“I have packed my bag for a three-day expedition,” he said.
Her shock at discovering that he knew where the luggage was kept was augmented by the revelation that he was capable of packing it. “I shall take the Smith & Wesson, the one with the pearl grips, and leave you the Colt, the Mannlicher, and the Cloverleaf, for your protection. May I borrow your derringer for my little journey?”
“Why, of course,” she replied, “anything you wish.”
They always travelled with a small armoury, ostensibly for the pleasure of target shooting, but always with the excuse of protection. He was an excellent shot and had enjoyed teaching her how to handle and fire his collection of pistols. The guns also gave her some confidence against the “street visitors” he often brought home or sent the chauffeur to find. His taste ran hard into the criminal and the lower manual labourer. They were easy to find and would fulfil all of his sexual morbidities, but they were tricky to get rid of afterwards, difficult to scrape off the shoe. Countless times, she had returned home to find some half-naked urchin or dockyard worker going through her belongings, ejected from the Frenchman’s bedroom after the brutality, so that he might drown and wallow in the true depth of his debasement. Countless times, she had been forced to haggle over the price of flesh. The currency of usury had become part of her vocabulary; she dealt with it efficiently and from a distance. Some small fold of her enjoyed talking to the exotic underclass about the most intimate actions of vice. She felt like an ornithologist, or an entomologist, viewing horrid little wonders through the wrong end of a perfect telescope. But she could not abide the blackmailers, those who went too far and allowed greed to ooze out with the secretions of their bodies. There had been many hushed-up cases, many insidious threats to expose his obsessions. She had brokered them all. Sometimes she was forced to enlist the support of the chauffeur, who liked to wrap metal chains around his fist when dealing with the stubborn.
“Are you going alone with Seil Kor?” she asked cautiously.
“Oh yes,” he said, in a theatrically disinterested way. “He is not to be one of my ‘paramours,’ ” he added, a trace of the old acid leaking back into his speech. “He is a friend and noble person of these regions—I would like very much to introduce you.”
“Thank you,” she replied, “I would like that. Don’t forget this.” She handed him a tiny, delicate package of folded tissue paper containing the cheap, silver-plated crucifix that her first love had given to her at the age of thirteen.
On the steps of the hotel, the light was blinding. He wore his Eskimo spectacles and pith helmet, with a costume that needed at least fifteen native bearers to maintain it. Childlike, he gripped his suitcase and strained through the brightness to see his friend in the whirling, dusty clouds of passersby. Charlotte stood beside him, arms folded and trepidation rising.
“There!” he cried. “By the tree; he is waving!”
She could barely distinguish a single figure, just a mass of activity in the luminous dust. The Frenchman stepped down the stairs and into the throng, motioning to Charlotte to join him, but the dust was unbearable, and she put her hand over her mouth, averting her face from the onslaught. He reached Seil Kor across the street and tried to explain about meeting Charlotte, but she was lost in the crowd and his guide was anxious to depart. He gave in to the unfolding events and they made their way out of the throng—their journey to the Vorrh had begun.
Seil Kor took the Frenchman to his home, far across town in the old quarter. From there to the station was only ten minutes’ walk, he promised.
“Why do we go to your house first?” he asked.
“To change,” Seil Kor said, without emphasis.
“But this is my exploring costume,” whined the Frenchman, who was beginning to be irritated by the change in plans.
“Trust me, master, it is better for you to melt into the crowd, become one of us. This way you will see more and get closer to the heart of the forest. We have to travel for a whole day on the train, and I want you to be comfortable.”
They walked down a high, mud-walled street that changed its curve every fifteen paces or so. Alleyways led off at frequent intervals, and there was a sense of a great populace concealed behind the twisting façade.
They turned again, stepping into a long, straight street with two ancient wooden doors set into its crumbling surface. Seil Kor hammered on the first door and, moments later, the second one opened.
They stepped into a broad, sand-coloured courtyard with a square well and a palm tree dominating its luxurious simplicity. A small, grinning boy stepped from behind the gate and closed them in. Seil Kor clapped his hands loudly above his head, and the doors of the long, low building that occupied one side of the enclosure opened. Vividly dressed women emerged carrying a carpet, a squat folding table, and brass and copper bowls of fruit and sweetmeats. In a quick flurry, it was all set up under the shade of the tree, and the Frenchman was shown to the guest seat at its centre. The women brought piles of native robes and Arabic-style headgear for the dandy to try on. He liked this game and, once he got over his essential stiffness, became completely engaged in his transformation. He loved to dress up and had often donned the national costume of the countries he had visited before. But it had never felt this real before, and his guide had never been so gracious, so encouraging. He tried on many different styles and colours, spinning and giggling as the women and the boy applauded. He bowed. They all bubbled over in this pantomime of innocence. Carefree and conceited, he thought to add a dash to his apparel and dug the pistol out of his case, sticking it jauntily in his belt. The party froze. Seil Kor raised his hands and the women covered their eyes.
“Master, what is this? Why do you bring this?” His bony finger shook as it pointed towards the gun. “Please, leave it in the bag. Where we go is sacred; such a thing is a blasphemy there.”
“But what about wild animals and those savage people?” the Frenchman stuttered.
“We will be walking with the Lord God; his angels will guard us.”
He dropped the pistol back in the bag and stepped slowly away from it. Seil Kor met him with a grin, and he moved to his friend’s side, gripping his arm conciliatorily.
“Oh! One moment,” said the Frenchman. “I have something for you.” He removed the little tissue-paper package from his person and carefully unwrapped it, holding the gleaming crucifix up for his new friend to admire.
“For me?” asked Seil Kor, genuinely surprised.
The Frenchman nodded and handed him the chain; he fixed it at once around his neck. The cross shone brightly against Seil Kor’s jet-black skin and the others applauded the gift all the way to the door as they prepared to depart. By the time they crossed the threshold, the Frenchman was unrecognisable. He was happy and very at ease in his flowing robes. A prince of the desert, he thought—if only he had a photograph for his collection. He resolved to have one taken on their return, on the steps of the hotel, when he and Seil Kor would present themselves to Mademoiselle Charlotte, in celebration of their triumphant expedition.
The moon rose full on that same clear night, bringing with it a wind from the distant sea, a gale that gained force as it swept inland towards the Vorrh. By four o’clock, an hour after the good shepherd Azrael had collected his flock from the world of the living and the night had settled back in the last three fathoms of its darkness, the wind shook Essenwald with a near-tempest velocity. It rattled the old windows in its finest hotel; Charlotte turned over in the warmth of her sleep, untroubled by the gale, tightening the crisp sheet and plaid blanket about her untouched contour. She dreamt of an American who would walk into her forgetfulness and ask about tonight. She was in Belgium, where she slept all day, and a clock without hands said it was an impossible 1961. The young man was telling her that he was a poet. He had a large, kind, soft face, but it was difficult to hear him because of the clattering, glassy sound that emanated from his pencil and notebook.
CHAPTER TEN
&
nbsp; Edward Muybridge’s time in the wilderness was coming to an end. His work and his roaming had turned from gossip into legend. After all these years, his fame was spreading even farther. Rocks and buildings became his subjects and stepping-stones. He used lenses that moved long exposures and denied human presence, paradoxical stairs to the sight traps of movement. New and unusual commissions called to him, and he needed a single address to be reached by them all.
Once more, he moved back into the cities, cleaning his shutters for people. He opened his temple of lenses, and a trickle of curiosity turned into a flood of interest.
His experiments in capturing animal movement caught the public imagination. His great success was founded on a gambler’s bet: Leland Stanford, the Prince of Wisconsin, wanted proof that horses flew, that they were suspended in midair as they galloped, jumping through space, all hooves losing contact with the ground. Muybridge’s job was to capture that momentous truth, and his wealthy patron was generous with both money and time.
Academic institutions wanted him. Europe called. Triumphantly, he returned to London. He was no longer Muggeridge, the coal seller’s son, or Mirebridge, a name to span a bog, the split-headed, hollow man hiding in the colonies, but Muybridge, the scientist and artist. London praised him and he lectured to it. He had, of course, sent invitations to the surgeon, Gull, but never received a reply. He looked for him in the audience and at the countless receptions but was never rewarded with a sighting. He wanted to show the great man that he was healed, successful. The surgeon had seen deep into him; he had predicted the trouble when people became close; he may even have glimpsed the murder in that little whirling instrument of his, and the imbalance of their relationship made the photographer uncomfortable. He wanted to show Gull the man he had become.
One day, when picking up a new batch of specially made lenses from a workshop in Clerkenwell, his impulses led him across the Thames to the expanding hospital at London Bridge. The cab dropped him by the great iron gates and he quickly found a porter.
“Do you know if Dr. Gull still works here?” he asked.
“Sir William?” said the porter, and Muybridge was impressed, though not surprised: All men of excellence are eventually so rewarded. “He’s here today, sir. He’s lecturing up in the north theatre.”
He pointed the way and Muybridge rushed ahead, not wanting to miss the moment. He was out of breath by the time he got to the top of the long flights of stone stairs, jammed with students, who had flocked here from all over the world. The stairs narrowed and changed noisily to wood on the last flight, leading to a high door. He listened for a moment, then opened it quietly and slid in, his tall felt hat already in his hand.
He was at the back of a steep-sided anatomical theatre, its six-tiered auditorium tapering down towards the focused space at its centre. Each of the semicircular tiers was crowded with an attentive audience that stood and leaned forward, looking down towards the voice, which he recognised as Gull’s. He squeezed into the back row of students, who moved along to make a space for his dignified presence. Only an iron handrail stopped them all from tumbling forward like a collapsed wedding cake.
Gull had aged. He was heavier and squarer than Muybridge remembered, with a solid authority that was grounded in his sonorous and empathic voice. But perhaps all those qualities were merely accentuated by the creature that stood next to him. Muybridge had seen many human forms, but never one like this—certainly not alive. It was difficult to guess her age—he thought perhaps early to mid-twenties. She was the same height as the sturdy surgeon, but a mere quarter of his girth. She was naked; every bone showed under the surface of her pale, porcelain skin. She was a living skeleton. Not an ounce of fat existed anywhere on her fragile frame; her muscles must have been as thin as paper.
“Alice started her condition sixteen months ago, and she will continue until it reaches its obvious conclusion. Isn’t that right, Alice?” said Gull, turning to the waif at his side.
Alice nodded, and her huge eyes blinked in their dark sockets.
“Her condition, which I have recently identified, has never been properly recognised before now. Others like Alice have died without diagnosis. For the most part, they would not have been seen by a physician, and their families have assumed that they had been suffering from a wasting disease.
“Alice is typical of those thus inflicted, coming from the upper and middle classes. While the poor have the problem of finding enough food to survive, this is a sickness that stems from affluence. Starvation is, as we all know, a daily companion to the underclass that throng this vast city, but, gentlemen, this is not a disease of the body; it is an affliction of the mind. Alice chooses not to eat. Her mind holds a picture of herself that is the opposite of the truth; not simply a negative, but a physical, three-dimensional distortion of reality.”
He then filled in the case history and more detailed medical observations. Muybridge watched with growing fascination, finding the woman’s shrivelled starvation hypnotic at the end of the collapsed perspective of the room. He thought about building a camera like this, of photographing an entire flock, or herd, or harem of these withered beauties.
On the stairs outside, he waited for the last of the hungry students to leave the good doctor alone. Two would not let go and attached themselves to Gull’s every movement. He could wait no longer and stepped into the narrow space of focus that had previously displayed Alice. He hoped to be recognised, but Gull looked at him in a blank, friendly way. The student stopped talking and gave in to the strangeness of his agitated intrusion.
“Dr. Gull, eh, I mean Sir William, if I might have a moment?”
Gull, startled at his voice, looked closer. “Mister Mireburn?” he questioned.
“Yes! Muybridge!” the other answered energetically.
The doctor excused himself from the students and led him to an impressive suite of rooms, one much larger than the turret chamber Gull had previously occupied.
“How are you, sir?” Gull asked, indicating a seat.
“Oh, I’m well, thank you. I have done very well.”
“And your health?”
“Since last I saw you, I am greatly improved. I have had a few bouts of nerves, but I grow stronger each day. Your advice has held me in great stead.”
“Good, good,” Gull answered, not really knowing why this man, who now looked like a wild prophet, was here.
Muybridge saw this and responded.
“I have brought you some of my pictures by way of thanks.” He lifted the small portfolio by the side of his chair, untied the strings, and opened it out onto the massive desk.
“This is really very kind of you,” Gull said, seeming genuinely taken aback.
Muybridge had brought a collection of ten prints, five of which were of the wild places Gull had advised him to seek out all those years ago. He laid them out on the grand mahogany desk and stood back, allowing the doctor a clearer view.
Gull ignored the magnificent views of Yosemite Valley, the panoramas of San Francisco, the ice mountains of Alaska. He even ignored the running horse, Muybridge’s most famous work. Instead, he homed in on the four other, more diverse images, pushing the landscape masterworks aside to see them.
“What are these?” he murmured with obvious excitement. On the table lay a picture of an ancient sacrificial stone from his visit to Guatemala, a print of the Ghost Dance, and another, from the same time, of two medicine men of the Shoshone. The final image was his composite of Phases of the Eclipse of the Sun. Gull pored and clucked over them, wanting to know their exact history and meaning. It became obvious by his questions that he had not the faintest interest in Muybridge’s artistic talent or technical skill; he was interested only in the subject of the photographs. He drew the four images closer to him.
“May I keep these?” he asked.
“They are all for you,” answered the dispirited artist.
“Remarkable!” he said to himself. The doctor seemed to have forgotten Muybridge
completely. “Look at the intensity of those faces; such men could do anything!” he said, as if speaking to the photographs themselves. “Truly remarkable!”
“I wondered if my photographs might help your patients?” Muybridge said.
“What? Sorry, what did you say?”
“I only wondered, Sir William, if my photographs might be of help to your patients?”
“How?” Gull asked cautiously.
“If patients, like the one we saw today, had an actual image of themselves, then could they, perhaps, compare it to their misconceptions and find a treatment in the photograph’s truth?”
Gull thought for a moment. “It would not work. I tried giving them all mirrors; they don’t use them the way we do. A picture would be the same,” he said dismissively.
Muybridge was deflated by such an obvious comparison; surely his offer was worthy of a little more consideration?
“Have you heard what Charcot is doing in Paris?” Gull asked.
The name was familiar. He ran it through his memory, but Gull was oblivious to his ponderings and proceeded to tell him anyway.
“He is a clinical doctor, like me, good old solid anatomy, body mechanics. But, like me, he is moving into the machinery of the soul, the invisible stuff that doesn’t bleed and won’t be sewn, perhaps the true centre of malady and health. This year, he will open a new department to investigate that which cannot be seen: the hidden pulses of the body. I envy him that. We both have our private wards, but this is something altogether different. If I were twenty years younger, I, too, would throw away the bone saws and totally engage in the surgery of the mind.”
The Vorrh Page 14