New Venice 02 - Luminous Chaos

by Jean-Christophe Valtat

  “Which were?”

  “You know that better than I. You see, even if the English have the knack of making defeats seem heroic, it was almost impossible to do that with their Arctic endeavours. Despite Markham’s Farthest North, the Nares expedition of 1875 was rather disappointing. In 1882, during the International Polar Year, it was the Americans, the Germans, and the Scandinavians who were topping the bill. At that time, there was a lot of talk about a permanent settlement in the North, according to the so-called Howgate Colonization Plan of 1879. It seemed that the horrendous job done by Greeley in Fort Conger had somehow frozen the idea for the Americans, but in England it was seen as the right moment to counteract the growing U.S. influence in the area. The British did not want to appear too directly implicated, and they counted on us, their fledgling dominion, to take care of that barely thawed backwater of their empire. That was why, among other things, they transferred the so-called Franklin District to us last year.”

  “The Franklin District. What an auspicious name.”

  Vialatte laughed. “Isn’t it? It’s a very delicate mission that we inherited. The Arctic, as you know, is not fully explored and is regarded more as an international zone, and every claim upon it has to be handled very carefully in a tense diplomatic environment. Even with the place technically ours, there is little we can do to protect it, because we’re still busy drawing our own inner frontiers, and it’s no secret to you that we are sadly lacking in both funds and inhabitants. The Far North, for us, is barely a reality, and certainly not a priority. But now, the Crown has discovered someone who could claim the land and, in a way, minister it for them until they can reap its rewards, if there are any, or rid them of it, if not. So, Lodestone was redirected to us, here in Paris, to negotiate farther away from the spotlight.”

  “Negotiate what?”

  “He has some title to the land, of course, but so do we. So we had to reach a gentlemen’s agreement—whatever he is, he is certainly a gentleman. So the agreement is that he and his successors were given claim on the Queen Elizabeth Islands for a hundred years, like a tenant. And in a century, we can claim it for ourselves, if we think it’s worth the trouble. In exchange, we’re offering timber and ore as well as naval facilities. We’ll be spared the rest of the costs of exploration and colonization, but when the time comes, it will be ours. Of course, it may be a long time before the Arctic makes sense economically and militarily, but when it does, it is my intuition that it will be very precious.”

  Brentford was wide-eyed. “Fascinating,” he said. “I didn’t know any of this. What would be the official relationship of the settlement with the Crown?”

  “Northwestland, as it is now called, will have a secret status close to that of the dominion of Newfoundland, or a ‘dukedominion,’ as Lord Lodestone insists on saying, except that the link with the Crown, or Canada, is supposed to remain strictly classified. To the rest of the world, or more exactly to the very few who will ever be in the know, it’s simply some kind of scientific settlement with volunteers and private money from all over the world.”

  Brentford nodded, slowly taking it in. It was enlightening—the version of New Venetian history he’d been taught was, like everything else about New Venice, bathed in the mists of myth. Now, he found himself wondering, for example, if the Backwards calendar, or the legend of the Return from Sleep, had anything to do with this hundred-year clause …

  He asked, “And do you know what Lord Lodestone expects from such a deal?”

  “Not really. I used to think it was simply a crackpot’s dream that we were trying to use to our own ends. But Lord Lodestone, in the two or three meetings I’ve had with him, does not appear to be a crackpot at all. Eccentric, certainly, but with one of the sanest, soundest minds I’ve ever encountered. But then, he’s English. They all seem sane at first.”

  “But at least you have a good notion of what his plans are, I suppose?”

  “Not really. Even the plans are still very much in the planning stage. From what I gather, his idea is a small settlement, like a town, which would be autonomous for most of its needs. It’s his theory that all the previous attempts at settling the Arctic have been thwarted because the first group of settlers was always too small. Lodestone believes you have to start on a certain scale if you want to make things happen—you need all kinds of craftsmen, peasants, workers. Women, of course. Living like humans instead of like animals. It is a rather convincing argument, I think.”

  Brentford couldn’t help wondering if he should he tell Vialatte what Lodestone really had in mind. Vialatte seemed to know nothing about the Seven Seers or even the name New Venice. There was a definite sense that Lodestone was trying to double-cross the world’s biggest empire, as well as all the other nations while he was at it. But Brentford, who wanted Lodestone to succeed at any cost, was desperate not to reveal anything that would put the project in jeopardy. True, he felt a little dishonest to withhold anything from the helpful Vialatte, but truth, as Gabriel was fond of saying, is too precious a thing to waste on people who are not ready to appreciate it at its fair value.

  “And you?” Vialatte asked. “How did you find yourself involved in all this?”

  Brentford mulled it over carefully.

  “As I told you, we are doing research.”

  “But my question was, how did you get involved? You’ve never met Lord Lodestone yourself, have you?”

  Brentford had a sudden inspiration. “I got involved through a man called Felice Rossini, a guide with the Duke of Abbruzes on his mountain-climbing expeditions. He should be on the Guild’s list, and if not, you should make sure that he is.”

  “And how was he informed?” asked Vialatte, noting the name down in his notebook. Brentford felt a chill run down the nape of his neck. Had he just secured his future life in New Venice? It was like watching oneself being born.

  “Through the Duke himself, no doubt. He’s the kind of character who would be in league with Lord Lodestone.”

  “That’s possible, I suppose,” Vialatte answered thoughtfully. Something, it seemed, had not quite convinced him, or maybe he’d noticed the resemblance between the names Rossini and Orsini. “And is your … research giving you satisfaction?” he went on.

  “There are so many things happening here, it’s hard to absorb it all, but, yes, I feel we’re making progress. Look at this very place, for instance—the Abbaye de Thélème. It’s both extremely realistic, down to the last detail, and at the same time, it’s not a real place at all, either in time or space. Maybe this is the kind of things Lord Lodestone is after.”

  “Perhaps, but the notion doesn’t seem particularly suited to polar conditions.”

  “On the contrary, I would say. The psychological element always played a major part in the downfall of the previous settlements—it was always too many bored, frustrated men, jumping at each other’s throats. Mixing men together with an environment that is something more than just ice would be a breakthrough in polar exploration. The lack of beauty or comfort is what drives human beings crazy after a while. The real victory of the human spirit over the coldest, darkest landscape on Earth will be obtained not merely through toil, hardships, and sacrifice, though obviously there will be plenty of those, but also through culture, spirituality, and celebration. These are essential to any human community, and no settlement can go far without them—except back to wilderness and cannibalism, as the Franklin and Greeley expeditions unfortunately proved.”

  “Though I know Lord Lodestone little, there is something of that in him, very certainly. The aesthete … Maybe that is what he wants to create, some sort of ideal city.”

  “A Thelema,” Brentford approved, with a smile.

  “Speak of the devil and he doth appear,” Vialatte suddenly said, sotto voce, while pointing his chin towards the door.

  It was Lord Lodestone.

  He looked abominably drunk, saluting the columns and squinting as he scanned the room. Waiters nearby tensed, ready to ei
ther help or restrain him. Then he saw Brentford and Vialatte and tottered towards them, lifting his cane when he got to their table to point it at Vialatte. He kept it a few inches from Vialatte’s nose for an uncomfortable while, staring through eyes half closed, the silver tip of his cane remaining surprisingly steady.

  “Sir …” Vialatte started, in a tone that seemed pleading. Brentford was transfixed, almost shocked by the way the drunken Sleeper nonetheless radiated strength. The colour of his dark-blue suit seemed to throb off his clothes and pulse in the air.

  Then, without saying a word, Lord Lodestone suddenly pivoted and strode from the room.

  VII

  The Red Castle

  Only a few yards away from the splendour of Notre-Dame, the St. Séverin quarter was a knot of narrow medieval streets that even in cold weather smelled like a cesspool. The activity in the greasy ravines zigzagging between the slanting, dark, and cracked houses was on a par with the dereliction of the surroundings: the miserable flea markets were filled with tottering ragpickers, the four-sous restaurants were filled with rejects from Les Halles, and dangerous pimps were making the rounds of the streets around them as calmly as prosperous bourgeoisie out on an evening stroll, while stooped shadows hurried from lushing ken to lushing ken.

  Here Crime held its court.

  And here, Amédée de Bramentombes was finally keeping his promise to lead Blankbate to the source of the Blackamoor: a café in the meandrous rue Galande called the Château-Rouge, the Red Castle—a red house indeed, also known, invitingly, as “The Guillotine.”

  It was the temple of la pente—the slope, as the French called their low life. And as Blankbate and Amédée stepped from the cold into the large timbered room of the ground floor, Blankbate felt that he was entering an outer circle of hell: an enormous stove puffed turgid heat, its smoke blackening the walls and carrying in its eddies a reek of musk, vomit, and bleach. The thirty or so patrons didn’t seem all that dangerous: sleepy old ragged crones; drunkards staring through an absinthe haze; exhausted, sick girls, more or less nude under their coats, one of them, her head on the table, begging her neighbour for the bottom of his drink … The dregs of humanity, thought Blankbate, although not without pity. To the right, an opening led to a room that Amédée told him was nicknamed the “Hall of the Dead.” In the trembling glimmer from a single-wick lamp hanging from the ceiling, Blankbate could just make out a glimpse of bodies piled up on the clay floor; he could hear them snoring and, occasionally, retching.

  But it was another room, visible at the back of the place, that, at Amédée’s direction, they headed for. Blankbate could see that, all things being relative, part of this forty thieves’ den was somewhat more cosy, with its walls covered with clumsy frescoes depicting a wedding party passing over a bridge. Inside, however, were figures playing cards and drinking spirits. They raised their heads and cast meaningful glances at Blankbate and Amédée as they entered, all of them looking so spectacularly mean that one might have been forgiven for thinking they had been dressed up and paid to look ferocious. Even the Parisian underworld was part of the tourist trail, and Blankbate could see that these thugs had taken their parts to heart.

  And so did he. He moved with composure and did his best to look dangerous. Those still staring at him now did so with more interest than menace—they could sense a business proposition in the air.

  Among so many unattractive faces, Blankbate could not but be struck by the beauty of one man, sitting at a table with his heavily made-up girlfriend. Amédée noticed Blankbate’s stare. “That’s the man we’re looking for,” he said. “Bath-au-Pieu.”

  They walked to his table, where Swell-in-the-Sack signalled with an elegant gesture that they were welcome to sit down.

  “This is the man I told you about,” Amédée said to Swell-in-the-Sack, with a nervousness that Blankbate chose to blame on the situation.

  Swell-in-the-Sack ignored the ragpicker and turned towards Blankbate, displaying what he considered his best manners. At his side, the girl remained silent, almost motionless, like a doll on a pillow.

  “You are new to this place, I suppose, Monsieur.”

  “Let us say that I am.”

  “You are lucky to have a man such as our Amédée to show you the sights … he knows the city down to the last detail. I also take it that you share his passion for collecting objects.”

  “That’s true. One in particular is of special interest to me.”

  Swell-in-the-Sack looked straight into Blankbate’s eyes, which did not flinch behind his tinted lenses. “Would that be a comb for your false beard?” he asked suavely.

  “I’d rather have a false beard than a false front,” Blankbate said quietly but confidently.

  Swell-in-the-Sack remained silent for a while. “Everyone has his reason to hide what he hides, I suppose,” he mused. “Of which particular object do you speak?”

  “I think the ragpickers here call it the Blackamoor.”

  His interlocutor nodded, as if deep in thought. “And do you wish to buy it? Or … steal it, maybe?” he eventually asked.

  “Whatever it takes.”

  “I see. Would you … kill for it?”

  “Are we talking about striking a deal here?”

  “We could well be. So?”

  “Let’s say I’m willing to discuss the price.”

  “That is reasonable,” Swell-in-the-Sack said. “But in a more discreet place. I’ll take you to the man in charge, and we’ll see what he has to say.”

  Blankbate hesitated. But he felt he was closing in, and in the end, determination prevailed over prudence. He had come here to do a job, and by the Fisher King, he would do it. “That sounds reasonable,” he conceded.

  Swell-in-the-Sack stood up and invited Blankbate to follow him.

  “Now, Marie-Honnête, you keep this gentleman company,” he said to the woman while pointing a long finger towards Amédée. “I think he has a crush on you. And once you’re done, don’t forget to run a few errands for me. On the sidewalk.”

  Sniggering, Swell-in-the-Sack entered the first room with Blankbate in tow, then motioned him to the other back room.

  “Now, we’ll just have to drop in at the Hall of the Dead.”

  “Is this where the man in charge is?”

  Swell-in-the-Sack grimaced, as if he were not at liberty to find the joke funny. “A friend of mine. He’s got a key I need. Stay here.”

  There’s something fishy in all this, Blankbate thought as he waited. He decided not to lose sight of his guide, and followed him into the Hall of the Dead. In a split second, he knew he had fallen into a trap.

  The light went off, but not before he glimpsed a wolf’s head. Five or so people fell on him, striking him with what felt like blackjacks made of bull’s pizzle. He threw blows haphazardly and felt some land convincingly, but then he was caught on the temple, and he felt his body go liquid, spilling his mind in the oily shadows, over the sleeping drunkards who now whined in their nightmares.

  “You can look back. It’s done,” Marie-Honnête said to Amédée, once a distant rumble had receded in the backyard that ran along the first room.

  The ragpicker trembled in front of her, biting his thin, parched lips.

  “I never wanted to …”

  “But this you will want. Here are your thirty francs,” she said, handing him a little purse. “So go hang yourself.”

  He took the purse and pocketed it. “It was not for the money, it was for my daughter. They told me I wouldn’t see her again if …”

  Marie-Honnête blew the smoke of her cigarette into the old ragpicker’s face. “Fathers,” she said, mechanically shaking her head with disgust.

  Amédée remained silent for a while, and then, without saying another word to Marie-Honnête, got up and walked out. He was surprised to find that a conscience still twitched in him after all these years of hardship and humiliation, and he was not sure that the discovery was good news.

  Just as he p
assed in front of the rue des Anglais, something that felt like a fire tong grasped him and dragged him into the shadows.

  “Monsieur de Bramentombes?” said an English voice.

  Trembling with fear, Amédée hardly dared to look up, but did not have much of a choice, as the metal hand now seized his collar. He met a shiny eye between a waxed moustache and a pith helmet. The mouth opened on ceramic teeth and spoke.

  “Sorry. We haven’t been introduced. But I think we should have a little conversation.”

  VIII

  The Influence Machine

  When Brentford arrived back at the Hôtel des Écoles, the first thing he heard in the corridor leading to his room was the Colonel’s creaking laughter cranked up to an alarming volume. Bursting into the room he found Pirouette up on her tiptoes, tickling the Colonel’s neck and behind his ears. Branwell’s usual creaks sounded more and more like those of some overloaded engine about to explode. Brentford hurried to bring the game to an end.

  “Pirouette, please, you’re going to damage him!”

  “Ah! For once I was having fun,” the Colonel complained between gasps, his face flushed to a redcoat hue, his wrinkled cheeks streaked with tears. The laughter turned to such a grating cough that Brentford wouldn’t have been surprised to see the Colonel spit out a loose cog.

  “Weren’t you supposed to stay with Lilian?” he asked Pirouette, trying to look stern. She glanced down as if ashamed, but he could detect the trace of a mischievous smile—that of a little girl who knows she will be forgiven no matter what she has done.