat wave alert.”

  Ophelia ignored them. She hurried to deposit her books at the Phantoms’ counter, and then to punch her cards in the basement. When she consulted the watch of the mechanical statue in the hall, the one that welcomed visitors with low bows, she let out a sigh. She had just enough time to find Blaise.

  It didn’t prove as easy as expected. The Memorial always closed its doors later on Saturdays, generally for the temporary exhibitions, but this evening there were more visitors than usual. In the large atrium, automatons were maneuvering a crane to install a gong of monumental proportions. These preparations were for the inauguration ceremony for the new catalogue, to take place on the same day as the conferment of grades. Ophelia trod on a number of toes as she paced up and down the transcendiums and topsy-turviums. She turned around every time she came across a Memorialist uniform, but it was never Blaise. She would have found it extremely frustrating to have beaten her own catalography speed record for nothing.

  Around a corner in one library, she fell on the last person she was looking for. A man with long, silvery hair was sitting on a leather sofa. He sported a white frock coat and pink glasses.

  The inventor of the automaton-servants. The famous ark-trotter. The father of Ambrose. Lazarus!

  Ophelia grabbed the largest tome within reach and pretended to be engrossed in it. This man had shaken her hand in the Pole: he knew who she was . . . and who she wasn’t. Luckily, Lazarus hadn’t seen her. He was deep in conversation with the old sweeper of the Memorial, who was flicking a feather duster over the shelves of books, one inch at a time.

  “ . . . and that’s why one must prepare for the future, mon ami!” Lazarus exclaimed, enthusiastically. “You should cast aside your brooms, which are unworthy of you, and make the most of a well-deserved retirement! Why not go on a big journey? The world beyond these walls is absolument fabuleux, and believe me, I do know what I’m talking about!”

  Walter, his inseparable mechanical butler, was leaning over the sofa to comb his master’s long hair. He marked every word Lazarus said with a nod of his faceless head.

  The old sweeper responded with a shrug, and went back to his dusting. Ophelia couldn’t make out his expression, behind his triple layer of beard, fringe, and eyebrows, but she felt exasperated for him. Couldn’t he just be left to work here, if that pleased him? She observed Lazarus on the sofa, legs casually crossed, shaking his top hat like a conjuror, singing the praises of the future and modernity with emphatic, sweeping statements. On their first encounter, she had found him irresistibly charming. She realized that, now, she was wary of him, and not only because he could unmask her. He had turned up at the Pole at almost the same time as God, and like God, had shown persistent interest in Mother Hildegarde’s family power.

  “Psst! Mademoiselle Eulalia! Over here!”

  It was Blaise, who, with his usual bad timing, had just appeared between the rows of bookcases, at the other end of the gallery. He was gesticulating to Ophelia in a way that he probably thought discreet. She had no choice but to join him, her face still buried in her book, sensing the old explorer’s intrigued eyes on her.

  “Wasn’t that Monsieur Lazarus next to you?” Blaise whispered to her. “He’s been back in Babel for months now, but I still hadn’t come across him.”

  Ophelia frowned. For months? Had Ambrose started to avoid her because of his father’s return?

  “You don’t seem very happy to see him here,” she observed, as they walked off.

  Blaise had started pushing his trolley with a heavy step, shoulders hunched, as if, suddenly, he were wheeling a coffin. “Oh, you’re quite mistaken,” he sighed. “I feel much admiration for Monsieur Lazarus. Gratitude, too. He was formerly a teacher at the college where I did my classes, and he was much kinder to me than to any other adult. My bad luck, my clumsiness, my . . . eh bien . . . my tendencies, none of all that ever seemed to put him off. He found me interesting. I almost felt as if I were spécial when I spoke with him,” Blaise murmured, mustering a faint smile. “Between you and me, it’s his automatons that I don’t like. They replaced almost all of the maintenance staff; if Monsieur Lazarus is here today, maybe it’s because he has new models to propose to the Memorial. Models capable not just of cleaning, but also of . . . of classifying books and advising visitors.”

  Blaise was rubbing the “assistant” badge pinned to his uniform so anxiously, Ophelia clenched her jaw. No, she definitely didn’t like Lazarus anymore.

  “Did you receive my telegram?” she asked, gently.

  Blaise blinked his big, watery eyes several times. “Quoi? Oh, yes, y
es, I received it. I’d be lying if I told you that your request didn’t surprise me. And worry me, too. After what happened to Mademoiselle Silence . . . Anyway, I hope you’re not going to get yourself into any more trouble. What did you want to know?”

  Ophelia checked with a glance that they weren’t within eavesdropping distance of anyone. Apart from the majestic statues that served as pillars to the bookcases, there was no one in this gallery. Neither on the ground nor on the ceiling.

  “Could you show me exactly where E. G.’s books were to be found, prior to their removal?

  “Bien sûr! Follow me.”

  On the way, the trolley lost a caster, and when Blaise leant over to put it back in place, the seam of his trousers split open. Ophelia had to admit that he really was unlucky. In the young readers’ section, she recognized where they had met that very first time. She saw herself once again picking up the books by E. G. that she’d caused to fall. To think that she had held them in her hands, on that day, barely a few hours before their destruction . . .

  “Mademoiselle Silence practically accused me of stealing,” she recalled, in a hushed voice. “She even wanted to search my bag.”

  Tugging the back of his jacket to hide the tear in his trousers, Blaise indicated with his chin the top shelf, on which there were rows of books bound in many colors. “The complete collection of E. G.’s works was up there. And it’s from up there that Mademoiselle Silence fell,” he added, wrinkling his nose with a nauseated grimace. “I can still smell her fear.”

  Ophelia noticed an elegant ladder on a rail. A sign read: “Children are not permitted to remove books from top shelves.”

  “Is that the ladder Mademoiselle Silence used?”

  “No, this one is new,” Blaise replied. “We got rid of the old one after the accident. The structure was sound, but when in doubt . . . ”

  This was no good for Ophelia. Reading an object associated with a violent death was distressing, but the object could be the sole witness to the event. “And you told me that Mademoiselle Silence returned here after destroying the books?”

  Perplexed, Blaise ruffled his spiky hair. “En effet, right in the middle of the night. I still can’t fathom why. Nothing was out of place when we found her here in the morning.”

  Ophelia slid the ladder along its rail and climbed the rungs to reach the highest shelves. There was nothing but recent editions of alphabet primers up there.

  “Nothing was any longer out of place,” she corrected. “Maybe what Mademoiselle Silence had come to look for had already been taken by someone else.” The moment Ophelia uttered this sentence, she was struck by an intuition. “Does the Memorial keep a written record of books destroyed by the chief censors?”

  Blaise offered Ophelia a helping hand to come down, but then tripped on an uneven floorboard and almost knocked her off balance. “Oh, désolé! To reply to your question: yes, in the archives of the censoring department. Mademoiselle Silence must have recorded everything over there. She undoubtedly took too much initiative, but she always respected procedure.”

  “Could you take me there?”

  Blaise checked the gallery’s clock. “I can open it for you, but I won’t linger. I’ve finished my shift and, unusually, my parents have invited me for supper. I mustn’t keep them waiting,” he said, concealing the tear at the back of his trousers. “They’re so ashamed of me, they’re just waiting for the first excuse to disown me.”

  THE TREACHERY

  Ophelia had not yet been to the censoring department. It was located in the Memorial’s other hemisphere, the one that had been entirely reconstructed after the Rupture; you couldn’t walk there without thinking of the void beneath the tons of stone. The department was deserted and looked more like an industrial site than an administrative office. Naked bulbs cast a harsh light on piles of cardboard boxes, reaching right up to the ceiling. The heat inside was overwhelming.

  “It’s the incinerator,” Blaise explained, pointing at the smoked-up porthole on a pressurized door. “I’m . . . I’m strictly forbidden from going near it.”

  “It’s operating at the moment?” Ophelia asked, with surprise. “I thought that no items were to be destroyed as long as the new catalogue wasn’t completed.”

  “Books, yes, but not garbage. The Memorial welcomes hundreds of visitors every day, not to mention all its staff. You’d be amazed at the number of bin-loads we chuck into there each evening. The archives are this way, mademoiselle!”

  Blaise opened another door, the handle of which came off in his hand. The archives room was no different from the rest of the department: nothing but boxes everywhere. If the old catalogue was a reflection of this setup, Ophelia better understood why Thorn had started compiling it again from scratch.

  “I’m going to leave you,” Blaise said. “I mustn’t miss my birdtrain. I’ll trust you to turn off the lights and close the door behind you when you’ve finished.”

  “You can count on it.”

  Ophelia was late herself; she had no more time to lose. She pushed up the sleeves of her frock coat, scanned the labels on the boxes, and then suddenly noticed that Blaise was still standing in the doorway. A tormented expression contorted his face.

  “Have you considered that Fearless might be behind . . . all this?”

  “I have considered it, yes.” Fearless hated the censors; Mademoiselle Silence had died while doing that very work. Fearless had seen Mediana as an enemy; she had ceased to be a Forerunner from one day to the next. He was a man who was far less innocuous than he seemed, extremely well informed and terribly ambitious. Ophelia wouldn’t have been surprised if he, too, was searching for this book that enabled one to become God’s equal.

  “Take care, alright? Don’t end up like your colleague. S’il te plaît.”

  Blaise’s voice had become so imploring that Ophelia was truly moved. She didn’t know what to say. She never knew what to say at such times.

  “The Deviations Observatory,” Blaise then declared, gravely. “It’s there that she was transferred. Au revoir, mademoiselle.”

  “I . . . Thank you.”

  The words had been blurted too late; Blaise was gone.

  Ophelia forced herself to get a grip. One thing at a time: first, the boxes. She found one on which the date corresponded to that of Mademoiselle Silence’s death, and flicked through the records it contained.

  “Here we are,” she whispered. On one of the records there was an entire column of “E. G.”s under the heading “author.” Ophelia scanned the titles: Journey Around the New World; The Adventures of the Little Prodigies; A Fine and Wonderful Family, and so on. These books reeked of righteousness, rendering their destruction even more incomprehensible.

  Under the heading “grounds for censoring,” Mademoiselle Silence had simply written: “Vocabulary condemned by the Index and lack of educational content.”

  E. G.’s books carried no publication date, as was common in older editions, but according to the record, their date of printing was estimated at the first century after the Rupture. It was a time when humanity was still rebuilding itself, and in full regeneration; so-called optimistic literature was widely available then.

  Increasingly disconcerted, Ophelia pushed her glasses back up her nose. There was really nothing untoward here. Maybe, in the end, E. G.’s oeuvre was a false trail. What if the book she was looking for was in fact a Book, with a capital B? And what if God had been created just as he had himself created the family spirits? If a Book existed that conferred the power to reproduce all of the powers?

  By reading the record with her hands and discovering Mademoiselle Silence’s state of mind, Ophelia could have been enlightened, but for that she needed the consent of the censoring department. The last time she had used her power without permission, she had violated Professor Wolf’s privacy—this misconduct still weighed on her conscience.

&n
bsp; Ophelia suddenly noticed an anomaly within the record. All the titles on the list of E. G.’s books had been stamped “destroyed.” All, except one: The Era of Miracles.

  Had one book escaped incineration? So that was what Mademoiselle Silence had returned to find in the middle of the night! And it was death that she found instead. But the book itself, what had become of it?

  “Once upon a tomorrow, before too long, there will be a world that will finally live in peace.”

  Barely had Ophelia finished this sentence before she was wondering why she’d said it. Those were the very words that had entered her mind when she had read the statue of the headless soldier. She had the feeling that she’d already seen them somewhere. That she’d learnt them off by heart, and then forgotten them.

  Suddenly, Ophelia looked up from the record. She could see nothing but boxes of archives all around her, and yet, for a brief moment, she had seen a movement out of the corner of her eye. Like a shadow leaning over her shoulder. She became aware that she was drenched in sweat, and not because of the ambient heat. Her heart was racing. Her glasses had suddenly turned blue.

  Ophelia felt as if she had woken from a nightmare that she couldn’t even remember.

  When she saw the time on the room’s clock, she leapt to her feet. It was much later than she’d thought! Everyone, starting with Thorn, must be wondering where she’d got to. She quickly put her box back and switched off the lights, but just as she was closing the premises, she glanced hesitantly at the door of the incinerator. The porthole was glowing red like a hot plate. It was in there that Mademoiselle Silence had destroyed E. G.’s books, apart from just one. But what if The Era of Miracles had accidentally remained inside?

  Ophelia was hit with a powerful surge of heat as soon as she half-opened the pressurized door. A furnace took up almost the whole room. It radiated such a high temperature that merely lingering in front of it made her feel as if she’d be reduced to ashes. She should have put on protective clothing before entering here, but she no longer had time to look for any. She had a quick look in every corner of the room, under the garbage skips, behind the coal bunker, anywhere a book could have slipped and remained unnoticed.