Piranesi

by Susanna Clarke

  I agreed that I was.

  ‘Come in,’ he said.

  I remember how the smell of rain that pervaded the streets did not die away as I entered, but somehow intensified; inside the house there was a smell of rain, clouds and air, a smell of limitless space. A smell of the sea.

  Which made no sense at all in a Victorian terraced house in Battersea.

  He led me to a sitting room. The Berlioz was playing. He turned down the volume but it still played in the background of our conversation, the soundtrack of catastrophe.

  I placed my messenger bag on the floor. He brought coffee.

  ‘You’re an academic, I understand,’ I said.

  ‘I was an academic,’ he explained with a slight weariness. ‘Until about fifteen years ago. I’m in private practice as a psychologist now. Academia was never very welcoming to me. I had the wrong sort of ideas and the wrong sort of friends.’

  ‘I suppose the Arne-Sayles connection didn’t do you any favours?’

  ‘Well, quite. People still think I must have known about his crimes. I didn’t.’

  ‘Do you still see him?’ I asked.

  ‘God, no! Not for twenty years.’ He looked at me speculatively. ‘Have you spoken to Laurence?’

  ‘No. I’ve written to him of course. But so far he’s refused to see me.’

  ‘Sounds about right.’

  ‘I thought perhaps he didn’t want to talk to me because he feels ashamed of the past,’ I said.

  Ketterley gave a short, sharp, humourless laugh. ‘Hardly. Laurence has no shame. He’s just perverse. If someone says white, he’ll say black. If you say you want to see him, then he won’t want to see you. That’s just the way he is.’

  I lifted my messenger bag on to my lap and fetched out my journal. As well as my current journal I also had with me the previous volume of my journal (which I referred to almost every day); the index to my journals; and a blank notebook that would form the next volume of my journal (I was very close to the end of the current one).

  I opened my current journal and began to write.

  He watched with interest. ‘You use physical pen and paper?’

  ‘I use a journal system for all my notes. I find that it’s much the best way for keeping track of information.’

  ‘And are you a good record keeper?’ he asked. ‘On the whole?’

  ‘I’m an excellent record keeper. On the whole.’

  ‘Interesting,’ he said.

  ‘Why? Do you want to offer me a job?’ I asked.

  He laughed. ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ He paused. ‘What is it that you’re actually after?’

  I explained that I was chiefly interested in transgressive ideas, in the people who formulate them, and how they are received by the various disciplines – religion, art, literature, science, mathematics and so forth. ‘And Laurence Arne-Sayles is the transgressive thinker par excellence. He crossed so many boundaries. He wrote about magic and pretended it was science. He convinced a group of highly intelligent people that there were other worlds and he could take them there. He was gay when it was still illegal. He kidnapped a man and to this day no one knows why.’

  Ketterley said nothing. His face was a discouraging blank. He looked more bored than anything.

  ‘I realise that all of this happened a long time ago,’ I offered with a stab at empathy.

  ‘I have an excellent memory,’ he said coldly.

  ‘Oh. Well, that’s good. Just at the moment I’m trying to build up a picture of what it was like at Manchester in the first half of the eighties. Working with Arne-Sayles. What the atmosphere was like. What sort of things he was saying to you. What sort of possibilities he was conjuring up. That kind of thing.’

  ‘Yes,’ mused Ketterley, speaking apparently to himself, ‘people always use words like that about Laurence. Conjuring.’

  ‘You object to the word?’

  ‘Of course I object to the fucking word,’ he said irritably. ‘You’re suggesting that Laurence was some sort of stage magician and we were all his wide-eyed dupes. It wasn’t like that at all. He liked you to argue with him. He liked you to put the rationalist point of view.’

  ‘And then …?’

  ‘And then he demolished you. His theories weren’t just smoke and mirrors. Far from it. He’d thought everything through. It was perfectly coherent as far as it went. And he wasn’t afraid to merge intellect with imagination. His description of the thinking of Pre-Modern Man was more persuasive than anything else I’ve come across.’ He paused. ‘I’m not saying that he wasn’t manipulative. He was certainly that.’

  ‘But I thought you just said …?’

  ‘On a personal level. In his relationships he was manipulative. On an intellectual level he was honest, but on a personal level he was as manipulative as hell. Take Sylvia for example.’

  ‘Sylvia D’Agostino?’

  ‘Strange girl. Devoted to Laurence. She was an only child. Very close to her parents, particularly her father. She and her father were both gifted poets. Laurence told her to manufacture a quarrel with her parents and break off all contact with them. And she did. She did it because Laurence instructed her to do it and because Laurence was the great magus, the great seer who was about to guide us all into the next Age of Man. There was absolutely no advantage to him in cutting her off from her family. It didn’t benefit him in the slightest. He did it because he could. He did it to cause anguish for her and her parents. He did it because he was cruel.’

  ‘Sylvia D’Agostino was one of the people who disappeared,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t know anything about that,’ said Ketterley.

  ‘I don’t think you can claim he was intellectually honest. He said he’d been to other worlds. He said other people had been there too. That’s not exactly honest, is it?’There may have been a slight edge of superciliousness in my voice, which I suppose I would have done better to suppress but I have always liked winning arguments.

  Ketterley scowled. He seemed to struggle with something. He opened his mouth to say something, changed his mind, and then: ‘I don’t like you very much,’ he said.

  I laughed. ‘I can live with that,’ I said.

  There was a silence.

  ‘Why a labyrinth, do you suppose?’ I asked.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Why do you think he described the other world – the one he said he went to most often – as a labyrinth?’

  Ketterley shrugged. ‘A vision of cosmic grandeur, I suppose. A symbol of the mingled glory and horror of existence. No one gets out alive.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘But what I still don’t quite understand was how he convinced you of its existence. The labyrinth-world, I mean.’

  ‘He had us perform a ritual that was supposed to bring us there. There were aspects of the ritual that were … evocative, I suppose. Suggestive.’

  ‘A ritual? Really? I thought Arne-Sayles’s position was that rituals were nonsense. Didn’t he say something like that in The Half-Seen Door?’

  ‘That’s right. He claimed that he personally was able to access the labyrinth-world simply by making an adjustment to his frame of mind, by returning to a child-like state of wonder, a prerational consciousness. He claimed to be able to do this at will. Unsurprisingly, most of us – his students – got absolutely nowhere with this, so he created a ritual that we were to perform in order to access the labyrinth. But he made it clear that this was a concession to our lack of ability.’

  ‘I see. Most of you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said most of you couldn’t enter the labyrinth without the ritual. It seemed to imply that some of you could.’

  A slight pause.

  ‘Sylvia. Sylvia thought she could get there in the same way that Laurence did. With this return to a state of wonder. She was a strange girl, as I’ve said. A poet. She lived very much inside her head. Who knows what she thought she saw.’

  ‘And did you ever see it? The labyrinth?’
>
  He considered. ‘Mostly I had what you might call intimations, a sense of standing in a huge space – not just wide, but immensely tall too. And – this is quite hard to admit – but yes, I did see it once. I mean I thought I saw it once.’

  ‘What did it look like?’

  ‘Very much like Laurence’s description. Like an infinite series of classical buildings knitted together.’

  ‘And what do you think it meant?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing. I don’t think it meant anything at all.’

  A short silence. Then he suddenly said, ‘Does anyone know you’re here?’

  ‘Sorry?’ I said. It seemed an odd question.

  ‘You said that the Laurence Arne-Sayles connection dogged my career in academia. Yet here you are, an academic, asking questions about it all, dragging it all up again. I just wondered why you weren’t being more careful. Aren’t you afraid it will tarnish your brilliant career?’

  ‘I don’t think anyone is going to take issue with my approach,’ I said. ‘My book on Arne-Sayles is part of a wider project on transgressive thinking. As I think I’ve already explained.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ he said. ‘So you’ve told lots of people that you were coming here today to see me? All your friends.’

  I frowned. ‘No, I haven’t told anyone. I don’t usually tell people what I’m doing. But that’s not because …’

  ‘Interesting,’ he said.

  We looked at each other with a sort of mutual dislike. I was about to rise and go, when he suddenly said, ‘Do you really want to understand Laurence and the hold he had over us?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then in that case we should perform the ritual.’

  ‘The ritual?’ I said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The one to …’

  ‘The one to open the path to the labyrinth. Yes.’

  ‘What? Now?’ I was a bit startled by the suggestion. (But I wasn’t afraid. What was there to be afraid of?) ‘You still remember it?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, yes. As I said, I have an excellent memory.’

  ‘Oh, well, I … Will it take long?’ I asked. ‘Only I have to …’

  ‘It takes twelve minutes,’ he said.

  ‘Oh! Oh, OK. Sure. Why not?’ I said. I stood up. ‘I don’t have to take any drugs, do I?’ I said. ‘Because that’s not really …’

  He laughed that rather contemptuous laugh again. ‘You’ve had a cup of coffee. I think that’ll be sufficient.’

  He lowered the blinds of the windows. He took a candle in a candlestick from the mantelpiece. The candlestick was an old-fashioned brass one with a square base. It didn’t really match the rest of the furnishings in the house, which were modern, minimalist, European.

  He got me to stand in the sitting room, facing the door that led to the hall. This area had been left free from furniture.

  He picked up my messenger bag – the bag containing my journals, my index and my pens – and placed it on my shoulder.

  ‘What’s that for?’ I asked, frowning.

  ‘You’re going to need your notebooks,’ he said. ‘You know. When you get to the labyrinth.’

  He had an odd sense of humour.

  (Writing this, I feel a sort of terror descend on me. I know now what is coming. My hand is shaking and I must stop writing for a moment to try to control it. But at the time I felt nothing, no presentiment of danger, nothing.)

  He lit the candle and placed it on the floor of the hall, just beyond the door. The floor of the hall was the same as the floor of the sitting room: a solid wood flooring in oak. I noticed a blotch where he put the candlestick, as if the oak there had been repeatedly stained with candlewax, and within the dark stain was an unstained lighter square into which the candlestick base fitted precisely.

  ‘You need to focus on the candle,’ he said.

  So I did.

  But at the same time, I was thinking about that pale square in the dark patch and the candlestick fitting into it. And that was the point at which I realised that he was lying. The candle had stood in that precise spot many, many times and he had performed this ritual over and over again. He still believed. He still thought he could reach the other world.

  I wasn’t afraid, only incredulous and amused. And I started going over in my mind what questions I could ask him after the ritual in order to expose his dishonesty.

  He turned out the lights in the house. It was dark except for the candle burning on the floor and the orange haze from the streetlights outside that penetrated the blinds.

  He stood slightly behind me and instructed me to keep my eyes upon the candle. Then he began to chant in a language I’d never heard before. I surmised, from the similarities to Welsh and Cornish, that it was Brittonic. I think if I had not already found out his secret, I would have guessed it then. He chanted with conviction, with fervour, like he believed absolutely in what he was doing.

  I heard the name ‘Addedomarus’ several times.

  ‘Close your eyes now,’ he said.

  I did so.

  More chanting. My amusement at discovering his secret sustained me for a while, but then I began to grow bored. He abandoned language altogether and seemed to drag out of himself a sort of animal growl that started in his stomach, impossibly deep, and grew higher, wilder, louder, more extraordinary.

  Everything switched.

  It was as if the world had somehow just stopped. He fell silent. The Berlioz was cut off mid-chorus. My eyelids were still closed but I could tell that the quality of the darkness had changed; it was greyer, cooler. The air felt colder and much damper, as if we’d been plunged into a fog. I wondered if somewhere a door had been thrown open; but that made no sense because at the same time the hum of London ceased. There was a sound of vast emptiness, and all around me waves were hitting walls with a dull thud. I opened my eyes.

  The walls of a vast room rose up around me. Statues of minotaurs loomed over me, darkening the space with their bulk, their massive horns jutting into the empty air, their animal expressions solemn, inscrutable.

  I turned in utter incredulity.

  Ketterley was standing in his shirtsleeves. He was completely at his ease. He was looking at me and smiling as if I was an experiment that had gone surprisingly well.

  ‘Forgive me for not saying anything before now,’ he smiled, ‘but I really am delighted to see you. A young, healthy man is just what I wanted.’

  ‘Put it back!’ I screamed at him.

  He began to laugh.

  And he laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

  PART 6

  WAVE

  I was mistaken!

  fourth entry for the twenty-first day of the ninth month in the year the albatross came to the south-western halls

  I was sitting cross-legged with my Journal in my lap and the fragments in front of me. I turned away slightly, not wanting to soil any of them, and vomited on the Pavement. I was shaking.

  I fetched Myself a drink of water, as well as a rag and some more water to wipe up the vomit.

  I was mistaken. The Other is not my friend. He has never been my friend. He is my enemy.

  I was still shaking. I had the cup of water in my hand, but I could not hold it steady.

  I had known once that the Other was my enemy. Or rather Matthew Rose Sorensen had known it. But when I had forgotten Matthew Rose Sorensen, I had forgotten this as well.

  I had forgotten, but the Other remembered. I could see now that he was apprehensive in case one day I remembered. He called me Piranesi so he would not need to use the name Matthew Rose Sorensen. He tested me by speaking words such as ‘Battersea’ to see if they sparked any memories. I had been incorrect when I said that Battersea was nonsense. It was not nonsense. It was a word that meant something to Matthew Rose Sorensen.

  But why was the Other able to remember when I was not?

  Because he did not stay in the House but went back to the Other World.

  Revelations ca
me thick and fast now. My head seemed to shudder with the weight of them. I clasped my head in my hands and groaned.

  I must not stay long, the Prophet had said, I am all too well aware of the consequences of lingering in this place: amnesia, total mental collapse, etcetera, etcetera. Like the Prophet, the Other never lingered. He never allowed our meetings to last longer than an hour and at the end of them he walked away; and when he did that he was walking away into the Other World.

  But how could I make sure that I did not forget again? I pictured Myself forgetting and becoming the Other’s friend again and running about the House taking measurements and photos and collecting data for him, while all the time he was laughing at me! No-no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no! I could not bear the thought of it! I pressed my head between my hands as if I could physically keep the memories from escaping.

  I will learn from 16 and collect marble pebbles from the Vestibules and form letters with them. I will write in letters a metre high! REMEMBER! THE OTHER IS NOT YOUR FRIEND! HE TRICKED MATTHEW ROSE SORENSEN INTO COMING INTO THIS WORLD FOR HIS OWN ADVANTAGE! If necessary, I will fill Hall after Hall with immense writing!

  … for his own advantage … Yes, yes! That was the key to it. That was why he had brought Matthew Rose Sorensen here. The Other had needed someone – a slave! – to live in these Halls and collect information about them; he dares not do it himself in case the House makes him forget.

  Furious, hot anger rose up inside me.

  Why, why had I told him about the Flood? If only I had learnt all this before I knew about the Flood! Then I could have kept it a secret. I could have waited until Thursday came and I could have climbed up to a High Place, safe from the Waters and I could have watched him Destroyed. Yes! That is what I want now! Perhaps it is not too late! I will go back to the Other. I will smile and look as usual and I will deceive him as he has deceived me. I will say I made a mistake about the Flood. No Flood is coming. Be here on Thursday! Be in the very middle of these Halls!

  But of course, the Other has said that he will not be here on Thursday. He is never here on Thursdays. He will be safe in the Other World. That does not matter! Anger makes me resourceful! On Tuesday the Other will come to meet me – it is our regular meeting day. I will snatch him and bind him with fishing nets. With these hands I will do it! I have two fishing nets. They are made of a synthetic polymer and very strong. I shall bind him to the Statues in the Second South-Western Hall. For two days he will be bound. He will be in torment, knowing the Flood is coming. Perhaps I will give him water to drink. Perhaps I will not. Perhaps I will say to him: ‘Soon you will have plenty of Water!’ And on Thursday he will watch the Tides pouring in through the Doors and he will scream and scream. And I will laugh and laugh. I will laugh as long and as loud as he laughed at Matthew Rose Sorensen when he brought him here …