Canal Dreams

by Iain Banks

  The balloons got bigger as they rose, and when they got to Orrick they were larger than he was; they spread their wings and wrapped themselves round him; he dropped the brush, dropped the paint tin, and was held there on the little wooden plank, gripped by first one, then two, then many of the expanded balloons, which nestled tighter and tighter in with their wings, and then soundlessly burst apart, blowing out in a scattering of white feathers that rained slowly down while Orrick's shrivelled body fell, cartwheeling lazily, from the bows, and crashed through the red lake surface. He fell in a hail of quick red glass and slow white feathers. Where the paint tin had fallen against the bow of the ship, it had left a long streak of red lead over one of the letters of the ship's name, so that the letters now spelled out NADA.

  She didn't see where Orrick landed. The air was full of white feathers. The lake surface healed up where he'd fallen through.

  At the end of the lake, where the dam had been, the surface ended abruptly above them, while the lake floor continued out into the open air, down the course of a long dry river. She felt glad to be back, and to have left the other people behind. Above her, the milky clouds let through a diffuse glow of sunlight.

  The clouds had a grid written on them; dark lines stretching north-south and east-west. She walked the dry, black dust, passing shattered and deserted buildings in the distance to each side, and watched the grid of the sky gradually fill up with huge circular shapes; they occupied the interstices of the grid; some were dark, like the ash beneath her feet, and some were milky, like the clouds themselves, and hardly visible; just giant halos of light in the sky. It became darker as more of the huge shapes floated down into place. DNA, said the shapes.

  This must be going on everywhere, she thought. Like a giant game of go. Light and dark; everywhere. She wondered who would win. She wanted the light-coloured ones to win. They appeared to be winning. She walked on, noticing that the city around her seemed to be growing. The buildings were less wrecked and not as far apart as they had been. The sky was lightening again, as the milky shapes above surrounded and took over the dark ones. The city was crowding in now, buildings creaking upwards into the sky as she watched. There were people as well. They were small and still far away, but they moved about the grid of the city, beneath the towering, stretching buildings.

  The sky was milky, the sky was clear. The sky-wide circles had taken over the sky. A terrific wind started up, and howled round the buildings as the sky became brighter and the sunlight slammed down. She kept walking but saw everybody else swept away and whirled into the air, fluttering whitely. The sun glinted through one of the great lenses in the sky, dimmed briefly, then flared, exploded, blinding her and wrapping a cloak of heat across her face.

  When she opened her eyes the buildings had melted and stood as pillars over the grey ash beneath her feet, supporting a sky of cracked red glass, like something old and fused and smeared with blood.

  The grey ash shuddered, sending a tremor up through her feet, shaking her. The sky called her name.

  She woke to find Philippe shaking her shoulder. Sucre stood at her feet, kicking them, looking bored. In one hand he held a large knife, in the other her cello case. Her eyes widened; she sat up. Sucre put the knife in its sheath and hefted his assault rifle. The plastic restrainer joining Hisako to Philippe had been cut; she was free.

  Sucre jerked his head towards the door. 'You come with me; we go to a concert.

  8: Conquistadores

  They took her across to the Nakodo in Le Cercle's Gemini; the one she and Philippe used on their dives. The sunlight was bright on the water through the patchy cloud, and she hugged her cello case to her, gaining some distant comfort from its leather smell. Sucre sat in the bows, facing her, mirror shades showing the cello case, her, and the vencerista at the outboard. There was a small thin smile on his face; he hadn't answered any of her questions about why they were heading for the Nakodo with the cello. He kept the Kalashnikov pointed at her the whole way across. She wondered what would happen if she threw the cello case at him. Would it stop the bullets? She didn't think so. He would probably puncture the Gemini if the gun went off on automatic; maybe he would even hit the vencerista at the stern, but her own chances of surviving would be small.

  She imagined, nevertheless, throwing it at him, leaping after it; Sucre somehow missing it and her, her grabbing his gun, perhaps knocking him overboard (though how to do that without losing the gun, strapped round his shoulders?), or just knocking him unconscious, still getting the gun from him in time to turn and fire before the man in the stern could reach for and fire his own machine-gun… yes, and she could swim away from the probably sinking Gemini, using the cello case as a life raft, and rescue all the others or get word to the outside world, and everything would be just fine. She swallowed heavily, as though consuming the wildness of the idea. Her heart beat hard, thudding against the cello case.

  She wondered how often people had been in such a situation; not knowing what was going to happen to them, but so full of fearful hope and hopeless fear they went along with whatever their captors were arranging, praying it would end without bloodshed, lost in some pathetic human trust that no terrible harm was being prepared for them.

  How many people had been woken by the hammering at the door in the small hours, and had gone — perhaps protesting, but otherwise meekly — to their deaths? Perhaps they went quietly to protect their family; perhaps because they could not believe that what was happening to them was anything — could be anything — other than a terrible mistake. Had they known their family too was doomed, had they known they were themselves already utterly condemned and without hope, destined inevitably for a bullet in the neck within hours, or for years — even decades — of toil and suffering in the camps before a cold and disregarded death, they might have resisted then, at the start, when they still had a chance, however futile their resistance might finally be. But few resisted, from what she knew. Hope was endemic, and sometimes reality implied despair.

  How could you believe, even in the cattle trucks, that what had been the most civilised nation on earth was preparing to take you — all of you; the entire trainload and strip you, remove and sort artificial limbs, glasses, clothes and wigs and jewellery, gas you by the hundreds in a production line of death, and then pull the gold teeth from your skull? How? It was the stuff of nightmares, not reality. It was too terrible to be true; even a people inured over the centuries to prejudice and persecution must have found it hard to believe it could really be happening in the West in the twentieth century.

  And the doctor or engineer or politician or worker in Moscow or Kiev or Leningrad, roused from sleep by the fists on the door; without knowing he was already dead as far as the state was concerned, who could blame him for going quietly, hoping to impress with his co-operation, to save his wife and children (which, maybe, he did)? Nervously confident in his knowledge that he'd done nothing wrong and had always supported the party and the great leader, was it any surprise he quietly packed a small case and kissed his wife's tears away, promising to be back soon?

  The Kampucheans had quit the city, seeing some warped logic in it at first, thinking it best to humour the men from the jungle. How could they have known — how could they have taken seriously the idea — the glasses on their noses would bring the iron rods down on them, smashing them to bits, consigning them to mud?

  Even knowing what was going to happen, perhaps you still hoped, or just could not believe it was really going to happen to you, in (in their times) Chile, Argentina, Nicaragua, El Salvador… Panama.

  She looked away from her reflections on Sucre's smiling face. The distant land was green and squashed. Perhaps help would come from there. Maybe Orrick had succeeded in a way; somebody ashore might have heard the shots and explosions as they killed him. The National Guard would come and the venceristas would flee, leaving their hostages alive; it would be absurd to kill any more, wouldn't it? International opinion; outcry; condemnation, retaliatio
n.

  She hugged the case closer, felt herself shiver. The rectangular bulk of the Nukodo filled the sky in front of her, blocking off the sun.

  She followed Sucre up the steps from the landing pontoon, still holding the cello in its case in front of her. Another vencerista met them on the deck and led them into the ship. She was ushered into the officers' mess. The curtains were drawn; two lights shone from the far end of the mess-room table. She could just make out a figure sitting there. A chair was drawn up a metre or so from the end of the table nearest her. Sucre motioned her to sit there, then went to the vaguely seen figure sitting behind the lights. She screwed her eyes up, peering forward. The lights were Anglepoise lamps, sitting on the table, shining straight at her. The air-conditioned room made her shiver again, making her wish she wore something more substantial than just the yukata.

  'Ms Onoda, Sucre said, from behind the lights. She shielded her eyes. 'The jefe wants you to play for him.

  She stayed as she was. There was silence until she said, 'What does he want me to play?

  She saw Sucre bend to the other man, come upright again. 'Anything; what you want.

  She thought about it. Even asking whether she had a choice seemed pointless. She could ask for her music and so delay things but she could see no good reason for doing so. She would rather do this and get back as soon as she could to Philippe and the others. Wondering who the man behind the lights was, and why he wanted to keep his identity secret, seemed just as useless. She sighed, opened the case and took out the cello and bow, laying down the case.

  'It will take a little while to tune it, she said, adjusting the spike to the right height for the small seat, then drawing the cello to her, feeling it between her thighs and against her breasts and neck.

  'Is OK, Sucre told her, as she drew the bow across the strings. The A string was a little flat; she brought it into line with the others, closing her eyes and listening. She had always visualised tuning. In her mind the sound was a single vibrant line of colour; a column in the air, changing like oil on water but always coherent and somehow solid. If one shade jarred from an edge, like a badly printed colour photograph, it had to be refocused, brought back into line. The cello sang, hummed against her; the column of colour behind her eyes was bright and definite.

  She checked, fingering through a few exercises, finding her knuckles and joints were less stiff than she'd feared.

  She opened her eyes again. 'This is… Tung Loi's "Song of Leaving", she told the lights.

  No reaction. It wasn't a classical piece, and she wondered if perhaps her shy captor would object to a modern work, but the jefe behind the lights said nothing. Perhaps he didn't know enough to comment, or perhaps he knew the piece and approved; it was what had come to be known as New Classical, part of the melodic fin de siècle reaction against mathematical atonality.

  She bent to the instrument, closing her eyes slowly with the first broad sweep of the bow that was the awakening of the. woman and the dawning of the day the piece would sing about.

  Technically it was a fairly undemanding piece, but the emotion it called for, to wring all that could be wrung from the music, made it difficult to perform without sounding either off-hand or pretentious. She wasn't sure herself why she'd chosen it; she'd practised it over the months since leaving Japan, and it sounded full and good in its solo form, but the same went for other pieces, and this was one she had never been convinced she had done justice to in the past. She ceased to wonder about it, and forgot about the lights and the man behind them, and the gun at Sucre's waist and the people trapped and trussed on the Nadia, and simply played, submerging herself in the silky depths of the music's hope and sorrow.

  When it was over, and the last notes died, finally giving themselves up to the air, to the flesh of her fingertips and to the ancient wood of the instrument, she kept her eyes closed for a time, still in her deep red cave of heartache and loss. There were strange patterns behind her eyelids, swimming and pulsing to the strong beat of her blood. The music seemed to have set them into a theme of movement of its own, and they were only now unravelling into their natural semi-chaos. She watched them.

  Clap clap clap. The sudden sound of applause shook her. She opened her eyes quickly. A glimpse of white hands clapping in the light, before they pulled back. The figure moved to one side, towards Sucre, and he started clapping too, matching the other man. Sucre nodded vigorously, glancing from her to the man in the seat beside him.

  Clap clap. Clap. The applause subsided, stopped.

  Hisako sat blinking in the light.

  Sucre le ant towards the man. 'Beautiful, Sucre said, straightening.

  'Thank you. She relaxed, let the bow tip touch the carpet. Would he want more?

  Sucre bent again, then said, Señorita, please turn round; face the other way.

  She stared. Then turned, awkwardly with the cello, shifting the seat, looked back at the door to the corridor outside.

  Why? she thought. Surely not to shoot me? Do I play for him, then obediently perform this last gesture which will make the killing of me easier for them? Light flared behind her. She stiffened.

  'OK, Sucre said easily. 'Turn back now.

  She pivoted on the seat, taking the cello round in front of her. The red glowing end of a cigar glowed dimly behind the lights. A cloud of smoke drifted in front of the beams, further obscuring the view behind. She smelled sulphur.

  'The jefe wants to know what you were thinking of when you play this piece, Sucre said.

  She thought, conscious of her frown and of looking away from the lights into the darkness, seeking her answer there. 'I thought of… leaving. Of leaving Japan. Of leaving… she hesitated, then knew there was no point in pretending. 'I thought of leaving… the people on the ship; the Nadia. She had meant to say 'one person' or 'someone' on the ship, but something had deflected her even as she'd spoken, though she knew that Sucre already knew about Philippe. Even in these tiny, hopeless increments do we try to protect those we love, she thought, and looked up into the lights. 'I thought of leaving life; of this being my last chance to play. She drew herself up straight in the seat. 'That's what I thought of.

  She heard the man behind the lights draw in his breath. Perhaps he nodded. Sucre drew up a seat and sat down by the other man. 'The jefe wants to know what you think of us. It was as though one of the lights was talking.

  'Of the venceristas?

  'Si.

  She wondered what was the right thing to say. But they would know she'd try to say the right thing, so what was the point of it? She shrugged, looked down at the cello, fingered the strings. 'I don't know. I don't know everything that you stand for.

  After a pause; 'Freedom for the people of Panama. Eventually, a greater Columbia. Cutting the puppet strings of the yanquis.

  'Well, that might be good, she said, not looking up. Silence from the far end of the table. The coal of the cigar glowed brightly for a moment. 'I am not a politician, she said. 'I am a musician. Anyway, this is not my fight. I'm sorry. She looked up. 'We all just want to get out alive.

  The cigar coal dipped towards Sucre. She heard a deep voice, smoky, as though it had taken on some of the character of the pungent blue fumes it passed through on its way to her. 'But the yanquis forced you to open up your country, yes? 1854; the American Navy made you trade. She sensed Sucre lean close to the other man again, heard the rumble of his voice once more. 'And then, less than a century later, they nuke you. The cigar coal was out to one side; she could just see it, under the glare of the left-hand light, and she could imagine the seated figure, arm on an arm of the chair. 'Huh'? Sucre said.

  'That has all happened, she said. 'We… she struggled to find the words to describe a century and a half of the most radical change any country had ever undergone. 'We had strengths in our isolation, but it could not persist for ever. When we were… forced to change, we changed and found new strengths… or new expressions of the old ones. We tried too much; we tried to fit ourselves to t
he peoples outside; behave the way they did. We defeated China and Russia, and the world was amazed, and amazed too that we treated our prisoners so well… then we became… arrogant, perhaps, and thought we could take on America, and treat the… foreign devils as less than human. So we were treated the same way. It was wrong, but we were too. Since then we have flourished. We have sadnesses but, she sighed again, looking down at the strings, resting her fingers on them, imagining the chord she was producing, 'we can have few complaints. The lights still blazed. The cigar was centred again, and bright.

  'You think the people on the other ship support us? Sucre said, after a pause.

  'They want to live, she said. 'Maybe some want you to succeed, maybe some don't. They all want to live. That is stronger.

  A noise that might have been a 'hmm'. Smoke billowed like a sail into the twin cones of light and flowed across the table in a slowly fluid tumble.

  'Will you play in America? Sucre said.

  'After Europe, I said I would think about it. I may. She wondered how much the man behind the lights was taking in. She wasn't choosing her words to make them easy.

  'You play for the yanquis? Sucre said, sounding amused.

  'I'd swear I wouldn't, if it would make any difference to you.

  Definite amusement from the far end of the table. The rumbling voice again. 'We don't ask that, Señorita, Sucre said, laughing.

  'What do you ask?

  Sucre waited for the low voice, then said, 'We ask that you should play another — ?

  The lights flickered and went out; some tone in the ship, never noticed because always there, altered, whined down. The lights came on dimly for a moment, then faded slowly, filaments passing through yellow to orange to red; the same colour as the cigar. They went out.

  The emergency lights came on from the corners of the room, filling the mess with a flat neon glow.

  She was looking at a man in olive fatigues; square shoulders, square face. For a second she thought he was bald, then saw he had blond hair, crew cut. His eyes were glittering blue. She saw Sucre stand quickly. There was noise from behind her, and the door opened. A voice behind her said, Jefe… then trailed off.