by Jon Jacks
‘These are special circumstances,’ Doñas Delmestra reminded me with a pleasant grin. ‘Besides, I’ve been granted special permission by the council: if I can’t use my considerable contacts to aid my young ward in this most difficult of times, then what is the point of them?’
Naturally, I thanked Doñas Delmestra for his consideration, yet even so I couldn’t help but feel nervous about meeting the person whose face I would soon be sharing: what did she think of the forthcoming operation?
Surely she couldn’t resent the choice that had been made for her, my beauty being regularly recognised and commented upon by many of the young beaus who frequented the dances and soirees either organised or attended by the Delmestras. But who was to say that she didn’t, like many prospective Grotesgeous, bizarrely feel that we were stealing something from them, resulting in a wholly unnecessary and bitter resentment.
‘Don’t worry, my dear,’ Doñas Delmestra said, placing a reassuring hand over mine as we travelled in the carriage, perhaps having noted my apprehensiveness, ‘I assure you this won’t be anywhere near as bad as you fear it will be!’
A knowing smile appeared at the very edges of his lips, along with a mischievous sparkle in his eyes, as if there was an amusing secret he was aware of yet unwilling to share at this particular moment. Indeed, it soon dawned on me that we were heading not directly into town as I’d first presumed, but towards Señorat Holandros’s art studio.
Once again, Doñas Delmestra detected my unease and, unable to see me suffer so any longer, he divulged at last his secret.
‘We have a portrait of your newly intended,’ he admitted, reassuring me once again with hands placed tenderly upon mine. ‘And it reveals things about her that no illustration could ever hope to display!’
*
Had Señorat Holandros’s photograph captured the poor girl’s soul?
Was it this that was somehow keeping Pavro alive?
No no! What a ridiculous thought!
Parvo had been brought back to life before Courundia, my original intended, had run away. So, even if these glass plates of Señorat Holandros’s could indeed steal our very essence, it would have been too late to aid Pavro’s resurrection.
On Señorat Holandros’s walls, the portraits of the dead stare out at me accusingly, perhaps even mockingly; if this new process truly depended upon its ability to capture souls, then how had it managed to replicate the perfect likeness of these, whose souls had already been claimed by God?
And what, too, of the Gorgesque who had agreed to have their portraits displayed here? Would they willingly allow their souls to be taken from them? These, too, look out at me, sternly and proudly, sneering at my foolishness.
It’s all merely the capturing of light and shadow, chemically transformed to become permanent and solidified upon Señorat Holandros’s sheets of treated glass. There can’t be any capturing of souls involved, unless it’s Señorat Holandros’s soul that has been sold to the Devil, granting him in kind these dark skills.
Perhaps, therefore, each new picture draws upon that soul, taking its own sliver of being, the only way to bestow this sense of an unworldly life upon his portraits.
A couple upon the wall glare at me doubtfully, their hideous sides presented to each other, their gracious ones shining out upon the world.
*
The portrait of my intended displays no gracious side.
It is pure hideousness.
Far more hideous, even, than Courundia; or is that the glass plate I hold so delicately within my hands is an entirely truthful rendition, whereas the drawing of Courundia was merely an artist’s interpretation, dependent upon his own observations and skills?
I shudder involuntary.
As always, Doñas Delmestra is aware of and upset by my discomfort.
‘It is better, Andraetra, that you see this reality now: rather than be fooled by a foolish, inept artist, who can never prepare you for what you will awake to after your transference.’
I detect within his mournful tone a recollection of his own misery when he had first seen the result of his operation. Is that why he’s now working with Señorat Holandros? Does he see the photographer’s skills as a means to ensure everyone about to come of age is fully aware of what their change will entail?
‘It isn’t as terrible as you might presume, my dear,’ Doñas Delmestra adds kindly, ‘for your own bone structure, your own proud bearing, can make all the difference to what you make of their hideousness.’
‘Few people, Señorista, will be presented with such a truly terrible visage.’
Grindfarg, who had demurely presented me with the initially veiled plate, hangs his head miserably, as if empathising with my horror. I’m sure, however, that I detect the light of pure glee in his bulbous eyes, eyes as white as small waspnests.
‘It is, of course, because the Señorista is herself graced with such enviable beauty.’
He reaches over towards a nearby bench, where he had earlier placed another covered package.
‘I’ve witnessed for myself,’ he continues, picking up the package once more, ‘the unbelievable consoling power inherent within Señorat Holandros’s portraits: many remain eternally grateful to him for restoring a semblance of life to loved ones they’d believed entirely lost to them, forging a connection even with those who now lie at peace within the beyond.’
He hands me the package, taking from me the uncovered glass plate in exchange.
I carefully pull back one flap of the veiling cloth, seeing at first what appears to be nothing more than another – equally hideous, even though her face appears much smaller here – picture of my intended.
On pulling back the second flap, however, and revealing the whole picture, I find myself looking at a Gorgesque.
*
Chapter 13
For a brief, terrifying moment, I fear that I’m somehow looking at myself directly after the transference.
Even worse, I’m wearing a wedding dress, as if preparing for my marriage to Pavro.
Yet of course, it’s not me. Nor is it me as I’ll appear once I’m of age.
The clue lies within the wedding gown.
My intended has actually been combined with the picture of the dead girl I’d seen on my last visit here, the one posing as if she were taking part in her marriage ceremony.
‘This innovatory technique can serve as a way of showing us exactly what we will look like after our transference, Andraetra!’ Doñas Delmestra announces excitedly.
I shake my head in disbelief.
‘No, Doñas Delmestra: I will not appear like this, for this girl isn’t me, will never be me!’ I protest irately, throwing the glass plate to the floor, watching it shatter and splinter with unrestrained joy.
Grindfarg seems undisturbed by my destruction of the photographic image, rubbing his hands in what could only be a falsely humble manner.
‘It would be intended, in actual practice,’ he says, his voice somehow pleading and oily, while also being firm and brooking no disagreement, ‘that we use the images of both those taking part in the transference: the combination therefore being fully accurate!’
I glare at Doñas Delmestra in surprise. How could he associate himself with such a process, one that could in no way be described as legal or even wise.
‘I know what you mean to say, my dear,’ Doñas Delmestra says, unperturbed by either my fury or my rudeness. ‘But any plate displaying only an unblemished beauty would be almost instantly destroyed: and as for the combined images, how could anyone complain of a portrait of a Gorgesque?’
‘No one, I’m sure, would risk having their portrait taken!’ I insist huffily.
‘But – we already have a beautiful image of the Gorgesque Pavro!’ Señorat Holandros smugly announces, stepping into the room with yet another covered plate.
*
Chapter 14
I’m standing before a plush chaise longue, replicating the same rigid manner that my int
ended had taken when she too had been photographed.
Señorat Holandros has carefully arranged everything, including the way the light pours in through the large studio windows. To keep me steady, after warning me that any move will only blur the resultant image, he’s braced me within the grip of a metallic stand and its many arms and clasps.
This will be hidden on the final portrait, he assures me, veiled by my heavily layered dress and the various props he has set around me: a lampstand, drapes, pillows.
I’ve seen the Gorgesque Pavro.
His face was gruesome; yes, even his handsome side, as if it were uncontrollably blending with the ugliness.
It’s not, of course, the way I’m used to seeing him.
I should have resisted the urge to uncover the glass plate handed to me by the smirking, knowing Señorat Holandros.
For a brief moment, I thought I was about to hand it back to him with an imperious frown: yet I didn’t.
I pulled aside the veil.
Saw my Pavro as he will one day be.
A Gorgesque.
As I’d seen him as he will be on my wedding day, then I believe it only fair that I offer him the opportunity to view the Gorgesque Andraetra.
Of course, Pavro hadn't specifically posed for this portrayal of the future Gorgesque: he had already had his image captured, one proving his soul had left him, the other that it had been miraculously returned to him.
It was one of these pictures that had obviously been combined with a portrait of his own intended.
Nevertheless, I had now seen the Gorgesque Pavro. And he must see me too.
Besides, Doñas Delmestra had pleaded with me to accept the invite to have my portrait taken. This, he admitted ashamedly, was a part of the price negotiated to ensure Pavro’s resurrection; that he would endorse this new technique of Señorat Holandros’s, persuading the council to accept it as an important improvement of the usual transference procedure.
‘Think about it, please Andraetra!’ he had continued. ‘Can’t you really see the advantages of all this? Are you truly unaware of the shock you’ll suffer when you first catch sight of yourself in a mirror after the operation? Doñasta Delmestra was distraught, almost unable to speak, for months afterwards! If we’d had the chance to prepare ourselves in this way, we would have leapt at such an opportunity!’
Señorat Holandros had warned me to prepare for the brightness of the magnesium flash.
Yet when he lit it, it was like the exploding of a sun.
Or like the opening of the heavens and the acceptance of my soul.
*
Chapter 15
I’m blinded.
All I can see is that same bright light, as if the flare is continuing to blaze forever.
Fortunately, I’m not too startled by all this because I sense someone swiftly approaching me, offering me a guiding arm as I move away from the seat; guiding me, too, back towards where I vaguely remember entering the photographic workshop.
‘What’s happened, Señorat Holandros?’ Doñas Delmestra cries out from somewhere within that sheet of pure whiteness. ‘I can’t see anything!’
‘Far too much magnesium!’ Señorat Holandros apologises, a hint of fury in his voice. ‘I’m not sure how it happened!’
Grindfarg must be the one silently and rapidly leading me out of the studio!
I try to pull away, but the grip on my arm and around my waist is too strong.
‘Trust me!’ a girl’s voice urgently hisses close into my ear. ‘You’re in danger if you don’t come with me!’
*
The shock of hearing such an authoritative feminine voice makes me obey.
That, and the disquiet I’ve felt ever since I first entered Señorat Holandros’s studio.
I don’t even bother asking who she is, until I believe we’re out of the workshop, and I know that no one can hear me.
‘Who are you?’ I whisper, still unable to see anything, although now the odd hazy shape intrudes into the shock of whiteness.
She chuckles grimly.
‘Maybe you should regard it as a sort of elopement,’ she snorts, guiding me up into the waiting carriage.
My intended?
Am I being rescued? Or abducted?
*
Chapter 16
Whether she’s Courundia or my new intended, she’s certainly skilled at handling a team of horses.
The carriage is racing along the beaten track. She still manages to keep it firmly under control even when she directs it off the path, taking it across a wild patch of country.
At first, of course, I can only guess all this by the way the carriage violently rocks, but bit by bit, I regain my sight. My rescuer or abductor, whichever she is, is seated in the driver’s seat, using the whip sparingly yet expertly, letting it crack the air above the horses rather than across their backs.
After a while, she slews the carriage to an abrupt halt, leaping down with a remarkably impressive agility and helping me step out from the carriage.
It’s Courundia: even though the accuracy of the illustrations I’d received was lamentable, there was enough similarity for me to recognise her.
It makes sense, after all, for hadn’t I been told that she had fled, fearing the transference?
And yet here she was, standing alongside me anyway.
Which made me think it wasn’t me she’d run away from.
Not that she stands alongside me for more time than it takes to ensure I’m safely on the rocky ground. She deftly slips the carriage’s harnesses and shaft off the two horses, walking them clear.
Then, still without a word of explanation, she puts her shoulder to the front of the carriage, forcing the wheels into an edgy, resistant movement, at last saying to me, ‘You could give a hand, you know?’
‘Oh, sorry!’
I join her in pushing the carriage back, away from the patiently and bemusedly waiting horses. The carriage begins to move easily, effortlessly in fact, until I feel it pulling away from me as it begins to roll down a slight incline.
The slight incline becomes a sharp one, the carriage bucking crazily as it careers away from us, gathering speed, pieces of it now splintering off.
Then it tips over the edge of a cliff, vanishing completely from view with a final groan of cracking wood.
Somehow, I sense it’s a metaphor for an abrupt and precipitous change in my life.
Damn!
*
Courundia has given me her wide-brimmed hat, ‘to keep the sun off that pretty face.’
It even comes with a half veil, leading me to suspect it wasn’t originally hers.
Oh, and it would probably cost a year’s earnings of the most professional of workers too.
She says she’ll get me some new clothes too, ones more suited to the new life I’ve been thrown into. Ones to replace the dress she cut away and tore, using it as padding to create a reasonably comfortable saddle for me, albeit one that ‘you have to ride like a man; not like some precocious lady expecting to ride side-saddle!’
I’ve never met anyone so adept at anything she turns her hands to. Never met anyone so confident in her abilities, either.
And yet – she’s so ugly!
How can anyone who looks like Courundia have any confidence at all?
‘Are you sure I was in danger back there?’ I demand, not a little petulantly I must admit.
I’m hot, thirsty, uncomfortable.
I’ve no idea what the route home is, but we seem to be drawing farther away from the plantations rather than heading towards them. The fields of tall-stalked sugarcane, the weary black figures moving amongst them, lie far below us as we ride across apparently endless stony hills.
‘I mean,’ I say, elaborating on my point, ‘if I really had been in any danger, Doñas Delmestra would have made sure I didn’t come to any harm; I am about to marry his son, after all!’
‘Ah, that’ll be the son who died: Pavro? But not to worry: for he came bac
k to life too, didn’t he?’
‘You know?’
‘I know; and I also know he’s not the Pavro you know!’
‘How could you possibly know that?’ I respond bitterly. ‘I’ve known…known him in far more ways than you can imagine!’
She ignores the rage of my reply, her own response being calm and measured
‘How do you think he was “revived”?’
‘A…a miracle?’
She chuckles mockingly.
‘And so,’ she says, ‘I suppose you must think of the transference as being a “miracle” too? I mean, has anyone ever really explained how such an amazing feat is possible? Taking someone’s God given beauty – such as yours – and matching it with God’s curse – such as mine!’
Her already disfigured face creases into a bitter grimace.
‘We do it for the benefit of such as yourself; by God’s good grace!’ I say assuredly.
‘Ah, so you were looking forward to it, were you? Sharing my face?’
‘Well…it’s…it’s by order of the creed–’
‘Ah yes, the creed! Of course! How stupid of me!’
She whirls on me within her makeshift saddle, her face now all the more contorted with anger.
‘And where do I, where do people like me, fit into this creed, do you think?’ she sneers.
‘But you’re receivers of beauty, not–’
‘Not granters of your good grace? Is that it? That’s what you’re going to tell me? Hasn’t it ever dawned on people like you that, just maybe, we don’t look forward to the transference either? I know; I’m hideous, with my God given ugliness. But it’s me!’
‘I think you should take me back now.’
I speak bluntly, as authoritatively as I can manage.
‘Didn’t you hear me, or didn’t you believe me?’ she asks calmly. ‘Pavro isn’t Pavro!’
‘Who is he then? If you mean you think there’s been some kind of body swap, then I can assure you he–’
‘It’s his body: it’s just not your Pavro!’