New Venice 02 - Luminous Chaos

by Jean-Christophe Valtat

  “Oh, sorry. I forgot you were not an initiate,” de Couard answered, as haughtily as his shyness allowed. “Though I suppose knowing Papus is an initiation in itself. There’s not a single lodge he is not part of, I guess. Even the Golden Dawn, though it is my belief he is only there to check on the concurrence. I suppose having him around is part of the deal if you want to be a part of the occultist scene in Paris.”

  “And the astral plane would be …?”

  De Couard was surprised by the candid ignorance of the question. “It is the intermediate plane between our sublunar world and pure Divinity. It is filled with all things future and past, angels, demons, elementals, and spirits of the dead, but also with the images we produce, our dreams, our fantasies. Your astral body, or plastic mediator, can access this plane, just as it does in dreams. But the visions are limited, as if seen through a microscope, and purely symbolic, and to be interpreted as such. Only the trained yogi can find himself at will among its actual events, living them with all his senses.”

  “Is the astral plane … a real space?” Brentford asked, trying to understand.

  “Ah. Space, like time, is a form of our sensibility, and strictly pertains to matter. Let us say that these planes are spaces removed from time and place. The space of the images is itself but an image of Space. It’s only logical.”

  Is it really? Brentford wondered. Still, he found himself wanting to know more. “Is the technique difficult to master?”

  “It is the simplest and the most efficient of techniques. If you are disciplined, that is, and respect the order of the tattvas during the day,” the painter answered, indicating on the wall a round calendar full of sibylline-like symbols.

  “And this Rimbaud City? You saw it by using this method?”

  “It is, I believe, what Rimbaud himself saw. I simply retrieved it from that huge emporium of images recorded in the astral plane,” de Couard explained, with what he evidently thought was modesty.

  Brentford mulled it over for a while, then said, “If you remember, I spoke to you yesterday about a commission. That commission is also about a city. I’ve made a few sketches.” He flashed his notebook and the drawings he had done there in brown ink. Perspectives, buildings, vistas of New Venice, as well as he could remember them now. “These are a few ideas I jotted down. It’s imaginary, of course,” he reassured de Couard.

  “Imagination, memory, premonitions—these differences do not exist on the astral plane.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. But, let’s say I want to ‘see’ more of that city. Could I use those techniques?”

  “That is what they are meant for.”

  “Would the Golden Dawn teach them to me?”

  “If you’re initiated as a neophyte, yes. I do not think there would be any problem,” de Couard said, before falling silent for an embarrassing while.

  “And you mentioned … Isis?” Brentford went on to break the spell.

  “It is the cult they celebrate. The lodge is called Ahathoor, which is sometimes but another name for Isis. But the name doesn’t matter. It’s all symbols, isn’t it?”

  Brentford agreed, remembering the three heads of Hathor he had seen at Place du Caire. There was a strange method to the madness of Paris.

  “So, would you be so kind as to introduce me there?”

  “I … I seldom go out now. My nerves do not allow it. It is the curse of the aesthete, these days. As I said, I’ll send you there with a recommendation, yes. But …” he fumbled for words, “… I would recommend that you maintain a certain prudence. The Golden Dawn claims that it has established contact with one of the Three Secret Chiefs. The Secret Chiefs, Mr. Orsini … Do you realize? The most powerful people on Earth, ruling secretly over the destinies of Mankind. This could be very dangerous.”

  V

  The Operator

  Later that evening, at 87 rue de Rome, a veiled lamp and cigarette smoke gave the living room a cosy but otherworldly atmosphere. The guests moved against the light in indefinite silhouettes, sometimes stilted, sometimes vapourous. A conversation was going on, muffled and solemn, its hum almost a chant.

  The master stood near the chimney, a small man simply but elegantly dressed in a black jacket and a floppy tie, holding high a grizzled head with the pointy ears and beard of a faun. Gabriel, although a bit hungover from his magnetic revelation, couldn’t help feeling a thrill as Paul introduced him and he shook hands with Stéphane Mallarmé.

  “Mr. d’Allier? There is the sweetest French ring to it. You come to us from Canada?” the poet inquired.

  “From Newfoundland. We are our own people.”

  “Newfoundland … Canada … these are beautiful names for an equally beautiful idea. It is my theory, you see, that English is the perfect alchemical blend of Anglo-Saxon and the langue d’oïl. It was the French of the Normans that, grafting itself onto the barbaric Saxon tongue, gave it its most magnificent blossoming. And, in these new countries, where both English and French are intertwined again, it is as if English were bathing itself in the fountain of its own youth, and as if French were remembering the buried treasures it had thought forgotten. If I were you, I would be grateful to live in a land where they could be restituted and shared anew.”

  Gabriel was interested, but still tongue-tied, so contented himself with nodding. After all, Mallarmé probably preferred to hear himself talk and, visibly, was used to the fawning wonder that greeted the least of his utterances. The Poet’s demeanour was cordial, but it was that kind of facile cordiality that seemed to raise a barrier between beings, rather than open one, and there was an unmistakable touch of haughtiness in the way it offered itself. He was exactly as his legend had it, no doubt because he had been chiselling himself relentlessly into his own statue. His presence was powerful, but Gabriel sensed that this, too, was a well-rehearsed act. The man had constructed himself like an obscure, tricky poem. And though Gabriel was impressed, his feelings before the poet were nothing compared to what he felt when, turning away, he recognized among the crowd the tall, thin figure and drooping moustache of Louis d’Ussonville.

  What on Earth—if that was where they still were—was the Sleeper doing here? He had been brought by an equally tall, sharp-featured, clever-looking fellow whom Vassily identified as the famous anarchist art-critic and writer Félix Fénéon, in whose office at the Ministry of War detonators had once been found. Thanks to the testimony of Mallarmé, among others, at the resultant trial, he had been freed, but a whiff of black powder still hung about him.

  At the time Fénéon was one of the most ardent defenders of the avant-garde, and, as Paul explained, he often brought patrons ready to invest in Mallarmé’s plan to reintroduce poetry into the “political economy,” not so much as a commodity but as a lay religion or popular cult. The idea was that rich patrons would pay Mallarmé a nominal sum in recognition of his “moral right” to offer his books cheaply to the masses, thus reconciling elitist tastes and the democratic public.

  It all sounded very New Venetian to Gabriel, and things slowly began to click. He knew d’Ussonville’s reputation as a fanatical hunter, as an expert on the fur trade, forestry, and mining, and, most of all, as a wizard of real estate—but not as a connoisseur of poetry or art. There had to be another explanation for his presence here. He had to be scouting for ideas to experiment with in the north of nowhere: how to blend art, politics, and economy into the total work of art that would be New Venice. And suddenly it dawned on Gabriel that nothing was sure yet, that nothing about New Venice had been decided, and his thrill turned to full-blown excitement. Right now, New Venice was nothing but possibility. Maybe there was a way for them, the Most Serene Seven, to help—not only to make sure the city came to exist, but that it would become the New Venice they were dreaming about. And for a vertiginous moment, he thought: What if that’s how it actually did happen? What if the New Venice we know is the one we suggested ourselves …?

  “I think the lecture will be starting momentarily,”
Vassily reminded Gabriel, as he stood there gaping.

  The party moved into another room, where chairs had been arranged in rows, and Gabriel manoeuvred to keep d’Ussonville in his sight without being too conspicuous. Mallarmé, now styling himself “the Operator,” sidled in between the chairs and the wall and stood behind a large Empire table that was set before a lacquered bookcase. With the unctuous, thoughtful movements of a Catholic priest, the Operator removed from the bookcase some large sheets of paper, which he then arranged in a different order—the “Book,” if Gabriel had understood correctly, was the sum of all possible permutations—before reading them aloud in a high-pitched but otherwise neutral voice that let every word ring for itself in the expectant air.

  What the Book was about, however, Gabriel hardly knew. Figures on a beach, feasts … He wished he could concentrate more. After all, he was living an event that was thought never to have occurred, and instead of sucking out its very marrow, he was distracted by the presence of d’Ussonville, trying to read on his face which passages were of interest to him. He was especially attentive, Gabriel noticed, as Mallarmé read:

  “Vision, magnificent and sad! The Ruins of a great palace—wide as a city—or a city made of one single palace.

  This is what the echo answers—double and deceptive—when asked by the travelling spirit of the wind.

  All that we know is that—the tenebrous past lies there—and indeed, the desert took it back—unless it lies in the future, closed to human eyes, down there, at the bottom.

  The façade—a double fountain—where the sleeping, doomed People—do not come to mirror themselves anymore.”

  And then again, a little later, when the poet declaimed about hunting “the two most untameable beasts, the Polar Bear and the Black Panther,” Gabriel saw d’Ussonville focussing his eyes with renewed energy.

  Gabriel had to wait an excruciatingly long time to get closer to him. Later, there was another lecture—or “séance” as Mallarmé called them—meant as a commentary on the first, though it did not seem much clearer, notwithstanding the dazzling fulgurations of his words.

  This was all followed by excessive homage being paid to the Operator, during which, seeing the poet surrounded, Gabriel considered stealing a page or two of his abandoned text, finally thinking better of it.

  At last he was able to approach d’Ussonville as people were beginning to leave. Gabriel was searching his mind for the right introduction when he noticed the knob of d’Ussonville’s cane: a golden kangaroo.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Gabriel said. “I can but be amazed at the likeness of our canes.” And he displayed the Polar Kangaroo that topped his own stick.

  D’Ussonville seemed surprised, then interested. He took a long look at Gabriel’s cane.

  “If I’m not mistaken, your kangaroo has a wolf head, doesn’t it?”

  “Something I saw in a dream.”

  “Ah. In my case it’s simply something I saw in Australia, a place I remember with fondness. In a dream, you say? A bit like what we’ve been put through here,” he added in a low voice.

  There was a general bustle, and they found themselves out in the cold mineral canyons of Northern Haussmania.

  “A very beautiful dream. I found it personally very enlightening,” Gabriel said when he got the chance. “This city that ‘lies in the future, closed to human eyes, down there, at the bottom.’ Are we not all dreaming of such a city?”

  “Kangaroos. Cities. You dream a lot, Monsieur.”

  “Perhaps every city started as a dream. I would like to see this one built.”

  “I think I understand what you mean,” d’Ussonville said. “I am currently part of the board that oversees proposals for the 1900 World’s Fair. It’s certainly an exciting time to make such dreams come true.”

  “Founding a city, even an ephemeral one, from a dream or a poet’s vision … Could there be a greater adventure?”

  D’Ussonville stopped and looked at Gabriel.

  “I don’t believe I caught your name …”

  “Gabriel d’Allier. From Newfoundland, Monsieur.”

  “Do you happen to know a man called Vialatte at the Canadian Commission?”

  “I do indeed. At least, I met him once.”

  “He may have a job offer for a dreamer. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have other appointments.”

  Gabriel saluted him. But after a few steps, d’Ussonville turned back and, coming closer, told him: “Forgive my indiscretion, but I couldn’t help but notice the amethyst ring you wear on your right hand. I find it tastefully done. Where does it come from?”

  “From my family. My grandfather on my French mother’s side, Joseph Montméroux, was a silversmith.”

  “Montméroux? Interesting name,” d’Ussonville said with a nod. He seemed lost in thought for a while, then eventually said, “One last thing, perhaps. Kangaroos, besides being the exact opposite of the giraffe, as Châteaubriand once remarked rather stupidly, are benign enough creatures. But beware of anything that carries a wolf’s head. Goodbye, Mr. d’Allier. Maybe we’ll meet in a dream.”

  VI

  Thelema

  Hours later it was Brentford, not Gabriel, who was to meet Alexandre Vialatte. Their appointment was at nine o’clock at the Abbaye de Thélème, a two-story redbrick house on the Place Pigalle with stained-glass windows that shimmered in the foggy night.

  The inside was decorated in Renaissance style, sparing no stucco, and was staffed by homely monks and comely nuns. Tables lined the walls, leaving open a space for dancers, but even though a consort of pluderhosed musicians strummed mandolins in a corner, it was still too early in the night to see much action. The real Pigalle came alive at two, Vialatte explained.

  Brentford looked at the lacy arches above his head and felt there was something New Venetian about the place, a defiant challenge to the here and now. No wonder, he reflected, that the Seven Sleepers came here to develop their master plan for a city that would be nowhere and out of time. This was the delicate topic that he wanted to broach.

  “So, how is our dominion catching on in Paris?” he began.

  “Not so badly. We’re trying to make it fashionable. That’s the surest way to a Parisian’s heart, it seems. We even managed to create a little ice hockey league last year. You remember Meagher, of course—our world champion?”

  “Meagher? Certainly,” said Brentford, averting his eyes to hide his total ignorance, but not quickly enough for Vialatte to miss it.

  “It must be a long time since you’ve been home?” he asked, managing to make this sound more like curiosity than suspicion.

  “Too long, yes.”

  “But you’ll be going back soon? Even if it will be a slightly different country?”

  Now, that was going straight to the point. Brentford felt relieved.

  “There’s not much to say about that yet.”

  “I’d be curious to exchange information, though,” Vialatte said in a lower tone. “To speak frankly, I’ve been offered a part in this adventure, but I would be very, very happy to know more.”

  “You mean about the Polaris Guild?” Brentford asked haphazardly.

  Vialatte nodded. “That could be the name. I’m supposed to recruit people. Maybe you are, too.”

  “Not exactly. I’m more—we’re more, like … pathfinders … looking for ideas.” This was as much as he could say without feeling like a liar.

  “That was what Lord Savnock gave me the impression of doing.”

  “Lord Savnock?” Brentford couldn’t hide his dismay.

  “I am surprised you don’t know his name. Or maybe you were a bit disingenuous with me?”

  “Oh, I know him all right. What surprises me is his presence in Paris. I am not so highly placed that I was informed of it. I’d be curious to exchange information with you as well.”

  There was a moment of silence while a supercilious monk served them tournedos Rossini. After he left, Vialatte resumed in a still lower voice.

/>   “Lord Savnock doesn’t seem like a man who likes to have his affairs discussed.”

  “He also goes by the name of Lord Lodestone, by the way.”

  Vialatte smiled appreciatively. “I knew that much. Lyonel Owain Savnock, Lord Lodestone. What do you know about his background?”

  “Nothing. He goes to great lengths to make sure of that.”

  “He does indeed. But there are public records about his family, including some going back to 1578. It was the time when, in accordance with a fantasy held by John Dee that the English should claim the ‘Northern Iles and Septentrional parts’ in the name of King Arthur, Martin Frobisher was sent to build a mining colony on Baffin Island, then called Meta Incognita. It was the greatest Arctic expedition in history up to that point—no fewer than fifteen ships. And in the great English style of the Hudsons and Franklins, it failed miserably. Desertions, wrecks, dissension, trouble with aggressive Inuits, the promised gold ore turning out to be vulgar iron, the funders bankrupted … Frobisher returned to England, leaving only one single man behind him. Convincing someone to stay had been no easy matter, but Captain Samuel Savnock, one of his wounded lieutenants, eventually accepted, on condition that he would be granted a peerage and title to the yet undiscovered lands between there and the Lodestone that was then thought to be at the North Pole. It may have been little more than a desperate joke by a man who thought he was about to die, but, as a matter of fact, in 1580 Samuel Savnock was posthumously made Lord Lodestone. It was, of course, something of a hoax, or a kind of homage, perhaps, but it did help secure the Northern Isles for the Crown, and it was official enough so that when some years ago one of Savnock’s direct heirs claimed the peerage that had been in abeyance until then, the experts could find no fault in his documents. That’s how Lyonel Owain Savnock became Lord Lodestone, four hundred years after the death of his ancestor.”

  “His actual ancestor?”

  “You’ll have to ask him,” Vialatte said with a wink. “Apparently, he turned up out of nowhere—as you noted, not much is known about his own background. He’s rumoured to have spent years in Tibet and India and made a fortune there, some say in the opium business. Others think he was in the service of the Crown—secret service, that is. Since opium traffic and Her Majesty’s interests tend to go hand in hand, the two hypotheses are hardly contradictory. In any case, his identification paperwork was impeccable, and apparently he had some very high-placed supporters in the British Committee for Privileges and Conduct. Maybe it was not so much the man as his projects that endeared him to them.”