有无人知道哪里有卖这种材料？# EE - 电子工程
T*1
1 楼
J1明年3月到期，已申请waiver,现在有一个H1机会，可以给办加急，15天那种。
请教大侠，
如果H1批下来了，我可以马上以H1身份工作吗，还是必须到明年3月J1结束后才能换成
H1？
总不能同时拥有J1和H1两个身份吧？
请教大侠，
如果H1批下来了，我可以马上以H1身份工作吗，还是必须到明年3月J1结束后才能换成
H1？
总不能同时拥有J1和H1两个身份吧？
s*o
2 楼
现在OPT。 在一家公司上班。明年4月办H1。想邀请父母来参加明年6月的毕业典礼。准
备2月去签证。
1）要提起已经上班了吗？要提供工资单之类的吗？
2）想请姐姐也一起来，带着2岁的小侄女。小孩的签证怎么申请？
万分感谢大家提供信息！
备2月去签证。
1）要提起已经上班了吗？要提供工资单之类的吗？
2）想请姐姐也一起来，带着2岁的小侄女。小孩的签证怎么申请？
万分感谢大家提供信息！
c*t
3 楼
THE PACIFIC JOURNAL OF ADAM EWING
Thursday, 7th November—
Beyond the Indian hamlet, upon a forlorn strand, I happened on a trail of
recent footprints.
Through rotting kelp, sea cocoa-nuts & bamboo, the tracks led me to their
maker, a White man,
his trow-zers & Pea-jacket rolled up, sporting a kempt beard & an outsized
Beaver, shoveling
& sifting the cindery sand with a teaspoon so intently that he noticed me
only after I had hailed
him from ten yards away. Thus it was, I made the acquaintance of Dr. Henry
Goose, surgeon
to the London nobility. His nationality was no surprise. If there be any
eyrie so desolate, or isle
so remote, that one may there resort unchallenged by an Englishman, ’tis
not down on any map
I ever saw.
Had the doctor misplaced anything on that dismal shore? Could I render
assistance? Dr. Goose
shook his head, knotted loose his ’kerchief & displayed its contents with
clear pride. “Teeth,
sir, are the enameled grails of the quest in hand. In days gone by this
Arcadian strand was a
cannibals’ banqueting hall, yes, where the strong engorged themselves on
the weak. The teeth,
they spat out, as you or I would expel cherry stones. But these base molars,
sir, shall be
transmuted to gold & how? An artisan of Piccadilly who fashions denture sets
for the nobility
pays handsomely for human gnashers. Do you know the price a quarter pound
will earn, sir?”
I confessed I did not.
“Nor shall I enlighten you, sir, for ’tis a professional secret!” He
tapped his nose. “Mr. Ewing,
are you acquainted with Marchioness Grace of Mayfair? No? The better for you
, for she is a
corpse in petticoats. Five years have passed since this harridan besmirched
my name, yes, with
imputations that resulted in my being blackballed from Society” Dr. Goose
looked out to sea.
“My peregrinations began in that dark hour.”
I expressed sympathy with the doctor’s plight.
“I thank you, sir, I thank you, but these ivories”—he shook his ’
kerchief—“are my angels of
redemption. Permit me to elucidate. The Marchioness wears dental fixtures
fashioned by the
aforementioned doctor. Next yuletide, just as that scented She-Donkey is
addressing her
Ambassadors’ Ball, I, Henry Goose, yes, I shall arise & declare to one &
all that our hostess
masticates with cannibals’ gnashers! Sir Hubert will challenge me,
predictably, ‘Furnish your
evidence,’ that boor shall roar, ‘or grant me satisfaction!’ I shall
declare, ‘Evidence, Sir Hubert?
Why, I gathered your mother’s teeth myselffrom the spittoon of the South
Pacific! Here, sir,
here are some of their fellows!’ & fling these very teeth into her
tortoiseshell soup tureen &
that, sir, that will grant me my satisfaction! The twittering wits will
scald the icy Marchioness in
their news sheets & by next season she shall be fortunate to receive an
invitation to a
Poorhouse Ball!”
In haste, I bade Henry Goose a good day. I fancy he is a Bedlamite.
Friday, 8th November—
In the rude shipyard beneath my window, work progresses on the jibboom,
under Mr. Sykes’s
directorship. Mr. Walker, Ocean Bay’s sole taverner, is also its principal
timber merchant & he
brags of his years as a master shipbuilder in Liverpool. (I am now versed
enough in
Antipodese etiquette to let such unlikely truths lie.) Mr. Sykes told me an
entire week is needed
to render the Prophetess “Bristol fashion.” Seven days holed up in the
Musket seems a grim
sentence, yet I recall the fangs of the banshee tempest & the mariners lost
o’erboard & my
present misfortune feels less acute.
I met Dr. Goose on the stairs this morning & we took breakfast together. He
has lodged at the
Musket since middle October after voyaging hither on a Brazilian merchantman
, Namorados,
from Fee-jee, where he practiced his arts in a mission. Now the doctor
awaits a long-overdue
Australian sealer, the Nellie, to convey him to Sydney. From the colony he
will seek a position
aboard a passenger ship for his native London.
My judgment of Dr. Goose was unjust & premature. One must be cynical as
Diogenes to
prosper in my profession, but cynicism can blind one to subtler virtues. The
doctor has his
eccentricities & recounts them gladly for a dram of Portuguese pisco (never
to excess), but I
vouchsafe he is the only other gentleman on this latitude east of Sydney &
west of Valparaiso.
I may even compose for him a letter of introduction for the Partridges in
Sydney, for Dr.
Goose & dear Fred are of the same cloth.
Poor weather precluding my morning outing, we yarned by the peat fire & the
hours sped by
like minutes. I spoke at length of Tilda & Jackson & also my fears of “gold
fever” in San
Francisco. Our conversation then voyaged from my hometown to my recent
notarial duties in
New South Wales, thence to Gibbon, Malthus & Godwin via Leeches &
Locomotives.
Attentive conversation is an emollient I lack sorely aboard the Prophetess &
the doctor is a
veritable polymath. Moreover, he possesses a handsome army of scrimshandered
chessmen
whom we shall keep busy until either the Prophetess’s departure or the
Nellie’s arrival.
Saturday, 9th November—
Sunrise bright as a silver dollar. Our schooner still looks a woeful picture
out in the Bay. An
Indian war canoe is being careened on the shore. Henry & I struck out for “
Banqueter’s Beach”
in holy-day mood, blithely saluting the maid who labors for Mr. Walker. The
sullen miss was
hanging laundry on a shrub & ignored us. She has a tinge of black blood & I
fancy her mother
is not far removed from the jungle breed.
As we passed below the Indian hamlet, a “humming” aroused our curiosity &
we resolved to
locate its source. The settlement is circumvallated by a stake fence, so
decayed that one may
gain ingress at a dozen places. A hairless bitch raised her head, but she
was toothless & dying
& did not bark. An outer ring of ponga huts (fashioned from branches,
earthen walls & matted
ceilings) groveled in the lees of “grandee” dwellings, wooden structures
with carved lintel
pieces & rudimentary porches. In the hub of this village, a public flogging
was under way.
Henry & I were the only two Whites present, but three castes of spectating
Indians were demarked.
The chieftain occupied his throne, in a feathered cloak, while the tattooed
gentry &
their womenfolk & children stood in attendance, numbering some thirty in
total. The slaves,
duskier & sootier than their nut-brown masters & less than half their number
, squatted in the
mud. Such inbred, bovine torpor! Pockmarked & pustular with haki-haki, these
wretches
watched the punishment, making no response but that bizarre, beelike “hum.
” Empathy or
condemnation, we knew not what the noise signified. The whip master was a
Goliath whose
physique would daunt any frontier prizefighter. Lizards mighty & small were
tattooed over
every inch of the savage’s musculature:—his pelt would fetch a fine price,
though I should not
be the man assigned to relieve him of it for all the pearls of O-hawaii! The
piteous prisoner,
hoarfrosted with many harsh years, was bound naked to an A-frame. His body
shuddered with
each excoriating lash, his back was a vellum of bloody runes, but his
insensible face bespoke
the serenity of a martyr already in the care of the Lord.
I confess, I swooned under each fall of the lash. Then a peculiar thing
occurred. The beaten
savage raised his slumped head, found my eye & shone me a look of uncanny,
amicable
knowing! As if a theatrical performer saw a long-lost friend in the Royal
Box and, undetected
by the audience, communicated his recognition. A tattooed “blackfella”
approached us &
flicked his nephrite dagger to indicate that we were unwelcome. I inquired
after the nature of
the prisoner’s crime. Henry put his arm around me. “Come, Adam, a wise man
does not step
betwixt the beast & his meat.”
Sunday, 10th November—
Mr. Boerhaave sat amidst his cabal of trusted ruffians like Lord Anaconda &
his garter snakes.
Their Sabbath “celebrations” downstairs had begun ere I had risen. I went
in search of shaving
water & found the tavern swilling with Tars awaiting their turn with those
poor Indian girls
whom Walker has ensnared in an impromptu bordello. (Rafael was not in the
debauchers’
number.)
I do not break my Sabbath fast in a whorehouse. Henry’s sense of repulsion
equaled to my
own, so we forfeited breakfast (the maid was doubtless being pressed into
alternative service)
& set out for the chapel to worship with our fasts unbroken.
We had not gone two hundred yards when, to my consternation, I remembered
this journal,
lying on the table in my room at the Musket, visible to any drunken sailor
who might break in.
Fearful for its safety (& my own, were Mr. Boerhaave to get his hands on it)
, I retraced my
steps to conceal it more artfully Broad smirks greeted my return & I assumed
I was “the devil
being spoken of,” but I learned the true reason when I opened my door:—to
wit, Mr.
Boerhaave’s ursine buttocks astraddle his Blackamoor Goldilocks in my bed
in flagrante
delicto! Did that devil Dutchman apologize? Far from it! He judged himself
‘the injured party &
roared, “Get ye hence, Mr. Quillcock! or by God’s B——d, I shall snap
your tricksy Yankee
nib in two!”
I snatched my diary & clattered downstairs to a riotocracy of merriment &
ridicule from the
White savages there gathered. I remonstrated to Walker that I was paying for
a private room &
I expected it to remain private even during my absence, but that scoundrel
merely offered a onethird
discount on “a quarter-hour’s gallop on the comeliest filly in my stable!
” Disgusted, I
retorted that I was a husband & a father! & that I should rather die than
abase my dignity &
decency with any of his poxed whores! Walker swore to “decorate my eyes”
if I called his own
dear daughters “whores” again. One toothless garter snake jeered that if
possessing a wife & a
child was a single virtue, “Why Mr. Ewing, I be ten times more virtuous
than you be!” & an
unseen hand emptied a tankard of sheog over my person. I withdrew ere the
liquid was
swapped for a more obdurate missile.
The chapel bell was summoning the God-fearing of Ocean Bay & I hurried
thitherwards,
where Henry waited, trying to forget the recent foulnesses witnessed at my
lodgings. The
chapel creaked like an old tub & its congregation numbered little more than
the digits of two
hands, but no traveler ever quenched his thirst at a desert oasis more
thankfully than Henry & I
gave worship this morning. The Lutheran founder has lain at rest in his
chapel’s cemetery these
ten winters past & no ordained successor has yet ventured to claim captaincy
of the altar. Its
denomination, therefore, is a “rattle bag” of Christian creeds. Biblical
passages were read by
that half of the congregation who know their letters & we joined in a hymn
or two nominated
by rota. The “steward” of this demotic flock, one Mr. D’Arnoq, stood
beneath the modest
cruciform & besought Henry & me to participate in likewise manner. Mindful
of my own
salvation from last week’s tempest, I nominated Luke ch. 8, “And they came
to him, & awoke
him, saying, Master, master, we perish. Then he arose, & rebuked the wind &
the raging of the
water: & they ceased, & there was a calm.”
Henry recited from Psalm the Eighth, in a voice as sonorous as any schooled
dramatist: “Thou
madest him to have dominion over the works of thy hands; thou has put all
things under his
feet: all sheep & oxen, yea & the beasts of the field; the fowl of the air &
the fish of the sea &
whatsoever passeth through the paths of the seas.”
No organist played a Magnificat but the wind in the flue chimney, no choir
sang a Nunc
Dimittis but the wuthering gulls, yet I fancy the Creator was not displeazed
. We resembled
more the Early Christians of Rome than any later Church encrusted with
arcana & gem-stones.
Communal prayer followed. Parishioners prayed ad lib for the eradication of
potato blight,
mercy on a dead infant’s soul, blessing upon a new fishing boat, &c. Henry
gave thanks for the
hospitality shown us visitors by the Christians of Chatham Isle. I echoed
these sentiments &
sent a prayer for Tilda, Jackson & my father-in-law during my extended
absence.
After the service, the doctor & I were approached most cordially by an elder
“mainmast” of that
chapel, one Mr. Evans, who introduced Henry & me to his good wife (both
circumvented the
handicap of deafness by answering only those questions they believed had
been asked &
accepting only those answers they believed had been uttered—a stratagem
embraced by many
an American advocate) & their twin sons, Keegan & Dyfedd. Mr. Evans made it
known that
every week he had the custom of inviting Mr. DArnoq, our Preacher, to dine
at their nearby
home, for the latter dwells in Port Hutt, a promontory some miles distant.
Would we, too, join
their Sabbath Meal? Having already informed Henry of that Gomorrah back at
the Musket &
hearing cries of “Mutiny!” from our stomachs, we accepted the Evanses’
kindness with
gratitude.
Our hosts’ farmstead, seated half a mile from Ocean Bay up a winding,
blustery valley, proved
to be a frugal building, but proof against those hell-bent storms that break
the bones of so many
hapless vessels upon nearby reefs. The parlor was inhabited by a monstrous
hog’s head
(afflicted with droop-jaw & lazy-eye), killed by the twins on their
sixteenth birthday, & a
somnambulant Grandfather clock (at odds with my own pocket watch by a margin
of hours.
Indeed, one valued import from New Zealand is the accurate time). An Indian
farmhand peered
through the windowpane at his master’s visitors. No more tatterdemalion a
renegado I ever
beheld, but Mr. Evans swore the quadroon, Barnabas, was “the fleetest
sheepdog who ever ran
upon two legs.” Keegan & Dyfedd are honest woolly fellows, versed
principally in the ways of
sheep (the family own two hundred head), for neither has gone to “Town” (
the islanders thus
appellate New Zealand) nor undergone any schooling save Scripture lessons
from their father,
by dint of which they have learnt to read & write tolerably well.
Mrs. Evans said grace & I enjoyed my most pleasant repast (untainted by salt
, maggots &
oaths) since my farewell dinner with Consul Bax & the Partridges at the
Beaumont. Mr.
D’Arnoq told us tales of ships he has supplied during his ten-year on
Chatham Isle, while
Henry amused us with stories of patients, both illustrious & humble, he has
benefacted in
London & Polynesia. For my part I described the many hardships overcome by
this American
notary in order to locate the Australian beneficiary of a will executed in
California. We washed
down our mutton stew & apple dumpling with small ale brewed by Mr. Evans for
trading with
whalers. Kee-gan & Dyfedd left to attend to their livestock & Mrs. Evans
retired to her kitchen
duties. Henry asked if missionaries were now active on the Chathams, at
which Mr. Evans &
Mr. DArnoq exchanged looks & the former informed us, “Nay, the Maori don’t
take kindly to
us Pakeha spoiling their Moriori with too much civilization.”
I questioned if such an ill as “too much civilization” existed or no? Mr.
DArnoq told me, “If
there is no God west of the Horn, why there’s none of your constitution’s
All men created
equal, neither, Mr. Ewing.” The nomenclatures Maori & Pakeha I knew from
the Prophetess’s
sojourn at the Bay of Islands, but I begged to know who or what Moriori
might signify. My
query unlocked a Pandora’s Box of history, detailing the decline & fall of
the Aboriginals of
Chatham. We lit our pipes. Mr. DArnoq’s narrative was unbroken three hours
later when he
had to depart for Port Hutt ere nightfall obscured the dykey way His spoken
history, for my
money, holds company with the pen of a Defoe or Melville & I shall record it
in these pages,
after, Morpheus willing, a sound sleep.
Monday, 11th November-
Dawn sticky & sunless. The Bay has a slimy appearance, but the weather is
mild enough to
allow repairs to continue on the Prophetess, I thank Neptune. A new mizzen-
top is being
hoisted into position as I write.
A short time past, while Henry & I breakfasted, Mr. Evans arrived hugger-
mugger,
importuning my doctor friend to attend to a reclusive neighbor, one Widow
Bryden, who was
thrown from her horse on a stony bog. Mrs. Evans was in attendance and fears
that the widow
lies in peril of her life. Henry fetched his doctor’s case & left without
delay (I offered to come,
but Mr. Evans begged my forbearance, as the patient had extracted a promise
that none but a
doctor should see her incapacitated.) Walker, overhearing these transactions
, told me no
member of the male sex had crossed the widow’s threshold these twenty years
& decided that
“the frigid old sow must be on her last trotters if she’s letting Dr.
Quack frisk her.”
The origins of the Moriori of Rekohu (the native moniker for the Chathams)
remain a mystery
to this day Mr. Evans evinces the belief they are descended from Jews
expelled from Spain,
citing their hooked noses & sneering lips. Mr. DArnoq’s preferred theorum,
that the Moriori
were once Maori whose canoes were wrecked upon these remotest of isles, is
founded on
similarities of tongue & mythology & thereby possesses a higher carat of
logic. What is certain
is that, after centuries or millennia of living in isolation, the Moriori
lived as primitive a life as
their woebegone cousins of Van Diemen’s Land. Arts of boatbuilding (beyond
crude woven
rafts used to cross the channels betwixt islands) & navigation fell into
disuse. That the
terraqueous globe held other lands, trod by other feet, the Moriori dreamt
not. Indeed, their
language lacks a word for “race” & “Moriori” means, simply, “People.”
Husbandry was not
practiced, for no mammals walked these isles until passing whalers willfully
marooned pigs
here to propagate a parlor. In their virgin state, the Moriori were foragers
, picking up paua
shellfish, diving for crayfish, plundering bird eggs, spearing seals,
gathering kelp & digging
for grubs & roots.
Thus far, the Moriori were but a local variant of most flaxen-skirted,
feather-cloaked heathens
of those dwindling “blind spots” of the ocean still unschooled by the
White Man. Old
Rekohu’s claim to singularity, however, lay in its unique pacific creed.
Since time immemorial,
the Moriori’s priestly caste dictated that whosoever spilt a man’s blood
killed his own mana—
his honor, his worth, his standing & his soul. No Moriori would shelter,
feed, converse with,
or even see the persona non grata. If the ostracized murderer survived his
first winter, the
desperation of solitude usually drove him to a blowhole on Cape Young, where
he took his
life.
Consider this, Mr. D’Arnoq urged us. Two thousand savages (Mr. Evans’s
best guess)
enshrine “Thou Shalt Not Kill” in word & in deed & frame an oral “Magna
Carta” to create a
harmony unknown elsewhere for the sixty centuries since Adam tasted the
fruit of the Tree of
Knowledge. War was as alien a concept to the Moriori as the telescope is to
the Pygmy. Peace,
not a hiatus betwixt wars but millennia of imperishable peace, rules these
far-flung islands.
Who can deny Old Rekohu lay closer to More’s Utopia than our States of
Progress governed
by war-hungry princelings in Versailles & Vienna, Washington & Westminster?
“Here,”
declaimed Mr. D’Arnoq, “and here only, were those elusive phantasms, the
noble savages,
framed in flesh & blood!” (Henry, as we later made our way back to the
Musket, confessed, “I
could never describe a race of savages too backwards to throw a spear
straight as ‘noble.’ ”)
Glass & peace alike betray proof of fragility under repeated blows. The
first blow to the
Moriori was the Union Jack, planted in Skirmish Bay’s sod in the name of
King George by
Lieutenant Broughton of HMS Chatham just fifty years ago. Three years later,
Broughton’s
discovery was in Sydney & London chart agents & a scattering of free
settlers (whose number
included Mr. Evans’s father), wrecked mariners & “convicts at odds with
the New South
Wales Colonial Office over the terms of their incarceration” were
cultivating pumpkins, onions,
maize & carrots. These they sold to needy sealers, the second blow to the
Moriori’s
independence, who disappointed the Natives’ hopes of prosperity by turning
the surf pink with
seals’ blood. (Mr. D’Arnoq illustrated the profits by this arithmetic—a
single pelt fetched 15
shillings in Canton & those pioneer sealers gathered over two thousand pelts
per boat!) Within
a few years the seals were found only on the outer rocks & the “sealers”
too turned to farming
potatoes, sheep & pig rearing on such a scale that the Chathams are now
dubbed “The Garden
of the Pacific.” These parvenu farmers clear the land by bushfires that
smolder beneath the peat
for many seasons, surfacing in dry spells to sow renewed calamity
The third blow to the Moriori was the whalers, now calling at Ocean Bay,
Waitangi, Owenga
& Te Whakaru in sizable numbers for careening, refitting & refreshing.
Whalers’ cats & rats
bred like the Plagues of Egypt & ate the burrow-nesting birds whose eggs the
Moriori so
valued for sustenance. Fourth, those motley maladies which cull the darker
races whene’er
White civilization draws near, sapped the Aboriginal census still further.
All these misfortunes the Moriori might have endured, however, were it not
for reports arriving
in New Zealand depicting the Chathams as a veritable Canaan of eel-stuffed
lagoons, shellfishcarpeted
coves & inhabitants who understand neither combat nor weapons. To the ears
of the
Ngati Tama & Ngati Mutunga, two clans of the Taranaki Te Ati Awa Maori (
Maori genealogy
is, Mr. D’Arnoq assures us, every twig as intricate as those genealogical
trees so revered by
the European gentry; indeed, any boy of that unlettered race can recall his
grandfather’s
grandfather’s name & “rank” in a trice), these rumors promised
compensation for the tracts of
their ancestral estates lost during the recent “Musket Wars.” Spies were
sent to test the
Moriori’s mettle by violating tapu & despoiling holy sites. These
provocations the Moriori
faced as our Lord importuned, by “turning the other cheek,” & the
transgressors returned to
New Zealand confirming the Moriori’s apparent pusillanimity The tattooed
Maori
conquistadores found their single-barked armada in Captain Harewood of the
brig Rodney who
in the dying months of 1835, agreed to transport nine hundred Maori & seven
war canoes in
two voyages, in guerno for seed potatoes, firearms, pigs, a great supply of
scraped flax & a
cannon. (Mr. D’Arnoq encountered Harewood five years ago, penurious in a
Bay of Islands
tavern. He at first denied being the Rodney’s Harewood, then swore he had
been coerced into
conveying the Blacks, but was unclear how this coercion had been worked upon
him.)
The Rodney embarked from Port Nicholas in November, but its heathen cargo of
five hundred
men, women & children, packed tight in the hold for the six-day voyage,
bilged in ordure &
seasickness & lacking the barest sufficiency of water, anchored at
Whangatete Inlet in such an
enfeebled state that, had they but the will, even the Moriori might have
slain their Martial
brethren. The Goodly Samaritans chose instead to share the diminished
abundance of Rekohu
in preference to destroying their mana by bloodletting & nursed the sick &
dying Maori back
to health. “Maori had come to Rekohu before,” Mr. D’Arnoq explained, “
yet gone away again,
so the Moriori assumed the colonists would likewise leave them in peace.”
The Moriori’s generosity was rewarded when Cpt. Harewood returned from New
Zealand
with another four hundred Maori. Now the strangers proceeded to lay claim to
Chatham by
takahi, a Maori ritual transliterated as “Walking the Land to Possess the
Land.” Old Rekohu
was thus partitioned & the Moriori informed they were now Maori vassals. In
early December,
when some dozen Aboriginals protested, they were casually slain with
tomahawks. The Maori
proved themselves apt pupils of the English in “the dark arts of
colonization.”
Chatham Isle encloses a vast eastern salt marsh lagoon, Te Whanga, very
nearly an inland sea
but fecundated by the ocean at high tide through the lagoon’s “lips” at
Te Awapatiki. Fourteen
years ago, the Moriori men held on that sacred ground a parliament. Three
days it lasted, its
object to settle this question: Would the spillage of Maori blood also
destroy one’s mana?
Younger men argued the creed of Peace did not encompass foreign cannibals of
whom their
ancestors knew nothing. The Moriori must kill or be killed. Elders urged
appeasement, for as
long as the Moriori preserved their mana with their land, their gods &
ancestors would deliver
the race from harm. “Embrace your enemy,” the elders urged, “to prevent
him striking
you.” (“Embrace your enemy” Henry quipped, “to feel his dagger tickle
your kidneys.”)
The elders won the day but it mattered little. “When lacking numerical
superiority” Mr.
D’Arnoq told us, “the Maori seize an advantage by striking first & hardest
, as many hapless
British & French can testify from their graves.” The Ngati Tama & Ngati
Mutunga had held
councils of their own. The Moriori menfolk returned from their parliament to
ambushes & a
night of infamy beyond nightmare, of butchery, of villages torched, of
rapine, of men &
women, impaled in rows on beaches, of children hiding in holes, scented &
dismembered by
hunting dogs. Some chiefs kept an eye to the morrow & slew only enough to
instill terrified
obedience in the remainder. Other chiefs were not so restrained. On Waitangi
Beach fifty
Moriori were beheaded, filleted, wrapped in flax leaves, then baked in a
giant earth oven with
yams & sweet potatoes. Not half those Moriori who had seen Old Rekohu’s
last sunset were
alive to see the Maori sun rise. (“Less than an hundred pure-blooded
Moriori now remain,”
mourned Mr. D’Arnoq. “On paper the British Crown freed these from the yoke
of slavery
years ago, but the Maori do not care for paper. We are one week’s sail from
the Governor’s
House & Her Majesty maintains no garrison on Chatham.”)
I asked, why had not the Whites stayed the hands of the Maori during the
massacre?
Mr. Evans was no longer sleeping & not half so deaf as I had fancied. “Have
you ever seen
Maori warriors in a blood frenzy, Mr. Ewing?”
I said I had not.
“But you have seen sharks in a blood frenzy, have you not?”
I replied that I had.
“Near enough. Imagine a bleeding calf is thrashing in shark-infested
shallows. What to do—
stay out of the water or try to stay the jaws of the sharks? Such was our
choice. Oh, we helped
the few that came to our door—our shepherd Barnabas was one—but if we
stepped out in that
night we’d not be seen again. Remember, we Whites numbered below fifty in
Chatham at that
time. Nine hundred Maoris, altogether. Maoris bide by Pakeha, Mr. Ewing, but
they despise
us. Never forget it.”
What moral to draw? Peace, though beloved of our Lord, is a cardinal virtue
only if your
neighbors share your conscience.
Night—
The name of Mr. D’Arnoq is not well-loved in the Musket. “A White Black, a
mixed-blood
mongrel of a man,” Walker told me. “Nobody knows what he is.” Suggs, a
one-armed
shepherd who lives under the bar, swore our acquaintance is a Bonapartist
general hiding here
under assumed colors. Another swore he was a Polack.
Nor is the word Moriori much loved. A drunken Maori mulatto told me that the
entire history
of the Aboriginals had been dreamt up by the “mad old Lutheran” & Mr.
DArnoq preaches his
Moriori gospel only to legitimize his own swindling land claims against the
Maori, the true
owners of Chatham, who have been coming to & fro in their canoes since time
immemorial!
James Coffee, a hog farmer, said the Maori had performed the White Man a
service by
exterminating another race of brutes to make space for us, adding that
Russians train Kossacks
to “soften Siberian hides” in a similar way
I protested, to civilize the Black races by conversion should be our mission
, not their
extirpation, for God’s hand had crafted them, too. All hands in the tavern
fired broadsides at
me for my “sentimental Yankee claptrap!” “The best of ’em is not too
good to die like a pig!”
one shouted. “The only gospel the Blacks savvy is the gospel of the d——d
whip!” Still
another: “We Britishers abolished slavery in our empire—no American can
say as much!”
Henry’s stance was ambivalent, to say the least. “After years of working
with missionaries, I
am tempted to conclude that their endeavors merely prolong a dying race’s
agonies for ten or
twenty years. The merciful plowman shoots a trusty horse grown too old for
service. As
philanthropists, might it not be our duty to likewise ameliorate the savages
’ sufferings by
hastening their extinction? Think on your Red Indians, Adam, think on the
treaties you
Americans abrogate & renege on, time & time & time again. More humane,
surely & more
honest, just to knock the savages on the head & get it over with?”
As many truths as men. Occasionally, I glimpse a truer Truth, hiding in
imperfect simulacrums
of itself, but as I approach, it bestirs itself & moves deeper into the
thorny swamp of dissent.
Tuesday, 12th November—
Our noble Cpt. Molyneux today graced the Musket to haggle over the price of
five barrels of
salt-horse with my landlord (the matter was settled by a rowdy game of
trentuno won by the
captain). Much to my surprise, ere he returned to inspect the progress in
the shipyard, Cpt.
Molyneux requested some confidential words with Henry in my companion’s
room. The
consultation continues as I write. My friend has been warned of the captain
’s despotism, but
still, I do not like it.
Later—
Cpt. Molyneux, it transpires, suffers from a medical complaint which, if
untreated, may impair
those divers skills demanded of his station. The captain has therefore
proposed to Henry that
my friend voyage with us to Honolulu (victualing & private berth gratis),
assuming the
responsibilities both of Ship’s Doctor & personal physician to Cpt.
Molyneux until our arrival.
My friend explained he had intended to return to London, but Cpt. Molyneux
was most
insistent. Henry promised to think the matter over & come to a decision by
Friday morning, the
day now set for the Prophetess’s departure.
Henry did not name the captain’s illness, nor did I ask, though one needs
not be an
Aesculapian to glean Cpt. Molyneux is a slave to gout. My friend’s
discretion does him much
credit. Whatever eccentricities Henry Goose may exhibit as a collector of
curios, I believe Dr.
Goose is an exemplary healer & it is my zealous, if self-serving, hope that
Henry returns a
favorable answer to the captain’s proposal.
Wednesday, 13th November—
I come to my journal as a Catholick to a confessor. My bruises insist these
extraordinary past
five hours were not a sickbed vision conjured by my Ailment, but real events
. I shall describe
what befell me this day, steering as close to the facts as is possible.
This morning, Henry paid Widow Bryden’s hut another call to adjust her
splint & reapply
poultice. Rather than submit to idleness, I resolved to scale a high hill to
the north of Ocean
Bay, known as Conical Tor, whose lofty elevation promises the best aspect of
Chatham Isle’s
“backcountry” (Henry, a man of maturer years, has too much sense to tramp
unsurveyed
islands peopled by cannibals.) The tired creek who waters Ocean Bay guided
me upstream
through marshy pastures, stump-pocked slopes, into virgin forest so rotted,
knotted & tangled,
I was obliged to clamber aloft like an orang-utan! A volley of hailstones
began abruptly, filled
the woods with a frenzied percussion & ended on the sudden. I spied a “
Robin Black-Breast”
whose plumage was tarry as night & whose tameness bordered on contempt. An
unseen tui
took to song, but my inflamed fancy awarded it powers of human speech:—“
Eye for an eye!” it
called ahead, flitting through its labyrinth of buds, twigs & thorns. “Eye
for an eye!” After a
grueling climb, I conquered the summit grievously torn & scratched at I know
not What
o’Clock, for I neglected to wind my pocket watch last night. The opaque
mists that haunt these
isles (the Aboriginal name Rekohu, Mr. D’Arnoq informs us, signifies “Sun
of Mists”) had
descended as I ascended, so my cherished panorama was naught but treetops
disappearing into
drizzle. A miserly reward for my exertions, indeed.
The “summit” of Conical Tor was a crater, a stone’s throw in diameter,
encircling a crag-walled
depression whose floor lay unseen far beneath the funereal foliage of a
gross or more kopi
trees. I should not have cared to investigate its depths without the aid of
ropes & a pickax. I
was circumambulating the crater’s lip, seeking a clearer trail back to
Ocean Bay, when a
startling hoo-roosh! sent me diving to the ground:—the mind abhors a
vacancy & is wont to
people it with phantoms, thus I glimpsed first a tusked hog charging, then a
Maori warrior,
spear held aloft, his face inscribed with the ancestral hatred of his race.
’Twas but a mollyhawk, wings “flupping” the air like a windjammer. I
watched her disappear
back into the diaphanous fog. I was a full yard shy of the crater’s lip,
but to my horror, the turf
beneath me disintegrated like suet crust—I stood on not solid ground but an
overhang! I
plunged to my midriff, grasping some grasses in desperation, but these broke
in my fingers &
down I plummeted, a mannikin tossed into a well! I recall spinning in space,
yelling & twigs
clawing my eyes, cartwheeling & my jacket snagging, tearing loose; loose
earth; the
anticipation of pain; an urgent, formless prayer for help; a bush slowing
but not halting my
descent & a hopeless attempt to regain balance—sliding—lastly terra firma
careering upwards
to meet me. The impact knocked my senses out of me.
Amidst nebulous quilts & summery pillows I lay, in a bedroom in San
Francisco similar to my
own. A dwarfish servant said, “You’re a very silly boy, Adam.” Tilda &
Jackson entered, but
when I voiced my jubilation, not English but the guttural barkings of an
Indian race burst from
my mouth! My wife & son were shamed by me & mounted a carriage. I gave chase
, striving to
rectify this misunderstanding, but the carriage dwindled into the fleeing
distance until I awoke
in bosky twilight & a silence, booming & eternal. My bruises, cuts, muscles
& extremities
groaned like a courtroom of malcontent litigants.
A mattress of moss & mulch, lain down in that murky hollow since the second
day of Creation,
had preserved my life. Angels preserved my limbs, for if even a single arm
or leg had been
broken I should be lying there still, unable to extricate myself, awaiting
death from the elements
or the claws of beasts. Upon regaining my feet & seeing how far I had slid &
fallen (the height
of a foremast) with no worse damage to my person, I thanked our Lord for my
deliverance, for
indeed, “Thou calledst in trouble, & I delivered thee; I answered thee in
the secret place of
thunder.”
My eyes adjusted to the gloom & revealed a sight at once indelible, fearsome
& sublime. First
one, then ten, then hundreds of faces emerged from the perpetual dim, adzed
by idolaters into
bark, as if Sylvan spirits were frozen immobile by a cruel enchanter. No
adjectives may
properly delineate that basilisk tribe! Only the inanimate may be so alive.
I traced my thumbs
along their awful visages. I do not doubt, I was the first White in that
mausoleum since its
prehistoric inception. The youngest dendroglyph is, I suppose, ten years old
, but the elders,
grown distended as the trees matured, were incised by heathens whose very
ghosts are long
defunct. Such antiquity surely bespoke the hand of Mr. D’Arnoq’s Moriori.
Time passed in that bewitched place & I sought to effect my escape,
encouraged by the
knowledge that the artists of the “tree sculptures” must earn regular
egress from that same pit.
One wall looked less sheer than the others & fibrous creepers offered a “
rigging” of sorts. I
was readying myself for the climb when a puzzling “hum” came to my
attention. “Who goes
there?” I called (a rash act for an unarmed White trespasser in a heathen
shrine). “Shew
yourself!” The silence swallowed my words & their echo & mocked me. My
Ailment stirred in
my spleen. The “hum” I traced to a mass of flies orbiting a protuberance
impaled on a brokenoff
branch. I poked the lump with a pine stick & nearly retched, for ’twas a
piece of stinking
offal. I turned to flee, but duty obliged me to dispel a black suspicion
that a human heart hung
on that tree. I concealed my nose & mouth in my ’kerchief & with my stick,
touched a severed
ventricle. The organ pulsed as if alive! & my scalding Ailment shot up my
spine! As in a dream
(but it was not!) a pellucid salamander emerged from its carrion dwelling &
darted along the
stick to my hand! I flung the stick away & saw not where that salamander
disappeared. My
blood was enriched by fright & I hastened to effect my escape. Easier
written than done, for
had I slipped & plunged anew from those vertiginous walls my luck may not
have softened my
fall a second time, but foot holes had been hewn into the rock & by God’s
grace I gained the
crater’s lip with no mishap. Back in the dismal cloud, I craved the
presence of men of my own
hue, yes, even the rude sailors in the Musket, & began my descent on the
nonce in what I hoped
was a southerly direction. My initial resolve to report all I had seen (
surely, Mr. Walker, the de
facto if not de jure Consul, should be informed of the robbery of a human
heart?) weakened as
I approached Ocean Bay. I am still undecided what to report & to whom. The
heart was most
likely a hog’s, or sheep’s, surely The prospect of Walker & his ilk
felling the trees & selling the
dendroglyphs to collectors offends my conscience. A sentimentalist I may be,
but I do not wish
to be the agent of the Moriori’s final violation. *
Evening—
The Southern Cross was bright in the sky ere Henry returned to the Musket,
having been
detained by more islanders seeking to consult “Widow Bryden’s Healer Man”
on their rheums,
yaws & dropsy. “If potatoes were dollars,” rued my friend, “I should be
richer than
Nebuchadnezzar!” He was concerned by my (much edited) misadventure on
Conical Tor &
insisted on examining my injuries. Earlier I had prevailed upon the Indian
maid to fill my bath
& emerged much recruited. Henry donated a pot of balm for my inflammations &
refused to
take a cent for it. Fearing this may be my last chance to consult with a
gifted physician (Henry
intends to refuse Cpt. Molyneux’s proposal), I unburdened my fears vis-à-
vis my Ailment. He
listened soberly & asked about the frequency & duration of my spells. Henry
regretted he
lacked the time & apparatus for a compleat diagnosis, but recommended, upon
my return to San
Francisco, I find a specialist in tropical parasites as a matter of urgency.
(I could not bring
myself to tell him there are none.) I slumber not.
Thursday, 14th November—
We make sail with the morning tide. I am once more aboard the Prophetess,
but I cannot
pretend it is good to be back. My coffin now stores three great coils of
hawser, which I must
scale to attain my bunk, for not one inch of floor is visible. Mr. D’Arnoq
sold half a dozen
barrels of sundry provisions to the quartermaster & a bolt of sailcloth (
much to Walker’s
disgust). He came aboard to supervise their delivery & collect payment
himself & bid me
Godspeed. In my coffin we were squeezed like two men in a pothole, so we
repaired to the
deck for it is a pleasant evening. After discussing divers matters we shook
hands & he climbed
down to his waiting ketch, ably crewed by two young manservants of mongrel
race.
Mr. Roderick has little sympathy with my petition to have the offending
hawser removed
elsewhere, for he is obliged to quit his private cabin (for the reason
stated below) & move to
the fo’c’sle with the common sailors, whose number has swollen with five
Castilians
“poached” from the Spaniard at anchor in the Bay. Their captain was the
portrait of a Fury, yet
short of declaring war on the Prophetess—a battle sure to bloody his nose,
for he pilots the
leakiest tub—he can do little but thank his stars Cpt. Molyneux required no
more deserters. The
very words “California Bound” are dusted in gold & beckon all men
thitherwards like moths to
a lantern. These five replace the two deserters at the Bay of Islands & the
hands lost in the
tempest, but we are still several men short of a full crew. Finbar tells me
the men grumble over
the new arrangements, for with Mr. Roderick lodged in their fo’c’sle, they
cannot yarn freely
over a bottle.
Fate has dealt me a fine compensation. After paying Walker’s usurous bill (
nor did I tip that
scoundrel a cent), I was packing my jackwood trunk when Henry entered,
greeting me thus:
—“Good morning, Shipmate!” God has answered my prayers! Henry has
accepted the post of
Ship’s Doctor & I am no longer friendless in this floating farmyard. So
ornery a mule is the
common sailor that, instead of gratitude that a doctor shall be on hand to
splint their breakages
& treat their infections, one o’erhears them moaning, “What are we, to
carry a Ship’s Doctor
who can’t walk a bowsprit? A Royal Barge?”
I must confess to a touch of pique that Cpt. Molyneux afforded a fare-paying
gentleman such
as myself only my lamentable berth, when a more commodious cabin lay at his
disposal all
along. Of far greater consequence, however, is Henry’s promise to turn his
formidable talents
to a diagnosis of my Ailment as soon as we are at sea. My relief is
indescribable.
Friday, 15th November—
We got under weigh at daybreak, notwithstanding Friday is a Jonah amongst
sailors. (Cpt.
Molyneux growls, “Superstitions, Saints’ Days & other blasted fripperies
are fine sport for
Popish fishwives but I am in the business of turning a profit!”) Henry & I
did not venture on
deck, for all hands were busy with rigging & a southerly blows very fresh
with a heavy sea;
the ship was troublesome last night & is not less so today. We passed half
the day arranging
Henry’s apothecary Besides the appurtenances of the modern physician, my
friend owns
several learned volumes, in English, Latin & German. A case holds “spectra
” of powders in
stoppered bottles labeled in Greek. These he compounds to make various pills
& unguents. We
peered through the steerage hatch towards noon & the Chathams were ink
stains on the leaden
horizon, but the rolling & pitching are unsafe for those whose sea legs have
vacationed the
week ashore.
Afternoon—
Torgny the Swede knocked on my coffin door. Surprized & intrigued by his
furtive manner, I
bade him enter. He seated himself upon a “pyramid” of hawser & whispered
that he bore a
proposal from a ring of shipmates. “Tell us where the best veins are, the
secret ones you locals
are keeping for yourselves. Me ’n’ my fellows’ll do the pack work. You’
ll just sit pretty &
we’ll cut you in a tenth share.”
I required a moment to understand that Torgny was referring to the
Californian mining fields.
So, a widespread desertion is in the offing once the Prophetess reaches her
destination & I
own, my sympathies are with the seamen! Saying so, I swore to Torgny that I
possessed no
knowledge of the gold deposits, for I have been absent this twelvemonth, but
I would gratis
compose a map illustrating the rumored “Eldorados” & gladly. Torgny was
agreeable. Tearing
a leaf from this journal, I was sketching a schema of Sausa-lito, Benecia,
Stanislaus,
Sacramento &c. when a malevolent voice spoke out. “Quite the oracle, no, Mr
. Quillcock?”
We had not heard Boerhaave descend the companionway & nudge open my door!
Torgny cried
in dismay, declaring his guilt in a trice. “What, pray,” continued the
first mate, “what business
have you with our passenger, Pustule of Stockholm?” Torgny was struck dumb,
but I would
not be cowed & told the bully I was describing the “sights” of my town,
the better for Torgny
to enjoy his shore leave.
Boerhaave raised his eyebrows. “You allot shore leave now, do you? New news
to my old
ears. That paper, Mr. Ewing, if you please.” I did not please. My gift to
the seaman was not the
Dutchman’s to commandeer. “Oh, begging your pardon, Mr. Ewing. Torgny,
take receipt of
your gift.” I had no choice but to hand it to the prostrate Swede. Mr.
Boerhaave uttered,
“Torgny, give me your gift instanter or, by the hinges of hell, you shall
regret the day you
crawled from your mother’s [my quill curls at recording his profanity].”
The mortified Swede
complied.
“Most educational,” remarked Boerhaave, eyeing my cartography “The
captain will be
delighted to learn of the pains you are taking to better our scabby Jacks,
Mr. Ewing. Torgny
you’re on masthead watch for twenty-four hours. Forty-eight if you’re seen
taking
refreshment. Drink you own p—— if you get a thirst.”
Torgny fled, but the first mate was not finished with me. “Sharks ply these
waters, Mr.
Quillcock Trail ships for tasty jetsam, they do. Once I saw one eat a
passenger. He, like you,
was neglectful of his safety & fell o’erboard. We heard his screams. Great
Whites toy with their
dinner, gnawing ’em slow, a leg here, a nibble there & that miserable b——
was alive longer
than you’d credit. Think on it.” He shut my coffin door. Boerhaave, like
all bullies & tyrants,
takes pride in that very hatefulness which makes him notorious.
Saturday, 16th November—
My Fates have inflicted upon me the greatest unpleasance of my voyage to
date! A shade of
Old Rekohu has thrust me, whose only desiderata are quietude & discretion,
into a pillory of
suspicion & gossip! Yet I am guilty on no counts save Christian trustingness
& relentless ill
fortune! One month to the day has passed since we put out from New South
Wales, when I
wrote this sunny sentence, “I anticipate an uneventful & tedious voyage.”
How that entry
mocks me! I shall never forget the last eighteen hours, but since I cannot
sleep nor think (&
Henry is now abed) my only escape from insomnia now is to curse my Luck on
these
sympathetic pages.
Last night I retired to my coffin “dog tired.” After my prayers I blew out
my lantern & lulled by
the ship’s myriad voices I sank into the shallows of sleep when a husky
voice inside my coffin!
awakened me wide-eyed & affright! “Mr. Ewing,” beseeched this urgent
whisper. “Do not fear
—Mr. Ewing—no harm, no shout, please, sir.”
I jumped involuntarily & knocked my head against the bulkhead. By the twin
glimmers of
amber-light through my ill-fitted door & starlight through my porthole, I
saw a serpentine
length of hawser uncoil itself & a black form heave itself free like the
dead at the Last Trump!
A powerful hand seemed to sail through the blackness & sealed my lips ere I
could cry out!
My assailant hissed, “Missa Ewing, no harm, you safe, I friend of Mr. D’
Arnoq—you know
he Christian—please, quiet!”
Reason, at last, rallied against my fear. A man, not a spirit, was hiding in
my room. If he
wished to slit my throat for my hat, shoes & legal box, I would already be
dead. If my gaoler
was a stowaway, why he, not I, was in peril for his life. From his uncut
language, his faint
silhouette & his smell, I intuited the stowaway was an Indian, alone on a
boat of fifty White
Men. Very well. I nodded, slowly, to indicate I would not cry out.
The cautious hand released my lips. “My name is Autua,” he said. “You
know I, you seen I,
aye—you pity I.” I asked what he was talking about. “Maori whip I—you
seen.” My memory
overcame the bizarreness of my situation & I recalled the Moriori being
flogged by the “Lizard
King.” This heartened him. “You good man—Mr. DArnoq tell you good man—he
hid I in
your cabin yesterday night—I escape—you help, Mr. Ewing.” Now a groan
escaped my lips!
& his hand clasped my mouth anew. “If you no help—I in trouble dead.”
All too true, I thought, & moreover you’ll drag me down with you, unless I
convince Cpt.
Molyneux of my innocence! (I burned with resentment at DArnoq’s act & burn
still. Let him
save his “good causes” & leave innocent bystanders be!) I told the
stowaway he was already
“in trouble dead.” The Prophetess was a mercantile vessel, not an “
underground railroad” for
rescued slaves.
“I able seaman!” insisted the Black. “I earn passage!” Well & good, I
told him (dubious of his
claim to be a sailor of pedigree) & urged him to surrender himself to the
captain’s mercies
forthwith. “No! They no listen I! Swim away home, Nigger, they say & throw
I in drink! You
lawman aye? You go, you talk, I stay, I hide! Please. Cap’n hear you, Missa
Ewing. Please.”
In vain I sought to convince him, no intercessor at Cpt. Molyneux’s court
was less favored
than the Yankee Adam Ewing. The Moriori’s adventure was his own & I desired
no part in it.
His hand found mine & to my consternation closed my fingers around the hilt
of a dagger.
Resolute & bleak was his demand. “Then kill I.” With a terrible calmness &
certitude, he
pressed its tip against his throat. I told the Indian he was mad. “I not
mad, you no help I, you
kill I, just same. It’s true, you know it.” (I implored him to restrain
himself & speak soft.) “So
kill I. Say to others I attack you, so you kill I. I ain’t be fish food, Mr
. Ewing. Die here is
better.”
Cursing my conscience singly, my fortune doubly & Mr. D’Arnoq trebly, I
bade him sheath
his knife & for Heaven’s sake conceal himself lest one of the crew hear and
come knocking. I
promised to approach the captain at breakfast, for to interrupt his slumbers
would only ensure
the doom of the enterprise. This satisfied the stowaway & he thanked me. He
slid back inside
the coils of rope, leaving me to the near-impossible task of constructing a
case for an
Aboriginal stowaway, aboard an English schooner, without attainting his
discoverer &
cabinmate with a charge of conspiracy. The savage’s breathing told me he
was sleeping. I was
tempted to make a dash for the door & howl for help, but in the eyes of God
my word was my
bond, even to an Indian.
The cacophony of timbers creaking, of masts swaying, of ropes flexing, of
canvas clapping, of
feet on decks, of goats bleating, of rats scuttling, of the pumps beating,
of the bell dividing the
watches, of melees & laughter from the fo’c’sle, of orders, of windlass
shanties & of Tethys’
eternal realm; all lulled me as I calculated how best I could convince Cpt.
Molyneux of my
innocence in Mr. D’Arnoq’s plot (now I must be more vigilant than ever
that this diary should
not be read by unfriendly eyes) when a falsetto yell, beginning far off but
speeding nearer at a
crossbolt’s velocity was silenced by the deck, mere inches above where I
lay.
Such a terrible finality! Prone I lay, shocked & rigid, forgetting to
breathe. Shouts far & near
rose, feet gathered & an alarum of “Raise Doctor Goose!” cried forth.
“Sorry b—— fall from rigging, dead now.” The Indian whispered as I made
haste to
investigate the disturbance. “You can nothing, Missa Ewing.” I ordered him
to stay hidden &
hurried out. I fancy the stowaway sensed how tempted I was to use the
accident to betray him.
The crew stood around a man lying prone at the base of the mid-mast. By the
lurching lantern
light I recognized one of the Castili-ans. (I own that my first emotion was
relief that not Rafael
but another had fallen to his death.) I overheard the Icelander say the dead
man had won his
compatriots’ arrack ration at cards & drunk it all before his watch. Henry
arrived in his
nightshirt with his doctor’s bag. He knelt by the mangled form & felt for a
pulse, but shook his
head. “This fellow has no need of a doctor.” Mr. Roderick retrieved the
Castilian’s boots &
clothes for auction & Mankin fetched some third-rate sackcloth for the
cadaver. (Mr.
Boerhaave will deduct the sackcloth from the auction’s profits.) The Jacks
returned to their
fo’c’sle or their stations in silence, every man made somber by this
reminder of the fragility of
life. Henry, Mr. Roderick & I stayed to watch the Castilians perform their
Catholick death rites
over their countryman before knotting up the sack & committing his body to
the deep with tears
& dolorous adíos! “Passionate Latinos,” observed Henry, bidding me a
second good night. I
yearned to share the secret of the Indian with my friend, but held my tongue
lest my complicity
infect him.
Returning from the melancholy scene, I saw a lantern gleam in the galley.
Finbar sleeps there
“to ward off pilferers,” but he too was roused by the night’s excitement.
I recalled that the
stowaway may not have eaten for a day & a half, fearfully, for what bestial
depravity might a
savage not be driven to by an empty stomach? My act might have stood against
me on the
morrow, but I told the cook a mighty hunger was robbing me of sleep & (at
double the usual
expense “on account o’ the unseason’ble hour”) I procured a platter of
sauerkraut, sausage &
buns hard as cannonballs.
Back in the confines of my cabin, the savage thanked me for the kindness &
ate that humble
fare as if it were a Presidential Banquet. I did not confess my true motives
, viz., the fuller his
stomach, the less likely he was to consume me, but instead asked him why,
during his
flogging, he had smiled at me. “Pain is strong, aye—but friends’ eyes,
more strong.” I told him
that he knows next to nothing about me & I know nothing about him. He jabbed
at his eyes &
jabbed at mine, as if that single gesture were ample explanation.
The wind rose higher as the middle watch wore on, making the timbers moan &
whipping up
the seas & sluicing over the decks. Seawater was soon dripping into my
coffin, trickling down
the walls & blotting my blanket. “You might have chosen a drier hidey-hole
than mine,” I
whispered, to test the stowaways wakefulness. “Safe better’n dry, Missa
Ewing,” he
murmured, alert as I. Why, I asked, was he beaten so savagely in the Indian
hamlet? A silence
stretched itself out. “I seen too much o’ the world, I ain’t good slave.
” To ward off seasickness
during those dreary hours, I teazed out the stowaway’s history. (I cannot,
moreover, deny my
curiosity) His pidgin delivered his tale brokenly, so its substance only
shall I endeavor to set
down here.
White men’s ships bore vicissitudes to Old Rekohu, as Mr. D’Arnoq narrated
, but also
marvels. During my stowaway’s boyhood, Autua yearned to learn more of these
pale peoples
from places whose existence, in his grandfather’s time, was the realm of
myths. Autua claims
his father had been amongst the natives Lt. Broughton’s landing party
encountered in Skirmish
Bay & spent his infancy hearing the yarn told & retold:—of the “Great
Albatross,” paddling
through the morning mists; its vividly plumaged, strangely jointed servants
who canoed ashore,
facing backwards; of the Albatross servants’ gibberish (a bird language?);
of their smoke
breathing; of their heinous violation of that tapu forbidding strangers to
touch canoes (doing so
curses the vessel & renders it as unseaworthy as if an ax had been taken to
it); of the pursuant
altercation; of those “shouting staffs” whose magical wrath could kill a
man across the beach;
& of the bright skirt of ocean-blue, cloud-white & blood-red that the
servants hoisted aloft a
pole before rowing back to the Great Albatross. (This flag was removed &
presented to a
chieftain, who wore it proudly until the scrofula took him.)
Autua had an uncle, Koche, who shipped aboard a Boston sealer, circa 1825. (
The stowaway is
unsure of his exact age.) Mori-ori were prized crew amongst such vessels,
for in lieu of martial
prowess, Rekohu’s manhood “won their spurs” by seal hunting & swimming
feats. (To claim
his bride, as a further example, a young man had to dive to the seabed &
surface with a crayfish
in each hand & a third in his mouth.) Newly discovered Polynesians, it
should be added, make
easy prey for unscrupulous captains. Autua’s uncle Koche returned after
five years, garbed in
Pakeha clothes with rings in his ears, a modest pouch of dollars & réals,
possessed of strange
customs (“smoke breathing” amongst them), discordant oaths & tales of
cities & sights too
outlandish for the Moriori tongue to delineate.
Autua swore to ship on the next vessel leaving Ocean Bay & see these exotic
places for
himself. His uncle persuaded a second mate on a French whaler to ship the
ten-year-old (?)
Autua as an apprentice. In the Moriori’s subsequent career at sea, he saw
the ice ranges of
Antarctica, whales turned to islets of gore, then barrels of sperm oil; in
the becalmed ashy
Encantadas, he hunted giant tortoises; in Sydney, he saw grand buildings,
parks, horse-drawn
carriages & ladies in bonnets & the miracles of civilization; he shipped
opium from Calcutta to
Canton; survived dysentery in Batavia; lost half of an ear in a skirmish
with Mexicans afore the
altar at Santa Cruz; survived shipwreck at the Horn & saw Rio de Janeiro,
though did not step
ashore; & everywhere he observed that casual brutality lighter races show
the darker.
Autua returned in the summer of 1835, a worldly-wise young man of about
twenty He planned
to take a local bride & build a house & cultivate some acres, but as Mr.
DArnoq relates, by the
winter solstice of that year every Moriori who had not perished was a slave
of the Maori. The
returnee’s years amongst crews of all nations did not elevate Autua in the
invaders’ estimation.
(I observed how ill-timed was the prodigal’s homecoming. “No, Missa Ewing,
Rekohu called
me home, so I see her death so I know”—he tapped his head—“the truth.”)
Autua’s master was the lizard-tattooed Maori, Kupaka, who told his
horrified, broken slaves
that he had come to cleanse them of their false idols (“Have your gods
saved you?” taunted
Kupaka); their polluted language (“My whip will teach you pure Maori!”);
their tainted blood
(“Inbreeding has diluted your original mana!”). Henceforth Moriori unions
were proscribed &
all issue fathered by Maori men on Moriori women were declared Maori. The
earliest
transgressors were executed in gruesome ways & the survivors lived in that
state of lethargy
engendered by relentless subjugation. Autua cleared land, planted wheat &
tended hogs for
Kupaka until he won enough trust to effect his escape. (“Secret places on
Rekohu, Missa
Ewing, combes, pitfalls, caves deep in Motoporoporo Forest, so dense no dogs
scent you
there.” I fancy I fell into one such secret place.)
A year later he was recaptured, but Moriori slaves were now too scarce to be
indiscriminately
slaughtered. The lower Maori were obliged to labor alongside the serfs, much
to their disgust.
(“We forsook our ancestors’ land in Aotearoa for this miserable rock?”
they complained.)
Autua escaped again & during his second spell of freedom he was granted
secret asylum by
Mr. DArnoq for some months, at no little risk to the latter. During this
sojourn Autua was
baptized & turned to the Lord.
Kupaka’s men caught up with the fugitive after a year & six-month, but this
time the mercurial
chieftain evinced a respect for Autua’s spirit. After a retributive lashing
, Kupaka appointed his
slave as fisherman for his own table. Thus employed, the Moriori let another
year go by until,
one afternoon, he found a rare moeeka fish flapping in his net. He told
Kupaka’s wife this king
of fish could be eaten only by a king of men & showed her how to prepare it
for her husband.
(“Bad bad poison this moeeka fish, Missa Ewing, one bite, aye, you sleep,
you never wake no
mo’.”) During that night’s feasting, Autua snuck from the encampment,
stole his master’s
canoe & rowed across the current-prone, choppy, moonless sea to deserted
Pitt Island, two
leagues to the south of Chatham Isle (known as Rangiauria in Moriori &
revered as mankind’s
birthplace).
Luck favored the stowaway, for he arrived safe at dawn as a squall blew up &
no canoes made
the crossing after him. Autua subsisted in his Polynesian Eden on wild
celery watercress, eggs,
berries, an occasional young boar (he risked fires only under cover of
darkness or mist) & the
knowledge that Kupaka, at least, had met a condign punishment. Was his
solitude not
unbearable? “Nights, ancestors visited. Days, I yarned tales of Maui to
birds & birds yarned
sea tales to I.”
The fugitive lived thus for many a season until last September, when a
winter gale wrecked the
whaler Eliza from Nantucket on Pitt Island Reef. All hands drowned, but our
Mr. Walker,
zealous in his pursuit of easy guineas, crossed the straits seeking salvage.
When he found signs
of habitation & saw Kupaka’s old canoe (each is storiated with unique
carvings), he knew he
had found treasure of interest to his Maori neighbors. Two days later a
large hunting party
rowed to Pitt Island from the mainland. Autua sat on the beach & watched
them arrive,
surprized only to see his old enemy, Kupaka, grizzled but very much alive &
shouting war
chants.
My uninvited cabinmate concluded his tale. “That b——’s greedy dog stole
moeeka from
kitchen & died, not the Maori. Aye, Kupaka flogged me, but he’s old & far
from home & his
mana is hollow & starved. Maori thrive on wars & revenge & feudin’, but
peace kills ’em off.
Many go back to Zealand. Kupaka cannot, his land is no mo’. Then last week,
Missa Ewing, I
see you & I know, you save I, I know it.”
The morning watch smote four bells & my porthole betrayed a rainy dawn. I
had slept a little,
but my prayers that the dawn would dissolve the Moriori were unheeded. I
bade him to playact
he had only just revealed himself & make no mention of our night’s
conversation. He signaled
comprehension, but I feared the worst: an Indian’s wit was no match for a
Boerhaave.
Along the gangway I stepped (the Prophetess was bucking like a young bronco)
to the
officers’ mess, knocked & entered. Mr. Roderick & Mr. Boerhaave were
listening to Cpt.
Molyneux. I cleared my throat & bade all good morning, at which our amicable
captain swore,
“You can better my morning, by b——ing off, instanter!”
Coolly, I asked when the captain might find time to hear news of an Indian
stowaway who had
just emerged from the coils of hawser taking up “my so-called cabin.”
During the ensuing
silence Cpt. Molyneux’s pale, horny-toad complexion turned roast beef pink.
Ere his blast was
launched, I added the stowaway claimed to be an able seaman & begged to work
his passage.
Mr. Boerhaave forestalled his captain with the predicted accusations &
exclaimed, “On Dutch
merchantmen those who abet stowaways share their fate!” I reminded the
Hollander we sailed
under an English flag & put it to him why, if I had hid the stowaway under
the coils of hawser,
had I asked & asked again since Thursday night for the unwonted hawser to be
removed,
thereby begging for my putative “conspiracy” to be uncovered? Hitting that
bull’s-eye fired my
mettle & I assured Cpt. Molyneux that the baptized stowaway had resorted to
this extreme
measure lest his Maori master, who had vowed to eat his slave’s warm liver
(I sprinkled a little
“seasoning” on my version of events), directed his ungodly wrath towards
his rescuer.
Mr. Boerhaave swore, “So this d——d Blackamoor wants us to be grateful to
him?” No, I
replied, the Moriori asks for a chance to prove his value to the Prophetess.
Mr. Boerhaave spat
out, “A stowaway is a stowaway even if he sh——s silver nuggets! What’s
his name?” I did
not know, I replied, for I had not conducted an interview with the man but
come to the captain
expeditiously
Cpt. Molyneux spoke at last. “Able seaman first class, you say?” His wrath
had cooled at the
prospect of earning a valuable pair of hands he would not have to pay. “An
Indian? Where did
he salt his burns?” I repeated, two minutes was insufficient to learn his
history, but my instinct
considered the Indian an honest fellow.
The captain wiped his beard. “Mr. Roderick, accompany our passenger & his
instinct & fetch
their pet savage afoot the mizzen.” He tossed a key to his first mate. “Mr
. Boerhaave, my
fowling piece, if you please.”
The second mate & I did as bid. “A risky business,” Mr. Roderick warned me
. “The only
statute book on the Prophetess is the Old Man’s Whim.” Another statute
book named
Conscience is observed lex loci wherever God sees, I responded. Autua was
awaiting his trial
in the cotton trowzers I purchased in Port Jackson (he had climbed aboard
from Mr. D
Arnoq’s boat in naught but his savage’s loincloth & a shark-tooth necklace
). His back was
exposed. His lacerations, I hoped, would pay testimony to his resilience &
bestir sympathy in
the observers’ breasts.
Rats behind the arras spread tidings of the sport & most hands were gathered
on deck. (My
ally, Henry, was still abed, unaware of my jeopardy.) Cpt. Molyneux sized
the Moriori up as if
inspecting a mule & addressed him thus: “Mr. Ewing, who knows nothing about
how you
boarded my vessel, says you regard yourself a seaman.”
Autua replied with courage & dignity “Aye, Cap’n, sir, two years on whaler
Mississippi of Le
Havre under Captain Maspero & four years on Cornucopia of Philadelphia under
Captain
Caton, three years on an Indiaman—”
Cpt. Molyneux interrupted & indicated Autua’s trowzers. “Did you pilfer
this garment from
below?” Autua was sensible that I, too, was on trial. “That Christian gent
’man gave, sir.” The
crew followed the stowaway’s finger to myself & Mr. Boerhaave thrust at the
chink in my
armor. “He did? When was this gift awarded?” (I recalled my father-in-law
’s aphorism “To
fool a judge, feign fascination, but to bamboozle the whole court, feign
boredom” & I
pretended to extract a speck from my eye.) Autua answered with primed
percipience. “Ten
minutes past, sir, I, no clothes, that gent’man say, naked no good, dress
this.”
“If you are a seaman”—our captain jerked his thumb aloft— “let’s see
you lower this
midmast’s royal.” At this, the stowaway grew hesitant & confused & I felt
the lunatick’s wager
I had placed on this Indian’s word swing against me, but Autua had merely
spotted a trap. “Sir,
this mast ain’t midmast, this mast the mizzen, aye?” Impassive Cpt.
Molyneux nodded. “Then
kindly lower the mizzen royal.”
Autua fairly ran up the mast & I began to hope all was not lost. The newly
risen sun shone low
over the water & caused us to squint. “Ready & aim my piece,” the captain
instructed Mr.
Boer-haave, once the stowaway was past the spanker gaff, “fire on my
command!”
Now I protested with the utmost vigor, the Indian had received holy
sacrament, but Cpt.
Molyneux ordered me to shut up or swim back to the Chathams. No American
captain would
cut a man down, not even a nigger, so odiously! Autua reached the topmost
yard & walked it
with simian dexterity despite the rough seas. Watching the sail unfurl, one
of the “saltest”
aboard, a dour Icelander & a sober, obliging & hardworking fellow, spoke his
admiration for
all to hear. “The darkie’s salt as I am, aye, he’s got fishhooks for toes
!” Such was my gratitude,
I could have kissed his boots. Soon Autua had the sail down—a difficult
operation even for a
team of four men. Cpt. Molyneux grunted approval & ordered Mr. Boerhaave to
replace his
gun, “But d—— me if I pay a stowaway a single cent. He’ll work his
passage to O-hawaii. If
he’s no shirker he may sign articles there in the regular fashion. Mr.
Roderick, he can share the
dead Spaniard’s bunk.”
I have worn away a nib in narrating the day’s excitements. It is grown too
dark to see.
Wednesday, 20th November-
Strong easterly breeze, very salty & oppressive. Henry has conducted his
examination & has
grave news, yet not the gravest. My Ailment is a parasite, Gusano coco
cervello. This Worm is
endemic throughout both Melanesia & Polynesia, but has been known to science
only these last
ten years. It breeds in the stinking canals of Batavia, doubtless the port
of my own infection.
Ingested, it voyages through the host’s blood vessels to the brain’s
cerebellum anterior .
(Hence my migraines & dizziness.) Ensconced in the brain, it enters a
gestation phase. “You
are a realist, Adam,” Henry told me, “so your pills shall be unsugared.
Once the Parasite’s
larvae hatch, the victim’s brain becomes a maggoty cauliflower. Putrescent
gases cause the
eardrums & eyeballs to protrude until they pop, releasing a cloud of Gusano
coco spores.”
Thus reads my death sentence, but now comes my stay of execution & appeal.
An admixture of
urussium alkali & orinoco manganese will calcify my Parasite & laphrydictic
myrrh will
disintegrate it. Henry’s “apothecary” holds these compounds, but a
precise dosage is
paramount. Less than half a drachm leaves Gusano coco unpurged, but more
kills the patient
with the cure. My doctor warns me that as the Parasite dies, its poison sacs
split & secrete their
cargo, so I shall feel worse before my recovery is compleat.
Henry enjoined me not to breathe a word about my condition, for hyenas like
Boerhaave prey
on the vulnerable & ignorant sailors can show hostility to maladies they
know not. (“I once
heard of a sailor who showed the touch of leprosy a week out of Macao on the
long haul back
to Lisbon,” recalled Henry, “and the whole company prodded the wretch
overboard without a
hearing.”) During my convalescence, Henry shall inform the “scuttlebutt”
that Mr. Ewing has a
low fever caused by the clime & nurse me himself. Henry bridled when I
mentioned his fee.
“Fee? You are no valetudinarian viscount with banknotes padding his pillows
! Providence
steered you to my ministrations, for I doubt five men in this blue Pacific
can cure you! So a fie
on ‘Fee’! All I ask, dear Adam, is that you are an obedient patient!
Kindly take my powders &
withdraw to your cabin. I shall look in after the last dog.”
My doctor is an uncut diamond of the first water. Even as I write these
words, I am tearful with
gratitude.
Saturday, 30th November—
Henry’s powders are indeed a wondrous medicament. I inhale the precious
grains into my
nostrils from an ivory spoon & on the instant an incandescent joy burns my
being. My senses
grow alert, yet my limbs grow Lethean. My Parasite still writhes at night,
like a new babe’s
finger, igniting spasms of pain & dreams obscene & monstrous visit me. “A
sure sign,” Henry
consoles me, “your Worm has reacted to our vermicide & seeks shelter in the
recesses of your
cerebral canals whence visions spring. In vain Gusano coco hides, dear Adam,
in vain. We
shall winkle ’im out!”
Monday, 2nd December—
By day, my coffin is hot as an oven & my sweat dampens these pages. The
tropic sun fattens &
fills the noon sky. The men work seminaked with sun-blacked torsos & straw
hats. The
planking oozes scorching tar that sticks to one’s soles. Rain squalls blow
up from nowhere &
vanish with the same rapidity & the deck hisses itself dry in a minute.
Portuguese man-o’-wars
pulsate in the quicksilver sea, flying fish bewitch the beholder & ocher
shadows of
hammerheads circle the Prophetess. Earlier, I stepped on a squid that had
propelled itself over
the bulwarks! (Its eyes & beak reminded me of my father-in-law.) The water
we took on at
Chatham Isle is now brackish & without a dash of brandy in it, my stomach
rebels. When not
playing chess in Henry’s cabin or the mess room, I rest in my coffin until
Homer lulls me into
dreams a-billow with sails of Athenians.
Autua knocked on my coffin door yesterday to thank me for saving his neck.
He said he was in
my debt (true enough) until the day he saves my life (may it never dawn!). I
asked how he was
finding his new duties. “Better’n slaving for Kupaka, Missa Ewing.”
Anyhow, growing
sensible of my fear someone would witness our congress & report to Cpt.
Molyneux, the
Moriori returned to the fo’c’sle & has not since sought me out. As Henry
warns me, “It’s one
thing to throw a blackie a bone, but quite another to take him on for life!
Friendships between
races, Ewing, can never surpass the affection between a loyal gundog & its
master.”
Nightly, my doctor & I enjoy a stroll on the deck before retiring. It is
pleasant merely to breathe
the cooler air. One loses one’s eye in lanes of sea phosphorescence & the
Mississippi of stars
streaming across the heavens. Last night, the men were gathered on the
foredeck laying up
grass into sinnet for ropes by lantern light & the prohibition on “
supernuminaries” on the
foredeck seemed not to apply. (Since the “Autua Incident” that contempt
directed at “Mr.
Quillcock” is in recess, as is the epithet.) Bentnail sang ten verses on
the world’s brothels foul
enough to put the most wanton satyr to flight. Henry volunteered an eleventh
verse (about
Mary O’Hairy of Inverary) that turned the air yet bluer. Rafael was next
coerced to take his
turn. He sat on the “widow maker” & sang these lines in a voice unschooled
yet honest & true:
—
Oh, Shenandoah, I long to see you,
Hurrah, you rolling river.
Oh, Shenandoah, I’ll not deceive you,
We’re bound way ’cross the wide Missouri.
Oh, Shenandoah, I love your daughter,
I love the place across the water.
The ship sails free, the wind is blowing,
The braces taut, the sheets a-flowing.
Missouri, she’s a mighty river,
We’ll brace her up till her topsails shiver.
Oh, Shenandoah, I’ll leave you never,
Till the day I die, I’ll love you ever.
Silence from rude mariners is a grander accolade than any erudite eulogy Why
should Rafael,
an Australian-born lad, have an American song by heart? “I din’t know ’
twas a Yankee un,” he
replied awkwardly. “My mam teached it me before she died. It’s the only
thing of hers I got
still. It stuck in me.” He turned to his work, an awkward curtness in his
manner. Henry & I
sensed anew the hostility that workers emanate at the bystanding idler & so
we left the toilers to
their industry.
Reading my entry for 15th October, when first I met Rafael during our shared
mal de mer on
the Tasman Sea, I stand amazed at how that sprite lad, aglow with excitement
at his maiden
voyage & so eager to please, has become this sullen youth in only six weeks.
His luminous
beauty is chipped away, revealing the timber-muscled seaman he shall become.
Already he
looks rather given to rum & water. Henry says this “sloughing off of his
cocoon” is inevitable,
bon gré mal gré, & I suppose he is right. Those smatterings of education &
sensibility Rafael
received from his patron, Mrs. Fry of Brisbane, serve a cabin boy ill in the
harum-scarum
world of the fo’c’sle. How I wish I could help him! Were it not for the
intervention of my Mr.
& Mrs. Channing, my own fate may well have been of a piece with Raf’s. I
asked Finbar if he
thought the boy was “fitting in well.” Finbar’s Delphic reply, “Fitting
what in well, Mr.
Ewing?” left the galley cackling but myself quite in the dark.
Saturday, 7th December—
Petrels are aloft, sooty terns afloat & Mother Careys chickens roost on the
rigging. Fish similar
to borettoes pursued fish similar to sprats. As Henry & I ate supper, a
blizzard of purplish
moths seemed to issue from the cracks in the moon, smothering lanterns,
faces, food & every
surface in a twitching sheet of wings. To confirm these portents of nearby
islands, the man at
the lead shouted a depth of only eighteen fathoms. Mr. Boerhaave ordered the
anchor to be
weighed lest we drift onto a reef in the night.
The whites of my eyes have a lemon-yellow aspect & their rims are reddened &
sore. Henry
assures me this symptom is welcome, but has obliged my request for an
increased dosage of
vermicide.
Sunday, 8th December-Sabbath not being observed on the Prophetess, this
morning Henry & I
decided to conduct a short Bible Reading in his cabin in the “low-church”
style of Ocean Bay’s
congregation, “astraddle” the forenoon & morning watches so both starboard
& port shifts
might
* My father never spoke to me of the dendroglyphs & I learnt of them only in
the manner
described in the Introduction. Now that the Moriori of Chatham Island are a
race over
extinction’s brink, I hold them to be beyond betrayal. —J.E.
Thursday, 7th November—
Beyond the Indian hamlet, upon a forlorn strand, I happened on a trail of
recent footprints.
Through rotting kelp, sea cocoa-nuts & bamboo, the tracks led me to their
maker, a White man,
his trow-zers & Pea-jacket rolled up, sporting a kempt beard & an outsized
Beaver, shoveling
& sifting the cindery sand with a teaspoon so intently that he noticed me
only after I had hailed
him from ten yards away. Thus it was, I made the acquaintance of Dr. Henry
Goose, surgeon
to the London nobility. His nationality was no surprise. If there be any
eyrie so desolate, or isle
so remote, that one may there resort unchallenged by an Englishman, ’tis
not down on any map
I ever saw.
Had the doctor misplaced anything on that dismal shore? Could I render
assistance? Dr. Goose
shook his head, knotted loose his ’kerchief & displayed its contents with
clear pride. “Teeth,
sir, are the enameled grails of the quest in hand. In days gone by this
Arcadian strand was a
cannibals’ banqueting hall, yes, where the strong engorged themselves on
the weak. The teeth,
they spat out, as you or I would expel cherry stones. But these base molars,
sir, shall be
transmuted to gold & how? An artisan of Piccadilly who fashions denture sets
for the nobility
pays handsomely for human gnashers. Do you know the price a quarter pound
will earn, sir?”
I confessed I did not.
“Nor shall I enlighten you, sir, for ’tis a professional secret!” He
tapped his nose. “Mr. Ewing,
are you acquainted with Marchioness Grace of Mayfair? No? The better for you
, for she is a
corpse in petticoats. Five years have passed since this harridan besmirched
my name, yes, with
imputations that resulted in my being blackballed from Society” Dr. Goose
looked out to sea.
“My peregrinations began in that dark hour.”
I expressed sympathy with the doctor’s plight.
“I thank you, sir, I thank you, but these ivories”—he shook his ’
kerchief—“are my angels of
redemption. Permit me to elucidate. The Marchioness wears dental fixtures
fashioned by the
aforementioned doctor. Next yuletide, just as that scented She-Donkey is
addressing her
Ambassadors’ Ball, I, Henry Goose, yes, I shall arise & declare to one &
all that our hostess
masticates with cannibals’ gnashers! Sir Hubert will challenge me,
predictably, ‘Furnish your
evidence,’ that boor shall roar, ‘or grant me satisfaction!’ I shall
declare, ‘Evidence, Sir Hubert?
Why, I gathered your mother’s teeth myselffrom the spittoon of the South
Pacific! Here, sir,
here are some of their fellows!’ & fling these very teeth into her
tortoiseshell soup tureen &
that, sir, that will grant me my satisfaction! The twittering wits will
scald the icy Marchioness in
their news sheets & by next season she shall be fortunate to receive an
invitation to a
Poorhouse Ball!”
In haste, I bade Henry Goose a good day. I fancy he is a Bedlamite.
Friday, 8th November—
In the rude shipyard beneath my window, work progresses on the jibboom,
under Mr. Sykes’s
directorship. Mr. Walker, Ocean Bay’s sole taverner, is also its principal
timber merchant & he
brags of his years as a master shipbuilder in Liverpool. (I am now versed
enough in
Antipodese etiquette to let such unlikely truths lie.) Mr. Sykes told me an
entire week is needed
to render the Prophetess “Bristol fashion.” Seven days holed up in the
Musket seems a grim
sentence, yet I recall the fangs of the banshee tempest & the mariners lost
o’erboard & my
present misfortune feels less acute.
I met Dr. Goose on the stairs this morning & we took breakfast together. He
has lodged at the
Musket since middle October after voyaging hither on a Brazilian merchantman
, Namorados,
from Fee-jee, where he practiced his arts in a mission. Now the doctor
awaits a long-overdue
Australian sealer, the Nellie, to convey him to Sydney. From the colony he
will seek a position
aboard a passenger ship for his native London.
My judgment of Dr. Goose was unjust & premature. One must be cynical as
Diogenes to
prosper in my profession, but cynicism can blind one to subtler virtues. The
doctor has his
eccentricities & recounts them gladly for a dram of Portuguese pisco (never
to excess), but I
vouchsafe he is the only other gentleman on this latitude east of Sydney &
west of Valparaiso.
I may even compose for him a letter of introduction for the Partridges in
Sydney, for Dr.
Goose & dear Fred are of the same cloth.
Poor weather precluding my morning outing, we yarned by the peat fire & the
hours sped by
like minutes. I spoke at length of Tilda & Jackson & also my fears of “gold
fever” in San
Francisco. Our conversation then voyaged from my hometown to my recent
notarial duties in
New South Wales, thence to Gibbon, Malthus & Godwin via Leeches &
Locomotives.
Attentive conversation is an emollient I lack sorely aboard the Prophetess &
the doctor is a
veritable polymath. Moreover, he possesses a handsome army of scrimshandered
chessmen
whom we shall keep busy until either the Prophetess’s departure or the
Nellie’s arrival.
Saturday, 9th November—
Sunrise bright as a silver dollar. Our schooner still looks a woeful picture
out in the Bay. An
Indian war canoe is being careened on the shore. Henry & I struck out for “
Banqueter’s Beach”
in holy-day mood, blithely saluting the maid who labors for Mr. Walker. The
sullen miss was
hanging laundry on a shrub & ignored us. She has a tinge of black blood & I
fancy her mother
is not far removed from the jungle breed.
As we passed below the Indian hamlet, a “humming” aroused our curiosity &
we resolved to
locate its source. The settlement is circumvallated by a stake fence, so
decayed that one may
gain ingress at a dozen places. A hairless bitch raised her head, but she
was toothless & dying
& did not bark. An outer ring of ponga huts (fashioned from branches,
earthen walls & matted
ceilings) groveled in the lees of “grandee” dwellings, wooden structures
with carved lintel
pieces & rudimentary porches. In the hub of this village, a public flogging
was under way.
Henry & I were the only two Whites present, but three castes of spectating
Indians were demarked.
The chieftain occupied his throne, in a feathered cloak, while the tattooed
gentry &
their womenfolk & children stood in attendance, numbering some thirty in
total. The slaves,
duskier & sootier than their nut-brown masters & less than half their number
, squatted in the
mud. Such inbred, bovine torpor! Pockmarked & pustular with haki-haki, these
wretches
watched the punishment, making no response but that bizarre, beelike “hum.
” Empathy or
condemnation, we knew not what the noise signified. The whip master was a
Goliath whose
physique would daunt any frontier prizefighter. Lizards mighty & small were
tattooed over
every inch of the savage’s musculature:—his pelt would fetch a fine price,
though I should not
be the man assigned to relieve him of it for all the pearls of O-hawaii! The
piteous prisoner,
hoarfrosted with many harsh years, was bound naked to an A-frame. His body
shuddered with
each excoriating lash, his back was a vellum of bloody runes, but his
insensible face bespoke
the serenity of a martyr already in the care of the Lord.
I confess, I swooned under each fall of the lash. Then a peculiar thing
occurred. The beaten
savage raised his slumped head, found my eye & shone me a look of uncanny,
amicable
knowing! As if a theatrical performer saw a long-lost friend in the Royal
Box and, undetected
by the audience, communicated his recognition. A tattooed “blackfella”
approached us &
flicked his nephrite dagger to indicate that we were unwelcome. I inquired
after the nature of
the prisoner’s crime. Henry put his arm around me. “Come, Adam, a wise man
does not step
betwixt the beast & his meat.”
Sunday, 10th November—
Mr. Boerhaave sat amidst his cabal of trusted ruffians like Lord Anaconda &
his garter snakes.
Their Sabbath “celebrations” downstairs had begun ere I had risen. I went
in search of shaving
water & found the tavern swilling with Tars awaiting their turn with those
poor Indian girls
whom Walker has ensnared in an impromptu bordello. (Rafael was not in the
debauchers’
number.)
I do not break my Sabbath fast in a whorehouse. Henry’s sense of repulsion
equaled to my
own, so we forfeited breakfast (the maid was doubtless being pressed into
alternative service)
& set out for the chapel to worship with our fasts unbroken.
We had not gone two hundred yards when, to my consternation, I remembered
this journal,
lying on the table in my room at the Musket, visible to any drunken sailor
who might break in.
Fearful for its safety (& my own, were Mr. Boerhaave to get his hands on it)
, I retraced my
steps to conceal it more artfully Broad smirks greeted my return & I assumed
I was “the devil
being spoken of,” but I learned the true reason when I opened my door:—to
wit, Mr.
Boerhaave’s ursine buttocks astraddle his Blackamoor Goldilocks in my bed
in flagrante
delicto! Did that devil Dutchman apologize? Far from it! He judged himself
‘the injured party &
roared, “Get ye hence, Mr. Quillcock! or by God’s B——d, I shall snap
your tricksy Yankee
nib in two!”
I snatched my diary & clattered downstairs to a riotocracy of merriment &
ridicule from the
White savages there gathered. I remonstrated to Walker that I was paying for
a private room &
I expected it to remain private even during my absence, but that scoundrel
merely offered a onethird
discount on “a quarter-hour’s gallop on the comeliest filly in my stable!
” Disgusted, I
retorted that I was a husband & a father! & that I should rather die than
abase my dignity &
decency with any of his poxed whores! Walker swore to “decorate my eyes”
if I called his own
dear daughters “whores” again. One toothless garter snake jeered that if
possessing a wife & a
child was a single virtue, “Why Mr. Ewing, I be ten times more virtuous
than you be!” & an
unseen hand emptied a tankard of sheog over my person. I withdrew ere the
liquid was
swapped for a more obdurate missile.
The chapel bell was summoning the God-fearing of Ocean Bay & I hurried
thitherwards,
where Henry waited, trying to forget the recent foulnesses witnessed at my
lodgings. The
chapel creaked like an old tub & its congregation numbered little more than
the digits of two
hands, but no traveler ever quenched his thirst at a desert oasis more
thankfully than Henry & I
gave worship this morning. The Lutheran founder has lain at rest in his
chapel’s cemetery these
ten winters past & no ordained successor has yet ventured to claim captaincy
of the altar. Its
denomination, therefore, is a “rattle bag” of Christian creeds. Biblical
passages were read by
that half of the congregation who know their letters & we joined in a hymn
or two nominated
by rota. The “steward” of this demotic flock, one Mr. D’Arnoq, stood
beneath the modest
cruciform & besought Henry & me to participate in likewise manner. Mindful
of my own
salvation from last week’s tempest, I nominated Luke ch. 8, “And they came
to him, & awoke
him, saying, Master, master, we perish. Then he arose, & rebuked the wind &
the raging of the
water: & they ceased, & there was a calm.”
Henry recited from Psalm the Eighth, in a voice as sonorous as any schooled
dramatist: “Thou
madest him to have dominion over the works of thy hands; thou has put all
things under his
feet: all sheep & oxen, yea & the beasts of the field; the fowl of the air &
the fish of the sea &
whatsoever passeth through the paths of the seas.”
No organist played a Magnificat but the wind in the flue chimney, no choir
sang a Nunc
Dimittis but the wuthering gulls, yet I fancy the Creator was not displeazed
. We resembled
more the Early Christians of Rome than any later Church encrusted with
arcana & gem-stones.
Communal prayer followed. Parishioners prayed ad lib for the eradication of
potato blight,
mercy on a dead infant’s soul, blessing upon a new fishing boat, &c. Henry
gave thanks for the
hospitality shown us visitors by the Christians of Chatham Isle. I echoed
these sentiments &
sent a prayer for Tilda, Jackson & my father-in-law during my extended
absence.
After the service, the doctor & I were approached most cordially by an elder
“mainmast” of that
chapel, one Mr. Evans, who introduced Henry & me to his good wife (both
circumvented the
handicap of deafness by answering only those questions they believed had
been asked &
accepting only those answers they believed had been uttered—a stratagem
embraced by many
an American advocate) & their twin sons, Keegan & Dyfedd. Mr. Evans made it
known that
every week he had the custom of inviting Mr. DArnoq, our Preacher, to dine
at their nearby
home, for the latter dwells in Port Hutt, a promontory some miles distant.
Would we, too, join
their Sabbath Meal? Having already informed Henry of that Gomorrah back at
the Musket &
hearing cries of “Mutiny!” from our stomachs, we accepted the Evanses’
kindness with
gratitude.
Our hosts’ farmstead, seated half a mile from Ocean Bay up a winding,
blustery valley, proved
to be a frugal building, but proof against those hell-bent storms that break
the bones of so many
hapless vessels upon nearby reefs. The parlor was inhabited by a monstrous
hog’s head
(afflicted with droop-jaw & lazy-eye), killed by the twins on their
sixteenth birthday, & a
somnambulant Grandfather clock (at odds with my own pocket watch by a margin
of hours.
Indeed, one valued import from New Zealand is the accurate time). An Indian
farmhand peered
through the windowpane at his master’s visitors. No more tatterdemalion a
renegado I ever
beheld, but Mr. Evans swore the quadroon, Barnabas, was “the fleetest
sheepdog who ever ran
upon two legs.” Keegan & Dyfedd are honest woolly fellows, versed
principally in the ways of
sheep (the family own two hundred head), for neither has gone to “Town” (
the islanders thus
appellate New Zealand) nor undergone any schooling save Scripture lessons
from their father,
by dint of which they have learnt to read & write tolerably well.
Mrs. Evans said grace & I enjoyed my most pleasant repast (untainted by salt
, maggots &
oaths) since my farewell dinner with Consul Bax & the Partridges at the
Beaumont. Mr.
D’Arnoq told us tales of ships he has supplied during his ten-year on
Chatham Isle, while
Henry amused us with stories of patients, both illustrious & humble, he has
benefacted in
London & Polynesia. For my part I described the many hardships overcome by
this American
notary in order to locate the Australian beneficiary of a will executed in
California. We washed
down our mutton stew & apple dumpling with small ale brewed by Mr. Evans for
trading with
whalers. Kee-gan & Dyfedd left to attend to their livestock & Mrs. Evans
retired to her kitchen
duties. Henry asked if missionaries were now active on the Chathams, at
which Mr. Evans &
Mr. DArnoq exchanged looks & the former informed us, “Nay, the Maori don’t
take kindly to
us Pakeha spoiling their Moriori with too much civilization.”
I questioned if such an ill as “too much civilization” existed or no? Mr.
DArnoq told me, “If
there is no God west of the Horn, why there’s none of your constitution’s
All men created
equal, neither, Mr. Ewing.” The nomenclatures Maori & Pakeha I knew from
the Prophetess’s
sojourn at the Bay of Islands, but I begged to know who or what Moriori
might signify. My
query unlocked a Pandora’s Box of history, detailing the decline & fall of
the Aboriginals of
Chatham. We lit our pipes. Mr. DArnoq’s narrative was unbroken three hours
later when he
had to depart for Port Hutt ere nightfall obscured the dykey way His spoken
history, for my
money, holds company with the pen of a Defoe or Melville & I shall record it
in these pages,
after, Morpheus willing, a sound sleep.
Monday, 11th November-
Dawn sticky & sunless. The Bay has a slimy appearance, but the weather is
mild enough to
allow repairs to continue on the Prophetess, I thank Neptune. A new mizzen-
top is being
hoisted into position as I write.
A short time past, while Henry & I breakfasted, Mr. Evans arrived hugger-
mugger,
importuning my doctor friend to attend to a reclusive neighbor, one Widow
Bryden, who was
thrown from her horse on a stony bog. Mrs. Evans was in attendance and fears
that the widow
lies in peril of her life. Henry fetched his doctor’s case & left without
delay (I offered to come,
but Mr. Evans begged my forbearance, as the patient had extracted a promise
that none but a
doctor should see her incapacitated.) Walker, overhearing these transactions
, told me no
member of the male sex had crossed the widow’s threshold these twenty years
& decided that
“the frigid old sow must be on her last trotters if she’s letting Dr.
Quack frisk her.”
The origins of the Moriori of Rekohu (the native moniker for the Chathams)
remain a mystery
to this day Mr. Evans evinces the belief they are descended from Jews
expelled from Spain,
citing their hooked noses & sneering lips. Mr. DArnoq’s preferred theorum,
that the Moriori
were once Maori whose canoes were wrecked upon these remotest of isles, is
founded on
similarities of tongue & mythology & thereby possesses a higher carat of
logic. What is certain
is that, after centuries or millennia of living in isolation, the Moriori
lived as primitive a life as
their woebegone cousins of Van Diemen’s Land. Arts of boatbuilding (beyond
crude woven
rafts used to cross the channels betwixt islands) & navigation fell into
disuse. That the
terraqueous globe held other lands, trod by other feet, the Moriori dreamt
not. Indeed, their
language lacks a word for “race” & “Moriori” means, simply, “People.”
Husbandry was not
practiced, for no mammals walked these isles until passing whalers willfully
marooned pigs
here to propagate a parlor. In their virgin state, the Moriori were foragers
, picking up paua
shellfish, diving for crayfish, plundering bird eggs, spearing seals,
gathering kelp & digging
for grubs & roots.
Thus far, the Moriori were but a local variant of most flaxen-skirted,
feather-cloaked heathens
of those dwindling “blind spots” of the ocean still unschooled by the
White Man. Old
Rekohu’s claim to singularity, however, lay in its unique pacific creed.
Since time immemorial,
the Moriori’s priestly caste dictated that whosoever spilt a man’s blood
killed his own mana—
his honor, his worth, his standing & his soul. No Moriori would shelter,
feed, converse with,
or even see the persona non grata. If the ostracized murderer survived his
first winter, the
desperation of solitude usually drove him to a blowhole on Cape Young, where
he took his
life.
Consider this, Mr. D’Arnoq urged us. Two thousand savages (Mr. Evans’s
best guess)
enshrine “Thou Shalt Not Kill” in word & in deed & frame an oral “Magna
Carta” to create a
harmony unknown elsewhere for the sixty centuries since Adam tasted the
fruit of the Tree of
Knowledge. War was as alien a concept to the Moriori as the telescope is to
the Pygmy. Peace,
not a hiatus betwixt wars but millennia of imperishable peace, rules these
far-flung islands.
Who can deny Old Rekohu lay closer to More’s Utopia than our States of
Progress governed
by war-hungry princelings in Versailles & Vienna, Washington & Westminster?
“Here,”
declaimed Mr. D’Arnoq, “and here only, were those elusive phantasms, the
noble savages,
framed in flesh & blood!” (Henry, as we later made our way back to the
Musket, confessed, “I
could never describe a race of savages too backwards to throw a spear
straight as ‘noble.’ ”)
Glass & peace alike betray proof of fragility under repeated blows. The
first blow to the
Moriori was the Union Jack, planted in Skirmish Bay’s sod in the name of
King George by
Lieutenant Broughton of HMS Chatham just fifty years ago. Three years later,
Broughton’s
discovery was in Sydney & London chart agents & a scattering of free
settlers (whose number
included Mr. Evans’s father), wrecked mariners & “convicts at odds with
the New South
Wales Colonial Office over the terms of their incarceration” were
cultivating pumpkins, onions,
maize & carrots. These they sold to needy sealers, the second blow to the
Moriori’s
independence, who disappointed the Natives’ hopes of prosperity by turning
the surf pink with
seals’ blood. (Mr. D’Arnoq illustrated the profits by this arithmetic—a
single pelt fetched 15
shillings in Canton & those pioneer sealers gathered over two thousand pelts
per boat!) Within
a few years the seals were found only on the outer rocks & the “sealers”
too turned to farming
potatoes, sheep & pig rearing on such a scale that the Chathams are now
dubbed “The Garden
of the Pacific.” These parvenu farmers clear the land by bushfires that
smolder beneath the peat
for many seasons, surfacing in dry spells to sow renewed calamity
The third blow to the Moriori was the whalers, now calling at Ocean Bay,
Waitangi, Owenga
& Te Whakaru in sizable numbers for careening, refitting & refreshing.
Whalers’ cats & rats
bred like the Plagues of Egypt & ate the burrow-nesting birds whose eggs the
Moriori so
valued for sustenance. Fourth, those motley maladies which cull the darker
races whene’er
White civilization draws near, sapped the Aboriginal census still further.
All these misfortunes the Moriori might have endured, however, were it not
for reports arriving
in New Zealand depicting the Chathams as a veritable Canaan of eel-stuffed
lagoons, shellfishcarpeted
coves & inhabitants who understand neither combat nor weapons. To the ears
of the
Ngati Tama & Ngati Mutunga, two clans of the Taranaki Te Ati Awa Maori (
Maori genealogy
is, Mr. D’Arnoq assures us, every twig as intricate as those genealogical
trees so revered by
the European gentry; indeed, any boy of that unlettered race can recall his
grandfather’s
grandfather’s name & “rank” in a trice), these rumors promised
compensation for the tracts of
their ancestral estates lost during the recent “Musket Wars.” Spies were
sent to test the
Moriori’s mettle by violating tapu & despoiling holy sites. These
provocations the Moriori
faced as our Lord importuned, by “turning the other cheek,” & the
transgressors returned to
New Zealand confirming the Moriori’s apparent pusillanimity The tattooed
Maori
conquistadores found their single-barked armada in Captain Harewood of the
brig Rodney who
in the dying months of 1835, agreed to transport nine hundred Maori & seven
war canoes in
two voyages, in guerno for seed potatoes, firearms, pigs, a great supply of
scraped flax & a
cannon. (Mr. D’Arnoq encountered Harewood five years ago, penurious in a
Bay of Islands
tavern. He at first denied being the Rodney’s Harewood, then swore he had
been coerced into
conveying the Blacks, but was unclear how this coercion had been worked upon
him.)
The Rodney embarked from Port Nicholas in November, but its heathen cargo of
five hundred
men, women & children, packed tight in the hold for the six-day voyage,
bilged in ordure &
seasickness & lacking the barest sufficiency of water, anchored at
Whangatete Inlet in such an
enfeebled state that, had they but the will, even the Moriori might have
slain their Martial
brethren. The Goodly Samaritans chose instead to share the diminished
abundance of Rekohu
in preference to destroying their mana by bloodletting & nursed the sick &
dying Maori back
to health. “Maori had come to Rekohu before,” Mr. D’Arnoq explained, “
yet gone away again,
so the Moriori assumed the colonists would likewise leave them in peace.”
The Moriori’s generosity was rewarded when Cpt. Harewood returned from New
Zealand
with another four hundred Maori. Now the strangers proceeded to lay claim to
Chatham by
takahi, a Maori ritual transliterated as “Walking the Land to Possess the
Land.” Old Rekohu
was thus partitioned & the Moriori informed they were now Maori vassals. In
early December,
when some dozen Aboriginals protested, they were casually slain with
tomahawks. The Maori
proved themselves apt pupils of the English in “the dark arts of
colonization.”
Chatham Isle encloses a vast eastern salt marsh lagoon, Te Whanga, very
nearly an inland sea
but fecundated by the ocean at high tide through the lagoon’s “lips” at
Te Awapatiki. Fourteen
years ago, the Moriori men held on that sacred ground a parliament. Three
days it lasted, its
object to settle this question: Would the spillage of Maori blood also
destroy one’s mana?
Younger men argued the creed of Peace did not encompass foreign cannibals of
whom their
ancestors knew nothing. The Moriori must kill or be killed. Elders urged
appeasement, for as
long as the Moriori preserved their mana with their land, their gods &
ancestors would deliver
the race from harm. “Embrace your enemy,” the elders urged, “to prevent
him striking
you.” (“Embrace your enemy” Henry quipped, “to feel his dagger tickle
your kidneys.”)
The elders won the day but it mattered little. “When lacking numerical
superiority” Mr.
D’Arnoq told us, “the Maori seize an advantage by striking first & hardest
, as many hapless
British & French can testify from their graves.” The Ngati Tama & Ngati
Mutunga had held
councils of their own. The Moriori menfolk returned from their parliament to
ambushes & a
night of infamy beyond nightmare, of butchery, of villages torched, of
rapine, of men &
women, impaled in rows on beaches, of children hiding in holes, scented &
dismembered by
hunting dogs. Some chiefs kept an eye to the morrow & slew only enough to
instill terrified
obedience in the remainder. Other chiefs were not so restrained. On Waitangi
Beach fifty
Moriori were beheaded, filleted, wrapped in flax leaves, then baked in a
giant earth oven with
yams & sweet potatoes. Not half those Moriori who had seen Old Rekohu’s
last sunset were
alive to see the Maori sun rise. (“Less than an hundred pure-blooded
Moriori now remain,”
mourned Mr. D’Arnoq. “On paper the British Crown freed these from the yoke
of slavery
years ago, but the Maori do not care for paper. We are one week’s sail from
the Governor’s
House & Her Majesty maintains no garrison on Chatham.”)
I asked, why had not the Whites stayed the hands of the Maori during the
massacre?
Mr. Evans was no longer sleeping & not half so deaf as I had fancied. “Have
you ever seen
Maori warriors in a blood frenzy, Mr. Ewing?”
I said I had not.
“But you have seen sharks in a blood frenzy, have you not?”
I replied that I had.
“Near enough. Imagine a bleeding calf is thrashing in shark-infested
shallows. What to do—
stay out of the water or try to stay the jaws of the sharks? Such was our
choice. Oh, we helped
the few that came to our door—our shepherd Barnabas was one—but if we
stepped out in that
night we’d not be seen again. Remember, we Whites numbered below fifty in
Chatham at that
time. Nine hundred Maoris, altogether. Maoris bide by Pakeha, Mr. Ewing, but
they despise
us. Never forget it.”
What moral to draw? Peace, though beloved of our Lord, is a cardinal virtue
only if your
neighbors share your conscience.
Night—
The name of Mr. D’Arnoq is not well-loved in the Musket. “A White Black, a
mixed-blood
mongrel of a man,” Walker told me. “Nobody knows what he is.” Suggs, a
one-armed
shepherd who lives under the bar, swore our acquaintance is a Bonapartist
general hiding here
under assumed colors. Another swore he was a Polack.
Nor is the word Moriori much loved. A drunken Maori mulatto told me that the
entire history
of the Aboriginals had been dreamt up by the “mad old Lutheran” & Mr.
DArnoq preaches his
Moriori gospel only to legitimize his own swindling land claims against the
Maori, the true
owners of Chatham, who have been coming to & fro in their canoes since time
immemorial!
James Coffee, a hog farmer, said the Maori had performed the White Man a
service by
exterminating another race of brutes to make space for us, adding that
Russians train Kossacks
to “soften Siberian hides” in a similar way
I protested, to civilize the Black races by conversion should be our mission
, not their
extirpation, for God’s hand had crafted them, too. All hands in the tavern
fired broadsides at
me for my “sentimental Yankee claptrap!” “The best of ’em is not too
good to die like a pig!”
one shouted. “The only gospel the Blacks savvy is the gospel of the d——d
whip!” Still
another: “We Britishers abolished slavery in our empire—no American can
say as much!”
Henry’s stance was ambivalent, to say the least. “After years of working
with missionaries, I
am tempted to conclude that their endeavors merely prolong a dying race’s
agonies for ten or
twenty years. The merciful plowman shoots a trusty horse grown too old for
service. As
philanthropists, might it not be our duty to likewise ameliorate the savages
’ sufferings by
hastening their extinction? Think on your Red Indians, Adam, think on the
treaties you
Americans abrogate & renege on, time & time & time again. More humane,
surely & more
honest, just to knock the savages on the head & get it over with?”
As many truths as men. Occasionally, I glimpse a truer Truth, hiding in
imperfect simulacrums
of itself, but as I approach, it bestirs itself & moves deeper into the
thorny swamp of dissent.
Tuesday, 12th November—
Our noble Cpt. Molyneux today graced the Musket to haggle over the price of
five barrels of
salt-horse with my landlord (the matter was settled by a rowdy game of
trentuno won by the
captain). Much to my surprise, ere he returned to inspect the progress in
the shipyard, Cpt.
Molyneux requested some confidential words with Henry in my companion’s
room. The
consultation continues as I write. My friend has been warned of the captain
’s despotism, but
still, I do not like it.
Later—
Cpt. Molyneux, it transpires, suffers from a medical complaint which, if
untreated, may impair
those divers skills demanded of his station. The captain has therefore
proposed to Henry that
my friend voyage with us to Honolulu (victualing & private berth gratis),
assuming the
responsibilities both of Ship’s Doctor & personal physician to Cpt.
Molyneux until our arrival.
My friend explained he had intended to return to London, but Cpt. Molyneux
was most
insistent. Henry promised to think the matter over & come to a decision by
Friday morning, the
day now set for the Prophetess’s departure.
Henry did not name the captain’s illness, nor did I ask, though one needs
not be an
Aesculapian to glean Cpt. Molyneux is a slave to gout. My friend’s
discretion does him much
credit. Whatever eccentricities Henry Goose may exhibit as a collector of
curios, I believe Dr.
Goose is an exemplary healer & it is my zealous, if self-serving, hope that
Henry returns a
favorable answer to the captain’s proposal.
Wednesday, 13th November—
I come to my journal as a Catholick to a confessor. My bruises insist these
extraordinary past
five hours were not a sickbed vision conjured by my Ailment, but real events
. I shall describe
what befell me this day, steering as close to the facts as is possible.
This morning, Henry paid Widow Bryden’s hut another call to adjust her
splint & reapply
poultice. Rather than submit to idleness, I resolved to scale a high hill to
the north of Ocean
Bay, known as Conical Tor, whose lofty elevation promises the best aspect of
Chatham Isle’s
“backcountry” (Henry, a man of maturer years, has too much sense to tramp
unsurveyed
islands peopled by cannibals.) The tired creek who waters Ocean Bay guided
me upstream
through marshy pastures, stump-pocked slopes, into virgin forest so rotted,
knotted & tangled,
I was obliged to clamber aloft like an orang-utan! A volley of hailstones
began abruptly, filled
the woods with a frenzied percussion & ended on the sudden. I spied a “
Robin Black-Breast”
whose plumage was tarry as night & whose tameness bordered on contempt. An
unseen tui
took to song, but my inflamed fancy awarded it powers of human speech:—“
Eye for an eye!” it
called ahead, flitting through its labyrinth of buds, twigs & thorns. “Eye
for an eye!” After a
grueling climb, I conquered the summit grievously torn & scratched at I know
not What
o’Clock, for I neglected to wind my pocket watch last night. The opaque
mists that haunt these
isles (the Aboriginal name Rekohu, Mr. D’Arnoq informs us, signifies “Sun
of Mists”) had
descended as I ascended, so my cherished panorama was naught but treetops
disappearing into
drizzle. A miserly reward for my exertions, indeed.
The “summit” of Conical Tor was a crater, a stone’s throw in diameter,
encircling a crag-walled
depression whose floor lay unseen far beneath the funereal foliage of a
gross or more kopi
trees. I should not have cared to investigate its depths without the aid of
ropes & a pickax. I
was circumambulating the crater’s lip, seeking a clearer trail back to
Ocean Bay, when a
startling hoo-roosh! sent me diving to the ground:—the mind abhors a
vacancy & is wont to
people it with phantoms, thus I glimpsed first a tusked hog charging, then a
Maori warrior,
spear held aloft, his face inscribed with the ancestral hatred of his race.
’Twas but a mollyhawk, wings “flupping” the air like a windjammer. I
watched her disappear
back into the diaphanous fog. I was a full yard shy of the crater’s lip,
but to my horror, the turf
beneath me disintegrated like suet crust—I stood on not solid ground but an
overhang! I
plunged to my midriff, grasping some grasses in desperation, but these broke
in my fingers &
down I plummeted, a mannikin tossed into a well! I recall spinning in space,
yelling & twigs
clawing my eyes, cartwheeling & my jacket snagging, tearing loose; loose
earth; the
anticipation of pain; an urgent, formless prayer for help; a bush slowing
but not halting my
descent & a hopeless attempt to regain balance—sliding—lastly terra firma
careering upwards
to meet me. The impact knocked my senses out of me.
Amidst nebulous quilts & summery pillows I lay, in a bedroom in San
Francisco similar to my
own. A dwarfish servant said, “You’re a very silly boy, Adam.” Tilda &
Jackson entered, but
when I voiced my jubilation, not English but the guttural barkings of an
Indian race burst from
my mouth! My wife & son were shamed by me & mounted a carriage. I gave chase
, striving to
rectify this misunderstanding, but the carriage dwindled into the fleeing
distance until I awoke
in bosky twilight & a silence, booming & eternal. My bruises, cuts, muscles
& extremities
groaned like a courtroom of malcontent litigants.
A mattress of moss & mulch, lain down in that murky hollow since the second
day of Creation,
had preserved my life. Angels preserved my limbs, for if even a single arm
or leg had been
broken I should be lying there still, unable to extricate myself, awaiting
death from the elements
or the claws of beasts. Upon regaining my feet & seeing how far I had slid &
fallen (the height
of a foremast) with no worse damage to my person, I thanked our Lord for my
deliverance, for
indeed, “Thou calledst in trouble, & I delivered thee; I answered thee in
the secret place of
thunder.”
My eyes adjusted to the gloom & revealed a sight at once indelible, fearsome
& sublime. First
one, then ten, then hundreds of faces emerged from the perpetual dim, adzed
by idolaters into
bark, as if Sylvan spirits were frozen immobile by a cruel enchanter. No
adjectives may
properly delineate that basilisk tribe! Only the inanimate may be so alive.
I traced my thumbs
along their awful visages. I do not doubt, I was the first White in that
mausoleum since its
prehistoric inception. The youngest dendroglyph is, I suppose, ten years old
, but the elders,
grown distended as the trees matured, were incised by heathens whose very
ghosts are long
defunct. Such antiquity surely bespoke the hand of Mr. D’Arnoq’s Moriori.
Time passed in that bewitched place & I sought to effect my escape,
encouraged by the
knowledge that the artists of the “tree sculptures” must earn regular
egress from that same pit.
One wall looked less sheer than the others & fibrous creepers offered a “
rigging” of sorts. I
was readying myself for the climb when a puzzling “hum” came to my
attention. “Who goes
there?” I called (a rash act for an unarmed White trespasser in a heathen
shrine). “Shew
yourself!” The silence swallowed my words & their echo & mocked me. My
Ailment stirred in
my spleen. The “hum” I traced to a mass of flies orbiting a protuberance
impaled on a brokenoff
branch. I poked the lump with a pine stick & nearly retched, for ’twas a
piece of stinking
offal. I turned to flee, but duty obliged me to dispel a black suspicion
that a human heart hung
on that tree. I concealed my nose & mouth in my ’kerchief & with my stick,
touched a severed
ventricle. The organ pulsed as if alive! & my scalding Ailment shot up my
spine! As in a dream
(but it was not!) a pellucid salamander emerged from its carrion dwelling &
darted along the
stick to my hand! I flung the stick away & saw not where that salamander
disappeared. My
blood was enriched by fright & I hastened to effect my escape. Easier
written than done, for
had I slipped & plunged anew from those vertiginous walls my luck may not
have softened my
fall a second time, but foot holes had been hewn into the rock & by God’s
grace I gained the
crater’s lip with no mishap. Back in the dismal cloud, I craved the
presence of men of my own
hue, yes, even the rude sailors in the Musket, & began my descent on the
nonce in what I hoped
was a southerly direction. My initial resolve to report all I had seen (
surely, Mr. Walker, the de
facto if not de jure Consul, should be informed of the robbery of a human
heart?) weakened as
I approached Ocean Bay. I am still undecided what to report & to whom. The
heart was most
likely a hog’s, or sheep’s, surely The prospect of Walker & his ilk
felling the trees & selling the
dendroglyphs to collectors offends my conscience. A sentimentalist I may be,
but I do not wish
to be the agent of the Moriori’s final violation. *
Evening—
The Southern Cross was bright in the sky ere Henry returned to the Musket,
having been
detained by more islanders seeking to consult “Widow Bryden’s Healer Man”
on their rheums,
yaws & dropsy. “If potatoes were dollars,” rued my friend, “I should be
richer than
Nebuchadnezzar!” He was concerned by my (much edited) misadventure on
Conical Tor &
insisted on examining my injuries. Earlier I had prevailed upon the Indian
maid to fill my bath
& emerged much recruited. Henry donated a pot of balm for my inflammations &
refused to
take a cent for it. Fearing this may be my last chance to consult with a
gifted physician (Henry
intends to refuse Cpt. Molyneux’s proposal), I unburdened my fears vis-à-
vis my Ailment. He
listened soberly & asked about the frequency & duration of my spells. Henry
regretted he
lacked the time & apparatus for a compleat diagnosis, but recommended, upon
my return to San
Francisco, I find a specialist in tropical parasites as a matter of urgency.
(I could not bring
myself to tell him there are none.) I slumber not.
Thursday, 14th November—
We make sail with the morning tide. I am once more aboard the Prophetess,
but I cannot
pretend it is good to be back. My coffin now stores three great coils of
hawser, which I must
scale to attain my bunk, for not one inch of floor is visible. Mr. D’Arnoq
sold half a dozen
barrels of sundry provisions to the quartermaster & a bolt of sailcloth (
much to Walker’s
disgust). He came aboard to supervise their delivery & collect payment
himself & bid me
Godspeed. In my coffin we were squeezed like two men in a pothole, so we
repaired to the
deck for it is a pleasant evening. After discussing divers matters we shook
hands & he climbed
down to his waiting ketch, ably crewed by two young manservants of mongrel
race.
Mr. Roderick has little sympathy with my petition to have the offending
hawser removed
elsewhere, for he is obliged to quit his private cabin (for the reason
stated below) & move to
the fo’c’sle with the common sailors, whose number has swollen with five
Castilians
“poached” from the Spaniard at anchor in the Bay. Their captain was the
portrait of a Fury, yet
short of declaring war on the Prophetess—a battle sure to bloody his nose,
for he pilots the
leakiest tub—he can do little but thank his stars Cpt. Molyneux required no
more deserters. The
very words “California Bound” are dusted in gold & beckon all men
thitherwards like moths to
a lantern. These five replace the two deserters at the Bay of Islands & the
hands lost in the
tempest, but we are still several men short of a full crew. Finbar tells me
the men grumble over
the new arrangements, for with Mr. Roderick lodged in their fo’c’sle, they
cannot yarn freely
over a bottle.
Fate has dealt me a fine compensation. After paying Walker’s usurous bill (
nor did I tip that
scoundrel a cent), I was packing my jackwood trunk when Henry entered,
greeting me thus:
—“Good morning, Shipmate!” God has answered my prayers! Henry has
accepted the post of
Ship’s Doctor & I am no longer friendless in this floating farmyard. So
ornery a mule is the
common sailor that, instead of gratitude that a doctor shall be on hand to
splint their breakages
& treat their infections, one o’erhears them moaning, “What are we, to
carry a Ship’s Doctor
who can’t walk a bowsprit? A Royal Barge?”
I must confess to a touch of pique that Cpt. Molyneux afforded a fare-paying
gentleman such
as myself only my lamentable berth, when a more commodious cabin lay at his
disposal all
along. Of far greater consequence, however, is Henry’s promise to turn his
formidable talents
to a diagnosis of my Ailment as soon as we are at sea. My relief is
indescribable.
Friday, 15th November—
We got under weigh at daybreak, notwithstanding Friday is a Jonah amongst
sailors. (Cpt.
Molyneux growls, “Superstitions, Saints’ Days & other blasted fripperies
are fine sport for
Popish fishwives but I am in the business of turning a profit!”) Henry & I
did not venture on
deck, for all hands were busy with rigging & a southerly blows very fresh
with a heavy sea;
the ship was troublesome last night & is not less so today. We passed half
the day arranging
Henry’s apothecary Besides the appurtenances of the modern physician, my
friend owns
several learned volumes, in English, Latin & German. A case holds “spectra
” of powders in
stoppered bottles labeled in Greek. These he compounds to make various pills
& unguents. We
peered through the steerage hatch towards noon & the Chathams were ink
stains on the leaden
horizon, but the rolling & pitching are unsafe for those whose sea legs have
vacationed the
week ashore.
Afternoon—
Torgny the Swede knocked on my coffin door. Surprized & intrigued by his
furtive manner, I
bade him enter. He seated himself upon a “pyramid” of hawser & whispered
that he bore a
proposal from a ring of shipmates. “Tell us where the best veins are, the
secret ones you locals
are keeping for yourselves. Me ’n’ my fellows’ll do the pack work. You’
ll just sit pretty &
we’ll cut you in a tenth share.”
I required a moment to understand that Torgny was referring to the
Californian mining fields.
So, a widespread desertion is in the offing once the Prophetess reaches her
destination & I
own, my sympathies are with the seamen! Saying so, I swore to Torgny that I
possessed no
knowledge of the gold deposits, for I have been absent this twelvemonth, but
I would gratis
compose a map illustrating the rumored “Eldorados” & gladly. Torgny was
agreeable. Tearing
a leaf from this journal, I was sketching a schema of Sausa-lito, Benecia,
Stanislaus,
Sacramento &c. when a malevolent voice spoke out. “Quite the oracle, no, Mr
. Quillcock?”
We had not heard Boerhaave descend the companionway & nudge open my door!
Torgny cried
in dismay, declaring his guilt in a trice. “What, pray,” continued the
first mate, “what business
have you with our passenger, Pustule of Stockholm?” Torgny was struck dumb,
but I would
not be cowed & told the bully I was describing the “sights” of my town,
the better for Torgny
to enjoy his shore leave.
Boerhaave raised his eyebrows. “You allot shore leave now, do you? New news
to my old
ears. That paper, Mr. Ewing, if you please.” I did not please. My gift to
the seaman was not the
Dutchman’s to commandeer. “Oh, begging your pardon, Mr. Ewing. Torgny,
take receipt of
your gift.” I had no choice but to hand it to the prostrate Swede. Mr.
Boerhaave uttered,
“Torgny, give me your gift instanter or, by the hinges of hell, you shall
regret the day you
crawled from your mother’s [my quill curls at recording his profanity].”
The mortified Swede
complied.
“Most educational,” remarked Boerhaave, eyeing my cartography “The
captain will be
delighted to learn of the pains you are taking to better our scabby Jacks,
Mr. Ewing. Torgny
you’re on masthead watch for twenty-four hours. Forty-eight if you’re seen
taking
refreshment. Drink you own p—— if you get a thirst.”
Torgny fled, but the first mate was not finished with me. “Sharks ply these
waters, Mr.
Quillcock Trail ships for tasty jetsam, they do. Once I saw one eat a
passenger. He, like you,
was neglectful of his safety & fell o’erboard. We heard his screams. Great
Whites toy with their
dinner, gnawing ’em slow, a leg here, a nibble there & that miserable b——
was alive longer
than you’d credit. Think on it.” He shut my coffin door. Boerhaave, like
all bullies & tyrants,
takes pride in that very hatefulness which makes him notorious.
Saturday, 16th November—
My Fates have inflicted upon me the greatest unpleasance of my voyage to
date! A shade of
Old Rekohu has thrust me, whose only desiderata are quietude & discretion,
into a pillory of
suspicion & gossip! Yet I am guilty on no counts save Christian trustingness
& relentless ill
fortune! One month to the day has passed since we put out from New South
Wales, when I
wrote this sunny sentence, “I anticipate an uneventful & tedious voyage.”
How that entry
mocks me! I shall never forget the last eighteen hours, but since I cannot
sleep nor think (&
Henry is now abed) my only escape from insomnia now is to curse my Luck on
these
sympathetic pages.
Last night I retired to my coffin “dog tired.” After my prayers I blew out
my lantern & lulled by
the ship’s myriad voices I sank into the shallows of sleep when a husky
voice inside my coffin!
awakened me wide-eyed & affright! “Mr. Ewing,” beseeched this urgent
whisper. “Do not fear
—Mr. Ewing—no harm, no shout, please, sir.”
I jumped involuntarily & knocked my head against the bulkhead. By the twin
glimmers of
amber-light through my ill-fitted door & starlight through my porthole, I
saw a serpentine
length of hawser uncoil itself & a black form heave itself free like the
dead at the Last Trump!
A powerful hand seemed to sail through the blackness & sealed my lips ere I
could cry out!
My assailant hissed, “Missa Ewing, no harm, you safe, I friend of Mr. D’
Arnoq—you know
he Christian—please, quiet!”
Reason, at last, rallied against my fear. A man, not a spirit, was hiding in
my room. If he
wished to slit my throat for my hat, shoes & legal box, I would already be
dead. If my gaoler
was a stowaway, why he, not I, was in peril for his life. From his uncut
language, his faint
silhouette & his smell, I intuited the stowaway was an Indian, alone on a
boat of fifty White
Men. Very well. I nodded, slowly, to indicate I would not cry out.
The cautious hand released my lips. “My name is Autua,” he said. “You
know I, you seen I,
aye—you pity I.” I asked what he was talking about. “Maori whip I—you
seen.” My memory
overcame the bizarreness of my situation & I recalled the Moriori being
flogged by the “Lizard
King.” This heartened him. “You good man—Mr. DArnoq tell you good man—he
hid I in
your cabin yesterday night—I escape—you help, Mr. Ewing.” Now a groan
escaped my lips!
& his hand clasped my mouth anew. “If you no help—I in trouble dead.”
All too true, I thought, & moreover you’ll drag me down with you, unless I
convince Cpt.
Molyneux of my innocence! (I burned with resentment at DArnoq’s act & burn
still. Let him
save his “good causes” & leave innocent bystanders be!) I told the
stowaway he was already
“in trouble dead.” The Prophetess was a mercantile vessel, not an “
underground railroad” for
rescued slaves.
“I able seaman!” insisted the Black. “I earn passage!” Well & good, I
told him (dubious of his
claim to be a sailor of pedigree) & urged him to surrender himself to the
captain’s mercies
forthwith. “No! They no listen I! Swim away home, Nigger, they say & throw
I in drink! You
lawman aye? You go, you talk, I stay, I hide! Please. Cap’n hear you, Missa
Ewing. Please.”
In vain I sought to convince him, no intercessor at Cpt. Molyneux’s court
was less favored
than the Yankee Adam Ewing. The Moriori’s adventure was his own & I desired
no part in it.
His hand found mine & to my consternation closed my fingers around the hilt
of a dagger.
Resolute & bleak was his demand. “Then kill I.” With a terrible calmness &
certitude, he
pressed its tip against his throat. I told the Indian he was mad. “I not
mad, you no help I, you
kill I, just same. It’s true, you know it.” (I implored him to restrain
himself & speak soft.) “So
kill I. Say to others I attack you, so you kill I. I ain’t be fish food, Mr
. Ewing. Die here is
better.”
Cursing my conscience singly, my fortune doubly & Mr. D’Arnoq trebly, I
bade him sheath
his knife & for Heaven’s sake conceal himself lest one of the crew hear and
come knocking. I
promised to approach the captain at breakfast, for to interrupt his slumbers
would only ensure
the doom of the enterprise. This satisfied the stowaway & he thanked me. He
slid back inside
the coils of rope, leaving me to the near-impossible task of constructing a
case for an
Aboriginal stowaway, aboard an English schooner, without attainting his
discoverer &
cabinmate with a charge of conspiracy. The savage’s breathing told me he
was sleeping. I was
tempted to make a dash for the door & howl for help, but in the eyes of God
my word was my
bond, even to an Indian.
The cacophony of timbers creaking, of masts swaying, of ropes flexing, of
canvas clapping, of
feet on decks, of goats bleating, of rats scuttling, of the pumps beating,
of the bell dividing the
watches, of melees & laughter from the fo’c’sle, of orders, of windlass
shanties & of Tethys’
eternal realm; all lulled me as I calculated how best I could convince Cpt.
Molyneux of my
innocence in Mr. D’Arnoq’s plot (now I must be more vigilant than ever
that this diary should
not be read by unfriendly eyes) when a falsetto yell, beginning far off but
speeding nearer at a
crossbolt’s velocity was silenced by the deck, mere inches above where I
lay.
Such a terrible finality! Prone I lay, shocked & rigid, forgetting to
breathe. Shouts far & near
rose, feet gathered & an alarum of “Raise Doctor Goose!” cried forth.
“Sorry b—— fall from rigging, dead now.” The Indian whispered as I made
haste to
investigate the disturbance. “You can nothing, Missa Ewing.” I ordered him
to stay hidden &
hurried out. I fancy the stowaway sensed how tempted I was to use the
accident to betray him.
The crew stood around a man lying prone at the base of the mid-mast. By the
lurching lantern
light I recognized one of the Castili-ans. (I own that my first emotion was
relief that not Rafael
but another had fallen to his death.) I overheard the Icelander say the dead
man had won his
compatriots’ arrack ration at cards & drunk it all before his watch. Henry
arrived in his
nightshirt with his doctor’s bag. He knelt by the mangled form & felt for a
pulse, but shook his
head. “This fellow has no need of a doctor.” Mr. Roderick retrieved the
Castilian’s boots &
clothes for auction & Mankin fetched some third-rate sackcloth for the
cadaver. (Mr.
Boerhaave will deduct the sackcloth from the auction’s profits.) The Jacks
returned to their
fo’c’sle or their stations in silence, every man made somber by this
reminder of the fragility of
life. Henry, Mr. Roderick & I stayed to watch the Castilians perform their
Catholick death rites
over their countryman before knotting up the sack & committing his body to
the deep with tears
& dolorous adíos! “Passionate Latinos,” observed Henry, bidding me a
second good night. I
yearned to share the secret of the Indian with my friend, but held my tongue
lest my complicity
infect him.
Returning from the melancholy scene, I saw a lantern gleam in the galley.
Finbar sleeps there
“to ward off pilferers,” but he too was roused by the night’s excitement.
I recalled that the
stowaway may not have eaten for a day & a half, fearfully, for what bestial
depravity might a
savage not be driven to by an empty stomach? My act might have stood against
me on the
morrow, but I told the cook a mighty hunger was robbing me of sleep & (at
double the usual
expense “on account o’ the unseason’ble hour”) I procured a platter of
sauerkraut, sausage &
buns hard as cannonballs.
Back in the confines of my cabin, the savage thanked me for the kindness &
ate that humble
fare as if it were a Presidential Banquet. I did not confess my true motives
, viz., the fuller his
stomach, the less likely he was to consume me, but instead asked him why,
during his
flogging, he had smiled at me. “Pain is strong, aye—but friends’ eyes,
more strong.” I told him
that he knows next to nothing about me & I know nothing about him. He jabbed
at his eyes &
jabbed at mine, as if that single gesture were ample explanation.
The wind rose higher as the middle watch wore on, making the timbers moan &
whipping up
the seas & sluicing over the decks. Seawater was soon dripping into my
coffin, trickling down
the walls & blotting my blanket. “You might have chosen a drier hidey-hole
than mine,” I
whispered, to test the stowaways wakefulness. “Safe better’n dry, Missa
Ewing,” he
murmured, alert as I. Why, I asked, was he beaten so savagely in the Indian
hamlet? A silence
stretched itself out. “I seen too much o’ the world, I ain’t good slave.
” To ward off seasickness
during those dreary hours, I teazed out the stowaway’s history. (I cannot,
moreover, deny my
curiosity) His pidgin delivered his tale brokenly, so its substance only
shall I endeavor to set
down here.
White men’s ships bore vicissitudes to Old Rekohu, as Mr. D’Arnoq narrated
, but also
marvels. During my stowaway’s boyhood, Autua yearned to learn more of these
pale peoples
from places whose existence, in his grandfather’s time, was the realm of
myths. Autua claims
his father had been amongst the natives Lt. Broughton’s landing party
encountered in Skirmish
Bay & spent his infancy hearing the yarn told & retold:—of the “Great
Albatross,” paddling
through the morning mists; its vividly plumaged, strangely jointed servants
who canoed ashore,
facing backwards; of the Albatross servants’ gibberish (a bird language?);
of their smoke
breathing; of their heinous violation of that tapu forbidding strangers to
touch canoes (doing so
curses the vessel & renders it as unseaworthy as if an ax had been taken to
it); of the pursuant
altercation; of those “shouting staffs” whose magical wrath could kill a
man across the beach;
& of the bright skirt of ocean-blue, cloud-white & blood-red that the
servants hoisted aloft a
pole before rowing back to the Great Albatross. (This flag was removed &
presented to a
chieftain, who wore it proudly until the scrofula took him.)
Autua had an uncle, Koche, who shipped aboard a Boston sealer, circa 1825. (
The stowaway is
unsure of his exact age.) Mori-ori were prized crew amongst such vessels,
for in lieu of martial
prowess, Rekohu’s manhood “won their spurs” by seal hunting & swimming
feats. (To claim
his bride, as a further example, a young man had to dive to the seabed &
surface with a crayfish
in each hand & a third in his mouth.) Newly discovered Polynesians, it
should be added, make
easy prey for unscrupulous captains. Autua’s uncle Koche returned after
five years, garbed in
Pakeha clothes with rings in his ears, a modest pouch of dollars & réals,
possessed of strange
customs (“smoke breathing” amongst them), discordant oaths & tales of
cities & sights too
outlandish for the Moriori tongue to delineate.
Autua swore to ship on the next vessel leaving Ocean Bay & see these exotic
places for
himself. His uncle persuaded a second mate on a French whaler to ship the
ten-year-old (?)
Autua as an apprentice. In the Moriori’s subsequent career at sea, he saw
the ice ranges of
Antarctica, whales turned to islets of gore, then barrels of sperm oil; in
the becalmed ashy
Encantadas, he hunted giant tortoises; in Sydney, he saw grand buildings,
parks, horse-drawn
carriages & ladies in bonnets & the miracles of civilization; he shipped
opium from Calcutta to
Canton; survived dysentery in Batavia; lost half of an ear in a skirmish
with Mexicans afore the
altar at Santa Cruz; survived shipwreck at the Horn & saw Rio de Janeiro,
though did not step
ashore; & everywhere he observed that casual brutality lighter races show
the darker.
Autua returned in the summer of 1835, a worldly-wise young man of about
twenty He planned
to take a local bride & build a house & cultivate some acres, but as Mr.
DArnoq relates, by the
winter solstice of that year every Moriori who had not perished was a slave
of the Maori. The
returnee’s years amongst crews of all nations did not elevate Autua in the
invaders’ estimation.
(I observed how ill-timed was the prodigal’s homecoming. “No, Missa Ewing,
Rekohu called
me home, so I see her death so I know”—he tapped his head—“the truth.”)
Autua’s master was the lizard-tattooed Maori, Kupaka, who told his
horrified, broken slaves
that he had come to cleanse them of their false idols (“Have your gods
saved you?” taunted
Kupaka); their polluted language (“My whip will teach you pure Maori!”);
their tainted blood
(“Inbreeding has diluted your original mana!”). Henceforth Moriori unions
were proscribed &
all issue fathered by Maori men on Moriori women were declared Maori. The
earliest
transgressors were executed in gruesome ways & the survivors lived in that
state of lethargy
engendered by relentless subjugation. Autua cleared land, planted wheat &
tended hogs for
Kupaka until he won enough trust to effect his escape. (“Secret places on
Rekohu, Missa
Ewing, combes, pitfalls, caves deep in Motoporoporo Forest, so dense no dogs
scent you
there.” I fancy I fell into one such secret place.)
A year later he was recaptured, but Moriori slaves were now too scarce to be
indiscriminately
slaughtered. The lower Maori were obliged to labor alongside the serfs, much
to their disgust.
(“We forsook our ancestors’ land in Aotearoa for this miserable rock?”
they complained.)
Autua escaped again & during his second spell of freedom he was granted
secret asylum by
Mr. DArnoq for some months, at no little risk to the latter. During this
sojourn Autua was
baptized & turned to the Lord.
Kupaka’s men caught up with the fugitive after a year & six-month, but this
time the mercurial
chieftain evinced a respect for Autua’s spirit. After a retributive lashing
, Kupaka appointed his
slave as fisherman for his own table. Thus employed, the Moriori let another
year go by until,
one afternoon, he found a rare moeeka fish flapping in his net. He told
Kupaka’s wife this king
of fish could be eaten only by a king of men & showed her how to prepare it
for her husband.
(“Bad bad poison this moeeka fish, Missa Ewing, one bite, aye, you sleep,
you never wake no
mo’.”) During that night’s feasting, Autua snuck from the encampment,
stole his master’s
canoe & rowed across the current-prone, choppy, moonless sea to deserted
Pitt Island, two
leagues to the south of Chatham Isle (known as Rangiauria in Moriori &
revered as mankind’s
birthplace).
Luck favored the stowaway, for he arrived safe at dawn as a squall blew up &
no canoes made
the crossing after him. Autua subsisted in his Polynesian Eden on wild
celery watercress, eggs,
berries, an occasional young boar (he risked fires only under cover of
darkness or mist) & the
knowledge that Kupaka, at least, had met a condign punishment. Was his
solitude not
unbearable? “Nights, ancestors visited. Days, I yarned tales of Maui to
birds & birds yarned
sea tales to I.”
The fugitive lived thus for many a season until last September, when a
winter gale wrecked the
whaler Eliza from Nantucket on Pitt Island Reef. All hands drowned, but our
Mr. Walker,
zealous in his pursuit of easy guineas, crossed the straits seeking salvage.
When he found signs
of habitation & saw Kupaka’s old canoe (each is storiated with unique
carvings), he knew he
had found treasure of interest to his Maori neighbors. Two days later a
large hunting party
rowed to Pitt Island from the mainland. Autua sat on the beach & watched
them arrive,
surprized only to see his old enemy, Kupaka, grizzled but very much alive &
shouting war
chants.
My uninvited cabinmate concluded his tale. “That b——’s greedy dog stole
moeeka from
kitchen & died, not the Maori. Aye, Kupaka flogged me, but he’s old & far
from home & his
mana is hollow & starved. Maori thrive on wars & revenge & feudin’, but
peace kills ’em off.
Many go back to Zealand. Kupaka cannot, his land is no mo’. Then last week,
Missa Ewing, I
see you & I know, you save I, I know it.”
The morning watch smote four bells & my porthole betrayed a rainy dawn. I
had slept a little,
but my prayers that the dawn would dissolve the Moriori were unheeded. I
bade him to playact
he had only just revealed himself & make no mention of our night’s
conversation. He signaled
comprehension, but I feared the worst: an Indian’s wit was no match for a
Boerhaave.
Along the gangway I stepped (the Prophetess was bucking like a young bronco)
to the
officers’ mess, knocked & entered. Mr. Roderick & Mr. Boerhaave were
listening to Cpt.
Molyneux. I cleared my throat & bade all good morning, at which our amicable
captain swore,
“You can better my morning, by b——ing off, instanter!”
Coolly, I asked when the captain might find time to hear news of an Indian
stowaway who had
just emerged from the coils of hawser taking up “my so-called cabin.”
During the ensuing
silence Cpt. Molyneux’s pale, horny-toad complexion turned roast beef pink.
Ere his blast was
launched, I added the stowaway claimed to be an able seaman & begged to work
his passage.
Mr. Boerhaave forestalled his captain with the predicted accusations &
exclaimed, “On Dutch
merchantmen those who abet stowaways share their fate!” I reminded the
Hollander we sailed
under an English flag & put it to him why, if I had hid the stowaway under
the coils of hawser,
had I asked & asked again since Thursday night for the unwonted hawser to be
removed,
thereby begging for my putative “conspiracy” to be uncovered? Hitting that
bull’s-eye fired my
mettle & I assured Cpt. Molyneux that the baptized stowaway had resorted to
this extreme
measure lest his Maori master, who had vowed to eat his slave’s warm liver
(I sprinkled a little
“seasoning” on my version of events), directed his ungodly wrath towards
his rescuer.
Mr. Boerhaave swore, “So this d——d Blackamoor wants us to be grateful to
him?” No, I
replied, the Moriori asks for a chance to prove his value to the Prophetess.
Mr. Boerhaave spat
out, “A stowaway is a stowaway even if he sh——s silver nuggets! What’s
his name?” I did
not know, I replied, for I had not conducted an interview with the man but
come to the captain
expeditiously
Cpt. Molyneux spoke at last. “Able seaman first class, you say?” His wrath
had cooled at the
prospect of earning a valuable pair of hands he would not have to pay. “An
Indian? Where did
he salt his burns?” I repeated, two minutes was insufficient to learn his
history, but my instinct
considered the Indian an honest fellow.
The captain wiped his beard. “Mr. Roderick, accompany our passenger & his
instinct & fetch
their pet savage afoot the mizzen.” He tossed a key to his first mate. “Mr
. Boerhaave, my
fowling piece, if you please.”
The second mate & I did as bid. “A risky business,” Mr. Roderick warned me
. “The only
statute book on the Prophetess is the Old Man’s Whim.” Another statute
book named
Conscience is observed lex loci wherever God sees, I responded. Autua was
awaiting his trial
in the cotton trowzers I purchased in Port Jackson (he had climbed aboard
from Mr. D
Arnoq’s boat in naught but his savage’s loincloth & a shark-tooth necklace
). His back was
exposed. His lacerations, I hoped, would pay testimony to his resilience &
bestir sympathy in
the observers’ breasts.
Rats behind the arras spread tidings of the sport & most hands were gathered
on deck. (My
ally, Henry, was still abed, unaware of my jeopardy.) Cpt. Molyneux sized
the Moriori up as if
inspecting a mule & addressed him thus: “Mr. Ewing, who knows nothing about
how you
boarded my vessel, says you regard yourself a seaman.”
Autua replied with courage & dignity “Aye, Cap’n, sir, two years on whaler
Mississippi of Le
Havre under Captain Maspero & four years on Cornucopia of Philadelphia under
Captain
Caton, three years on an Indiaman—”
Cpt. Molyneux interrupted & indicated Autua’s trowzers. “Did you pilfer
this garment from
below?” Autua was sensible that I, too, was on trial. “That Christian gent
’man gave, sir.” The
crew followed the stowaway’s finger to myself & Mr. Boerhaave thrust at the
chink in my
armor. “He did? When was this gift awarded?” (I recalled my father-in-law
’s aphorism “To
fool a judge, feign fascination, but to bamboozle the whole court, feign
boredom” & I
pretended to extract a speck from my eye.) Autua answered with primed
percipience. “Ten
minutes past, sir, I, no clothes, that gent’man say, naked no good, dress
this.”
“If you are a seaman”—our captain jerked his thumb aloft— “let’s see
you lower this
midmast’s royal.” At this, the stowaway grew hesitant & confused & I felt
the lunatick’s wager
I had placed on this Indian’s word swing against me, but Autua had merely
spotted a trap. “Sir,
this mast ain’t midmast, this mast the mizzen, aye?” Impassive Cpt.
Molyneux nodded. “Then
kindly lower the mizzen royal.”
Autua fairly ran up the mast & I began to hope all was not lost. The newly
risen sun shone low
over the water & caused us to squint. “Ready & aim my piece,” the captain
instructed Mr.
Boer-haave, once the stowaway was past the spanker gaff, “fire on my
command!”
Now I protested with the utmost vigor, the Indian had received holy
sacrament, but Cpt.
Molyneux ordered me to shut up or swim back to the Chathams. No American
captain would
cut a man down, not even a nigger, so odiously! Autua reached the topmost
yard & walked it
with simian dexterity despite the rough seas. Watching the sail unfurl, one
of the “saltest”
aboard, a dour Icelander & a sober, obliging & hardworking fellow, spoke his
admiration for
all to hear. “The darkie’s salt as I am, aye, he’s got fishhooks for toes
!” Such was my gratitude,
I could have kissed his boots. Soon Autua had the sail down—a difficult
operation even for a
team of four men. Cpt. Molyneux grunted approval & ordered Mr. Boerhaave to
replace his
gun, “But d—— me if I pay a stowaway a single cent. He’ll work his
passage to O-hawaii. If
he’s no shirker he may sign articles there in the regular fashion. Mr.
Roderick, he can share the
dead Spaniard’s bunk.”
I have worn away a nib in narrating the day’s excitements. It is grown too
dark to see.
Wednesday, 20th November-
Strong easterly breeze, very salty & oppressive. Henry has conducted his
examination & has
grave news, yet not the gravest. My Ailment is a parasite, Gusano coco
cervello. This Worm is
endemic throughout both Melanesia & Polynesia, but has been known to science
only these last
ten years. It breeds in the stinking canals of Batavia, doubtless the port
of my own infection.
Ingested, it voyages through the host’s blood vessels to the brain’s
cerebellum anterior .
(Hence my migraines & dizziness.) Ensconced in the brain, it enters a
gestation phase. “You
are a realist, Adam,” Henry told me, “so your pills shall be unsugared.
Once the Parasite’s
larvae hatch, the victim’s brain becomes a maggoty cauliflower. Putrescent
gases cause the
eardrums & eyeballs to protrude until they pop, releasing a cloud of Gusano
coco spores.”
Thus reads my death sentence, but now comes my stay of execution & appeal.
An admixture of
urussium alkali & orinoco manganese will calcify my Parasite & laphrydictic
myrrh will
disintegrate it. Henry’s “apothecary” holds these compounds, but a
precise dosage is
paramount. Less than half a drachm leaves Gusano coco unpurged, but more
kills the patient
with the cure. My doctor warns me that as the Parasite dies, its poison sacs
split & secrete their
cargo, so I shall feel worse before my recovery is compleat.
Henry enjoined me not to breathe a word about my condition, for hyenas like
Boerhaave prey
on the vulnerable & ignorant sailors can show hostility to maladies they
know not. (“I once
heard of a sailor who showed the touch of leprosy a week out of Macao on the
long haul back
to Lisbon,” recalled Henry, “and the whole company prodded the wretch
overboard without a
hearing.”) During my convalescence, Henry shall inform the “scuttlebutt”
that Mr. Ewing has a
low fever caused by the clime & nurse me himself. Henry bridled when I
mentioned his fee.
“Fee? You are no valetudinarian viscount with banknotes padding his pillows
! Providence
steered you to my ministrations, for I doubt five men in this blue Pacific
can cure you! So a fie
on ‘Fee’! All I ask, dear Adam, is that you are an obedient patient!
Kindly take my powders &
withdraw to your cabin. I shall look in after the last dog.”
My doctor is an uncut diamond of the first water. Even as I write these
words, I am tearful with
gratitude.
Saturday, 30th November—
Henry’s powders are indeed a wondrous medicament. I inhale the precious
grains into my
nostrils from an ivory spoon & on the instant an incandescent joy burns my
being. My senses
grow alert, yet my limbs grow Lethean. My Parasite still writhes at night,
like a new babe’s
finger, igniting spasms of pain & dreams obscene & monstrous visit me. “A
sure sign,” Henry
consoles me, “your Worm has reacted to our vermicide & seeks shelter in the
recesses of your
cerebral canals whence visions spring. In vain Gusano coco hides, dear Adam,
in vain. We
shall winkle ’im out!”
Monday, 2nd December—
By day, my coffin is hot as an oven & my sweat dampens these pages. The
tropic sun fattens &
fills the noon sky. The men work seminaked with sun-blacked torsos & straw
hats. The
planking oozes scorching tar that sticks to one’s soles. Rain squalls blow
up from nowhere &
vanish with the same rapidity & the deck hisses itself dry in a minute.
Portuguese man-o’-wars
pulsate in the quicksilver sea, flying fish bewitch the beholder & ocher
shadows of
hammerheads circle the Prophetess. Earlier, I stepped on a squid that had
propelled itself over
the bulwarks! (Its eyes & beak reminded me of my father-in-law.) The water
we took on at
Chatham Isle is now brackish & without a dash of brandy in it, my stomach
rebels. When not
playing chess in Henry’s cabin or the mess room, I rest in my coffin until
Homer lulls me into
dreams a-billow with sails of Athenians.
Autua knocked on my coffin door yesterday to thank me for saving his neck.
He said he was in
my debt (true enough) until the day he saves my life (may it never dawn!). I
asked how he was
finding his new duties. “Better’n slaving for Kupaka, Missa Ewing.”
Anyhow, growing
sensible of my fear someone would witness our congress & report to Cpt.
Molyneux, the
Moriori returned to the fo’c’sle & has not since sought me out. As Henry
warns me, “It’s one
thing to throw a blackie a bone, but quite another to take him on for life!
Friendships between
races, Ewing, can never surpass the affection between a loyal gundog & its
master.”
Nightly, my doctor & I enjoy a stroll on the deck before retiring. It is
pleasant merely to breathe
the cooler air. One loses one’s eye in lanes of sea phosphorescence & the
Mississippi of stars
streaming across the heavens. Last night, the men were gathered on the
foredeck laying up
grass into sinnet for ropes by lantern light & the prohibition on “
supernuminaries” on the
foredeck seemed not to apply. (Since the “Autua Incident” that contempt
directed at “Mr.
Quillcock” is in recess, as is the epithet.) Bentnail sang ten verses on
the world’s brothels foul
enough to put the most wanton satyr to flight. Henry volunteered an eleventh
verse (about
Mary O’Hairy of Inverary) that turned the air yet bluer. Rafael was next
coerced to take his
turn. He sat on the “widow maker” & sang these lines in a voice unschooled
yet honest & true:
—
Oh, Shenandoah, I long to see you,
Hurrah, you rolling river.
Oh, Shenandoah, I’ll not deceive you,
We’re bound way ’cross the wide Missouri.
Oh, Shenandoah, I love your daughter,
I love the place across the water.
The ship sails free, the wind is blowing,
The braces taut, the sheets a-flowing.
Missouri, she’s a mighty river,
We’ll brace her up till her topsails shiver.
Oh, Shenandoah, I’ll leave you never,
Till the day I die, I’ll love you ever.
Silence from rude mariners is a grander accolade than any erudite eulogy Why
should Rafael,
an Australian-born lad, have an American song by heart? “I din’t know ’
twas a Yankee un,” he
replied awkwardly. “My mam teached it me before she died. It’s the only
thing of hers I got
still. It stuck in me.” He turned to his work, an awkward curtness in his
manner. Henry & I
sensed anew the hostility that workers emanate at the bystanding idler & so
we left the toilers to
their industry.
Reading my entry for 15th October, when first I met Rafael during our shared
mal de mer on
the Tasman Sea, I stand amazed at how that sprite lad, aglow with excitement
at his maiden
voyage & so eager to please, has become this sullen youth in only six weeks.
His luminous
beauty is chipped away, revealing the timber-muscled seaman he shall become.
Already he
looks rather given to rum & water. Henry says this “sloughing off of his
cocoon” is inevitable,
bon gré mal gré, & I suppose he is right. Those smatterings of education &
sensibility Rafael
received from his patron, Mrs. Fry of Brisbane, serve a cabin boy ill in the
harum-scarum
world of the fo’c’sle. How I wish I could help him! Were it not for the
intervention of my Mr.
& Mrs. Channing, my own fate may well have been of a piece with Raf’s. I
asked Finbar if he
thought the boy was “fitting in well.” Finbar’s Delphic reply, “Fitting
what in well, Mr.
Ewing?” left the galley cackling but myself quite in the dark.
Saturday, 7th December—
Petrels are aloft, sooty terns afloat & Mother Careys chickens roost on the
rigging. Fish similar
to borettoes pursued fish similar to sprats. As Henry & I ate supper, a
blizzard of purplish
moths seemed to issue from the cracks in the moon, smothering lanterns,
faces, food & every
surface in a twitching sheet of wings. To confirm these portents of nearby
islands, the man at
the lead shouted a depth of only eighteen fathoms. Mr. Boerhaave ordered the
anchor to be
weighed lest we drift onto a reef in the night.
The whites of my eyes have a lemon-yellow aspect & their rims are reddened &
sore. Henry
assures me this symptom is welcome, but has obliged my request for an
increased dosage of
vermicide.
Sunday, 8th December-Sabbath not being observed on the Prophetess, this
morning Henry & I
decided to conduct a short Bible Reading in his cabin in the “low-church”
style of Ocean Bay’s
congregation, “astraddle” the forenoon & morning watches so both starboard
& port shifts
might
* My father never spoke to me of the dendroglyphs & I learnt of them only in
the manner
described in the Introduction. Now that the Moriori of Chatham Island are a
race over
extinction’s brink, I hold them to be beyond betrayal. —J.E.
b*d
4 楼
Invar36 (64%Fe36%Ni)
25-100um厚的，厚度均匀性要好（小于等于10%），应力低
中国美国欧洲日韩等国家的货源都可以
谢谢
有酬谢
25-100um厚的，厚度均匀性要好（小于等于10%），应力低
中国美国欧洲日韩等国家的货源都可以
谢谢
有酬谢
S*I
5 楼
马上
【在 T****1 的大作中提到】
: J1明年3月到期，已申请waiver,现在有一个H1机会，可以给办加急，15天那种。
: 请教大侠，
: 如果H1批下来了，我可以马上以H1身份工作吗，还是必须到明年3月J1结束后才能换成
: H1？
: 总不能同时拥有J1和H1两个身份吧？
【在 T****1 的大作中提到】
: J1明年3月到期，已申请waiver,现在有一个H1机会，可以给办加急，15天那种。
: 请教大侠，
: 如果H1批下来了，我可以马上以H1身份工作吗，还是必须到明年3月J1结束后才能换成
: H1？
: 总不能同时拥有J1和H1两个身份吧？
C*C
6 楼
可以。 当然要提供工作信息。
Offer letter, pay stubs, etc.一律准备好。
小孩的事，不知道。
Offer letter, pay stubs, etc.一律准备好。
小孩的事，不知道。
c*t
7 楼
LETTERS FROM ZEDELGHEM
CHATEAU ZEDELGHEM,
NEERBEKE,
WEST VLAANDEREN
29TH-VI-1993
Sixsmith,
Dreamt I stood in a china shop so crowded from floor to far-off ceiling with
shelves of
porcelain antiquities etc. that moving a muscle would cause several to fall
and smash to bits.
Exactly what happened, but instead of a crashing noise, an august chord rang
out, half-cello,
half-celeste, D major (?), held for four beats. My wrist knocked a Ming vase
affair off its
pedestal—E-flat, whole string section, glorious, transcendent, angels wept.
Deliberately now,
smashed a figurine of an ox for the next note, then a milkmaid, then
Saturdays Child—orgy of
shrapnel filled the air, divine harmonies my head. Ah, such music! Glimpsed
my father totting
up the smashed items’ value, nib flashing, but had to keep the music coming
. Knew I’d
become the greatest composer of the century if I could only make this music
mine. A
monstrous Laughing Cavalier flung against the wall set off a thumping
battery of percussion.
Woke in my Imperial Western suite, Tam Brewer’s collectors nearly knocking
my door down
and much commotion from corridor. Hadn’t even waited until I’d shaved—
breathtaking
vulgarity of these ruffians. Had no choice but to exit swiftly via the
bathroom window before
the brouhaha summoned the manager to discover that the young gentleman in
Room 237 had
no means of settling his now-hefty balance. Escape was not hitchless, sorry
to report.
Drainpipe ripped free of its mounting with the noise of a brutalized violin,
and down, down,
down tumbled your old chum. Right buttock one hellish bruise. Minor miracle
I didn’t shatter
my spine or impale myself on railings. Learn from this, Sixsmith. When
insolvent, pack
minimally, with a valise tough enough to be thrown onto a London pavement
from a first- or
second-floor window. Insist on hotel rooms no higher. Hid in a tearoom
tucked into a sooty
nook of Victoria Station, trying to transcribe the music from the china shop
of dreams—
couldn’t get beyond a measly two bars. Would have walked into Tam Brewer’s
arms just to
have that music back again. Miserable spirits. Laboring types surrounded me
with bad teeth,
parrot voices, and unfounded optimism. Sobering to think how one accursed
night of baccarat
can alter a man’s social standing so irreversibly. Those shopworkers,
cabbies, and tradesmen
had more half crowns and threepenny bits squirreled away in their sour
Stepney mattresses
than I, Son of an Ecclesiastical Somebody, can claim. Had a view of an alley
scriveners hurtling by like demisemiquavers in a Beethovian allegro. Afraid
of ’em? No, I’m
afraid of being one. What value are education, breeding, and talent if one
doesn’t have a pot to
piss in?
Still can’t believe it. I, a Caius Man, teetering on the brink of
destitution. Decent hotels won’t
let me taint their lobbies now. Indecent hotels demand cash on the nail. Am
barred from any
reputable gaming table this side of the Pyrenees. Anyway, I summarized my
options:—
(i) Use paltry funds to obtain a dirty room in some lodging house, beg a few
guineas from
Uncle Cecil Ltd., teach prissy missies their scales and bitter spinsters
their technique. Come
now. If I could fake courtesy to dunces I’d still be swabbing Professor Mac
-kerras’s arse with
my ex–fellow undergrads. No, before you say it, I can’t go running back to
Pater with yet
another cri de coeur. Would validate every poisonous word he said about me.
Would rather
jump off Waterloo Bridge and let Old Father Thames humble me. Mean it.
(ii) Hunt down Caius people, butter ’em up, and invite myself to stay for
the summer.
Problematic, for same reasons as (i). How long could I conceal my starving
pocketbook? How
long could I stave off their pity their talons?
(iii) Visit turf accountant—but if I lost?
Youd remind me I brought it all upon myself, Sixsmith, but shrug off that
middle-class chip on
your shoulder and stick with me a little longer. Across a crowded platform,
a guard announced
that the Dover-bound train for the ship to Ostend was delayed by thirty
minutes. That guard
was my croupier, inviting me to double or quits. If one will just be still,
shut up, and listen—lo,
behold, the world’ll sift through one’s ideas for one, esp. in a grimy
London railway station.
Downed my soapy tea and strode across the concourse to the ticket office. A
return ticket to
Ostend was too costly—so parlous has my position become—so a single it had
to be. Boarded
my carriage just as the locomotive’s whistle blasted forth a swarm of
piccolo Furies. We were
under way
Now to reveal my plan, inspired by a piece in The Times and a long soak’s
daydream in my
Savoy suite. In the Belgian backwaters, south of Bruges, there lives a
reclusive English
composer, named Vyvyan Ayrs. You won’t have heard of him because you’re a
musical oaf,
but he’s one of the greats. The only Briton of his generation to reject
pomp, circumstance,
rusticity and charm. Hasn’t produced any new work since the early twenties
due to illness—
he’s half blind and can hardly hold a pen—but the Times review of his
Secular Magnificat
(performed last week at St. Martin’s) referred to a drawerful of unfinished
works. My
daydream had me traveling to Belgium, persuading Vyvyan Ayrs he needed to
employ me as
an amanuensis, accepting his offer to tutor me, shooting through the musical
firmament,
winning fame and fortune commensurate to my gifts, obliging Pater to admit
that, yes, the son
he disinherited is the Robert Frobisher, greatest British composer of his
time.
Why not? Had no better plan. You groan and shake your head, Sixsmith, I know
, but you
smile too, which is why I love you. Uneventful journey to the Channel …
cancerous suburbs,
tedious farmland, soiled Sussex. Dover an utter fright staffed by Bolsheviks
, versified cliffs as
Romantic as my arse and a similar hue. Changed last shillings into francs at
the port and took
my cabin aboard the Kentish Queen, a rusty tub that looks old enough to have
seen service in
Crimea. Spud-faced young steward and I disagreed his burgundy uniform and
unconvincing
beard were worth a tip. Sneered at my valise and manuscript folder—“Wise
of you to travel
light, sir”—and left me to muck for myself. Suited me fine.
Dinner was balsawood chicken, powdery potatoes, and a bastard claret. My
dining-table
companion was Mr. Victor Bryant, cutlery lordling of Sheffield. Not a
musical bone in his
body He expounded on the subject of spoons for most of the meal, mistook my
civil
deportment for interest, and offered me a job in his sales department on the
spot! Can you
believe it? Thanked him (keeping straight face) and confessed I’d rather
swallow cutlery than
ever have to sell the stuff. Three mighty blasts on the foghorn, engines
changed timbre, felt the
ship cast off, went on deck to watch Albion withdraw into drizzly murk. No
going back now;
consequences of what Id done struck home. R.VW conducted Sea Symphony in the
Orchestra
of the Mind, “Sail forth, steer for the deep waters only, Reckless, O Soul,
exploring, I with
thee, and thou with me.” (Don’t much care for this work, but it was
perfectly programmed.)
North Sea wind had me shivering, spray licked me from toe to crown. Glossy
black waters
invited me to jump. Ignored ’em. Turned in early, leafed through Noyes’s
Contrapuntals,
listened to the distant brass of the engine room and sketched a repetitive
passage for trombone
based on the ship’s rhythms, but was rather rubbish, and then guess who
came a-knocking at
my door? The spud-faced steward, his shift over. Gave him rather more than a
tip. No Adonis,
scrawny but inventive for his class. Turfed him out afterwards and sank into
the sleep of the
dead. One part of me wanted that voyage never to end.
But end it did. Kentish Queen slid into Dover’s snaggletoothed twin sister
over the mucky
water, Ostend, the Lady of Dubious Virtue. Early early morning, Europe’s
snoring rumbled
deep below bass tubas. Saw my first aboriginal Belgians, hauling crates,
arguing, and thinking
in Flemish, Dutch, whatever. Packed my valise sharpish, afraid the ship
might sail back to
England with me still aboard; or, rather, afraid of my letting this happen.
Grabbed a bite from
the first-class galleys fruit bowl and dashed down the gangplank before
anyone with braiding
on his uniform caught up with me. Set foot on Continental macadam and asked
a Customs man
where I might find the railway station. He pointed toward a groaning tram
packed with
malnourished workmen, rickets, and penury Preferred shank’s pony, drizzle
or no drizzle.
Followed tramlines down coffinesque streets. Ostend is all tapioca grays and
stained browns.
Will admit, I was thinking Belgium was a b. stupid country to run away to.
Bought a ticket for
Bruges and hauled myself aboard the next train—no platforms, can you
believe it?—a decrepit,
empty train. Moved compartment because mine smelt unpleasant, but all
compartments had
same pong. Smoked cigarettes cadged off Victor Bryant to purify the air. The
stationmaster’s
whistle blew on time, the locomotive strained like a gouty proctor on the
pot before heaving
itself into motion. Soon steaming through a foggy landscape of unkempt dikes
and blasted
copses at a fair old clip.
If my plan bears fruit, Sixsmith, you may come to Bruges before v. long.
When you do, arrive
in that six o’clock in the morning gnoss/-ennesque hour. Lose yourself in
the city’s rickety
streets, blind canals, wrought-iron gates, uninhabited courtyards—may I go
on? Why, thank
you—leery Gothic carapaces, Ararat roofs, shrubbery-tufted brick spires,
medieval overhangs,
laundry sagging from windows, cobbled whirlpools that suck your eye in,
clockwork princes
and chipped princesses striking their hours, sooty doves, and three or four
octaves of bells,
some sober, some bright. Aroma of fresh bread led me to a bakery where a
deformed woman
with no nose sold me a dozen crescent-moon pastries. Only wanted one, but
thought she had
enough problems. A rag-and-bone cart clattered out of the mist and its
toothless driver spoke
companionably to me, but I could only reply, “Excusez-moi, je ne parle pas
flamand,” which
made him laugh like the Goblin King. Gave him a pastry. His filthy hand was
a scabby claw.
In a poor quarter (alleys stank of effluent), children helped their mothers
at the pumps, filling
broken jugs with brown water. Finally, the excitement all caught up with me,
sat on the steps of
a dying windmill for a breather, wrapped myself against the damp, fell
asleep.
Next thing, a witch was poking me awake with her broomstick, screeching
something like “Zie
gie doad misschien?” but don’t quote me. Blue sky, warm sun, not a wisp of
fog to be seen.
Resurrected and blinking, I offered her a pastry. She accepted with distrust
, put it in her apron
for later, and got back to her sweeping, growling an ancient ditty Lucky I
wasn’t robbed, I
suppose. Shared another pastry with five thousand pigeons, to the envy of a
beggar, so I had to
give him one too. Walked back the way I might have come. In an odd
pentagonal window a
creamy maiden was arranging Saintpaulia in a cut-glass bowl. Girls fascinate
in different ways.
Try ’em one day. Tapped on the pane, and asked in French if she’d save my
life by falling in
love with me. Shook her head but got an amused smile. Asked where I could
find a police
station. She pointed over a crossroads. One can spot a fellow musician in
any context, even
amongst policemen. The craziest-eyed, unruliest-haired one, either hungry-
skinny or jovialportly
This French-speaking, cor anglais–playing, local operatic society–
belonging inspector
had heard of Vyvyan Ayrs and kindly drew me a map to Neerbeke. Paid him two
pastries for
this intelligence. He asked if I had shipped over my British car—his son
was mad keen about
Austins. Said I had no car. This worried him. How would I get to Neerbeke?
No bus, no
trainline, and twenty-five miles was the devil of a walk. Asked if I could
borrow a policeman’s
bicycle for an indefinite period. Told me that was most irregular. Assured
him I was most
irregular, and outlined the nature of my mission to Ayrs, Belgium’s most
famous adopted son
(must be so few that might even be true), in the service of European music.
Repeated my
request. Implausible truth can serve one better than plausible fiction, and
now was such a time.
The honest sergeant took me to a compound where lost items await rightful
owners for a few
months (before finding their way to the black market)—but first, he wanted
my opinion on his
baritone. He gave me a burst of “Recitar! … Vesti la giubba!” from I
Pagliacci. (Pleasant
enough voice in lower registers, but his breathing needed work and his
vibrato quivered like a
backstage thunder board.) Gave a few musical pointers; received the loan of
a Victorian Enfield
plus cord to secure valise and folder to the saddle and rear mudguard. He
wished me bon
voyage and fair weather.
Adrian would never have marched along the road I bicycled out of Bruges (too
deep in Hun
territory) but nonetheless felt an affinity with my brother by virtue of
breathing the same air of
the same land. The Plain is flat as the Fens but in a bad shape. Along the
way I fueled myself
with the last pastries and stopped at impoverished cottages for cups of
water. Nobody said
much, but nobody said no. Thanks to a headwind and a chain that kept
slipping off, the
afternoon was growing old before I finally reached Ayrs’s home village of
Neerbeke. A silent
blacksmith showed me how to get to Château Zedelghem by elaborating my
map with a pencil
stub. A lane with harebells and toadflax growing in the middle led me past a
deserted lodge
house to a once stately avenue of mature Italian poplars. Zedelghem is
grander than our rectory,
some crumbly turrets adorn its west wing, but it couldn’t hold a candle to
Audley End or
Capon-Tench’s country seat. Spied a girl riding a horse over a low hill
crowned by a
shipwrecked beech tree. Passed a gardener spreading soot against the slugs
in a vegetable
garden. In the forecourt, a muscle-bound valet was decoking a Cowley Flat
Nose. Seeing my
approach, he rose and waited for me. In a terraced corner of this frieze, a
man in a wheelchair
sat under foamy wisteria listening to the wireless. Vyvyan Ayrs, I presumed.
The easy part of
my daydream was over.
Leant the bicycle against the wall, told the valet I had business with his
master. He was civil
enough, and led me around to Ayrs’s terrace, and announced my arrival in
German. Ayrs a
husk of a man, as if his illness has sucked all juice out of him, but
stopped myself kneeling on
the cinder path like Sir Percival before King Arthur. Our overture proceeded
more or less like
this. “Good afternoon, Mr. Ayrs.”
“Who in hell are you?”
“It’s a great honor to—”
“I said, ‘Who in hell are you?’ ”
“Robert Frobisher, sir, from Saffron Walden. I am—I was— a student of Sir
Trevor
Mackerras at Caius College, and I’ve come all the way from London to—”
“All the way from London on a bicycle?”
“No. I borrowed the bicycle from a policeman in Bruges.”
“Did you?” Pause for thought. “Must have taken hours.”
“A labor of love, sir. Like pilgrims climbing hills on their knees.”
“What balderdash is this?”
“I wished to prove I’m a serious applicant.”
“Serious applicant for what?”
“The post of your amanuensis.”
“Are you mad?”
Always a trickier question than it looks. “I doubt it.”
“Look here, I’ve not advertised for an amanuensis!”
“I know, sir, but you need one, even if you don’t know it yet. The Times
piece said that you’re
unable to compose new works because of your illness. I can’t allow your
music to be lost. It’s
far, far too precious. So I’m here to offer you my services.”
Well, he didn’t dismiss me out of hand. “What did you say your name was?”
I told him. “One
of Mackerras’s shooting stars, are you?”
“Frankly, sir, he loathed me.”
As you’ve learned to your cost, I can be intriguing when I put my mind to
it.
“He did, did he? Why might that be?”
“I called his sixth Concerto for Flute”—I cleared my throat— “ ‘a
slave of prepubescent Saint-
Saëns at his most florid’ in the college magazine. He took it
personally.”
“You wrote that about Mackerras?” Ayrs wheezed as if his ribs were being
sawed. “I’ll bet he
took it personally”
The sequel is short. The valet showed me into a drawing room decorated in
eggshell green, a
dull Farquharson of sheep and cornstooks, and a not-very-good Dutch
landscape. Ayrs
summoned his wife, Mrs. van Outryve de Crommelynck. She kept her own name,
and with a
name like that who can blame her? The lady of the house was coolly courteous
and inquired
into my background. Answered truthfully, though I veiled my expulsion from
Caius behind an
obscure malady Of my present financial straits I breathed not a word—the
more desperate the
case, the more reluctant the donor. Charmed ’em sufficiently It was agreed
I could at least stay
the night at Zedelghem. Ayrs would put me through my musical paces in the
morning,
permitting a decision on my proposal.
Ayrs did not appear at dinner, however. My arrival coincided with the start
of a fortnightly
migraine, which confines him to his rooms for a day or two. My audition is
postponed until he
is better, so my fate still hangs in the balance. On the credit side, the
Pies-porter and lobster à
l’américaine were the equal to anything at the Imperial. Encouraged my
hostess to talk—think
she was flattered at how much I know about her illustrious husband, and
sensed my genuine
love of his music. Oh, we ate with Ayrs’s daughter, too, the young
equestrienne I’d glimpsed
earlier. Mlle. Ayrs is a horsey creature of seventeen with her mama’s
retroussé nose. Couldn’t
get a civil word out of her all evening. Might she see in me a louche
English freeloader down
on his luck, here to lure her sickly father into a glorious Indian summer
where she can’t follow
and isn’t welcome?
People are complicated.
Gone midnight. The château is sleeping, so must I.
Sincerely,
R.F.
…
ZEDELGHEM
6TH—VII—1931
A telegram, Sixsmith? You ass.
Don’t send any more, I beg you—telegrams attract attention! Yes, I’m
still Abroad, yes, safe
from Brewer’s knuckle men. Fold my parents’ mortifying letter into a paper
boat and sail it
down the Cam. Pater’s only “concerned” because my creditors are shaking
him to see if any
banknotes drop from the family tree. Debts of a disinherited son, however,
are nobody’s
business but the son’s— believe me, I’ve looked into the legalities.
Mater is not “frantic.” Only
the prospect of the decanter running dry could make Mater frantic.
My audition took place in Ayrs’s music room, after lunch, the day before
yesterday. Not an
overwhelming success, putting it mildly—no knowing how many days I’ll be
here, or how
few. Admit to a certain frisson sitting on Vyvyan Ayrs’s own piano stool
beforehand. This
Oriental rug, battered divan, Breton cupboards crammed with music stands, B&
#246;sendorfer
grand, carillon, all witnessed the conception and birth of Matryoshka Doll
Variations and his
song cycle Society Islands. Stroked the same ’cello who first vibrated to
Untergehen
Violinkonzert. Hearing Hendrick wheeling his master this way, I stopped
snooping and faced
the doorway. Ayrs ignored my “I do hope you’re recovered, Mr. Ayrs” and
had his valet leave
him facing the garden window. “Well?” he asked, after we’d been alone
half a minute. “Go on.
Impress me.” Asked what he wanted to hear. “I must select the program, too
? Well, have you
mastered ‘Three Blind Mice’?”
So I sat at the Bösendorfer and played the syphilitic crank “Three
Blind Mice,” after the fashion
of a mordant Prokofiev. Ayrs did not comment. Continued in a subtler vein
with Chopin’s
Nocturne in F Major. He interrupted with a whine, “Trying to slip my
petticoats off my ankles,
Frobisher?” Played VA.’s own Digressions on a Theme of Lodovico Roncalli,
but before the
first two bars were out, he’d uttered a six-birch expletive, banged on the
floor with his cane,
and said, “Self-gratification makes you go blind, didn’t they teach you
that at Caius?” Ignored
him and finished the piece note perfect. For a finale of fireworks, gambled
on Scarlatti’s 212th
in A major, a bête noire of arpeggios and acrobatics. Came unstuck once or
twice, but I wasn’t
being auditioned as a concert soloist. After I’d finished, VA. kept
swinging his head to the
rhythm of the disappeared sonata; or maybe he was conducting the blurry,
swaying poplars.
“Execrable, Frobisher, get out of my house this instant!” would have
aggrieved but not much
surprised me. Instead, he admitted, “You may have the makings of a musician
. It’s a nice day.
Amble over to the lake and see the ducks. I need, oh, a little time to
decide whether or not I can
find a use for your … gifts.”
Left without a word. The old goat wants me, it seems, but only if I’m
pathetic with gratitude. If
my pocketbook had allowed me to go, I’d have hired a cab back to Bruges and
renounced the
whole errant idea. He called after me, “Some advice, Frobisher, gratis.
Scarlatti was a
harpsichordist, not a pianist. Don’t drench him in color so, and don’t use
the pedal to sustain
notes you can’t sustain with the fingers.” I called back that I needed, oh
, a little time to decide
whether or not I could find a use for Ayrs’s … gift.
Crossed the courtyard, where a beetroot-faced gardener was clearing a weed-
choked fountain.
Made him understand I wanted to speak to his mistress and pronto—he is not
the sharpest tool
in the shed—and he waved vaguely toward Neerbeke, miming a steering wheel.
Wonderful.
What now? See the ducks, why not? Could strangle a brace and leave ’em
hanging in VA.’s
wardrobe. Mood was that black. So I mimed ducks and asked the gardener, “
Where?” He
pointed at the beech tree, and his gesture said, Walk that way, just on the
other side. I set off,
jumped a neglected ha-ha, but before I’d reached the crest, the noise of
galloping bore down on
me, and Miss Eva van Outryve de Crommelynck—from now plain old Crommelynck
shall
have to do or I’ll run out of ink—rode up on her black pony.
I greeted her. She cantered around me like Queen Boadicea, pointedly
unresponsive. “How
humid the air is today,” I small-talked sarcastically. “I rather think we
shall have rain later,
wouldn’t you agree?” She said nothing. “Your dressage is more polished
than your manners,”
I told her. Nothing. Shooting guns crackled across the fields, and Eva
reassured her mount.
Her mount is a beaut—one can’t blame the horse. I asked Eva for the pony’
s name. She
stroked back some black, corkscrew locks from her cheeks. “J’ai nommé le
poney Néfertiti,
d’après cette reine d’Egypte qui m’est si chère,” she replied and
turned away “It speaks!” I
cried and watched the girl gallop off until she was a miniature in the Van
Dyck pastoral. Fired
artillery shells after her in elegant parabolas. Turned my guns on Châ
teau Zedelghem and
pounded Ayrs’s wing to smoking rubble. Remembered what country we are in
and stopped.
Past the sundered beech, the meadow falls away to an ornamental lake,
ringing with frogs.
Seen better days. A precarious footbridge connects an island to the shore,
and flamingo lilies
bloom in vast numbers. Now and then goldfish splish and gleam like new
pennies dropped in
water. Whiskered mandarin ducks honk for bread, exquisitely tailored beggars
—rather like
myself. Martins nest in a boathouse of tarred boards. Under a row of pear
trees—once an
orchard?—I laid me down and idled, an art perfected during my long
convalescence. An idler
and a sluggard are as different as a gourmand and a glutton. Watched the
aerial bliss of coupled
dragonflies. Even heard their wings, an ecstatic sound like paper flaps in
bicycle spokes. Gazed
on a slowworm exploring a miniature Amazonia around the roots where I lay.
Silent? Not
altogether, no. Was woken much later, by first spots of rain. Cumu-lonimbi
were reaching
critical mass. Sprinted back to Zedelghem as fast as I’ll ever run again,
just to hear the rushing
roar in my ear canals and feel the first fat droplets pound my face like
xylophone hammers.
Just had time to change into my one clean shirt before the dinner gong. Mrs.
Crommelynck
apologized, her husband’s appetite was still feeble and demoiselle
preferred to eat alone.
Nothing suited me better. Stewed eel, chervil sauce, the rain skittering on
terrace. Unlike the
Frobishery and most English homes I have known, meals at the château
are not conducted in
silence, and Mme. C told me a little about her family. Crommelyncks have
lived at Zedelghem
since far-off days when Bruges was Europe’s busiest seaport (so she told me
, hard to credit),
making Eva the crowning glory of six centuries’ breeding. Warmed to the
woman somewhat, I
admit it. She holds forth like a man and smokes myrrhy cigarettes through a
rhino-horn holder.
She’d notice pretty sharpish if any valuables were spirited away, however.
They’ve suffered
from thieving servants in the past, she happened to mention, even one or two
impoverished
houseguests, if I could believe people could behave so dishonorably. Assured
her my parents
had suffered the same way, and put out feelers re: my audition. “He did
describe your Scarlatti
as ‘salvageable.’ Vyvyan spurns praise, both giving and receiving it. He
says, ‘If people praise
you, you’re not walking your own path.’ ” Asked directly if she thought
he’d agree to take me
on. “I do hope so, Robert.” (In other words, wait and see.) “You must
understand, he resigned
himself never to compose another note. Doing so caused him great pain.
Resurrecting hope that
he might compose again—well, that’s not a risk to be undertaken lightly.”
Subject closed. I
mentioned my earlier encounter with Eva, and Mme. C pronounced, “My
daughter was
uncivil.”
“Reserved” was my perfect reply.
My hostess topped up my glass. “Eva has a disagreeable nature. My husband
has taken very
little interest in rearing her like a young lady. He never wanted children.
Fathers and daughters
are reputed to dote on each other, are they not? Not here. Her teachers say
Eva is studious but
secretive, and she’s never tried to develop herself musically I often feel
I don’t know her at all.”
I filled Mme. C.’s glass, and she seemed to cheer up. “Listen to me,
lamenting. Your sisters are
immaculately mannered English roses, I am sure, Monsieur?” Rather doubt her
interest in the
Frobishery’s memsahibs was genuine, but the woman likes to watch me talk,
so I painted witty
caricatures of my estranged clan for my hostess’s amusement. Made us all
sound so gay,
almost felt homesick.
This morning, a Monday, Eva deigned to share breakfast— Bradenham ham, eggs
, bread, all
sorts—but the girl spouted petty complaints to her mother and snuffed my
interjections out
with a flat oui or a sharp non. Ayrs was feeling better so ate with us. Hen-
drick then drove the
daughter off to Bruges for another week at school—Eva boards in the city
with a family whose
daughters also attend her school, the Van Eels or some such. Whole châ
teau breathed a relieved
sigh when the Cowley had cleared the poplar avenue (known as the Monk’s
Walk). Eva does
so poison the air of the place. At nine, Ayrs and I adjourned to the music
room. “I’ve got a little
melody for viola rattling about my head, Frobisher. Let’s see if you can
get it down.” Was
delighted to hear it, as I’d expected to start at the shallow end—tidying
up sketchy MSS into
best copy and so forth. If I proved my worth as VA.’s sentient fountain pen
on my first day,
my tenure would be well-nigh assured. Sat at his desk, sharpened 2B at the
ready, clean MS,
waiting for him to name the notes, one by one. Suddenly, the man bellowed:
“ ‘Tar, tar! Tartartar
tattytattytatty tar!’ Got that? ‘Tar! Tatty-tar! Quiet part—tartar-tar-
tttt-TAR!
TARTARTAR!!!’” Got that? Old ass obviously thought this was amusing—one
could no
more notate his shouted garble than one could score the braying of a dozen
donkeys—but after
another thirty seconds, it dawned on me this was no joke. Tried to interrupt
, but the man was
so engrossed in his music making that he didn’t notice. Sunk into deepest
misery while Ayrs
carried on, and on, and on … My scheme was hopeless. What had I been
thinking about at
Victoria Station? Dejected, I let him work through his piece in the lean
hope that having it
complete in his head might make it easier to duplicate later.
“There, finished!” he proclaimed. “Got it? Hum it back, Frobisher, and
then let’s see how it
sounds.”
Asked what key we were in. “B-flat, of course!” Time signature? Ayrs
pinched the bridge of
his nose. “Are you saying you’ve lost my melody?” Struggled to remind
myself he was being
totally unreasonable. I asked him to repeat the melody much more slowly and
to label his notes,
one by one. There was an acute pause that felt about three hours long while
Ayrs decided
whether or not to throw a tantrum. In the end, he released a martyred sigh.
“Four-eight,
changing to eight-eight after the twelfth bar, if you can count that far.”
Pause. Remembered my
monetary difficulties and bit my lip. “Let’s go all the way back, then.”
Patronizing pause.
“Ready now? Slowly … Tar! What note is that?” Got through a hideous half
hour with me
guessing every single note, one by one. Ayrs verified or rejected my guess
with a weary nod or
shake of the head. Mme. C carried in a vase of flowers and I made an SOS
face, but VA.
himself declared that we call it a day. As I fled, I heard Ayrs pronounce (
for my benefit?), “It is
desperate, Jocasta, the boy cannot take down a simple tune. I might as well
join the avant-garde
and throw darts at pieces of paper with notes written on ’em.”
Down the passageway Mrs. Willems—housekeeper—laments the damp, blustery
weather and
her wet laundry to some unseen underling. She’s better off than I am. I’ve
manipulated people
for advancement, lust, or loans, but never for the roof over my head. This
rotting château stinks
of mushrooms and mold. Should never have come here.
Sincerely,
R.F.
P.S. Financial “embarrassment,” what an apposite phrase. No wonder the
poor are all
socialists. Look, must ask you for a loan. The regime at Zedelghem is the
laxest I ever saw
(fortunately! My father’s butler’s wardrobe is better supplied than my own
at present), but one
needs to set some standards. Can’t even tip the servants. If I had any
wealthy friends left, I’d
ask ’em, but truth is I don’t. Don’t know how you wire money or telegram
it or send it in
packets or whatever, but you’re the scientist, you find a way. If Ayrs asks
me to leave, I’ll be
scuppered. The news would seep back to Cambridge that Robert Frobisher had
to beg money
from his erstwhile hosts when they threw him out for not being up to the job
. The shame
would kill me, Sixsmith, it truly would. For God’s sake send whatever you
can immediately.
…
CHATEAU ZEDELGHEM
14.TH—vii—1931
Sixsmith,
All praise Rufus the Blessed, Patron Saint of Needy Composers, Praise in the
Highest, Amen.
Your postal order arrived safe and sound this morning—I painted you to my
hosts as a doting
uncle whod forgotten my birthday. Mrs. Crommelynck confirms a bank in Bruges
will cash it.
Will write a motet in your honor and pay your money back soon as I can.
Might be sooner than
you expect. The deep freeze on my prospects is thawing. After my humiliating
first attempt at
collaboration with Ayrs, I returned to my room in abject wretchedness. That
afternoon I spent
writing my sniveling lament to you—burn it, by the way, if you haven’t
already—feeling v.
anxious about the future. Braved the rain in Wellington boots and a cape and
walked to the post
office in the village, wondering, frankly, where I might be a month from now
. Mrs. Willems
bonged the gong for dinner shortly after my return, but when I got to the
dining hall, Ayrs was
waiting, alone. “That you, Frobisher?” he asked, with the gruffness
habitual to older men trying
to do delicacy. “Ah, Frobisher, glad we can have this little chat alone.
Look, I was rotten to you
this morning. My illness makes me more … direct than is sometimes
appropriate. I apologize.
Give this cantankerous so-and-so another chance tomorrow, what d’you say?”
Had his wife told him what state she’d found me in? Had Lucille mentioned
my half-packed
valise? Waited until I was sure my voice was purged of relief and told him,
nobly, nothing was
wrong in speaking his mind.
“I’ve been far too negative about your proposal, Frobisher. It won’t be
easy extracting music
out of my noddle, but our partnership stands as good a chance as any Your
musicianship and
character seem more than up to the job. My wife tells me you even try your
hand at
composition? Plainly, music is oxygen for us both. With the right will, we’
ll muddle along until
we hit upon the right method.” At this, Mme. Crommelynck knocked, peered in
, sensed the
room’s weather in a trice the way some women do, and asked if a celebratory
drink was called
for. Ayrs turned to me. “That depends on young Frobisher here. What d’you
say? Will you
stay for a few weeks, with a view to a few months, if all goes well? Maybe
longer, who
knows? But you must accept a small salary.”
Let my relief show as pleasure, told him I’d be honored, and did not out of
hand reject the offer
of a salary.
“Then, Jocasta, tell Mrs. Willems to fetch a Pinot Rouge 1908!” We toasted
Bacchus and the
Muses, and drank a wine rich as unicorn’s blood. Ayrs’s cellar, some
twelve hundred bottles,
is one of the finest in Belgium, and worth a brief digression. It survived
the war unlooted by
the Hun officers who used Zedelghem as a command post, all thanks to a false
wall Hendrick’s
father built over its entrance before the family’s flight to Gothenburg.
The library, and various
other bulky treasures, also spent the war down there (used to be the vaults
of a monastery),
sealed up in crates. The Prussians ransacked the building before Armistice,
but they never
rumbled the cellar.
A work routine is developing. Ayrs and I are in the music room by nine o’
clock every morning
his various ailments and pains let him. I sit at the piano, Ayrs on the
divan, smoking his vile
Turkish cigarettes, and we adopt one of our three modi operandi. “
Revisionals”— he asks me
to run through the previous morning’s work. I hum, sing, or play, depending
on the
instrument, and Ayrs modifies the score. “Reconstitutionals” have me
sifting through old
scores, notebooks, and compositions, some written before I was born, to
locate a passage or
cadenza Ayrs dimly remembers and wants to salvage. Great detective work. “
Compositionals”
are the most demanding. I sit at the piano and try to keep up with a flow of
“Semiquaver, B-G;
semibreve, A-flat—hold it four beats, no, six—crotchets! F-sharp— no no
no no F-sharp—
and … B! Tar-tatty-tatty-tarrr!” (il maestro will at least name his notes
now.) Or, if he’s feeling
more poetic, it might be “Now, Frobisher, the clarinet is the concubine,
the violas are yew trees
in the cemetery, the clavichord is the moon, so … let the east wind blow
that A minor chord,
sixteenth bar onwards.”
Like that of a good butler (although you can be sure, I am better than good)
, my job is ninetenths
anticipation. Sometimes Ayrs will ask for an artistic judgment, something
like “D’you
think this chord works, Frobisher?” or “Is this passage in keeping with
the whole?” If I say no,
Ayrs asks me what I’d suggest as a substitute, and once or twice he’s even
used my
amendment. Quite sobering. People in the future will be studying this music.
By one o’clock Ayrs is spent. Hendrick carries him down to the dining room,
where Mrs.
Crommelynck joins us for luncheon, and the dreaded E., if she’s back for
the w/end or a half
holiday. Ayrs naps through the afternoon heat. I continue to sift the
library for treasure,
compose in the music room, read manuscripts in the garden (Madonna lilies,
crowns imperial,
red-hot pokers, hollyhocks, all blooming bright), navigate lanes around
Neerbeke on the
bicycle, or ramble across local fields. Am firm friends with the village
dogs. They gallop after
me like the Pied Piper’s rats or brats. The locals return my “Goede morgen
” and “Goede
middag”—I’m now known as the long-term guest up at the “kasteel.”
After supper, the three of us might listen to the wireless if there is a
broadcast that passes
muster, otherwise it will be recordings on the gramophone (an His Master’s
Voice table model
in an oak box), usually of Ayrs’s own major works conducted by Sir Thomas
Beecham. When
we have visitors, there will be conversation or a little chamber music.
Other nights, Ayrs likes
me to read him poetry, especially his beloved Keats. He whispers the verses
as I recite, as if his
voice is leaning on mine. At breakfast, he has me read from The Times. Old,
blind, and sick as
Ayrs is, he could hold his own in a college debating society, though I
notice he rarely proposes
alternatives for the systems he ridicules. “Liberality? Timidity in the
rich!” “Socialism? The
younger brother of a decrepit despotism, which it wants to succeed” “
Conservatives?
Adventitious liars, whose doctrine of free will is their greatest deception.
” What sort of state
does he want? “None! The better organized the state, the duller its
humanity”
Irascible as Ayrs is, he’s one of few men in Europe whose influence I want
my own creativity
informed by. Musicologically he’s Janus-headed. One Ayrs looks back to
Romanticism’s
deathbed, the other looks to the future. This is the Ayrs whose gaze I
follow. Watching him use
counterpoint and mix colors refines my own language in exciting ways.
Already, my short time
at Zedelghem has taught me more than three years at the throne of Mackerras
the Jackass with
his Merry Band of Onanists.
Friends of Ayrs and Mrs. Crommelynck regularly visit. On an average week, we
can expect
visitor/s two or three nights. Soloists returning from Brussels, Berlin,
Amsterdam, or beyond;
acquaintances from Ayrs’s salad days in Florida or Paris; and good old
Morty Dhondt and
Wife. Dhondt owns a diamond workshop in both Bruges and Antwerp, speaks a
hazy but high
number of languages, concocts elaborate multilingual puns requiring lengthy
explanations,
sponsors festivals, and kicks metaphysical footballs around with Ayrs. Mrs.
Dhondt is like
Mrs. Crommelynck but ten times more so—in truth, a dreadful creation who
heads the Belgian
Equestrian Society drives the Dhondt Bugatti herself, and cossets a powder-
puff Pekingese
called Wei-wei. You’ll meet her again in future letters, no doubt.
Relatives thin on the ground: Ayrs was an only child, and the once-
influential Crommelynck
family evinced a perverse genius for backing the wrong side at decisive
moments throughout
the war. Those who didn’t die in action were mostly pauperized and diseased
out of existence
by the time Ayrs and his wife returned from Scandinavia. Others died after
running away
overseas. Mrs. Crommelynck’s old governess and a couple of frail aunts
sometimes pay a call,
but they stay quietly in the corner like old hat stands.
Last week the conductor Tadeusz Augustowski, a great champion of Ayrs in his
native
Cracow, dropped by unannounced on a Second Day of Migraine. Mrs. Crommelynck
was not
at home, and Mrs. Willems came to me all of a lather, begging me to
entertain the illustrious
visitor. I could not disappoint. Augustowski’s French is as good as my own,
and we spent the
afternoon fishing and arguing over the dodecaphonists. He thinks they are
all charlatans, I do
not. He told me orchestral war stories, and one indescribably smutty joke
that involves hand
gestures, so it must wait until we meet again. I caught an eleven-inch trout
, and Augustowski
bagged a monster dace. Ayrs was up when we got back at twilight, and the
Pole told him he
was lucky to have engaged me. Ayrs grunted something like “Quite.”
Enchanting flattery,
Ayrs. Mrs. Willems was less than enchantée with our finny trophies, but she
gutted ’em,
cooked ’em in salt and butter, and they melted on the fish fork.
Augustowski gave me his
visiting card when he departed the next morning. He keeps a suite at the
Langham Court for his
London visits, and invited me to stay with him for next year’s festival.
Cock-a-doodle-doo!
Château Zedelghem isn’t the labyrinthine House of Usher it seems at
first. True, its west wing,
shuttered and dust-sheeted to pay for modernization and upkeep of the east,
is in a woebegone
state, and will need the demolishers before v. long I fear. Explored its
chambers one wet
afternoon. Damp disastrous; fallen plaster hangs in nets of cobwebs; mouse,
bat droppings
crunch on the worn stones; plaster escutcheons above fireplaces sanded over
by time. Same
story outside—brick walls need new pointing, roof tiles missing,
crenellations toppled to the
ground and lying in piles, rainwater runneling medieval sandstone. The
Crommelyncks did
well from Congo investments, but not one male sibling survived the war, and
Zedelghem’s
Boche “lodgers” selectively gutted whatever was worth looting.
The east wing, however, is a comfortable little warren, though its roof
timbers creak like a ship
when the wind’s up. There’s a moody central-heating system and rudimentary
electricity that
gives one crackling electric shocks from the light switches. Mrs.
Crommelynck’s father had
enough foresight to teach his daughter the estate business, and now she
leases her land to
neighboring farmers and just about makes the place pay, so I gather. Not an
achievement to be
sniffed at in this day and age.
Eva still a prissy missy, as hateful as my sisters, but with an intelligence
to match her enmity
Apart from her precious Nefertiti, her hobbies are pouting and looking
martyred. She likes to
reduce vulnerable domestics to tears, then flounces in, announcing, “She’s
having another
weeping fit, Mama, can’t you break her in properly?” She has established I
am no soft target
and embarked on a war of attrition: “Papa, how long is Mr. Frobisher to
stay in our house?”
“Papa, do you pay Mr. Frobisher as much as you pay Hendrick?” “Oh, I was
only asking,
Mama, I didn’t know Mr. Frobisher’s tenure was a delicate subject.” She
rattles me, hate to
hand it to her, but there it is. Had another encounter—confrontation more
the word— on
Saturday just gone. I’d taken Ayrs’s bible, Also sprach Zarathustra, to
the stone slab bridge
over the lake to the willow-tree island. A scorching hot afternoon; even in
the shade I was
sweating like a pig. After ten pages I felt Nietzsche was reading me, not I
him, so I watched the
water boatmen and newts while my mind-orchestra performed Fred Delius’s Air
and Dance.
Syrupy florentine of a piece, but its drowsy flute is rather successful.
Next thing I knew, found myself in a trench so deep the sky was a strip high
above, lit by
flashes brighter than day. Savages patrolled the trench astraddle giant,
evil-toothed, brown rats
that sniffed out working-class people and dismembered ’em. Strolled, trying
to look well-to-do
and stop myself breaking into a panicky run, when I met Eva. I said, “What
in hell are you
doing down here?”
Eva replied with fury! “Ce lac appartient à ma famille depuis cinq siè
cles! Vous êtes ici depuis
combien de temps exactement? Bien trois semaines! Alors vous voyez, je vais
où bon me
semble!” Her anger was almost physical, a kick in your humble correspondent
’s face. Fair
enough, I had accused her of trespassing on her mother’s estate. Wide awake
, I stumbled to my
feet, all apologies, explaining I had spoken whilst dreaming. Quite forgot
about the lake.
Plunged right in like a b fool! Soaked! Luckily the pond was only navel-high
, and God had
saved Ayrs’s precious Nietzsche from joining me in the drink. When Eva
eventually reined in
her laughter, I said I was pleased to see her do something other than pout.
I had duckweed in
my hair, she answered, in English. Was reduced to patronizing her by
praising her language
skills. She batted back, “It does not take much to impress an Englishman.”
Walked off.
Couldn’t think of a snappy response until later, so the girl won the set.
Now, pay attention while I talk books and lucre. Poking through an alcove of
books in my
room, I came across a curious dismembered volume, and I want you to track
down a complete
copy for me. It begins on the ninety-ninth page, its covers are gone, its
binding unstitched.
From what little I can glean, it’s the edited journal of a voyage from
Sydney to California by a
notary of San Francisco named Adam Ewing. Mention is made of the gold rush,
so I suppose
we are in 1849 or 1850. The journal seems to be published posthumously, by
Ewing’s son (?).
Ewing puts me in mind of Melville’s bumbler Cpt. Delano in “Benito Cereno,
” blind to all
conspirators—he hasn’t spotted his trusty Dr. Henry Goose [sic] is a
vampire, fueling his
hypochondria in order to poison him, slowly, for his money.
Something shifty about the journal’s authenticity—seems too structured for
a genuine diary,
and its language doesn’t ring quite true—but who would bother forging such
a journal, and
why?
To my great annoyance, the pages cease, midsentence, some forty pages later,
where the
binding is worn through. Searched high and low in the library for the rest
of the damn thing.
No luck. Hardly in our interests to draw Ayrs’s or Mrs. Crommelynck’s
attention to their
unindexed bibliographic wealth, so I’m up a gum tree. Would you ask Otto
Jansch on
Caithness Street if he knows anything about this Adam Ewing? A half-read
book is a halffinished
love affair.
Find enclosed an inventory of the oldest editions in Zedel-ghem’s library
As you see, some
items are v. early early seventeenth c, so send me Jansch’s best prices as
soon as ever, and keep
the tightwad on his toes by letting it slip you’ve got the Parisian dealers
interested.
Sincerely,
R.F.
* * *
CHATEAU ZEDELGHEM
28TH—VII—1931
Sixsmith,
Cause for minor celebration. Two days ago, Ayrs and I completed our first
collaboration, a
short tone poem, “Der Todtenvo-gel.” When I unearthed the piece, it was a
tame arrangement
of an old Teutonic anthem, left high and very dry by Ayrs’s retreating
eyesight. Our new
version is an intriguing animal. It borrows resonances from Wagner’s Ring,
then disintegrates
the theme into a Stravinskyesque nightmare policed by Sibelian wraiths.
Horrible, delectable,
wish you could hear it. Ends in a flute solo, no flutter-bying flautism this
, but the death-bird of
the title, cursing the firstborn and last-born alike.
Augustowski visited again on his way back from Paris yesterday. He read the
score and
shoveled praise upon it like a boiler man shoveling coals. So he should! It
’s the most
accomplished tone poem I know of written since the war; and I tell you,
Sixsmith, that more
than a few of its best ideas are mine. Suppose an amanuensis must reconcile
himself to
renouncing his share in authorship, but buttoning one’s lip is never easy
But best is yet to come
— Augustowski wants to premiere the work under his own baton three weeks
from now at the
Cracow festival!
Got up at crack of dawn yesterday, spent all day transcribing a clean copy.
Suddenly it didn’t
seem so short. My writing hand came unscrewed and staves imprinted
themselves in my
eyelids, but finished by supper. We drank five bottles of wine between the
four of us to
celebrate. Dessert was the best muscatel.
Am now Zedelghem’s golden boy. Been a v. long time since I was anyone’s
golden boy and I
rather like it. Jocasta suggested that I move out of my guest room into one
of the larger unused
bedrooms on the second floor, furnished as I pleased with whatever catches
my eye from
elsewhere in Zedelghem. Ayrs seconded the motion, so I said I would. To my
delight Prissy
Missy lost her sangfroid and mewled, “Oh, why don’t you just write him
into the will as well,
Mama? Why not give him half the estate?” She got down from the table
without being excused.
Ayrs croaked, “First good idea the girl’s had in seventeen years!” loud
enough for her to hear.
“At least Frobisher earns his damn keep!”
My hosts wouldn’t hear my apologies, they said Eva should be apologizing to
me, that she has
to lose her pre-Copernican view of a universe revolving around herself.
Music to my ears.
Also re: Eva, she and twenty classmates are bound for Switzerland v. soon to
study at a sister
school for a couple of months. More music! It’ll be like having a rotten
tooth fall out. My new
room is big enough for badminton doubles; has a four-poster bed from whose
curtains I had to
shake last year’s moths; centuries-old Cordova peels off the walls like
dragons’ scales, but it’s
attractive in its way; indigo witch ball; armoire inlaid with burr walnut;
six ministerial
armchairs, and a sycamore escritoire at which I write this letter.
Honeysuckle laces abundant
light. To the south one looks over the grizzled topiary To the west, cows
graze in the meadow,
and the church tower rises above the wood beyond. Its bells are my own clock
. (In truth,
Zedelghem boasts a good many antique clocks, whose chimes go off some early,
some late,
like a Bruges in miniature.) All in all, a notch or two grander than our
chambers in Whyman’s
Lane, a notch or two less grand than the Savoy or the Imperial, but spacious
and secure. Unless
I do something clumsy or indiscreet.
Which brings me to Madame Jocasta Crommelynck Damn my eyes, Sixsmith, if the
woman
hasn’t begun, subtly, to flirt with me. The ambiguity of her words, eyes,
and hand brushes is
too consummate to be chance. See what you think. Yesterday afternoon, I was
studying rare
Balakirev juvenilia in my room when Mrs. Crom-melynck knocked. She wore her
riding jacket
and her hair pinned up to reveal a rather tempting neck. “My husband wants
to give you a
present,” she said, moving in as I gave way “Here. To mark the completion
of ‘Todtenvogel.’
You know, Robert,”—her tongue lingers on the t of “Robert”—“Vyvyan’s
so very happy to be
working again. He hasn’t been this spry for years. This is just a token.
Put it on.” She handed
me an exquisite waistcoat, an Ottoman-style silken affair, too remarkable in
pattern to be ever in
fashion or out. “I bought it on our honeymoon in Cairo, when he was your
age now. He won’t
be wearing it again.”
Said I was flattered, but protested that I couldn’t possibly accept a
garment of such sentimental
value. “That’s precisely why we want you to wear it. Our memories are in
its weave. Put it on.”
Did as urged, and she stroked it, on the pretext (?) of removing fluff. “
Come to the mirror!”
Did so. The woman stood just inches behind me. “Too fine for moths’ eggs,
don’t you agree?”
Yes, I agreed. Her smile was double-bladed. If we were in one of Emily’s
breathy novels, the
seductress’s hands would have encircled the innocent’s torso, but Jocasta
is a more canny
operator. “You have exactly the same physique Vyvyan had at your age.
Bizarre, isn’t it?” Yes,
I agreed again. Her fingernails freed a strand of my hair that had got
caught in the waistcoat.
Neither rebuffed nor encouraged her. These things shouldn’t be rushed. Mrs.
Crommelynck
left without another word.
At luncheon, Hendrick reported that Dr. Egret’s house in Neer-beke had been
burgled. Luckily
no one was hurt, but the police have issued a warning to be on the lookout
for gypsies and
ruffians. Houses should be secured at night. Jocasta shuddered and said she
was glad I was at
Zedelghem to protect her. Admitted I’d held my own as a pugilist at Eton,
but doubted whether
I could see off a whole gang of ruffians. Perhaps I could hold Hendrick’s
towel whilst he gave
’em all a sound drubbing? Ayrs didn’t comment, but that evening he
unwrapped a Luger from
his napkin. Jocasta chastised Ayrs for showing his pistol at the dinner
table, but he ignored her.
“On our return from Gothenburg, I found this beastie hidden under a loose
floorboard in the
master bedroom, with its bullets,” he explained. “The Prussian captain
either left in a hurry or
got himself killed. He stowed it there perhaps as an insurance policy
against mutineers, or
undesirables. I keep it beside my bed for the same reason.”
Asked if I could hold it, as I’d only ever touched hunting rifles before.
“By all means,” replied
Ayrs, handing it over. Every hair on my body rose. That snug iron fellow has
killed at least
once, Id wager my inheritance on it, if I still had any. “So you see”—
Ayrs had a crooked laugh
—“I may be an elderly, blind cripple, but I still have a tooth or two left
to bite with. One blind
man with a gun and v. little left to lose. Imagine the mess I could make!”
Can’t decide if I only
imagined the menace in his voice.
Excellent news from Jansch, but don’t tell him I said so. Will post the
three referred volumes to
you from Bruges next time I go—the postmaster here in Neerbeke has an
inquisitive streak I
don’t trust. Take usual precautions. Remit my lucre to the First Bank of
Belgium, Head Branch,
Bruges—Dhondt snapped his fingers and had the manager open me an account.
Only one
Robert Frobisher on their lists, I’m quite sure.
Best news of all: started composing on my own account again.
Sincerely,
R.F
…
ZEDELGHEM
16TH—viii—1931
Sixsmith,
Summer has taken a sensuous turn: Ayrs’s wife and I are lovers. Don’t
alarm yourself! Only
in the carnal sense. One night last week she came to my room, locked the
door behind her, and
without a word passing between us, disrobed. Don’t wish to brag, but her
visit didn’t take me
by surprise. In fact, I’d left the door ajar for her. Really, Sixsmith, you
should try to enjoy
lovemaking in total silence. All that ballyhooing transmutes into bliss if
you’ll only seal your
lips.
When one unlocks a woman’s body, her box of confidences also spills. (You
should try ’em
yourself one time, women I mean.) Might this be connected to their
hopelessness at cards?
After the Act, I am happier just lying still, but Jocasta talked,
impulsively, as if to bury our big
black secret under littler gray ones. Learnt Ayrs contracted his syphilis at
a bordello in
Copenhagen in 1915, during an extended separation, and has not pleasured his
wife since that
year; after Eva’s birth, the doctor told Jocasta she could never conceive
another child. She is v.
selective about her occasional affairs but unapologetic about her right to
conduct same. She
insisted that she still loves Ayrs. I grunted, dubiously. That love loves
fidelity she riposted, is a
myth woven by men from their insecurities.
Talked about Eva too. She worries that she was so busy instilling a sense of
propriety into her
daughter, they never became friends, and now, it seems, that horse has
bolted. Dozed through
these trivial tragedies, but shall be more careful around Danes in future
and Danish bordellos in
particular.
J. wanted a second bout, as if to glue herself to me. Did not object. She
has an equestrienne’s
body, more spring than you normally get in a mature woman, and more
technique than many a
ten-shilling mount I’ve ridden. One suspects there stretches back a long
line of youthful
stallions invited to forage in her manger. Indeed, just as I nodded off for
the last time she said,
“Debussy once spent a week at Zedelghem, before the war. He slept in this
very bed, if I’m not
mistaken.” A minor chord in her tone suggested she was with him. Not
impossible. Anything
in a skirt, that’s what I heard about Claude, and he was a Frenchman.
When Lucille knocked in the morning with my shaving water, I was quite alone
. J.’s
performance over breakfast was as nonchalant as my own, happy to note. Was
even slightly
caustic with me when I spilt a blob of jam on the place mat, prompting VA.
to reprimand her,
“Don’t be such a stickleback, Jocasta! Your pretty hands won’t have to
scrub the stain out.”
Adultery is a tricky duet to pull off, Sixsmith—as in contract bridge,
eschew partners clumsier
than oneself or one winds up in a ghastly mess.
Guilt? None. A cuckolder’s triumph? Not specially, no. Still rather miffed
at Ayrs, if anything.
The other evening, the Dhondts came to dinner and Mrs. D. asked for some
piano music to
help the food go down, so I played that “Angel of Mons” piece I wrote on
holiday with you in
the Scilly Isles two summers ago, though disclaimed its authorship by saying
“a friend” had
composed it. I’ve been rewriting it. It’s better and more fluid and subtle
than those sherbety
Schubertian pastiches VA. spewed out in his twenties. J. and the Dhondts
loved it so much
they insisted on an encore. Was only six bars in when VA. exercised a
hitherto unknown veto.
“I’d advise your friend to master the Ancients before he frolics with the
Moderns.” Sounds like
innocuous enough advice? However, he pronounced friend in a precise semitone
that told me
he was quite aware of my friend’s true identity Perhaps he used the same
ruse himself, at
Grieg’s in Oslo? “Without a thorough mastery of counterpoint and harmonics
,” VA. puffed,
“this fellow’ll never amount to anything but a hawker of fatuous gimmickry
. Tell your friend
that from me.” I fumed in silence. VA. told J. to put on a gramophone
recording of his own
Sirocco Wind Quintet. She obeyed the truculent old bully. To console myself,
I remembered
how J.’s body is under her crepe de chine summer dress, and how hungrily
she slips into my
bed. V well, I shall gloat a little over my employer’s cuckold’s horns.
Serves him right. An old
sick prig is still a prig.
Augustowski sent this enigmatic telegram after the performance in Cracow. To
translate from
the French: FIRST TODTEN-VOGEL MYSTIFIED STOP SECOND PERFORMANCE
FISTICUFFS STOP THIRD ADORED STOP FOURTH TALK OF TOWN STOP. We
weren’t sure what to think until newspaper clippings followed, hot on the
telegram’s heels,
translated by Augustowski on the back of a concert program. Well, our “
Todtenvogel” has
become a cause célèbre! So far as we can see, the critics interpreted its
disintegration of the
Wagnerian themes as a frontal assault on the German Republic. A band of
nationalist
parliamentarians strong-armed the festival authorities into a fifth
performance. The theater,
eyeing receipts, complied with pleasure. The German ambassador made an
official complaint,
so a sixth was sold out within another twenty-four hours. The effect of all
this is to raise the
value of Ayrs’s stock through the roof everywhere but Germany, where
apparently, he is
denounced as a Jewish devil. National newspapers across the Continent have
written to request
interviews. I have the pleasure of dispatching a polite but firm pro forma
rejection to each. “I’m
too busy composing,” grumbles Ayrs. “If they want to know ‘what I mean’
they should listen
to my bloody music.” He’s thriving on the attention, though. Even Mrs.
Willems admits, since
my arrival the Master is invigorated.
Hostilities continue on the Eva front. Of concern is how she sniffs
something rotten between
my father and me. She wonders, publicly, why I never receive letters from my
family, or why I
don’t have some clothes of my own sent over. She asked if one of my sisters
would like to be
her pen-friend. To win time I had to promise to put her proposal to ’em,
and I might need you
to do another forgery Make it very good. The devious vixen is almost a
female Me.
August in Belgium is blistering this year. The meadow is turning yellow, the
gardener is
anxious about fires, farmers are worried about the harvest, but show me a
placid farmer and I’ll
show you a sane conductor. Will seal this envelope now and walk to the
village post office
through the woods behind the lake. It wouldn’t do to leave these pages
lying around for a
certain seventeen-year-old snoop to come across.
The important matter. Yes, I will meet Otto Jansch in Bruges to hand over
the illuminated
manuscripts in person, but you must broker all the arrangements. Don’t want
Jansch knowing
whose hospitality I’m enjoying. Like all dealers, Jansch is a gluttonous,
glabrous grasper, only
more so. He wouldn’t hesitate to try blackmail to lower our price—or even
dispense with a
price altogether. Tell him I’ll expect payment on the nail in crisp
banknotes, none of his funny
credit arrangements with me. Then I’ll forward a postal order to you,
including the sum you
loaned me. This way, you won’t be incriminated if any monkey business takes
place. I am
already disgraced and thus have no reputation to lose by blowing the whistle
on him. Tell
Jansch that, too.
Sincerely,
R.F.
…
ZEDELGHEM
EVENING, 16TH—VIII—1931
Sixsmith,
Your tedious letter from my father’s “solicitor” was an Ace of Diamonds.
Bravo. Read it aloud
over breakfast—excited only passing interest. Saffron Walden postmark also
a masterly touch.
Did you actually drag yourself away from your lab into the sunny Essex
afternoon to post it
yourself? Ayrs invited our “Mr. Cummings” to see me at Zedelghem, but you
’d written time
was v. tight, so Mrs. Crommelynck said Hendrick’ll drive me into town to
sign the documents
there. Ayrs grumbled about losing a day’s work, but he’s only happy when
he’s grumbling.
Hendrick and I set off this dewy morning down the same roads I cycled from
Bruges half a
summertime ago. Wore a smart jacket of Ayrs’s—much of his wardrobe is
gravitating into
mine, now my few items rescued from the Imperial’s grasp are beginning to
wear out. The
Enfield was roped to the rear fender so I could honor my promise to return
said bicycle to the
good constable. Our vellum-bound loot I had camouflaged in MS paper, which
everyone at
Zedelghem knows I am never without, and stowed out of casual sight in a
mucky satchel I’ve
appropriated. Hendrick had the Cow-ley’s top down so there was too much
wind for
conversation. Taciturn chap, as is appropriate to his station. Peculiar to
admit it, but since I’ve
started servicing Mrs. Crommelynck I feel edgier with the husband’s valet
than I do with the
husband. (Jocasta continues to bestow her favor on me, every third or fourth
night, though
never when Eva is at home, which is v. wise. Anyway, one mustn’t gobble one
’s birthday
chocolates all at once.) My unease stems from the probability that Hendrick
knows. Oh, we
above the stairs like to congratulate ourselves on our cleverness, but there
are no secrets to
those who strip the sheets. Not too worried. Don’t place unreasonable
demands on the
servants, and Hendrick is canny enough to lay his bets on a strident
mistress with many years
ahead of her, not on an invalid master of Ayrs’s prospects. Hendrick’s an
odd one, really. Hard
to guess his tastes. Would make an excellent croupier.
He dropped me outside the Guildhall, untied the Enfield, and left me to run
various errands and
pay his respects, he said, to an ailing great-aunt. Rode my two wheels
through crowds of
sightseers, schoolchildren, and burghers and only got lost a few times. At
the police station, the
musical inspector made a great fuss of me and sent out for coffee and
pastries. He was
delighted my position with Ayrs has worked out so well. By the time I got
away it was ten
o’clock and time for my appointment. Didn’t hurry. Good form to let
tradesmen wait a little.
Jansch was propping up the bar of Le Royal and greeted me with an “Aha, as
I live and
breathe, the Invisible Man, back by popular demand!” I swear, Sixsmith,
that warty old
Shylock looks more repulsive every time I clap eyes on him. Has he got a
magical portrait of
himself stashed in his attic, getting more beautiful by the year? Couldn’t
fathom why he seemed
so pleased to see me. Looked around the lounge for tipped-off creditors—one
beetly glare and I
would have bolted. Jansch read my mind. “So suspicious, Roberto? I’m
hardly going to make
trouble for a naughty goose who lays such illuminated eggs, am I? Come now”
—he indicated
the bar—“what’s your poison?”
Replied that sharing a building with Jansch, even such a large one, was
poisonous enough, so
I’d rather get down to business straightaway He chuckled, clapped me on the
shoulder, and led
me up to the room hed reserved for our transaction. Nobody followed us, but
that didn’t
guarantee anything. Was now wishing I’d had you arrange a more public
rendezvous, so Tam
Brewer’s thugs couldn’t clap a sack over my head, throw me in a trunk, and
haul me back to
London. Got the books out of the satchel, and he got his pince-nez out of
his jacket pocket.
Jansch examined ’em at a desk by the window. He tried to knock the price
down, claiming the
condition of the volumes was more “fair” than “good.” Calmly, I wrapped
the books up, put
’em in my satchel, and made the stingy Jew chase me down the corridor until
he admitted the
volumes were indeed “good.” Let him woo me back to the room, where we
counted the
banknotes, slowly, until the sum agreed was paid in full. Business over, he
sighed, claimed I’d
beggared him, smiled that smile, and put his hairy paw on my knee. Said it
was books I’d come
to sell. He asked why let business preclude pleasure? Surely a young buck
abroad could find a
use for a little pocket money? Left Jansch asleep an hour later and his
wallet starved. Proceeded
directly to the bank across the square and was seen to by the manager’s own
secretary. Sweet
bird of solvency. As Pater is fond of saying, “One’s own sweat is one’s
best reward!” (not that
he ever sweated in his sinecured pulpit overly much). Next stop was the city
’s music shop,
Flagstad’s, where I bought a brick of MS paper to replace the missing bulk
from my satchel for
benefit of watchful eyes. Coming out, I saw a pair of drab spats in a
shoemaker’s window.
Went in, bought ’em. Saw a shagreen cigarette box in a tobacconist’s.
Bought it.
Two hours remained to kill. Had a cold beer in a café, and another, and
another, and smoked a
whole packet of delicious French cigarettes. The Jansch money is no dragon’
s hoard, but God
knows it feels like one. Next I found a backstreet church (steered clear of
the tourist places to
avoid disgruntled book dealers) of candles, shadows, doleful martyrs,
incense. Haven’t been to
church since the morning Pater cast me out. Street door kept banging shut.
Wiry crones came,
lit candles, went. Padlock on the votive box was of the best. People knelt
in prayer, some
moving their lips. Envy ’em, really I do. I envy God, too, privy to their
secrets. Faith, the least
exclusive club on Earth, has the craftiest doorman. Every time I’ve stepped
through its wideopen
doorway, I find myself stepping out on the street again. Did my best to
think beatific
thoughts, but my mind kept running its fingers over Jocasta. Even the
stained-glass saints and
martyrs were mildly arousing. Don’t suppose such thoughts get me closer to
Heaven. In the
end, it was a Bach motet that shooed me away—choristers weren’t damnably
bad, but the
organist’s only hope for salvation was a bullet through the brain. Told him
so, too—tact and
restraint all well and good in small talk, but one mustn’t beat around any
bush where music is
concerned.
At a prim and proper public garden named Minnewater Park, courting couples
ambled arm in
arm between willows, banksia roses, and chaperones. Blind, emaciated fiddler
performed for
coins. Now he could play. Requested “Bonsoir, Paris!” and he performed
with such élan I
pressed a crisp five-franc note into his hand. He removed his dark glasses,
checked the
watermark, invoked his pet saint’s name, gathered his coppers, and
scarpered through the
flower beds, laughing like a madcap. Whoever opined “Money can’t buy you
happiness”
obviously had far too much of the stuff.
Sat down on an iron bench. One o’clock bells chimed, nearby, far off,
interspersed. Clerks
crawled out from the law and merchants’ offices to eat sandwiches in the
park and feel the
green breeze. Was wondering whether to be late for Hendrick when guess who
waltzed into the
park, unchaperoned, in the company of a dandified stick insect of a man
twice her age, a vulgar
gold wedding ring on his finger as bold as brass. Right first time. Eva. Hid
behind a newspaper
a clerk had left on the bench. Eva wasn’t in physical contact with her
companion, but they
strolled right by me with an air of easy intimacy that she never, ever wears
at Zedelghem. I
jumped to the obvious conclusion.
Eva was stacking her chips on a doubtful card. He crowed, in order to be
overheard by
strangers and impress them. “A time is one’s own, Eva, when oneself and
one’s peers take the
same things for granted, without thinking about it. Likewise, a man is
ruined when the times
change but he does not. Permit me to add, empires fall for the same reason.
” This jackdaw
philosophizer flummoxed me. A girl of E.’s looks could do better for
herself, surely? E.’s
behavior likewise flummoxed me. In broad daylight, in her own city! Does she
want to ruin
herself? Is she one of these libertarian suffragette Rossetti types? I
followed the couple at a safe
distance to a town house on a well-heeled road. The man gave the street a
shifty once-over
before putting his key in the latch. I ducked into a mews. Picture Frobisher
rubbing his hands
with glee!
Eva returned as usual late on Friday afternoon. In the vestibule between her
room and the door
to the stables is an oaken throne. In this I planted myself. Unfortunately I
became lost in the
chords in the chroma of old glass and didn’t notice E., riding crop in her
hand, not even aware
she was being ambushed. “S’agit-il d’un guet-apens? Si vous voulez
discuter avec moi d’un
problème personnel, vous pourriez me prévenir?”
Being caught by surprise like that made me speak my thought aloud. Eva
caught the word.
“Sneak, you call me? ‘Une moucharde’? Ce n’est pas un mot aimable, Mr.
Frobisher. Si vous
dites que je suis une moucharde, vous allez nuire à ma réputation. Et si
vous nuisez à ma
réputation, eh bien, il faudra que je ruine la vôtre!”
Belatedly, I opened fire. Yes, her reputation was precisely what I had to
warn her about. If
even a visiting foreigner to Bruges had seen her consorting in Minnewater
Park during school
hours with a scrofulous toad, it was only a matter of time before all the ru
-mormongers in the
city had turned the name of Crommelynck-Ayrs to Mudd!
One moment I expected a slap, the next, she reddened and lowered her face.
Meekly, she
inquired, Avez-vous dit à ma mère ce que vous avez vu?” I replied that,
no, I had not told
anyone, yet. E. took careful aim: “Stupid of you, Monsieur Frobisher,
because Mama could
have told you that mysterious ‘consort’ was Monsieur van de Velde, the
gentleman with whose
family I lodge during my school week. His father owns the largest munitions
factory in
Belgium, and he is a respectable family man. Wednesday was a half holiday so
Monsieur van
de Velde was kind enough to accompany me from his office back to his house.
His own
daughters had a choir rehearsal to attend. The school does not like its
girls to walk out alone,
even during daylight. Sneaks live in parks, you see, dirty-minded sneaks,
waiting to damage a
girl’s reputation, or perhaps prowling for opportunities to blackmail her.”
Bluff or backfire? I hedged my bets. “Blackmail? I have three sisters of my
own, and I was
concerned for your reputation! That is all.”
She relished her advantage. “Ah oui? Comme c’est délicat de votre part!
Tell me, Mr.
Frobisher, what exactly did you think Monsieur van de Velde was going to do
to me? Were
you frightfully jealous?”
Her awful directness—for a girl—quite knocked the bails off my wicket. “I
am relieved that
this simple misunderstanding has been cleared up”—I chose my most
insincere smile—“and
offer my sincerest apologies.”
“I accept your sincerest apologies in the precise same spirit they are
offered.” E. walked off to
the stables, her whip swishing the air like a lioness’s tail. Went off to
the music room to forget
my dismal performance in some devilish Liszt. Can normally rattle off an
excellent La
Prédication aux Oiseaux, but not last Friday. Thank God E.’s leaving for
Switzerland
tomorrow. If she ever found out about her mother’s nighttime visits—well,
doesn’t bear
thinking about. Why is it I never met a boy I couldn’t twist round my
finger (not only my
finger) but the women of Zedelghem seem to best me every time?
Sincerely,
R.F.
…
ZEDELGHEM
29TH—viii—1931
Sixsmith,
Sitting at my escritoire in my dressing gown. The church bell chimes five.
Another thirsty
dawn. My candle is burnt away A tiring night turned inside out. J. came to
my bed at midnight,
and during our athletics, my door was barged. Farcical horror! Thank God J.
had locked it on
her way in. The doorknob rattled, insistent knocking began. Fear can clear
the mind as well as
cloud it, and remembering my Don Juan, I hid J. in a nest of coverlets and
sheets in my
sagging bed and left the curtain half open to show I had nothing to hide. I
fumbled across the
room, not believing this was happening to me, deliberately knocking into
things to buy time,
and reaching the door, called out, “What in hell is the matter? Are we on
fire?”
“Open up, Robert!” Ayrs! You can imagine, I was ready to duck bullets.
Desperate, I asked
what time it was, just to win another moment.
“Who cares? I don’t know! I’ve got a melody, boy, for violin, it’s a
gift, and it won’t let me
sleep, so I need you to take it down, now!”
Could I trust him? “Can’t it wait until the morning?”
“No, it bloody can’t, Frobisher! I might lose it!”
Shouldn’t we go to the music room?
“It’ll wake up the house and, no, every note is in place, in my head!”
So I told him to wait while I lit a candle. Unlocked my door, and there
stood Ayrs, a cane in
each hand, mummified in his moonlit nightshirt. Hendrick stood behind him,
silent and
watchful as an Indian totem. “Make way, make way!” Ayrs pushed past me. “
Find a pen, grab
some blank score paper, turn on your lamp, quickly. Why the deuce do you
lock your door if
you sleep with the windows open? The Prussians are gone, the ghosts’ll just
drift through the
door.” Garbled some balderdash about not being able to fall asleep in an
unlocked room, but he
wasn’t listening. “Have you got manuscript paper in here or should I have
Hendrick go and get
some?”
Relief that VA. hadn’t come to catch me tupping his wife made his
imposition seem less
preposterous than it actually was, so fine, I said, yes, I have paper, I
have pens, let’s start.
Ayrs’s sight was too poor to see anything suspicious in the foothills of my
bed, but Hendrick
still posed a possible danger. One should avoid relying on servants’
discretion. After Hendrick
had helped his master to a chair and wrapped a rug round his shoulders, I
told him I’d ring for
him when we were done. Ayrs didn’t contradict me—he was already humming. A
conspiratorial flicker in H.’s eyes? Room too dim to be sure. The servant
gave a nearimperceptible
bow and glided away as if on well-oiled coasters, softly shutting the door
behind
him.
Splashed a little water on my face at the washbowl and sat opposite Ayrs,
worrying J. might
forget the creaking floorboards and try to tiptoe out.
“Ready”
Ayrs hummed his sonata, bar by bar, then named his notes. The oddity of the
miniature soon
absorbed me, despite the circumstances. It’s a seesawing, cyclical,
crystalline thing. He finished
after the ninety-sixth bar and told me to mark the MS triste. Then he asked
me, “So what d’you
think?”
“Not sure,” I told him. “It’s not at all like you. Not much like anyone.
But it hypnotizes.”
Ayrs was now slumped, à la a Pre-Raphaelite oil painting entitled Behold
the Sated Muse
Discards Her Puppet. Birdsong foamed in the hour-before-dawn garden. Thought
about J.’s
curves in the bed, just a few yards away, even felt a dangerous throb of
impatience for her.
VA. was unsure of himself for once. “I dreamt of a … nightmarish café,
brilliantly lit, but
underground, with no way out. I’d been dead a long, long time. The
waitresses all had the same
face. The food was soap, the only drink was cups of lather. The music in the
café was”—he
wagged an exhausted finger at the MS—“this.”
Rang for H. Wanted Ayrs out of my room before daylight found his wife in my
bed. After a
minute H. knocked. Ayrs got to his feet and limped over—he hates anyone
seeing him assisted.
“Good work, Frobisher.” His voice found me from down the corridor. I shut
the door and
breathed that big sigh of relief. Climbed back to bed, where my swampy-
sheeted alligator sank
her little teeth into her young prey.
Wed begun a luxuriant farewell kiss when, damn me, the door creaked opened
again.
“Something else, Frobisher!” Mother of All Profanities, I hadn’t locked
the door! Ayrs drifted
bedward like the wreck of the Hesperus. J. slid back under the sheets while
I made
disheveling, surprised noises. Thank God, Hendrick was waiting outside—
accident or tact?
VA. found the end of my bed and sat there, just inches from the bump that
was J. If J. sneezed
or coughed now, even blind old Ayrs would catch on. “A tricky subject, so I
’ll just spit it out.
Jocasta. She isn’t a very faithful woman. Maritally, I mean. Friends hint
at her indiscretions,
enemies inform me of affairs. Has she ever … toward you … y know my
meaning?”
Let my voice stiffen, masterfully “No, sir, I don’t believe I do know your
meaning.”
“Spare me your bashfulness, boy!” Ayrs leant nearer. “Has my wife ever
made advances? I
have a right to know!”
Avoided a nervous giggle, by a whisker. “I find your question distasteful
in the extreme.”
Jocasta’s breath dampened my thigh. She must have been roasting alive under
the covers. “I
wouldn’t call any ‘friend’ who spread such muck around by that name. In
Mrs.
Crommelynck’s case, frankly, I find the notion as unthinkable as it is
unpalatable. If, if, through
some, I don’t know, nervous collapse, she were to behave so inappropriately
, well, to be
honest, Ayrs, I’d probably ask for Dhondt’s advice, or speak to Dr. Egret.
” Sophistry makes a
fine smoke screen.
“So you’re not going to give me a one-word answer?”
“You shall have a two-word answer. ‘Emphatically no!’ And I very much
hope the subject is
now closed.”
Ayrs let long moments fall away “You’re young, Frobisher, you’re rich,
you’ve got a brain,
and by all accounts you’re not wholly
repugnant. I’m not sure why you stay on here.”
Good. He was getting mawkish. “You’re my Verlaine.” “Am I, young Rimbaud
? Then where
is your Saison en Enfer?” “In sketches, in my skull, in my gut, Ayrs. In
my future.” Couldn’t
say if Ayrs felt humor, pity nostalgia, or scorn. He left.
Locked the door and climbed into bed for the third time that night.
Bedroom farce, when it actually happens, is intensely sad. Jocasta
seemed angry with me. “What?” I hissed. “My husband loves you,” said the
wife, dressing.
Zedelghem’s a-stirring. Plumbing makes noises like elderly aunts. Been
thinking of my
grandfather, whose wayward brilliance skipped my father’s generation. Once,
he showed me
an aquatint of a certain Siamese temple. Don’t recall its name, but ever
since a disciple of the
Buddha preached on the spot centuries ago, every bandit king, tyrant, and
monarch of that
kingdom has enhanced it with marble towers, scented arboretums, gold-leafed
domes, lavished
murals on its vaulted ceilings, set emeralds into the eyes of its statuettes
. When the temple
finally equals its counterpart in the Pure Land, so the story goes, that day
humanity shall have
fulfilled its purpose, and Time itself shall come to an end.
To men like Ayrs, it occurs to me, this temple is civilization. The masses,
slaves, peasants, and
foot soldiers exist in the cracks of its flagstones, ignorant even of their
ignorance. Not so the
great statesmen, scientists, artists, and most of all, the composers of the
age, any age, who are
civilization’s architects, masons, and priests. Ayrs sees our role is to
make civilization ever
more resplendent. My employer’s profoundest, or only, wish is to create a
minaret that
inheritors of Progress a thousand years from now will point to and say, “
Look, there is
Vyvyan Ayrs!”
How vulgar, this hankering after immortality how vain, how false. Composers
are merely
scribblers of cave paintings. One writes music because winter is eternal and
because, if one
didn’t, the wolves and blizzards would be at one’s throat all the sooner.
Sincerely,
R.F.
…
ZEDELGHEM
14.TH— ix—1931
Sixsmith,
Sir Edward Elgar came to tea this afternoon. Even you’ve heard of him, you
ignoramus. Now,
usually, if one asks Ayrs what he thinks of English music he’ll say, “What
English music?
There is none! Not since Purcell!” and sulk all day, as if the Reformation
were one’s own
doing. This hostility was forgotten in a trice when Sir Edward telephoned
from his hotel in
Bruges this morning, wondering if Ayrs might be able to spare him an hour or
two. Ayrs made
a show of curmudgeonliness, but I could tell by the way he badgered Mrs.
Willems about the
arrangements for tea, he was pleased as the cat who got the cream. Our
celebrated guest arrived
at half past two, dressed in a dark green Inverness cape despite the clement
weather. The man’s
state of health isn’t much better than VA.’s. J. & I welcomed him on the
steps of Zedelghem.
“So you’re Vyv’s new pair of eyes, are you?” he said to me, as we shook
hands. Said I’d seen
him conduct a dozen times at the festival, which pleased him. Guided the
composer into the
Scarlet Room, where Ayrs was waiting. They greeted each other warmly, but as
if wary of
bruises. Elgar’s sciatic pain bothers him greatly, and even on good days,
VA. looks pretty
frightful at first sight, still worse at the second. Tea was served, and
they talked shop, mostly
ignoring J. & me, but it was fascinating to be a fly on the wall. Sir E.
glanced at us now and
then to make sure he was not wearing out his host. “Not at all.” We smiled
back. They fenced
over such topics as saxophones in orchestras, whether Webern is Fraudster or
Messiah, the
patronage and politics of music. Sir E. announced he is at work on a Third
Symphony after a
long hibernation:—he even played us sketches of a molto maestoso and an
allegretto on the
upright. Ayrs most eager to prove that he isn’t ready for his coffin either
, and had me run
through some recently completed piano sketches—rather lovely Several dead
bottles of
Trappist beer later, I asked Elgar about the Pomp and Circumstance marches.
“Oh, I needed
the money, dear boy But don’t tell anyone. The King might want my baronetcy
back.” Ayrs
went into laughter spasms at this! “I always say, Ted, to get the crowd to
cry Hosanna, you
must first ride into town on an ass. Backwards, ideally, whilst telling the
masses the tall stories
they want to hear.”
Sir E. had heard about “Todtenvogel”’s reception in Cracow (all London
has, it would seem),
so VA. sent me off to fetch a score. Back in the Scarlet Room, our guest
took our death-bird to
the window seat and read it with the aid of a monocle while Ayrs and I
pretended to busy
ourselves. “A man at our time of life, Ayrs”— E. spoke at last—“has no
right to such daring
ideas. Where are you getting ’em from?”
VA. puffed up like a smug hornyback. “I suppose I’ve won a rearguard
action or two in my
war against decrepitude. My boy Robert here is proving a valuable aide-de-
camp.”
Aide-de-camp? I’m his bloody general and he’s the fat old Turk reigning on
the memory of
faded glories! Smiled sweetly as I could (as if the roof over my head
depended on it.
Moreover, Sir E. might be useful one day so it won’t do to create an
obstreperous impression).
During tea, Elgar contrasted my position at Zedelghem favorably with his
first job as a musical
director at a lunatic asylum in Worcestershire. “Excellent prep for
conducting the London
Philharmonic, what?” quipped VA. We laughed and I half-forgave the ratty
old selfish crank
for being himself. Put another log or two in the hearth. In the smoky
firelight the two old men
nodded off like a pair of ancient kings passing the aeons in their tumuli.
Made a musical
notation of their snores. Elgar is to be played by a bass tuba, Ayrs a
bassoon. I’ll do the same
with Fred Delius and Trevor Mackerras and publish ’em all together in a
work entitled The
Backstreet Museum of Stuffed Edwardians.
Three days later
Just back from a lento walk with VA. down the Monk’s Walk to the gatekeeper
’s lodge. I
pushed his chair. Landscape v. atmospheric this evening; autumn leaves
gusted around in
urgent spirals, as if VA. was the sorcerer and I his apprentice. Poplars’
long shadows barred
the mown meadow. Ayrs wanted to unveil his concepts for a final, symphonic
major work, to
be named Eternal Recurrence in honor of his beloved Nietzsche. Some music
will be drawn
from an abortive opera based on The Island of Doctor Moreau, whose Viennese
production
was canceled by the war, some music VA. believes will “come” to him, and
its backbone will
be the “dream music” piece that he dictated in my room that hairy night
last month, I wrote to
you about that. VA. wants four movements, a female choir, and a large
ensemble heavy in
Ayrsesque woodwind. Truly, a behemoth of the deeps. Wants my services for
another half
year. Said I’d think about it. He said he’d up my salary, both vulgar and
crafty of him.
Repeated, I needed time. VA. most upset I didn’t give him a breathy “Yes!
” on the spot—but I
want the old bugger to admit to himself that he needs me more than I him.
Sincerely,
R.F.
hellip;
ZEDELGHEM
28TH—ix—1931
Sixsmith,
J. growing v. tiresome. After our lovemaking, she spreads over my bed like a
mooing mooncalf
and demands to know about other women whose strings I’ve quivered. Now she
’s teased
names out of me, she says things like “Oh, I suppose Frederica taught you
that?” (She plays
with that birthmark in the hollow of my shoulder, the one you said resembles
a comet—can’t
abide the woman dabbling with my skin.) J. initiates petty rows in order to
undergo tedious
reconciliations and, worryingly has started to let our moonlight dramas slip
into our daylight
lives. Ayrs can’t see further than Eternal Recurrence, but Eva is due back
in ten days, and that
hawkeyed creature will sniff out a decomposing secret in a jiffy.
J. thinks our arrangement lets her fasten my future more tightly to
Zedelghem—she says, half
playful, half darkly, she’s not going to let me “abandon” either her or
her husband, not in
“their” hour of need. The devil, Sixsmith, is in the pronouns. Worst of
all, she’s started to use
the L-word on me, and wants to hear it back. What’s wrong with the woman?
She’s nearly
twice my age! What’s she after? Assured her I’ve never loved anyone except
myself and have
no intention of starting now, especially with another man’s wife, and
especially when that man
could poison my name in European musical society by writing half a dozen
letters. So, of
course, the female plies her customary ploys, sobs in my pillow, accuses me
of “using” her. I
agree, of course I’ve “used” her; just as she’s “used” me too. That’s
the arrangement. If she’s
no longer happy with it, she’s not my prisoner. So off she storms to pout
for a couple of days
and nights until the old ewe gets hungry for a young ram, then she’s back,
calling me her
darling boy, thanking me for “giving Vyvyan his music back,” and the
stupid cycle begins all
over again. I wonder if she’s resorted to Hendrick in the past. Wouldn’t
put anything past the
woman. If one of Renwick’s Austrian doctors opened up her head, a whole
beehive of
neuroses would swarm out. Had I known she was this unstable, I’d never have
let her in my
bed that first night. There’s a joylessness in her lovemaking. No, a
savagery.
Have agreed to VA.’s proposal that I stay on here until next summer, at
least. No cosmic
resonance entered my decision—just artistic advantage, financial
practicalities, and because J.
might have some sort of collapse if I went. The consequences of that would
not come out in the
wash.
Later, same day
Gardener made a bonfire of fallen leaves—just came in from it. The heat on
one’s face and
hands, the sad smoke, the crackling and wheezing fire. Reminds me of the
groundsman’s hut at
Gresham. Anyway, got a gorgeous passage from the fire—percussion for
crackling, alto
bassoon for the wood, and a restless flute for the flames. Finished
transcribing it this very
minute. Air in the château clammy like laundry that won’t dry. Door-
banging drafts down the
passageways. Autumn is leaving its mellowness behind for its spiky, rotted
stage. Don’t
remember summer even saying good-bye.
Sincerely,
R.F.
CHATEAU ZEDELGHEM,
NEERBEKE,
WEST VLAANDEREN
29TH-VI-1993
Sixsmith,
Dreamt I stood in a china shop so crowded from floor to far-off ceiling with
shelves of
porcelain antiquities etc. that moving a muscle would cause several to fall
and smash to bits.
Exactly what happened, but instead of a crashing noise, an august chord rang
out, half-cello,
half-celeste, D major (?), held for four beats. My wrist knocked a Ming vase
affair off its
pedestal—E-flat, whole string section, glorious, transcendent, angels wept.
Deliberately now,
smashed a figurine of an ox for the next note, then a milkmaid, then
Saturdays Child—orgy of
shrapnel filled the air, divine harmonies my head. Ah, such music! Glimpsed
my father totting
up the smashed items’ value, nib flashing, but had to keep the music coming
. Knew I’d
become the greatest composer of the century if I could only make this music
mine. A
monstrous Laughing Cavalier flung against the wall set off a thumping
battery of percussion.
Woke in my Imperial Western suite, Tam Brewer’s collectors nearly knocking
my door down
and much commotion from corridor. Hadn’t even waited until I’d shaved—
breathtaking
vulgarity of these ruffians. Had no choice but to exit swiftly via the
bathroom window before
the brouhaha summoned the manager to discover that the young gentleman in
Room 237 had
no means of settling his now-hefty balance. Escape was not hitchless, sorry
to report.
Drainpipe ripped free of its mounting with the noise of a brutalized violin,
and down, down,
down tumbled your old chum. Right buttock one hellish bruise. Minor miracle
I didn’t shatter
my spine or impale myself on railings. Learn from this, Sixsmith. When
insolvent, pack
minimally, with a valise tough enough to be thrown onto a London pavement
from a first- or
second-floor window. Insist on hotel rooms no higher. Hid in a tearoom
tucked into a sooty
nook of Victoria Station, trying to transcribe the music from the china shop
of dreams—
couldn’t get beyond a measly two bars. Would have walked into Tam Brewer’s
arms just to
have that music back again. Miserable spirits. Laboring types surrounded me
with bad teeth,
parrot voices, and unfounded optimism. Sobering to think how one accursed
night of baccarat
can alter a man’s social standing so irreversibly. Those shopworkers,
cabbies, and tradesmen
had more half crowns and threepenny bits squirreled away in their sour
Stepney mattresses
than I, Son of an Ecclesiastical Somebody, can claim. Had a view of an alley
scriveners hurtling by like demisemiquavers in a Beethovian allegro. Afraid
of ’em? No, I’m
afraid of being one. What value are education, breeding, and talent if one
doesn’t have a pot to
piss in?
Still can’t believe it. I, a Caius Man, teetering on the brink of
destitution. Decent hotels won’t
let me taint their lobbies now. Indecent hotels demand cash on the nail. Am
barred from any
reputable gaming table this side of the Pyrenees. Anyway, I summarized my
options:—
(i) Use paltry funds to obtain a dirty room in some lodging house, beg a few
guineas from
Uncle Cecil Ltd., teach prissy missies their scales and bitter spinsters
their technique. Come
now. If I could fake courtesy to dunces I’d still be swabbing Professor Mac
-kerras’s arse with
my ex–fellow undergrads. No, before you say it, I can’t go running back to
Pater with yet
another cri de coeur. Would validate every poisonous word he said about me.
Would rather
jump off Waterloo Bridge and let Old Father Thames humble me. Mean it.
(ii) Hunt down Caius people, butter ’em up, and invite myself to stay for
the summer.
Problematic, for same reasons as (i). How long could I conceal my starving
pocketbook? How
long could I stave off their pity their talons?
(iii) Visit turf accountant—but if I lost?
Youd remind me I brought it all upon myself, Sixsmith, but shrug off that
middle-class chip on
your shoulder and stick with me a little longer. Across a crowded platform,
a guard announced
that the Dover-bound train for the ship to Ostend was delayed by thirty
minutes. That guard
was my croupier, inviting me to double or quits. If one will just be still,
shut up, and listen—lo,
behold, the world’ll sift through one’s ideas for one, esp. in a grimy
London railway station.
Downed my soapy tea and strode across the concourse to the ticket office. A
return ticket to
Ostend was too costly—so parlous has my position become—so a single it had
to be. Boarded
my carriage just as the locomotive’s whistle blasted forth a swarm of
piccolo Furies. We were
under way
Now to reveal my plan, inspired by a piece in The Times and a long soak’s
daydream in my
Savoy suite. In the Belgian backwaters, south of Bruges, there lives a
reclusive English
composer, named Vyvyan Ayrs. You won’t have heard of him because you’re a
musical oaf,
but he’s one of the greats. The only Briton of his generation to reject
pomp, circumstance,
rusticity and charm. Hasn’t produced any new work since the early twenties
due to illness—
he’s half blind and can hardly hold a pen—but the Times review of his
Secular Magnificat
(performed last week at St. Martin’s) referred to a drawerful of unfinished
works. My
daydream had me traveling to Belgium, persuading Vyvyan Ayrs he needed to
employ me as
an amanuensis, accepting his offer to tutor me, shooting through the musical
firmament,
winning fame and fortune commensurate to my gifts, obliging Pater to admit
that, yes, the son
he disinherited is the Robert Frobisher, greatest British composer of his
time.
Why not? Had no better plan. You groan and shake your head, Sixsmith, I know
, but you
smile too, which is why I love you. Uneventful journey to the Channel …
cancerous suburbs,
tedious farmland, soiled Sussex. Dover an utter fright staffed by Bolsheviks
, versified cliffs as
Romantic as my arse and a similar hue. Changed last shillings into francs at
the port and took
my cabin aboard the Kentish Queen, a rusty tub that looks old enough to have
seen service in
Crimea. Spud-faced young steward and I disagreed his burgundy uniform and
unconvincing
beard were worth a tip. Sneered at my valise and manuscript folder—“Wise
of you to travel
light, sir”—and left me to muck for myself. Suited me fine.
Dinner was balsawood chicken, powdery potatoes, and a bastard claret. My
dining-table
companion was Mr. Victor Bryant, cutlery lordling of Sheffield. Not a
musical bone in his
body He expounded on the subject of spoons for most of the meal, mistook my
civil
deportment for interest, and offered me a job in his sales department on the
spot! Can you
believe it? Thanked him (keeping straight face) and confessed I’d rather
swallow cutlery than
ever have to sell the stuff. Three mighty blasts on the foghorn, engines
changed timbre, felt the
ship cast off, went on deck to watch Albion withdraw into drizzly murk. No
going back now;
consequences of what Id done struck home. R.VW conducted Sea Symphony in the
Orchestra
of the Mind, “Sail forth, steer for the deep waters only, Reckless, O Soul,
exploring, I with
thee, and thou with me.” (Don’t much care for this work, but it was
perfectly programmed.)
North Sea wind had me shivering, spray licked me from toe to crown. Glossy
black waters
invited me to jump. Ignored ’em. Turned in early, leafed through Noyes’s
Contrapuntals,
listened to the distant brass of the engine room and sketched a repetitive
passage for trombone
based on the ship’s rhythms, but was rather rubbish, and then guess who
came a-knocking at
my door? The spud-faced steward, his shift over. Gave him rather more than a
tip. No Adonis,
scrawny but inventive for his class. Turfed him out afterwards and sank into
the sleep of the
dead. One part of me wanted that voyage never to end.
But end it did. Kentish Queen slid into Dover’s snaggletoothed twin sister
over the mucky
water, Ostend, the Lady of Dubious Virtue. Early early morning, Europe’s
snoring rumbled
deep below bass tubas. Saw my first aboriginal Belgians, hauling crates,
arguing, and thinking
in Flemish, Dutch, whatever. Packed my valise sharpish, afraid the ship
might sail back to
England with me still aboard; or, rather, afraid of my letting this happen.
Grabbed a bite from
the first-class galleys fruit bowl and dashed down the gangplank before
anyone with braiding
on his uniform caught up with me. Set foot on Continental macadam and asked
a Customs man
where I might find the railway station. He pointed toward a groaning tram
packed with
malnourished workmen, rickets, and penury Preferred shank’s pony, drizzle
or no drizzle.
Followed tramlines down coffinesque streets. Ostend is all tapioca grays and
stained browns.
Will admit, I was thinking Belgium was a b. stupid country to run away to.
Bought a ticket for
Bruges and hauled myself aboard the next train—no platforms, can you
believe it?—a decrepit,
empty train. Moved compartment because mine smelt unpleasant, but all
compartments had
same pong. Smoked cigarettes cadged off Victor Bryant to purify the air. The
stationmaster’s
whistle blew on time, the locomotive strained like a gouty proctor on the
pot before heaving
itself into motion. Soon steaming through a foggy landscape of unkempt dikes
and blasted
copses at a fair old clip.
If my plan bears fruit, Sixsmith, you may come to Bruges before v. long.
When you do, arrive
in that six o’clock in the morning gnoss/-ennesque hour. Lose yourself in
the city’s rickety
streets, blind canals, wrought-iron gates, uninhabited courtyards—may I go
on? Why, thank
you—leery Gothic carapaces, Ararat roofs, shrubbery-tufted brick spires,
medieval overhangs,
laundry sagging from windows, cobbled whirlpools that suck your eye in,
clockwork princes
and chipped princesses striking their hours, sooty doves, and three or four
octaves of bells,
some sober, some bright. Aroma of fresh bread led me to a bakery where a
deformed woman
with no nose sold me a dozen crescent-moon pastries. Only wanted one, but
thought she had
enough problems. A rag-and-bone cart clattered out of the mist and its
toothless driver spoke
companionably to me, but I could only reply, “Excusez-moi, je ne parle pas
flamand,” which
made him laugh like the Goblin King. Gave him a pastry. His filthy hand was
a scabby claw.
In a poor quarter (alleys stank of effluent), children helped their mothers
at the pumps, filling
broken jugs with brown water. Finally, the excitement all caught up with me,
sat on the steps of
a dying windmill for a breather, wrapped myself against the damp, fell
asleep.
Next thing, a witch was poking me awake with her broomstick, screeching
something like “Zie
gie doad misschien?” but don’t quote me. Blue sky, warm sun, not a wisp of
fog to be seen.
Resurrected and blinking, I offered her a pastry. She accepted with distrust
, put it in her apron
for later, and got back to her sweeping, growling an ancient ditty Lucky I
wasn’t robbed, I
suppose. Shared another pastry with five thousand pigeons, to the envy of a
beggar, so I had to
give him one too. Walked back the way I might have come. In an odd
pentagonal window a
creamy maiden was arranging Saintpaulia in a cut-glass bowl. Girls fascinate
in different ways.
Try ’em one day. Tapped on the pane, and asked in French if she’d save my
life by falling in
love with me. Shook her head but got an amused smile. Asked where I could
find a police
station. She pointed over a crossroads. One can spot a fellow musician in
any context, even
amongst policemen. The craziest-eyed, unruliest-haired one, either hungry-
skinny or jovialportly
This French-speaking, cor anglais–playing, local operatic society–
belonging inspector
had heard of Vyvyan Ayrs and kindly drew me a map to Neerbeke. Paid him two
pastries for
this intelligence. He asked if I had shipped over my British car—his son
was mad keen about
Austins. Said I had no car. This worried him. How would I get to Neerbeke?
No bus, no
trainline, and twenty-five miles was the devil of a walk. Asked if I could
borrow a policeman’s
bicycle for an indefinite period. Told me that was most irregular. Assured
him I was most
irregular, and outlined the nature of my mission to Ayrs, Belgium’s most
famous adopted son
(must be so few that might even be true), in the service of European music.
Repeated my
request. Implausible truth can serve one better than plausible fiction, and
now was such a time.
The honest sergeant took me to a compound where lost items await rightful
owners for a few
months (before finding their way to the black market)—but first, he wanted
my opinion on his
baritone. He gave me a burst of “Recitar! … Vesti la giubba!” from I
Pagliacci. (Pleasant
enough voice in lower registers, but his breathing needed work and his
vibrato quivered like a
backstage thunder board.) Gave a few musical pointers; received the loan of
a Victorian Enfield
plus cord to secure valise and folder to the saddle and rear mudguard. He
wished me bon
voyage and fair weather.
Adrian would never have marched along the road I bicycled out of Bruges (too
deep in Hun
territory) but nonetheless felt an affinity with my brother by virtue of
breathing the same air of
the same land. The Plain is flat as the Fens but in a bad shape. Along the
way I fueled myself
with the last pastries and stopped at impoverished cottages for cups of
water. Nobody said
much, but nobody said no. Thanks to a headwind and a chain that kept
slipping off, the
afternoon was growing old before I finally reached Ayrs’s home village of
Neerbeke. A silent
blacksmith showed me how to get to Château Zedelghem by elaborating my
map with a pencil
stub. A lane with harebells and toadflax growing in the middle led me past a
deserted lodge
house to a once stately avenue of mature Italian poplars. Zedelghem is
grander than our rectory,
some crumbly turrets adorn its west wing, but it couldn’t hold a candle to
Audley End or
Capon-Tench’s country seat. Spied a girl riding a horse over a low hill
crowned by a
shipwrecked beech tree. Passed a gardener spreading soot against the slugs
in a vegetable
garden. In the forecourt, a muscle-bound valet was decoking a Cowley Flat
Nose. Seeing my
approach, he rose and waited for me. In a terraced corner of this frieze, a
man in a wheelchair
sat under foamy wisteria listening to the wireless. Vyvyan Ayrs, I presumed.
The easy part of
my daydream was over.
Leant the bicycle against the wall, told the valet I had business with his
master. He was civil
enough, and led me around to Ayrs’s terrace, and announced my arrival in
German. Ayrs a
husk of a man, as if his illness has sucked all juice out of him, but
stopped myself kneeling on
the cinder path like Sir Percival before King Arthur. Our overture proceeded
more or less like
this. “Good afternoon, Mr. Ayrs.”
“Who in hell are you?”
“It’s a great honor to—”
“I said, ‘Who in hell are you?’ ”
“Robert Frobisher, sir, from Saffron Walden. I am—I was— a student of Sir
Trevor
Mackerras at Caius College, and I’ve come all the way from London to—”
“All the way from London on a bicycle?”
“No. I borrowed the bicycle from a policeman in Bruges.”
“Did you?” Pause for thought. “Must have taken hours.”
“A labor of love, sir. Like pilgrims climbing hills on their knees.”
“What balderdash is this?”
“I wished to prove I’m a serious applicant.”
“Serious applicant for what?”
“The post of your amanuensis.”
“Are you mad?”
Always a trickier question than it looks. “I doubt it.”
“Look here, I’ve not advertised for an amanuensis!”
“I know, sir, but you need one, even if you don’t know it yet. The Times
piece said that you’re
unable to compose new works because of your illness. I can’t allow your
music to be lost. It’s
far, far too precious. So I’m here to offer you my services.”
Well, he didn’t dismiss me out of hand. “What did you say your name was?”
I told him. “One
of Mackerras’s shooting stars, are you?”
“Frankly, sir, he loathed me.”
As you’ve learned to your cost, I can be intriguing when I put my mind to
it.
“He did, did he? Why might that be?”
“I called his sixth Concerto for Flute”—I cleared my throat— “ ‘a
slave of prepubescent Saint-
Saëns at his most florid’ in the college magazine. He took it
personally.”
“You wrote that about Mackerras?” Ayrs wheezed as if his ribs were being
sawed. “I’ll bet he
took it personally”
The sequel is short. The valet showed me into a drawing room decorated in
eggshell green, a
dull Farquharson of sheep and cornstooks, and a not-very-good Dutch
landscape. Ayrs
summoned his wife, Mrs. van Outryve de Crommelynck. She kept her own name,
and with a
name like that who can blame her? The lady of the house was coolly courteous
and inquired
into my background. Answered truthfully, though I veiled my expulsion from
Caius behind an
obscure malady Of my present financial straits I breathed not a word—the
more desperate the
case, the more reluctant the donor. Charmed ’em sufficiently It was agreed
I could at least stay
the night at Zedelghem. Ayrs would put me through my musical paces in the
morning,
permitting a decision on my proposal.
Ayrs did not appear at dinner, however. My arrival coincided with the start
of a fortnightly
migraine, which confines him to his rooms for a day or two. My audition is
postponed until he
is better, so my fate still hangs in the balance. On the credit side, the
Pies-porter and lobster à
l’américaine were the equal to anything at the Imperial. Encouraged my
hostess to talk—think
she was flattered at how much I know about her illustrious husband, and
sensed my genuine
love of his music. Oh, we ate with Ayrs’s daughter, too, the young
equestrienne I’d glimpsed
earlier. Mlle. Ayrs is a horsey creature of seventeen with her mama’s
retroussé nose. Couldn’t
get a civil word out of her all evening. Might she see in me a louche
English freeloader down
on his luck, here to lure her sickly father into a glorious Indian summer
where she can’t follow
and isn’t welcome?
People are complicated.
Gone midnight. The château is sleeping, so must I.
Sincerely,
R.F.
…
ZEDELGHEM
6TH—VII—1931
A telegram, Sixsmith? You ass.
Don’t send any more, I beg you—telegrams attract attention! Yes, I’m
still Abroad, yes, safe
from Brewer’s knuckle men. Fold my parents’ mortifying letter into a paper
boat and sail it
down the Cam. Pater’s only “concerned” because my creditors are shaking
him to see if any
banknotes drop from the family tree. Debts of a disinherited son, however,
are nobody’s
business but the son’s— believe me, I’ve looked into the legalities.
Mater is not “frantic.” Only
the prospect of the decanter running dry could make Mater frantic.
My audition took place in Ayrs’s music room, after lunch, the day before
yesterday. Not an
overwhelming success, putting it mildly—no knowing how many days I’ll be
here, or how
few. Admit to a certain frisson sitting on Vyvyan Ayrs’s own piano stool
beforehand. This
Oriental rug, battered divan, Breton cupboards crammed with music stands, B&
#246;sendorfer
grand, carillon, all witnessed the conception and birth of Matryoshka Doll
Variations and his
song cycle Society Islands. Stroked the same ’cello who first vibrated to
Untergehen
Violinkonzert. Hearing Hendrick wheeling his master this way, I stopped
snooping and faced
the doorway. Ayrs ignored my “I do hope you’re recovered, Mr. Ayrs” and
had his valet leave
him facing the garden window. “Well?” he asked, after we’d been alone
half a minute. “Go on.
Impress me.” Asked what he wanted to hear. “I must select the program, too
? Well, have you
mastered ‘Three Blind Mice’?”
So I sat at the Bösendorfer and played the syphilitic crank “Three
Blind Mice,” after the fashion
of a mordant Prokofiev. Ayrs did not comment. Continued in a subtler vein
with Chopin’s
Nocturne in F Major. He interrupted with a whine, “Trying to slip my
petticoats off my ankles,
Frobisher?” Played VA.’s own Digressions on a Theme of Lodovico Roncalli,
but before the
first two bars were out, he’d uttered a six-birch expletive, banged on the
floor with his cane,
and said, “Self-gratification makes you go blind, didn’t they teach you
that at Caius?” Ignored
him and finished the piece note perfect. For a finale of fireworks, gambled
on Scarlatti’s 212th
in A major, a bête noire of arpeggios and acrobatics. Came unstuck once or
twice, but I wasn’t
being auditioned as a concert soloist. After I’d finished, VA. kept
swinging his head to the
rhythm of the disappeared sonata; or maybe he was conducting the blurry,
swaying poplars.
“Execrable, Frobisher, get out of my house this instant!” would have
aggrieved but not much
surprised me. Instead, he admitted, “You may have the makings of a musician
. It’s a nice day.
Amble over to the lake and see the ducks. I need, oh, a little time to
decide whether or not I can
find a use for your … gifts.”
Left without a word. The old goat wants me, it seems, but only if I’m
pathetic with gratitude. If
my pocketbook had allowed me to go, I’d have hired a cab back to Bruges and
renounced the
whole errant idea. He called after me, “Some advice, Frobisher, gratis.
Scarlatti was a
harpsichordist, not a pianist. Don’t drench him in color so, and don’t use
the pedal to sustain
notes you can’t sustain with the fingers.” I called back that I needed, oh
, a little time to decide
whether or not I could find a use for Ayrs’s … gift.
Crossed the courtyard, where a beetroot-faced gardener was clearing a weed-
choked fountain.
Made him understand I wanted to speak to his mistress and pronto—he is not
the sharpest tool
in the shed—and he waved vaguely toward Neerbeke, miming a steering wheel.
Wonderful.
What now? See the ducks, why not? Could strangle a brace and leave ’em
hanging in VA.’s
wardrobe. Mood was that black. So I mimed ducks and asked the gardener, “
Where?” He
pointed at the beech tree, and his gesture said, Walk that way, just on the
other side. I set off,
jumped a neglected ha-ha, but before I’d reached the crest, the noise of
galloping bore down on
me, and Miss Eva van Outryve de Crommelynck—from now plain old Crommelynck
shall
have to do or I’ll run out of ink—rode up on her black pony.
I greeted her. She cantered around me like Queen Boadicea, pointedly
unresponsive. “How
humid the air is today,” I small-talked sarcastically. “I rather think we
shall have rain later,
wouldn’t you agree?” She said nothing. “Your dressage is more polished
than your manners,”
I told her. Nothing. Shooting guns crackled across the fields, and Eva
reassured her mount.
Her mount is a beaut—one can’t blame the horse. I asked Eva for the pony’
s name. She
stroked back some black, corkscrew locks from her cheeks. “J’ai nommé le
poney Néfertiti,
d’après cette reine d’Egypte qui m’est si chère,” she replied and
turned away “It speaks!” I
cried and watched the girl gallop off until she was a miniature in the Van
Dyck pastoral. Fired
artillery shells after her in elegant parabolas. Turned my guns on Châ
teau Zedelghem and
pounded Ayrs’s wing to smoking rubble. Remembered what country we are in
and stopped.
Past the sundered beech, the meadow falls away to an ornamental lake,
ringing with frogs.
Seen better days. A precarious footbridge connects an island to the shore,
and flamingo lilies
bloom in vast numbers. Now and then goldfish splish and gleam like new
pennies dropped in
water. Whiskered mandarin ducks honk for bread, exquisitely tailored beggars
—rather like
myself. Martins nest in a boathouse of tarred boards. Under a row of pear
trees—once an
orchard?—I laid me down and idled, an art perfected during my long
convalescence. An idler
and a sluggard are as different as a gourmand and a glutton. Watched the
aerial bliss of coupled
dragonflies. Even heard their wings, an ecstatic sound like paper flaps in
bicycle spokes. Gazed
on a slowworm exploring a miniature Amazonia around the roots where I lay.
Silent? Not
altogether, no. Was woken much later, by first spots of rain. Cumu-lonimbi
were reaching
critical mass. Sprinted back to Zedelghem as fast as I’ll ever run again,
just to hear the rushing
roar in my ear canals and feel the first fat droplets pound my face like
xylophone hammers.
Just had time to change into my one clean shirt before the dinner gong. Mrs.
Crommelynck
apologized, her husband’s appetite was still feeble and demoiselle
preferred to eat alone.
Nothing suited me better. Stewed eel, chervil sauce, the rain skittering on
terrace. Unlike the
Frobishery and most English homes I have known, meals at the château
are not conducted in
silence, and Mme. C told me a little about her family. Crommelyncks have
lived at Zedelghem
since far-off days when Bruges was Europe’s busiest seaport (so she told me
, hard to credit),
making Eva the crowning glory of six centuries’ breeding. Warmed to the
woman somewhat, I
admit it. She holds forth like a man and smokes myrrhy cigarettes through a
rhino-horn holder.
She’d notice pretty sharpish if any valuables were spirited away, however.
They’ve suffered
from thieving servants in the past, she happened to mention, even one or two
impoverished
houseguests, if I could believe people could behave so dishonorably. Assured
her my parents
had suffered the same way, and put out feelers re: my audition. “He did
describe your Scarlatti
as ‘salvageable.’ Vyvyan spurns praise, both giving and receiving it. He
says, ‘If people praise
you, you’re not walking your own path.’ ” Asked directly if she thought
he’d agree to take me
on. “I do hope so, Robert.” (In other words, wait and see.) “You must
understand, he resigned
himself never to compose another note. Doing so caused him great pain.
Resurrecting hope that
he might compose again—well, that’s not a risk to be undertaken lightly.”
Subject closed. I
mentioned my earlier encounter with Eva, and Mme. C pronounced, “My
daughter was
uncivil.”
“Reserved” was my perfect reply.
My hostess topped up my glass. “Eva has a disagreeable nature. My husband
has taken very
little interest in rearing her like a young lady. He never wanted children.
Fathers and daughters
are reputed to dote on each other, are they not? Not here. Her teachers say
Eva is studious but
secretive, and she’s never tried to develop herself musically I often feel
I don’t know her at all.”
I filled Mme. C.’s glass, and she seemed to cheer up. “Listen to me,
lamenting. Your sisters are
immaculately mannered English roses, I am sure, Monsieur?” Rather doubt her
interest in the
Frobishery’s memsahibs was genuine, but the woman likes to watch me talk,
so I painted witty
caricatures of my estranged clan for my hostess’s amusement. Made us all
sound so gay,
almost felt homesick.
This morning, a Monday, Eva deigned to share breakfast— Bradenham ham, eggs
, bread, all
sorts—but the girl spouted petty complaints to her mother and snuffed my
interjections out
with a flat oui or a sharp non. Ayrs was feeling better so ate with us. Hen-
drick then drove the
daughter off to Bruges for another week at school—Eva boards in the city
with a family whose
daughters also attend her school, the Van Eels or some such. Whole châ
teau breathed a relieved
sigh when the Cowley had cleared the poplar avenue (known as the Monk’s
Walk). Eva does
so poison the air of the place. At nine, Ayrs and I adjourned to the music
room. “I’ve got a little
melody for viola rattling about my head, Frobisher. Let’s see if you can
get it down.” Was
delighted to hear it, as I’d expected to start at the shallow end—tidying
up sketchy MSS into
best copy and so forth. If I proved my worth as VA.’s sentient fountain pen
on my first day,
my tenure would be well-nigh assured. Sat at his desk, sharpened 2B at the
ready, clean MS,
waiting for him to name the notes, one by one. Suddenly, the man bellowed:
“ ‘Tar, tar! Tartartar
tattytattytatty tar!’ Got that? ‘Tar! Tatty-tar! Quiet part—tartar-tar-
tttt-TAR!
TARTARTAR!!!’” Got that? Old ass obviously thought this was amusing—one
could no
more notate his shouted garble than one could score the braying of a dozen
donkeys—but after
another thirty seconds, it dawned on me this was no joke. Tried to interrupt
, but the man was
so engrossed in his music making that he didn’t notice. Sunk into deepest
misery while Ayrs
carried on, and on, and on … My scheme was hopeless. What had I been
thinking about at
Victoria Station? Dejected, I let him work through his piece in the lean
hope that having it
complete in his head might make it easier to duplicate later.
“There, finished!” he proclaimed. “Got it? Hum it back, Frobisher, and
then let’s see how it
sounds.”
Asked what key we were in. “B-flat, of course!” Time signature? Ayrs
pinched the bridge of
his nose. “Are you saying you’ve lost my melody?” Struggled to remind
myself he was being
totally unreasonable. I asked him to repeat the melody much more slowly and
to label his notes,
one by one. There was an acute pause that felt about three hours long while
Ayrs decided
whether or not to throw a tantrum. In the end, he released a martyred sigh.
“Four-eight,
changing to eight-eight after the twelfth bar, if you can count that far.”
Pause. Remembered my
monetary difficulties and bit my lip. “Let’s go all the way back, then.”
Patronizing pause.
“Ready now? Slowly … Tar! What note is that?” Got through a hideous half
hour with me
guessing every single note, one by one. Ayrs verified or rejected my guess
with a weary nod or
shake of the head. Mme. C carried in a vase of flowers and I made an SOS
face, but VA.
himself declared that we call it a day. As I fled, I heard Ayrs pronounce (
for my benefit?), “It is
desperate, Jocasta, the boy cannot take down a simple tune. I might as well
join the avant-garde
and throw darts at pieces of paper with notes written on ’em.”
Down the passageway Mrs. Willems—housekeeper—laments the damp, blustery
weather and
her wet laundry to some unseen underling. She’s better off than I am. I’ve
manipulated people
for advancement, lust, or loans, but never for the roof over my head. This
rotting château stinks
of mushrooms and mold. Should never have come here.
Sincerely,
R.F.
P.S. Financial “embarrassment,” what an apposite phrase. No wonder the
poor are all
socialists. Look, must ask you for a loan. The regime at Zedelghem is the
laxest I ever saw
(fortunately! My father’s butler’s wardrobe is better supplied than my own
at present), but one
needs to set some standards. Can’t even tip the servants. If I had any
wealthy friends left, I’d
ask ’em, but truth is I don’t. Don’t know how you wire money or telegram
it or send it in
packets or whatever, but you’re the scientist, you find a way. If Ayrs asks
me to leave, I’ll be
scuppered. The news would seep back to Cambridge that Robert Frobisher had
to beg money
from his erstwhile hosts when they threw him out for not being up to the job
. The shame
would kill me, Sixsmith, it truly would. For God’s sake send whatever you
can immediately.
…
CHATEAU ZEDELGHEM
14.TH—vii—1931
Sixsmith,
All praise Rufus the Blessed, Patron Saint of Needy Composers, Praise in the
Highest, Amen.
Your postal order arrived safe and sound this morning—I painted you to my
hosts as a doting
uncle whod forgotten my birthday. Mrs. Crommelynck confirms a bank in Bruges
will cash it.
Will write a motet in your honor and pay your money back soon as I can.
Might be sooner than
you expect. The deep freeze on my prospects is thawing. After my humiliating
first attempt at
collaboration with Ayrs, I returned to my room in abject wretchedness. That
afternoon I spent
writing my sniveling lament to you—burn it, by the way, if you haven’t
already—feeling v.
anxious about the future. Braved the rain in Wellington boots and a cape and
walked to the post
office in the village, wondering, frankly, where I might be a month from now
. Mrs. Willems
bonged the gong for dinner shortly after my return, but when I got to the
dining hall, Ayrs was
waiting, alone. “That you, Frobisher?” he asked, with the gruffness
habitual to older men trying
to do delicacy. “Ah, Frobisher, glad we can have this little chat alone.
Look, I was rotten to you
this morning. My illness makes me more … direct than is sometimes
appropriate. I apologize.
Give this cantankerous so-and-so another chance tomorrow, what d’you say?”
Had his wife told him what state she’d found me in? Had Lucille mentioned
my half-packed
valise? Waited until I was sure my voice was purged of relief and told him,
nobly, nothing was
wrong in speaking his mind.
“I’ve been far too negative about your proposal, Frobisher. It won’t be
easy extracting music
out of my noddle, but our partnership stands as good a chance as any Your
musicianship and
character seem more than up to the job. My wife tells me you even try your
hand at
composition? Plainly, music is oxygen for us both. With the right will, we’
ll muddle along until
we hit upon the right method.” At this, Mme. Crommelynck knocked, peered in
, sensed the
room’s weather in a trice the way some women do, and asked if a celebratory
drink was called
for. Ayrs turned to me. “That depends on young Frobisher here. What d’you
say? Will you
stay for a few weeks, with a view to a few months, if all goes well? Maybe
longer, who
knows? But you must accept a small salary.”
Let my relief show as pleasure, told him I’d be honored, and did not out of
hand reject the offer
of a salary.
“Then, Jocasta, tell Mrs. Willems to fetch a Pinot Rouge 1908!” We toasted
Bacchus and the
Muses, and drank a wine rich as unicorn’s blood. Ayrs’s cellar, some
twelve hundred bottles,
is one of the finest in Belgium, and worth a brief digression. It survived
the war unlooted by
the Hun officers who used Zedelghem as a command post, all thanks to a false
wall Hendrick’s
father built over its entrance before the family’s flight to Gothenburg.
The library, and various
other bulky treasures, also spent the war down there (used to be the vaults
of a monastery),
sealed up in crates. The Prussians ransacked the building before Armistice,
but they never
rumbled the cellar.
A work routine is developing. Ayrs and I are in the music room by nine o’
clock every morning
his various ailments and pains let him. I sit at the piano, Ayrs on the
divan, smoking his vile
Turkish cigarettes, and we adopt one of our three modi operandi. “
Revisionals”— he asks me
to run through the previous morning’s work. I hum, sing, or play, depending
on the
instrument, and Ayrs modifies the score. “Reconstitutionals” have me
sifting through old
scores, notebooks, and compositions, some written before I was born, to
locate a passage or
cadenza Ayrs dimly remembers and wants to salvage. Great detective work. “
Compositionals”
are the most demanding. I sit at the piano and try to keep up with a flow of
“Semiquaver, B-G;
semibreve, A-flat—hold it four beats, no, six—crotchets! F-sharp— no no
no no F-sharp—
and … B! Tar-tatty-tatty-tarrr!” (il maestro will at least name his notes
now.) Or, if he’s feeling
more poetic, it might be “Now, Frobisher, the clarinet is the concubine,
the violas are yew trees
in the cemetery, the clavichord is the moon, so … let the east wind blow
that A minor chord,
sixteenth bar onwards.”
Like that of a good butler (although you can be sure, I am better than good)
, my job is ninetenths
anticipation. Sometimes Ayrs will ask for an artistic judgment, something
like “D’you
think this chord works, Frobisher?” or “Is this passage in keeping with
the whole?” If I say no,
Ayrs asks me what I’d suggest as a substitute, and once or twice he’s even
used my
amendment. Quite sobering. People in the future will be studying this music.
By one o’clock Ayrs is spent. Hendrick carries him down to the dining room,
where Mrs.
Crommelynck joins us for luncheon, and the dreaded E., if she’s back for
the w/end or a half
holiday. Ayrs naps through the afternoon heat. I continue to sift the
library for treasure,
compose in the music room, read manuscripts in the garden (Madonna lilies,
crowns imperial,
red-hot pokers, hollyhocks, all blooming bright), navigate lanes around
Neerbeke on the
bicycle, or ramble across local fields. Am firm friends with the village
dogs. They gallop after
me like the Pied Piper’s rats or brats. The locals return my “Goede morgen
” and “Goede
middag”—I’m now known as the long-term guest up at the “kasteel.”
After supper, the three of us might listen to the wireless if there is a
broadcast that passes
muster, otherwise it will be recordings on the gramophone (an His Master’s
Voice table model
in an oak box), usually of Ayrs’s own major works conducted by Sir Thomas
Beecham. When
we have visitors, there will be conversation or a little chamber music.
Other nights, Ayrs likes
me to read him poetry, especially his beloved Keats. He whispers the verses
as I recite, as if his
voice is leaning on mine. At breakfast, he has me read from The Times. Old,
blind, and sick as
Ayrs is, he could hold his own in a college debating society, though I
notice he rarely proposes
alternatives for the systems he ridicules. “Liberality? Timidity in the
rich!” “Socialism? The
younger brother of a decrepit despotism, which it wants to succeed” “
Conservatives?
Adventitious liars, whose doctrine of free will is their greatest deception.
” What sort of state
does he want? “None! The better organized the state, the duller its
humanity”
Irascible as Ayrs is, he’s one of few men in Europe whose influence I want
my own creativity
informed by. Musicologically he’s Janus-headed. One Ayrs looks back to
Romanticism’s
deathbed, the other looks to the future. This is the Ayrs whose gaze I
follow. Watching him use
counterpoint and mix colors refines my own language in exciting ways.
Already, my short time
at Zedelghem has taught me more than three years at the throne of Mackerras
the Jackass with
his Merry Band of Onanists.
Friends of Ayrs and Mrs. Crommelynck regularly visit. On an average week, we
can expect
visitor/s two or three nights. Soloists returning from Brussels, Berlin,
Amsterdam, or beyond;
acquaintances from Ayrs’s salad days in Florida or Paris; and good old
Morty Dhondt and
Wife. Dhondt owns a diamond workshop in both Bruges and Antwerp, speaks a
hazy but high
number of languages, concocts elaborate multilingual puns requiring lengthy
explanations,
sponsors festivals, and kicks metaphysical footballs around with Ayrs. Mrs.
Dhondt is like
Mrs. Crommelynck but ten times more so—in truth, a dreadful creation who
heads the Belgian
Equestrian Society drives the Dhondt Bugatti herself, and cossets a powder-
puff Pekingese
called Wei-wei. You’ll meet her again in future letters, no doubt.
Relatives thin on the ground: Ayrs was an only child, and the once-
influential Crommelynck
family evinced a perverse genius for backing the wrong side at decisive
moments throughout
the war. Those who didn’t die in action were mostly pauperized and diseased
out of existence
by the time Ayrs and his wife returned from Scandinavia. Others died after
running away
overseas. Mrs. Crommelynck’s old governess and a couple of frail aunts
sometimes pay a call,
but they stay quietly in the corner like old hat stands.
Last week the conductor Tadeusz Augustowski, a great champion of Ayrs in his
native
Cracow, dropped by unannounced on a Second Day of Migraine. Mrs. Crommelynck
was not
at home, and Mrs. Willems came to me all of a lather, begging me to
entertain the illustrious
visitor. I could not disappoint. Augustowski’s French is as good as my own,
and we spent the
afternoon fishing and arguing over the dodecaphonists. He thinks they are
all charlatans, I do
not. He told me orchestral war stories, and one indescribably smutty joke
that involves hand
gestures, so it must wait until we meet again. I caught an eleven-inch trout
, and Augustowski
bagged a monster dace. Ayrs was up when we got back at twilight, and the
Pole told him he
was lucky to have engaged me. Ayrs grunted something like “Quite.”
Enchanting flattery,
Ayrs. Mrs. Willems was less than enchantée with our finny trophies, but she
gutted ’em,
cooked ’em in salt and butter, and they melted on the fish fork.
Augustowski gave me his
visiting card when he departed the next morning. He keeps a suite at the
Langham Court for his
London visits, and invited me to stay with him for next year’s festival.
Cock-a-doodle-doo!
Château Zedelghem isn’t the labyrinthine House of Usher it seems at
first. True, its west wing,
shuttered and dust-sheeted to pay for modernization and upkeep of the east,
is in a woebegone
state, and will need the demolishers before v. long I fear. Explored its
chambers one wet
afternoon. Damp disastrous; fallen plaster hangs in nets of cobwebs; mouse,
bat droppings
crunch on the worn stones; plaster escutcheons above fireplaces sanded over
by time. Same
story outside—brick walls need new pointing, roof tiles missing,
crenellations toppled to the
ground and lying in piles, rainwater runneling medieval sandstone. The
Crommelyncks did
well from Congo investments, but not one male sibling survived the war, and
Zedelghem’s
Boche “lodgers” selectively gutted whatever was worth looting.
The east wing, however, is a comfortable little warren, though its roof
timbers creak like a ship
when the wind’s up. There’s a moody central-heating system and rudimentary
electricity that
gives one crackling electric shocks from the light switches. Mrs.
Crommelynck’s father had
enough foresight to teach his daughter the estate business, and now she
leases her land to
neighboring farmers and just about makes the place pay, so I gather. Not an
achievement to be
sniffed at in this day and age.
Eva still a prissy missy, as hateful as my sisters, but with an intelligence
to match her enmity
Apart from her precious Nefertiti, her hobbies are pouting and looking
martyred. She likes to
reduce vulnerable domestics to tears, then flounces in, announcing, “She’s
having another
weeping fit, Mama, can’t you break her in properly?” She has established I
am no soft target
and embarked on a war of attrition: “Papa, how long is Mr. Frobisher to
stay in our house?”
“Papa, do you pay Mr. Frobisher as much as you pay Hendrick?” “Oh, I was
only asking,
Mama, I didn’t know Mr. Frobisher’s tenure was a delicate subject.” She
rattles me, hate to
hand it to her, but there it is. Had another encounter—confrontation more
the word— on
Saturday just gone. I’d taken Ayrs’s bible, Also sprach Zarathustra, to
the stone slab bridge
over the lake to the willow-tree island. A scorching hot afternoon; even in
the shade I was
sweating like a pig. After ten pages I felt Nietzsche was reading me, not I
him, so I watched the
water boatmen and newts while my mind-orchestra performed Fred Delius’s Air
and Dance.
Syrupy florentine of a piece, but its drowsy flute is rather successful.
Next thing I knew, found myself in a trench so deep the sky was a strip high
above, lit by
flashes brighter than day. Savages patrolled the trench astraddle giant,
evil-toothed, brown rats
that sniffed out working-class people and dismembered ’em. Strolled, trying
to look well-to-do
and stop myself breaking into a panicky run, when I met Eva. I said, “What
in hell are you
doing down here?”
Eva replied with fury! “Ce lac appartient à ma famille depuis cinq siè
cles! Vous êtes ici depuis
combien de temps exactement? Bien trois semaines! Alors vous voyez, je vais
où bon me
semble!” Her anger was almost physical, a kick in your humble correspondent
’s face. Fair
enough, I had accused her of trespassing on her mother’s estate. Wide awake
, I stumbled to my
feet, all apologies, explaining I had spoken whilst dreaming. Quite forgot
about the lake.
Plunged right in like a b fool! Soaked! Luckily the pond was only navel-high
, and God had
saved Ayrs’s precious Nietzsche from joining me in the drink. When Eva
eventually reined in
her laughter, I said I was pleased to see her do something other than pout.
I had duckweed in
my hair, she answered, in English. Was reduced to patronizing her by
praising her language
skills. She batted back, “It does not take much to impress an Englishman.”
Walked off.
Couldn’t think of a snappy response until later, so the girl won the set.
Now, pay attention while I talk books and lucre. Poking through an alcove of
books in my
room, I came across a curious dismembered volume, and I want you to track
down a complete
copy for me. It begins on the ninety-ninth page, its covers are gone, its
binding unstitched.
From what little I can glean, it’s the edited journal of a voyage from
Sydney to California by a
notary of San Francisco named Adam Ewing. Mention is made of the gold rush,
so I suppose
we are in 1849 or 1850. The journal seems to be published posthumously, by
Ewing’s son (?).
Ewing puts me in mind of Melville’s bumbler Cpt. Delano in “Benito Cereno,
” blind to all
conspirators—he hasn’t spotted his trusty Dr. Henry Goose [sic] is a
vampire, fueling his
hypochondria in order to poison him, slowly, for his money.
Something shifty about the journal’s authenticity—seems too structured for
a genuine diary,
and its language doesn’t ring quite true—but who would bother forging such
a journal, and
why?
To my great annoyance, the pages cease, midsentence, some forty pages later,
where the
binding is worn through. Searched high and low in the library for the rest
of the damn thing.
No luck. Hardly in our interests to draw Ayrs’s or Mrs. Crommelynck’s
attention to their
unindexed bibliographic wealth, so I’m up a gum tree. Would you ask Otto
Jansch on
Caithness Street if he knows anything about this Adam Ewing? A half-read
book is a halffinished
love affair.
Find enclosed an inventory of the oldest editions in Zedel-ghem’s library
As you see, some
items are v. early early seventeenth c, so send me Jansch’s best prices as
soon as ever, and keep
the tightwad on his toes by letting it slip you’ve got the Parisian dealers
interested.
Sincerely,
R.F.
* * *
CHATEAU ZEDELGHEM
28TH—VII—1931
Sixsmith,
Cause for minor celebration. Two days ago, Ayrs and I completed our first
collaboration, a
short tone poem, “Der Todtenvo-gel.” When I unearthed the piece, it was a
tame arrangement
of an old Teutonic anthem, left high and very dry by Ayrs’s retreating
eyesight. Our new
version is an intriguing animal. It borrows resonances from Wagner’s Ring,
then disintegrates
the theme into a Stravinskyesque nightmare policed by Sibelian wraiths.
Horrible, delectable,
wish you could hear it. Ends in a flute solo, no flutter-bying flautism this
, but the death-bird of
the title, cursing the firstborn and last-born alike.
Augustowski visited again on his way back from Paris yesterday. He read the
score and
shoveled praise upon it like a boiler man shoveling coals. So he should! It
’s the most
accomplished tone poem I know of written since the war; and I tell you,
Sixsmith, that more
than a few of its best ideas are mine. Suppose an amanuensis must reconcile
himself to
renouncing his share in authorship, but buttoning one’s lip is never easy
But best is yet to come
— Augustowski wants to premiere the work under his own baton three weeks
from now at the
Cracow festival!
Got up at crack of dawn yesterday, spent all day transcribing a clean copy.
Suddenly it didn’t
seem so short. My writing hand came unscrewed and staves imprinted
themselves in my
eyelids, but finished by supper. We drank five bottles of wine between the
four of us to
celebrate. Dessert was the best muscatel.
Am now Zedelghem’s golden boy. Been a v. long time since I was anyone’s
golden boy and I
rather like it. Jocasta suggested that I move out of my guest room into one
of the larger unused
bedrooms on the second floor, furnished as I pleased with whatever catches
my eye from
elsewhere in Zedelghem. Ayrs seconded the motion, so I said I would. To my
delight Prissy
Missy lost her sangfroid and mewled, “Oh, why don’t you just write him
into the will as well,
Mama? Why not give him half the estate?” She got down from the table
without being excused.
Ayrs croaked, “First good idea the girl’s had in seventeen years!” loud
enough for her to hear.
“At least Frobisher earns his damn keep!”
My hosts wouldn’t hear my apologies, they said Eva should be apologizing to
me, that she has
to lose her pre-Copernican view of a universe revolving around herself.
Music to my ears.
Also re: Eva, she and twenty classmates are bound for Switzerland v. soon to
study at a sister
school for a couple of months. More music! It’ll be like having a rotten
tooth fall out. My new
room is big enough for badminton doubles; has a four-poster bed from whose
curtains I had to
shake last year’s moths; centuries-old Cordova peels off the walls like
dragons’ scales, but it’s
attractive in its way; indigo witch ball; armoire inlaid with burr walnut;
six ministerial
armchairs, and a sycamore escritoire at which I write this letter.
Honeysuckle laces abundant
light. To the south one looks over the grizzled topiary To the west, cows
graze in the meadow,
and the church tower rises above the wood beyond. Its bells are my own clock
. (In truth,
Zedelghem boasts a good many antique clocks, whose chimes go off some early,
some late,
like a Bruges in miniature.) All in all, a notch or two grander than our
chambers in Whyman’s
Lane, a notch or two less grand than the Savoy or the Imperial, but spacious
and secure. Unless
I do something clumsy or indiscreet.
Which brings me to Madame Jocasta Crommelynck Damn my eyes, Sixsmith, if the
woman
hasn’t begun, subtly, to flirt with me. The ambiguity of her words, eyes,
and hand brushes is
too consummate to be chance. See what you think. Yesterday afternoon, I was
studying rare
Balakirev juvenilia in my room when Mrs. Crom-melynck knocked. She wore her
riding jacket
and her hair pinned up to reveal a rather tempting neck. “My husband wants
to give you a
present,” she said, moving in as I gave way “Here. To mark the completion
of ‘Todtenvogel.’
You know, Robert,”—her tongue lingers on the t of “Robert”—“Vyvyan’s
so very happy to be
working again. He hasn’t been this spry for years. This is just a token.
Put it on.” She handed
me an exquisite waistcoat, an Ottoman-style silken affair, too remarkable in
pattern to be ever in
fashion or out. “I bought it on our honeymoon in Cairo, when he was your
age now. He won’t
be wearing it again.”
Said I was flattered, but protested that I couldn’t possibly accept a
garment of such sentimental
value. “That’s precisely why we want you to wear it. Our memories are in
its weave. Put it on.”
Did as urged, and she stroked it, on the pretext (?) of removing fluff. “
Come to the mirror!”
Did so. The woman stood just inches behind me. “Too fine for moths’ eggs,
don’t you agree?”
Yes, I agreed. Her smile was double-bladed. If we were in one of Emily’s
breathy novels, the
seductress’s hands would have encircled the innocent’s torso, but Jocasta
is a more canny
operator. “You have exactly the same physique Vyvyan had at your age.
Bizarre, isn’t it?” Yes,
I agreed again. Her fingernails freed a strand of my hair that had got
caught in the waistcoat.
Neither rebuffed nor encouraged her. These things shouldn’t be rushed. Mrs.
Crommelynck
left without another word.
At luncheon, Hendrick reported that Dr. Egret’s house in Neer-beke had been
burgled. Luckily
no one was hurt, but the police have issued a warning to be on the lookout
for gypsies and
ruffians. Houses should be secured at night. Jocasta shuddered and said she
was glad I was at
Zedelghem to protect her. Admitted I’d held my own as a pugilist at Eton,
but doubted whether
I could see off a whole gang of ruffians. Perhaps I could hold Hendrick’s
towel whilst he gave
’em all a sound drubbing? Ayrs didn’t comment, but that evening he
unwrapped a Luger from
his napkin. Jocasta chastised Ayrs for showing his pistol at the dinner
table, but he ignored her.
“On our return from Gothenburg, I found this beastie hidden under a loose
floorboard in the
master bedroom, with its bullets,” he explained. “The Prussian captain
either left in a hurry or
got himself killed. He stowed it there perhaps as an insurance policy
against mutineers, or
undesirables. I keep it beside my bed for the same reason.”
Asked if I could hold it, as I’d only ever touched hunting rifles before.
“By all means,” replied
Ayrs, handing it over. Every hair on my body rose. That snug iron fellow has
killed at least
once, Id wager my inheritance on it, if I still had any. “So you see”—
Ayrs had a crooked laugh
—“I may be an elderly, blind cripple, but I still have a tooth or two left
to bite with. One blind
man with a gun and v. little left to lose. Imagine the mess I could make!”
Can’t decide if I only
imagined the menace in his voice.
Excellent news from Jansch, but don’t tell him I said so. Will post the
three referred volumes to
you from Bruges next time I go—the postmaster here in Neerbeke has an
inquisitive streak I
don’t trust. Take usual precautions. Remit my lucre to the First Bank of
Belgium, Head Branch,
Bruges—Dhondt snapped his fingers and had the manager open me an account.
Only one
Robert Frobisher on their lists, I’m quite sure.
Best news of all: started composing on my own account again.
Sincerely,
R.F
…
ZEDELGHEM
16TH—viii—1931
Sixsmith,
Summer has taken a sensuous turn: Ayrs’s wife and I are lovers. Don’t
alarm yourself! Only
in the carnal sense. One night last week she came to my room, locked the
door behind her, and
without a word passing between us, disrobed. Don’t wish to brag, but her
visit didn’t take me
by surprise. In fact, I’d left the door ajar for her. Really, Sixsmith, you
should try to enjoy
lovemaking in total silence. All that ballyhooing transmutes into bliss if
you’ll only seal your
lips.
When one unlocks a woman’s body, her box of confidences also spills. (You
should try ’em
yourself one time, women I mean.) Might this be connected to their
hopelessness at cards?
After the Act, I am happier just lying still, but Jocasta talked,
impulsively, as if to bury our big
black secret under littler gray ones. Learnt Ayrs contracted his syphilis at
a bordello in
Copenhagen in 1915, during an extended separation, and has not pleasured his
wife since that
year; after Eva’s birth, the doctor told Jocasta she could never conceive
another child. She is v.
selective about her occasional affairs but unapologetic about her right to
conduct same. She
insisted that she still loves Ayrs. I grunted, dubiously. That love loves
fidelity she riposted, is a
myth woven by men from their insecurities.
Talked about Eva too. She worries that she was so busy instilling a sense of
propriety into her
daughter, they never became friends, and now, it seems, that horse has
bolted. Dozed through
these trivial tragedies, but shall be more careful around Danes in future
and Danish bordellos in
particular.
J. wanted a second bout, as if to glue herself to me. Did not object. She
has an equestrienne’s
body, more spring than you normally get in a mature woman, and more
technique than many a
ten-shilling mount I’ve ridden. One suspects there stretches back a long
line of youthful
stallions invited to forage in her manger. Indeed, just as I nodded off for
the last time she said,
“Debussy once spent a week at Zedelghem, before the war. He slept in this
very bed, if I’m not
mistaken.” A minor chord in her tone suggested she was with him. Not
impossible. Anything
in a skirt, that’s what I heard about Claude, and he was a Frenchman.
When Lucille knocked in the morning with my shaving water, I was quite alone
. J.’s
performance over breakfast was as nonchalant as my own, happy to note. Was
even slightly
caustic with me when I spilt a blob of jam on the place mat, prompting VA.
to reprimand her,
“Don’t be such a stickleback, Jocasta! Your pretty hands won’t have to
scrub the stain out.”
Adultery is a tricky duet to pull off, Sixsmith—as in contract bridge,
eschew partners clumsier
than oneself or one winds up in a ghastly mess.
Guilt? None. A cuckolder’s triumph? Not specially, no. Still rather miffed
at Ayrs, if anything.
The other evening, the Dhondts came to dinner and Mrs. D. asked for some
piano music to
help the food go down, so I played that “Angel of Mons” piece I wrote on
holiday with you in
the Scilly Isles two summers ago, though disclaimed its authorship by saying
“a friend” had
composed it. I’ve been rewriting it. It’s better and more fluid and subtle
than those sherbety
Schubertian pastiches VA. spewed out in his twenties. J. and the Dhondts
loved it so much
they insisted on an encore. Was only six bars in when VA. exercised a
hitherto unknown veto.
“I’d advise your friend to master the Ancients before he frolics with the
Moderns.” Sounds like
innocuous enough advice? However, he pronounced friend in a precise semitone
that told me
he was quite aware of my friend’s true identity Perhaps he used the same
ruse himself, at
Grieg’s in Oslo? “Without a thorough mastery of counterpoint and harmonics
,” VA. puffed,
“this fellow’ll never amount to anything but a hawker of fatuous gimmickry
. Tell your friend
that from me.” I fumed in silence. VA. told J. to put on a gramophone
recording of his own
Sirocco Wind Quintet. She obeyed the truculent old bully. To console myself,
I remembered
how J.’s body is under her crepe de chine summer dress, and how hungrily
she slips into my
bed. V well, I shall gloat a little over my employer’s cuckold’s horns.
Serves him right. An old
sick prig is still a prig.
Augustowski sent this enigmatic telegram after the performance in Cracow. To
translate from
the French: FIRST TODTEN-VOGEL MYSTIFIED STOP SECOND PERFORMANCE
FISTICUFFS STOP THIRD ADORED STOP FOURTH TALK OF TOWN STOP. We
weren’t sure what to think until newspaper clippings followed, hot on the
telegram’s heels,
translated by Augustowski on the back of a concert program. Well, our “
Todtenvogel” has
become a cause célèbre! So far as we can see, the critics interpreted its
disintegration of the
Wagnerian themes as a frontal assault on the German Republic. A band of
nationalist
parliamentarians strong-armed the festival authorities into a fifth
performance. The theater,
eyeing receipts, complied with pleasure. The German ambassador made an
official complaint,
so a sixth was sold out within another twenty-four hours. The effect of all
this is to raise the
value of Ayrs’s stock through the roof everywhere but Germany, where
apparently, he is
denounced as a Jewish devil. National newspapers across the Continent have
written to request
interviews. I have the pleasure of dispatching a polite but firm pro forma
rejection to each. “I’m
too busy composing,” grumbles Ayrs. “If they want to know ‘what I mean’
they should listen
to my bloody music.” He’s thriving on the attention, though. Even Mrs.
Willems admits, since
my arrival the Master is invigorated.
Hostilities continue on the Eva front. Of concern is how she sniffs
something rotten between
my father and me. She wonders, publicly, why I never receive letters from my
family, or why I
don’t have some clothes of my own sent over. She asked if one of my sisters
would like to be
her pen-friend. To win time I had to promise to put her proposal to ’em,
and I might need you
to do another forgery Make it very good. The devious vixen is almost a
female Me.
August in Belgium is blistering this year. The meadow is turning yellow, the
gardener is
anxious about fires, farmers are worried about the harvest, but show me a
placid farmer and I’ll
show you a sane conductor. Will seal this envelope now and walk to the
village post office
through the woods behind the lake. It wouldn’t do to leave these pages
lying around for a
certain seventeen-year-old snoop to come across.
The important matter. Yes, I will meet Otto Jansch in Bruges to hand over
the illuminated
manuscripts in person, but you must broker all the arrangements. Don’t want
Jansch knowing
whose hospitality I’m enjoying. Like all dealers, Jansch is a gluttonous,
glabrous grasper, only
more so. He wouldn’t hesitate to try blackmail to lower our price—or even
dispense with a
price altogether. Tell him I’ll expect payment on the nail in crisp
banknotes, none of his funny
credit arrangements with me. Then I’ll forward a postal order to you,
including the sum you
loaned me. This way, you won’t be incriminated if any monkey business takes
place. I am
already disgraced and thus have no reputation to lose by blowing the whistle
on him. Tell
Jansch that, too.
Sincerely,
R.F.
…
ZEDELGHEM
EVENING, 16TH—VIII—1931
Sixsmith,
Your tedious letter from my father’s “solicitor” was an Ace of Diamonds.
Bravo. Read it aloud
over breakfast—excited only passing interest. Saffron Walden postmark also
a masterly touch.
Did you actually drag yourself away from your lab into the sunny Essex
afternoon to post it
yourself? Ayrs invited our “Mr. Cummings” to see me at Zedelghem, but you
’d written time
was v. tight, so Mrs. Crommelynck said Hendrick’ll drive me into town to
sign the documents
there. Ayrs grumbled about losing a day’s work, but he’s only happy when
he’s grumbling.
Hendrick and I set off this dewy morning down the same roads I cycled from
Bruges half a
summertime ago. Wore a smart jacket of Ayrs’s—much of his wardrobe is
gravitating into
mine, now my few items rescued from the Imperial’s grasp are beginning to
wear out. The
Enfield was roped to the rear fender so I could honor my promise to return
said bicycle to the
good constable. Our vellum-bound loot I had camouflaged in MS paper, which
everyone at
Zedelghem knows I am never without, and stowed out of casual sight in a
mucky satchel I’ve
appropriated. Hendrick had the Cow-ley’s top down so there was too much
wind for
conversation. Taciturn chap, as is appropriate to his station. Peculiar to
admit it, but since I’ve
started servicing Mrs. Crommelynck I feel edgier with the husband’s valet
than I do with the
husband. (Jocasta continues to bestow her favor on me, every third or fourth
night, though
never when Eva is at home, which is v. wise. Anyway, one mustn’t gobble one
’s birthday
chocolates all at once.) My unease stems from the probability that Hendrick
knows. Oh, we
above the stairs like to congratulate ourselves on our cleverness, but there
are no secrets to
those who strip the sheets. Not too worried. Don’t place unreasonable
demands on the
servants, and Hendrick is canny enough to lay his bets on a strident
mistress with many years
ahead of her, not on an invalid master of Ayrs’s prospects. Hendrick’s an
odd one, really. Hard
to guess his tastes. Would make an excellent croupier.
He dropped me outside the Guildhall, untied the Enfield, and left me to run
various errands and
pay his respects, he said, to an ailing great-aunt. Rode my two wheels
through crowds of
sightseers, schoolchildren, and burghers and only got lost a few times. At
the police station, the
musical inspector made a great fuss of me and sent out for coffee and
pastries. He was
delighted my position with Ayrs has worked out so well. By the time I got
away it was ten
o’clock and time for my appointment. Didn’t hurry. Good form to let
tradesmen wait a little.
Jansch was propping up the bar of Le Royal and greeted me with an “Aha, as
I live and
breathe, the Invisible Man, back by popular demand!” I swear, Sixsmith,
that warty old
Shylock looks more repulsive every time I clap eyes on him. Has he got a
magical portrait of
himself stashed in his attic, getting more beautiful by the year? Couldn’t
fathom why he seemed
so pleased to see me. Looked around the lounge for tipped-off creditors—one
beetly glare and I
would have bolted. Jansch read my mind. “So suspicious, Roberto? I’m
hardly going to make
trouble for a naughty goose who lays such illuminated eggs, am I? Come now”
—he indicated
the bar—“what’s your poison?”
Replied that sharing a building with Jansch, even such a large one, was
poisonous enough, so
I’d rather get down to business straightaway He chuckled, clapped me on the
shoulder, and led
me up to the room hed reserved for our transaction. Nobody followed us, but
that didn’t
guarantee anything. Was now wishing I’d had you arrange a more public
rendezvous, so Tam
Brewer’s thugs couldn’t clap a sack over my head, throw me in a trunk, and
haul me back to
London. Got the books out of the satchel, and he got his pince-nez out of
his jacket pocket.
Jansch examined ’em at a desk by the window. He tried to knock the price
down, claiming the
condition of the volumes was more “fair” than “good.” Calmly, I wrapped
the books up, put
’em in my satchel, and made the stingy Jew chase me down the corridor until
he admitted the
volumes were indeed “good.” Let him woo me back to the room, where we
counted the
banknotes, slowly, until the sum agreed was paid in full. Business over, he
sighed, claimed I’d
beggared him, smiled that smile, and put his hairy paw on my knee. Said it
was books I’d come
to sell. He asked why let business preclude pleasure? Surely a young buck
abroad could find a
use for a little pocket money? Left Jansch asleep an hour later and his
wallet starved. Proceeded
directly to the bank across the square and was seen to by the manager’s own
secretary. Sweet
bird of solvency. As Pater is fond of saying, “One’s own sweat is one’s
best reward!” (not that
he ever sweated in his sinecured pulpit overly much). Next stop was the city
’s music shop,
Flagstad’s, where I bought a brick of MS paper to replace the missing bulk
from my satchel for
benefit of watchful eyes. Coming out, I saw a pair of drab spats in a
shoemaker’s window.
Went in, bought ’em. Saw a shagreen cigarette box in a tobacconist’s.
Bought it.
Two hours remained to kill. Had a cold beer in a café, and another, and
another, and smoked a
whole packet of delicious French cigarettes. The Jansch money is no dragon’
s hoard, but God
knows it feels like one. Next I found a backstreet church (steered clear of
the tourist places to
avoid disgruntled book dealers) of candles, shadows, doleful martyrs,
incense. Haven’t been to
church since the morning Pater cast me out. Street door kept banging shut.
Wiry crones came,
lit candles, went. Padlock on the votive box was of the best. People knelt
in prayer, some
moving their lips. Envy ’em, really I do. I envy God, too, privy to their
secrets. Faith, the least
exclusive club on Earth, has the craftiest doorman. Every time I’ve stepped
through its wideopen
doorway, I find myself stepping out on the street again. Did my best to
think beatific
thoughts, but my mind kept running its fingers over Jocasta. Even the
stained-glass saints and
martyrs were mildly arousing. Don’t suppose such thoughts get me closer to
Heaven. In the
end, it was a Bach motet that shooed me away—choristers weren’t damnably
bad, but the
organist’s only hope for salvation was a bullet through the brain. Told him
so, too—tact and
restraint all well and good in small talk, but one mustn’t beat around any
bush where music is
concerned.
At a prim and proper public garden named Minnewater Park, courting couples
ambled arm in
arm between willows, banksia roses, and chaperones. Blind, emaciated fiddler
performed for
coins. Now he could play. Requested “Bonsoir, Paris!” and he performed
with such élan I
pressed a crisp five-franc note into his hand. He removed his dark glasses,
checked the
watermark, invoked his pet saint’s name, gathered his coppers, and
scarpered through the
flower beds, laughing like a madcap. Whoever opined “Money can’t buy you
happiness”
obviously had far too much of the stuff.
Sat down on an iron bench. One o’clock bells chimed, nearby, far off,
interspersed. Clerks
crawled out from the law and merchants’ offices to eat sandwiches in the
park and feel the
green breeze. Was wondering whether to be late for Hendrick when guess who
waltzed into the
park, unchaperoned, in the company of a dandified stick insect of a man
twice her age, a vulgar
gold wedding ring on his finger as bold as brass. Right first time. Eva. Hid
behind a newspaper
a clerk had left on the bench. Eva wasn’t in physical contact with her
companion, but they
strolled right by me with an air of easy intimacy that she never, ever wears
at Zedelghem. I
jumped to the obvious conclusion.
Eva was stacking her chips on a doubtful card. He crowed, in order to be
overheard by
strangers and impress them. “A time is one’s own, Eva, when oneself and
one’s peers take the
same things for granted, without thinking about it. Likewise, a man is
ruined when the times
change but he does not. Permit me to add, empires fall for the same reason.
” This jackdaw
philosophizer flummoxed me. A girl of E.’s looks could do better for
herself, surely? E.’s
behavior likewise flummoxed me. In broad daylight, in her own city! Does she
want to ruin
herself? Is she one of these libertarian suffragette Rossetti types? I
followed the couple at a safe
distance to a town house on a well-heeled road. The man gave the street a
shifty once-over
before putting his key in the latch. I ducked into a mews. Picture Frobisher
rubbing his hands
with glee!
Eva returned as usual late on Friday afternoon. In the vestibule between her
room and the door
to the stables is an oaken throne. In this I planted myself. Unfortunately I
became lost in the
chords in the chroma of old glass and didn’t notice E., riding crop in her
hand, not even aware
she was being ambushed. “S’agit-il d’un guet-apens? Si vous voulez
discuter avec moi d’un
problème personnel, vous pourriez me prévenir?”
Being caught by surprise like that made me speak my thought aloud. Eva
caught the word.
“Sneak, you call me? ‘Une moucharde’? Ce n’est pas un mot aimable, Mr.
Frobisher. Si vous
dites que je suis une moucharde, vous allez nuire à ma réputation. Et si
vous nuisez à ma
réputation, eh bien, il faudra que je ruine la vôtre!”
Belatedly, I opened fire. Yes, her reputation was precisely what I had to
warn her about. If
even a visiting foreigner to Bruges had seen her consorting in Minnewater
Park during school
hours with a scrofulous toad, it was only a matter of time before all the ru
-mormongers in the
city had turned the name of Crommelynck-Ayrs to Mudd!
One moment I expected a slap, the next, she reddened and lowered her face.
Meekly, she
inquired, Avez-vous dit à ma mère ce que vous avez vu?” I replied that,
no, I had not told
anyone, yet. E. took careful aim: “Stupid of you, Monsieur Frobisher,
because Mama could
have told you that mysterious ‘consort’ was Monsieur van de Velde, the
gentleman with whose
family I lodge during my school week. His father owns the largest munitions
factory in
Belgium, and he is a respectable family man. Wednesday was a half holiday so
Monsieur van
de Velde was kind enough to accompany me from his office back to his house.
His own
daughters had a choir rehearsal to attend. The school does not like its
girls to walk out alone,
even during daylight. Sneaks live in parks, you see, dirty-minded sneaks,
waiting to damage a
girl’s reputation, or perhaps prowling for opportunities to blackmail her.”
Bluff or backfire? I hedged my bets. “Blackmail? I have three sisters of my
own, and I was
concerned for your reputation! That is all.”
She relished her advantage. “Ah oui? Comme c’est délicat de votre part!
Tell me, Mr.
Frobisher, what exactly did you think Monsieur van de Velde was going to do
to me? Were
you frightfully jealous?”
Her awful directness—for a girl—quite knocked the bails off my wicket. “I
am relieved that
this simple misunderstanding has been cleared up”—I chose my most
insincere smile—“and
offer my sincerest apologies.”
“I accept your sincerest apologies in the precise same spirit they are
offered.” E. walked off to
the stables, her whip swishing the air like a lioness’s tail. Went off to
the music room to forget
my dismal performance in some devilish Liszt. Can normally rattle off an
excellent La
Prédication aux Oiseaux, but not last Friday. Thank God E.’s leaving for
Switzerland
tomorrow. If she ever found out about her mother’s nighttime visits—well,
doesn’t bear
thinking about. Why is it I never met a boy I couldn’t twist round my
finger (not only my
finger) but the women of Zedelghem seem to best me every time?
Sincerely,
R.F.
…
ZEDELGHEM
29TH—viii—1931
Sixsmith,
Sitting at my escritoire in my dressing gown. The church bell chimes five.
Another thirsty
dawn. My candle is burnt away A tiring night turned inside out. J. came to
my bed at midnight,
and during our athletics, my door was barged. Farcical horror! Thank God J.
had locked it on
her way in. The doorknob rattled, insistent knocking began. Fear can clear
the mind as well as
cloud it, and remembering my Don Juan, I hid J. in a nest of coverlets and
sheets in my
sagging bed and left the curtain half open to show I had nothing to hide. I
fumbled across the
room, not believing this was happening to me, deliberately knocking into
things to buy time,
and reaching the door, called out, “What in hell is the matter? Are we on
fire?”
“Open up, Robert!” Ayrs! You can imagine, I was ready to duck bullets.
Desperate, I asked
what time it was, just to win another moment.
“Who cares? I don’t know! I’ve got a melody, boy, for violin, it’s a
gift, and it won’t let me
sleep, so I need you to take it down, now!”
Could I trust him? “Can’t it wait until the morning?”
“No, it bloody can’t, Frobisher! I might lose it!”
Shouldn’t we go to the music room?
“It’ll wake up the house and, no, every note is in place, in my head!”
So I told him to wait while I lit a candle. Unlocked my door, and there
stood Ayrs, a cane in
each hand, mummified in his moonlit nightshirt. Hendrick stood behind him,
silent and
watchful as an Indian totem. “Make way, make way!” Ayrs pushed past me. “
Find a pen, grab
some blank score paper, turn on your lamp, quickly. Why the deuce do you
lock your door if
you sleep with the windows open? The Prussians are gone, the ghosts’ll just
drift through the
door.” Garbled some balderdash about not being able to fall asleep in an
unlocked room, but he
wasn’t listening. “Have you got manuscript paper in here or should I have
Hendrick go and get
some?”
Relief that VA. hadn’t come to catch me tupping his wife made his
imposition seem less
preposterous than it actually was, so fine, I said, yes, I have paper, I
have pens, let’s start.
Ayrs’s sight was too poor to see anything suspicious in the foothills of my
bed, but Hendrick
still posed a possible danger. One should avoid relying on servants’
discretion. After Hendrick
had helped his master to a chair and wrapped a rug round his shoulders, I
told him I’d ring for
him when we were done. Ayrs didn’t contradict me—he was already humming. A
conspiratorial flicker in H.’s eyes? Room too dim to be sure. The servant
gave a nearimperceptible
bow and glided away as if on well-oiled coasters, softly shutting the door
behind
him.
Splashed a little water on my face at the washbowl and sat opposite Ayrs,
worrying J. might
forget the creaking floorboards and try to tiptoe out.
“Ready”
Ayrs hummed his sonata, bar by bar, then named his notes. The oddity of the
miniature soon
absorbed me, despite the circumstances. It’s a seesawing, cyclical,
crystalline thing. He finished
after the ninety-sixth bar and told me to mark the MS triste. Then he asked
me, “So what d’you
think?”
“Not sure,” I told him. “It’s not at all like you. Not much like anyone.
But it hypnotizes.”
Ayrs was now slumped, à la a Pre-Raphaelite oil painting entitled Behold
the Sated Muse
Discards Her Puppet. Birdsong foamed in the hour-before-dawn garden. Thought
about J.’s
curves in the bed, just a few yards away, even felt a dangerous throb of
impatience for her.
VA. was unsure of himself for once. “I dreamt of a … nightmarish café,
brilliantly lit, but
underground, with no way out. I’d been dead a long, long time. The
waitresses all had the same
face. The food was soap, the only drink was cups of lather. The music in the
café was”—he
wagged an exhausted finger at the MS—“this.”
Rang for H. Wanted Ayrs out of my room before daylight found his wife in my
bed. After a
minute H. knocked. Ayrs got to his feet and limped over—he hates anyone
seeing him assisted.
“Good work, Frobisher.” His voice found me from down the corridor. I shut
the door and
breathed that big sigh of relief. Climbed back to bed, where my swampy-
sheeted alligator sank
her little teeth into her young prey.
Wed begun a luxuriant farewell kiss when, damn me, the door creaked opened
again.
“Something else, Frobisher!” Mother of All Profanities, I hadn’t locked
the door! Ayrs drifted
bedward like the wreck of the Hesperus. J. slid back under the sheets while
I made
disheveling, surprised noises. Thank God, Hendrick was waiting outside—
accident or tact?
VA. found the end of my bed and sat there, just inches from the bump that
was J. If J. sneezed
or coughed now, even blind old Ayrs would catch on. “A tricky subject, so I
’ll just spit it out.
Jocasta. She isn’t a very faithful woman. Maritally, I mean. Friends hint
at her indiscretions,
enemies inform me of affairs. Has she ever … toward you … y know my
meaning?”
Let my voice stiffen, masterfully “No, sir, I don’t believe I do know your
meaning.”
“Spare me your bashfulness, boy!” Ayrs leant nearer. “Has my wife ever
made advances? I
have a right to know!”
Avoided a nervous giggle, by a whisker. “I find your question distasteful
in the extreme.”
Jocasta’s breath dampened my thigh. She must have been roasting alive under
the covers. “I
wouldn’t call any ‘friend’ who spread such muck around by that name. In
Mrs.
Crommelynck’s case, frankly, I find the notion as unthinkable as it is
unpalatable. If, if, through
some, I don’t know, nervous collapse, she were to behave so inappropriately
, well, to be
honest, Ayrs, I’d probably ask for Dhondt’s advice, or speak to Dr. Egret.
” Sophistry makes a
fine smoke screen.
“So you’re not going to give me a one-word answer?”
“You shall have a two-word answer. ‘Emphatically no!’ And I very much
hope the subject is
now closed.”
Ayrs let long moments fall away “You’re young, Frobisher, you’re rich,
you’ve got a brain,
and by all accounts you’re not wholly
repugnant. I’m not sure why you stay on here.”
Good. He was getting mawkish. “You’re my Verlaine.” “Am I, young Rimbaud
? Then where
is your Saison en Enfer?” “In sketches, in my skull, in my gut, Ayrs. In
my future.” Couldn’t
say if Ayrs felt humor, pity nostalgia, or scorn. He left.
Locked the door and climbed into bed for the third time that night.
Bedroom farce, when it actually happens, is intensely sad. Jocasta
seemed angry with me. “What?” I hissed. “My husband loves you,” said the
wife, dressing.
Zedelghem’s a-stirring. Plumbing makes noises like elderly aunts. Been
thinking of my
grandfather, whose wayward brilliance skipped my father’s generation. Once,
he showed me
an aquatint of a certain Siamese temple. Don’t recall its name, but ever
since a disciple of the
Buddha preached on the spot centuries ago, every bandit king, tyrant, and
monarch of that
kingdom has enhanced it with marble towers, scented arboretums, gold-leafed
domes, lavished
murals on its vaulted ceilings, set emeralds into the eyes of its statuettes
. When the temple
finally equals its counterpart in the Pure Land, so the story goes, that day
humanity shall have
fulfilled its purpose, and Time itself shall come to an end.
To men like Ayrs, it occurs to me, this temple is civilization. The masses,
slaves, peasants, and
foot soldiers exist in the cracks of its flagstones, ignorant even of their
ignorance. Not so the
great statesmen, scientists, artists, and most of all, the composers of the
age, any age, who are
civilization’s architects, masons, and priests. Ayrs sees our role is to
make civilization ever
more resplendent. My employer’s profoundest, or only, wish is to create a
minaret that
inheritors of Progress a thousand years from now will point to and say, “
Look, there is
Vyvyan Ayrs!”
How vulgar, this hankering after immortality how vain, how false. Composers
are merely
scribblers of cave paintings. One writes music because winter is eternal and
because, if one
didn’t, the wolves and blizzards would be at one’s throat all the sooner.
Sincerely,
R.F.
…
ZEDELGHEM
14.TH— ix—1931
Sixsmith,
Sir Edward Elgar came to tea this afternoon. Even you’ve heard of him, you
ignoramus. Now,
usually, if one asks Ayrs what he thinks of English music he’ll say, “What
English music?
There is none! Not since Purcell!” and sulk all day, as if the Reformation
were one’s own
doing. This hostility was forgotten in a trice when Sir Edward telephoned
from his hotel in
Bruges this morning, wondering if Ayrs might be able to spare him an hour or
two. Ayrs made
a show of curmudgeonliness, but I could tell by the way he badgered Mrs.
Willems about the
arrangements for tea, he was pleased as the cat who got the cream. Our
celebrated guest arrived
at half past two, dressed in a dark green Inverness cape despite the clement
weather. The man’s
state of health isn’t much better than VA.’s. J. & I welcomed him on the
steps of Zedelghem.
“So you’re Vyv’s new pair of eyes, are you?” he said to me, as we shook
hands. Said I’d seen
him conduct a dozen times at the festival, which pleased him. Guided the
composer into the
Scarlet Room, where Ayrs was waiting. They greeted each other warmly, but as
if wary of
bruises. Elgar’s sciatic pain bothers him greatly, and even on good days,
VA. looks pretty
frightful at first sight, still worse at the second. Tea was served, and
they talked shop, mostly
ignoring J. & me, but it was fascinating to be a fly on the wall. Sir E.
glanced at us now and
then to make sure he was not wearing out his host. “Not at all.” We smiled
back. They fenced
over such topics as saxophones in orchestras, whether Webern is Fraudster or
Messiah, the
patronage and politics of music. Sir E. announced he is at work on a Third
Symphony after a
long hibernation:—he even played us sketches of a molto maestoso and an
allegretto on the
upright. Ayrs most eager to prove that he isn’t ready for his coffin either
, and had me run
through some recently completed piano sketches—rather lovely Several dead
bottles of
Trappist beer later, I asked Elgar about the Pomp and Circumstance marches.
“Oh, I needed
the money, dear boy But don’t tell anyone. The King might want my baronetcy
back.” Ayrs
went into laughter spasms at this! “I always say, Ted, to get the crowd to
cry Hosanna, you
must first ride into town on an ass. Backwards, ideally, whilst telling the
masses the tall stories
they want to hear.”
Sir E. had heard about “Todtenvogel”’s reception in Cracow (all London
has, it would seem),
so VA. sent me off to fetch a score. Back in the Scarlet Room, our guest
took our death-bird to
the window seat and read it with the aid of a monocle while Ayrs and I
pretended to busy
ourselves. “A man at our time of life, Ayrs”— E. spoke at last—“has no
right to such daring
ideas. Where are you getting ’em from?”
VA. puffed up like a smug hornyback. “I suppose I’ve won a rearguard
action or two in my
war against decrepitude. My boy Robert here is proving a valuable aide-de-
camp.”
Aide-de-camp? I’m his bloody general and he’s the fat old Turk reigning on
the memory of
faded glories! Smiled sweetly as I could (as if the roof over my head
depended on it.
Moreover, Sir E. might be useful one day so it won’t do to create an
obstreperous impression).
During tea, Elgar contrasted my position at Zedelghem favorably with his
first job as a musical
director at a lunatic asylum in Worcestershire. “Excellent prep for
conducting the London
Philharmonic, what?” quipped VA. We laughed and I half-forgave the ratty
old selfish crank
for being himself. Put another log or two in the hearth. In the smoky
firelight the two old men
nodded off like a pair of ancient kings passing the aeons in their tumuli.
Made a musical
notation of their snores. Elgar is to be played by a bass tuba, Ayrs a
bassoon. I’ll do the same
with Fred Delius and Trevor Mackerras and publish ’em all together in a
work entitled The
Backstreet Museum of Stuffed Edwardians.
Three days later
Just back from a lento walk with VA. down the Monk’s Walk to the gatekeeper
’s lodge. I
pushed his chair. Landscape v. atmospheric this evening; autumn leaves
gusted around in
urgent spirals, as if VA. was the sorcerer and I his apprentice. Poplars’
long shadows barred
the mown meadow. Ayrs wanted to unveil his concepts for a final, symphonic
major work, to
be named Eternal Recurrence in honor of his beloved Nietzsche. Some music
will be drawn
from an abortive opera based on The Island of Doctor Moreau, whose Viennese
production
was canceled by the war, some music VA. believes will “come” to him, and
its backbone will
be the “dream music” piece that he dictated in my room that hairy night
last month, I wrote to
you about that. VA. wants four movements, a female choir, and a large
ensemble heavy in
Ayrsesque woodwind. Truly, a behemoth of the deeps. Wants my services for
another half
year. Said I’d think about it. He said he’d up my salary, both vulgar and
crafty of him.
Repeated, I needed time. VA. most upset I didn’t give him a breathy “Yes!
” on the spot—but I
want the old bugger to admit to himself that he needs me more than I him.
Sincerely,
R.F.
hellip;
ZEDELGHEM
28TH—ix—1931
Sixsmith,
J. growing v. tiresome. After our lovemaking, she spreads over my bed like a
mooing mooncalf
and demands to know about other women whose strings I’ve quivered. Now she
’s teased
names out of me, she says things like “Oh, I suppose Frederica taught you
that?” (She plays
with that birthmark in the hollow of my shoulder, the one you said resembles
a comet—can’t
abide the woman dabbling with my skin.) J. initiates petty rows in order to
undergo tedious
reconciliations and, worryingly has started to let our moonlight dramas slip
into our daylight
lives. Ayrs can’t see further than Eternal Recurrence, but Eva is due back
in ten days, and that
hawkeyed creature will sniff out a decomposing secret in a jiffy.
J. thinks our arrangement lets her fasten my future more tightly to
Zedelghem—she says, half
playful, half darkly, she’s not going to let me “abandon” either her or
her husband, not in
“their” hour of need. The devil, Sixsmith, is in the pronouns. Worst of
all, she’s started to use
the L-word on me, and wants to hear it back. What’s wrong with the woman?
She’s nearly
twice my age! What’s she after? Assured her I’ve never loved anyone except
myself and have
no intention of starting now, especially with another man’s wife, and
especially when that man
could poison my name in European musical society by writing half a dozen
letters. So, of
course, the female plies her customary ploys, sobs in my pillow, accuses me
of “using” her. I
agree, of course I’ve “used” her; just as she’s “used” me too. That’s
the arrangement. If she’s
no longer happy with it, she’s not my prisoner. So off she storms to pout
for a couple of days
and nights until the old ewe gets hungry for a young ram, then she’s back,
calling me her
darling boy, thanking me for “giving Vyvyan his music back,” and the
stupid cycle begins all
over again. I wonder if she’s resorted to Hendrick in the past. Wouldn’t
put anything past the
woman. If one of Renwick’s Austrian doctors opened up her head, a whole
beehive of
neuroses would swarm out. Had I known she was this unstable, I’d never have
let her in my
bed that first night. There’s a joylessness in her lovemaking. No, a
savagery.
Have agreed to VA.’s proposal that I stay on here until next summer, at
least. No cosmic
resonance entered my decision—just artistic advantage, financial
practicalities, and because J.
might have some sort of collapse if I went. The consequences of that would
not come out in the
wash.
Later, same day
Gardener made a bonfire of fallen leaves—just came in from it. The heat on
one’s face and
hands, the sad smoke, the crackling and wheezing fire. Reminds me of the
groundsman’s hut at
Gresham. Anyway, got a gorgeous passage from the fire—percussion for
crackling, alto
bassoon for the wood, and a restless flute for the flames. Finished
transcribing it this very
minute. Air in the château clammy like laundry that won’t dry. Door-
banging drafts down the
passageways. Autumn is leaving its mellowness behind for its spiky, rotted
stage. Don’t
remember summer even saying good-bye.
Sincerely,
R.F.
T*1
8 楼
多谢，如果是在同一个学校，我觉得应该可以马上转的。
但我目前涉及到换学校，需要跟目前ISSO说我要停止我的J1吗？ 谢谢
【在 S**I 的大作中提到】
: 马上
但我目前涉及到换学校，需要跟目前ISSO说我要停止我的J1吗？ 谢谢
【在 S**I 的大作中提到】
: 马上
c*t
9 楼
HALF-LIVES
the first luisa rey
mystery
I
Rufus Sixsmith leans over the balcony and estimates his body’s velocity
when it hits the
sidewalk and lays his dilemmas to rest. A telephone rings in the unlit room.
Sixsmith dares not
answer. Disco music booms from the next apartment, where a party is in full
swing, and
Sixsmith feels older than his sixty-six years. Smog obscures the stars, but
north and south
along the coastal strip, Buenas Yerbas’s billion lights simmer. West, the
Pacific eternity East,
our denuded, heroic, pernicious, enshrined, thirsty berserk-ing American
continent.
A young woman emerges from the next-door party and leans over the
neighboring balcony.
Her hair is shorn, her violet dress is elegant, but she looks incurably sad
and alone. Propose a
suicide pact, why don’t you? Sixsmith isn’t serious, and he isn’t going
to jump either, not if an
ember of humor still glows. Besides, a quiet accident is precisely what
Grimaldi, Napier, and
those sharp-suited hoodlums are praying for. Sixsmith shuffles inside and
pours himself
another generous vermouth from his absent host’s minibar, dips his hands in
the icebox, then
wipes his face. Go out somewhere and phone Megan, she’s your only friend
left. He knows he
won’t. You can’t drag her into this lethal mess. The disco thump pulses in
his temples, but it’s
a borrowed apartment and he judges it unwise to complain. Buenas Yerbas isn
’t Cambridge.
Anyway, you’re in hiding. The breeze slams the balcony door, and in fear
Sixsmith spills half
his vermouth. No, you old fool, it wasn’t a gunshot.
He mops up the spillage with a kitchen towel, turns on the TV with the sound
down low, and
trawls the channels for M*A*S*H. It’s on somewhere. Just have to keep
looking.
2
Luisa Rey hears a clunk from the neighboring balcony “Hello?” Nobody. Her
stomach warns
her to set down her tonic water. It was the bathroom you needed, not fresh
air, but she can’t
face weaving back through the party and, anyway, there’s no time—down the
side of the
building she heaves: once, twice, a vision of greasy chicken, and a third
time. That, she wipes
her eyes, is the third foulest thing you’ve ever done. She slooshes her
mouth out, spits residue
into a flowerpot behind a screen. Luisa dabs her lips with a tissue and
finds a mint in her
handbag. Go home and just dream up your crappy three hundred words for once.
People only
look at the pictures, anyhow.
A man too old for his leather trousers, bare torso, and zebra waistcoat
steps onto the balcony.
“Luisaaa!” A crafted golden beard and a moonstone-and-jade ankh around his
neck. “Hiya!
Come out for a little stargazing, huh? Dig. Bix brought eight ounces of snow
with him, man.
One wild cat. Hey, did I say in the interview? I’m trying on the name Ganja
at the moment.
Maharaj Aja says Richard is outa sync with my Iovedic Self.”
“Who?”
“My guru, Luisaaa, my guru! He’s on his last reincarnation before—”
Richard’s fingers go
puff! Nirvanawards. “Come to an audience. His waiting list normally takes,
like, forever, but
jade-ankh disciples get personal audiences on the same afternoon. Like, why
go through college
and shit when Maharaj Aja can, like, teach you everything about … It.” He
frames the moon in
his fingers. “Words are so … uptight… Space … it’s so … y know, like,
total. Smoke some
weed? Acapulco Gold. Got it off of Bix.” He edges nearer. “Say, Lu, let’s
get high after the
party Alone together, my place, dig? You could get a very exclusive
interview. I may even
write you a song and put it on my next LP.”
“I’ll pass.”
The minor-league rock musician narrows his eyes. “Unlucky time of the month
, huh? How’s
next week? I thought all you media chicks are on the Pill, like, forever.”
“Does Bix sell you your pickup lines, too?”
He sniggers. “Hey, has that cat been telling you things?”
“Richard, just so there’s no uncertainty I’d rather jump off this balcony
than sleep with you,
any time of any month. I really
would.”
“Whoah!” His hand jerks back as if stung. “Pick-ky! Who d’you think you
are, like, Joni
fucking Mitchell? You’re only a fucking gossip columnist in a magazine that
like no one ever
reads!”
3
The elevator doors close just as Luisa Rey reaches them, but the unseen
occupant jams them
with his cane. “Thank you,” says Luisa to the old man. “Glad the age of
chivalry isn’t totally
dead.”
He gives a grave nod.
Luisa thinks, He looks like he’s been given a week to live. She presses G.
The ancient elevator
begins its descent. A leisurely needle counts off the stories. Its motor
whines, its cables grind,
but between the tenth and ninth stories a gatta-gatta-gatta detonates then
dies with a phzzz-zzzzz-
z. Luisa and Sixsmith thump to the floor. The light stutters on and off
before settling on a
buzzing sepia.
“You okay? Can you get up?”
The sprawled old man recovers himself a little. “No bones broken, I think,
but I’ll stay seated,
thank you.” His old-school English accent reminds Luisa of the tiger in The
Jungle Book. “The
power might restart suddenly.”
“Christ,” mutters Luisa. “A power outage. Perfect end to a perfect day.”
She presses the
emergency button. Nothing. She presses the intercom button and hollers: “
Hey! Anyone
there?” Static hiss. “We have a situation here! Can anyone hear us?”
Luisa and the old man regard each other, sideways, listening.
No reply. Just vague submarine noises.
Luisa inspects the ceiling. “Got to be an access hatch …” There isn’t.
She peels up the carpet—
a steel floor. “Only in movies, I guess.”
“Are you still glad,” asks the old man, “the age of chivalry isn’t dead?”
Luisa manages a smile, just. “We might be here some time. Last month’s
brownout lasted
seven hours.” Well, at least I’m not confined with a psychopath, a
claustrophobe, or Richard
Ganga.
4
Rufus Sixsmith sits propped in a corner sixty minutes later, dabbing his
forehead with his
handkerchief. “I subscribed to Illustrated Planet in 1967 to read your
father’s dispatches from
Vietnam. Lester Rey was one of only four or five journalists who grasped the
war from the
Asian perspective. I’m fascinated to hear how a policeman became one of the
best
correspondents of his generation.”
“You asked for it.” The story is polished with each retelling. “Dad
joined the BYPD just weeks
before Pearl Harbor, which is why he spent the war here and not in the
Pacific like his brother
Howie, who got blown to pieces by a Japanese land mine playing beach
volleyball in the
Solomons. Pretty soon, it became apparent Dad was a Tenth Precinct case, and
that’s where he
wound up. There’s such a precinct in every city in the country—a sort of
pen where they
transfer all the straight cops who won’t go on the take and who won’t turn
a blind eye. So
anyway, on V-J night, Buenas Yerbas was one citywide party and you can
imagine, the police
were stretched thin. Dad got a call reporting looting down on Sil-vaplana
Wharf, a sort of noman’s-
land between Tenth Precinct, the BY Port Authority and Spinoza Precinct. Dad
and his
partner, a man named Nat Wakefield, drove down to take a look. They park
between a pair of
cargo containers, kill the engine, proceed on foot, and see maybe two dozen
men loading crates
from a warehouse into an armored truck. The light was dim, but the men sure
weren’t
dockworkers and they weren’t in military uniform. Wake-field tells Dad to
go and radio for
backup. Just as Dad gets to the radio, a call comes through saying the
original order to
investigate looting has been countermanded. Dad reports what he’d seen, but
the order is
repeated, so Dad runs back to the warehouse just in time to see his partner
accept a light from
one of the men and get shot six times in the back. Dad somehow keeps his
nerve, sprints back
to his squad car, and manages to radio out a Code 8 — a Mayday—before his
car shivers with
bullets. He’s surrounded on all sides except the dockside, so over the edge
he dives, into a
cocktail of diesel, trash, sewage, and sea. He swims underneath the quay—in
those days
Silvaplana Wharf was a steel structure like a giant boardwalk, not the
concrete peninsula it is
today—and hauls himself up a service ladder, soaked, one shoe missing, with
his nonfunctioning
revolver. All he can do is observe the men, who are just finishing up when a
couple of Spinoza Precinct squad cars arrive on the scene. Before Dad can
circle around the
yard to warn the officers, a hopelessly uneven gunfight breaks out—the
gunmen pepper the
two squad cars with submachine guns. The truck starts up, the gunmen jump
aboard, they pull
out of the yard and lob a couple of hand grenades from the back. Whether
they were intended
to maim or just to discourage heroics, who knows? but one caught Dad and
made a human
pincushion of him. He woke up two days later in the hospital minus his left
eye. The papers
described the incident as an opportunistic raid by a gang of thieves who got
lucky. The Tenth
Precinct men reckoned a syndicate who’d been siphoning off arms throughout
the war decided
to shift their stock, now that the war was over and accounting would get
tightened up. There
was pressure for a wider investigation into the Silvaplana Shootings—three
dead cops meant
something in 1945—but the mayor’s office blocked it. Draw your own
conclusions. Dad did,
and they jaded his faith in law enforcement. By the time he was out of the
hospital eight months
later, he’d completed a correspondence course in journalism.” “Good grief
,” says Sixsmith.
“The rest you may know. Covered Korea for Illustrated Planet, then became
West Coast
Herald’s Latin America man. He was in Vietnam for the battle of Ap Bac and
stayed based in
Saigon until his first collapse back in March. It’s a miracle my parents’
marriage lasted the
years it did—y know, the longest I spent with him was April to July this
year, in the hospice.”
Luisa is quiet. “I miss him, Rufus, chronically I keep forgetting he’s
dead. I keep thinking he’s
away on assignment, somewhere, and he’ll be flying in any day soon.”
“He must have been proud of you, following in his footsteps.”
“Oh, Luisa Rey is no Lester Rey I wasted years being rebellious and
liberated, posing as a poet
and working in a bookstore on En-gels Street. My posturing convinced no one,
my poetry was
‘so vacuous it isn’t even bad’—so said Lawrence Ferlinghetti—and the
bookstore went bust.
So I’m still only a columnist.” Luisa rubs her tired eyes, thinking of
Rchard Ganga’s parting
shot. “No award-winning copy from war zones. I had high hopes when I moved
to Spyglass,
but simpering gossip on celebrity parties is the closest I’ve gotten so far
to Dad’s vocation.”
“Ah, but is it well-written simpering gossip?”
“Oh, it’s excellently written simpering gossip.”
“Then don’t bemoan your misspent life quite yet. Forgive me for flaunting
my experience, but
you have no conception of what a misspent life constitutes.”
5
“Hitchcock loves the limelight,” says Luisa, her bladder now growing
uncomfortable, “but
hates interviews. He didn’t answer my questions because he didn’t really
hear them. His best
works, he said, are roller coasters that scare the riders out of their wits
but let them off at the
end giggling and eager for another ride. I put it to the great man, the key
to fictitious terror is
partition or containment: so long as the Bates Motel is sealed off from our
world, we want to
peer in, like at a scorpion enclosure. But a film that shows the world is a
Bates Motel, well,
that’s … the stuff of Buchenwald, dystopia, depression. We’ll dip our
toes in a predatory,
amoral, godless universe—but only our toes. Hitchcock’s response was”—
Luisa does an
above-average impersonation—“ ‘I’m a director in Hollywood, young lady,
not an Oracle at
Delphi.’ I asked why Buenas Yerbas had never featured in his films.
Hitchcock answered,
‘This town marries the worst of San Francisco with the worst of Los Angeles
. Buenas Yerbas
is a city of nowhere.’ He spoke in bons mots like that, not to you, but
into the ear of posterity
for dinner-party guests of the future to say, ‘That’s one of Hitchcock’s,
you know.’ ”
Sixsmith wrings sweat from his handkerchief. “I saw Charade with my niece
at an art-house
cinema last year. Was that Hitchcock? She strong-arms me into seeing these
things, to prevent
me from growing ‘square.’ I rather enjoyed it, but my niece said Audrey
Hepburn was a
‘bubblehead.’ Delicious word.”
“Charade’s the one where the plot swings on the stamps?”
“A contrived puzzle, yes, but all thrillers would wither without
contrivance. Hitchcock’s
Buenas Yerbas remark puts me in mind of John F. Kennedy’s observation about
New York.
Do you know it? ‘Most cities are nouns, but New York is a verb’ What might
Buenas Yerbas
be, I wonder?”
“A string of adjectives and conjunctions?”
“Or an expletive?”
6
“Megan, my treasured niece.” Rufus Sixsmith shows Luisa a photograph of a
bronzed young
woman and a fitter, healthier self taken at a sunny marina. The photographer
said something
funny just before the shutter clicked. Their legs dangle over the stern of a
small yacht named
Starfish. “That’s my old tub, a relic from more dynamic days.”
Luisa makes polite noises about not being old.
“Truly. If I went on a serious voyage now I’d need to hire a small crew. I
still spend a lot of
weekends on her, pottering about the marina and doing a little thinking, a
little work. Megan
likes the sea, too. She’s a born physicist with a better head for
mathematics than I ever had,
rather to her mother’s chagrin. My brother didn’t marry Megan’s mother
for her brain, I’m
sorry to say She buys into feng shui or I Ching or whatever instant-
enlightenment mumbo
jumbo is top of the charts. But Megan possesses a superb mind. She spent a
year of her Ph.D.
at my old college at Cambridge. A woman, at Caius! Now she’s finishing her
radioastronomy
research at the big dishes on Hawaii. While her mother and her stepfather
crisp themselves to
toast on the beach in the name of Leisure, Megan and I knock around
equations in the bar.”
“Any children of your own, Rufus?”
“I’ve been married to science all my life.” Sixsmith changes the subject.
“A hypothetical
question, Miss Rey What price would you pay, as a journalist I mean, to
protect a source?”
Luisa doesn’t consider the question. “If I believed in the issue? Any.”
“Prison, for example, for contempt of court?”
“If it came to it, yes.”
“Would you be prepared to … compromise your own safety?”
“Well …” Luisa does consider this. “I … guess I’d have to.”
“Have to? How so?”
“My father braved booby-trapped marshes and the wrath of generals for the
sake of his
journalistic integrity What kind of a mockery of his life would it be if his
daughter bailed when
things got a little tough?”
Tell her. Sixsmith opens his mouth to tell her everything—the whitewashing
at Seaboard, the
blackmailing, the corruption—but without warning the elevator lurches,
rumbles, and resumes
its descent. Its occupants squint in the restored light, and Sixsmith finds
his resolve has
crumbled away. The needle swings round to G.
The air in the lobby feels as fresh as mountain water.
“I’ll telephone you, Miss Rey,” says Sixsmith, as Luisa hands him his
stick, “soon.” Will I
break this promise or keep it? “Do you know?” he says. “I feel I’ve
known you for years, not
ninety minutes.”
7
The flat world is curved in the boy’s eye. Javier Gomez leafs through a
stamp album under an
Anglepoise lamp. A team of huskies barks on an Alaskan stamp, a Hawaiian
nene honks and
waddles on a fifty-cents special edition, a paddle steamer churns up an inky
Congo. A key
turns in the lock, and Luisa Rey stumbles in, kicking off her shoes in the
kitchenette. She is
exasperated to find him here. “Javier!”
“Oh, hi.”
“Don’t ‘Oh, hi’ me. You promised not to jump across the balconies ever
again! Suppose
someone reports a burglar to the cops? Suppose you slipped and fell?”
“Then just give me a key.”
Luisa strangles an invisible neck. “I can’t rest easy knowing an eleven-
year-old can waltz into
my living space whenever …” your mom’s out all night, Luisa replaces with
“… there’s a slow
night on TV.”
“So why leave the bathroom window open?”
“Because if there’s one thing worse than you jumping the gap once, it’d
be you jumping the
gap again when you couldn’t get in.”
“I’ll be eleven in January.”
“No key”
“Friends give each other keys.”
“Not when one is twenty-six and the other is still in the fifth grade.”
“So why are you back so late? Meet anyone interesting?”
Luisa glares. “Trapped by the brownout in an elevator. None of your
business, anyhow,
mister.” She switches on the main light and flinches when she sees the mean
red welt on
Javier’s face. “What the—what happened?”
The boy glances at the apartment wall, then returns to his stamps.
“Wolfman?”
Javier shakes his head, folds a tiny paper strip, and licks both sides. “
That Clark guy came
back. Mom’s working the graveyard shift at the hotel all this week, and he
’s waiting for her.
He asked me stuff about Wolfman, and I told him it wasn’t any of his
business.” Javier
attaches the hinge to the stamp. “It doesn’t hurt. I already dabbed stuff
on it.” Luisa’s hand is
already on the telephone. “Don’t phone Mom! She’ll rush back, there’ll
be a massive fight, and
the hotel’ll fire her like last time and the time before.” Luisa considers
this, replaces the
receiver, and starts for the door. “Don’t go around there! He’s sick in
the head! He’ll get angry
and wreck our stuff, then we’ll probably get evicted or something! Please.
” Luisa looks away.
She takes a deep breath. “Cocoa?” “Yes, please.” The boy is determined
not to cry, but his jaw
aches with the effort. He wipes his eyes on his wrists. “Luisa?” “Yes,
Javi, you’re sleeping on
my sofa tonight, it’s okay”
8
Dom Grelsch’s office is a study in ordered chaos. The view across Third
Avenue shows a wall
of offices much like his own. An Incredible Hulk punching bag hangs from a
metal gallows in
the corner. The editor-in-chief of Spyglass magazine declares the Monday A.M
. features
meeting open by stabbing a stubby digit at Roland Jakes, a grizzled,
prunelike man in an aloha
shirt, flared Wranglers, and dying sandals. “Jakes.”
“I, uh, wanna follow up my Terror in Sewerland series, to tie in with Jaws
fever. Dirk Melon,
he can be a freelance hack, is found under 50th East Street on a routine
maintenance inspection.
Or rather his, uh, remains are. Dental records and tattered press pass ID
him. Flesh torn from
corpse in manner consistent with Ser-rasalmus scapularis—I thank you—queen
bitch of all
piranhas, imported by fish freaks, then flushed down toilets when the meat
bill gets too big. I’ll
phone Captain Vermin at City Hall and have him deny a spate of attacks on
sewage workers.
Taking notes, Luisa? Believe nothing till it’s officially denied. So c’mon
, Grelsch. Time you
gave me that raise?”
“Just be grateful your last paycheck didn’t boing. On my desk by eleven
tomorrow, with a pic
of one of those snappers. A question, Luisa?”
“Yes. Is there a new editorial policy no one’s told me about that excludes
articles containing
truth?”
“Hey, metaphysics seminar is on the roof. Just take the elevator up and
keep walking until you
hit the sidewalk. Anything is true if enough people believe it is. Nancy,
what’ve you got for
me?”
Nancy O’Hagan has conservative clothes, a pickled complexion, and giraffe-
size eyelashes that
often come unstuck. “My trusty mole got a picture of the bar on the
president’s airplane.
‘Wing-dings and gin slings on Air Force One.’ The dumb money says the last
drop’s been
squeezed out of the old soak, but Auntie Nance thinks not.”
Grelsch considers. Telephones ring and typewriters clack in the background.
“Okay, if nothing
fresher comes up. Oh, and interview that ventriloquist puppet guy who lost
his arms for It
Never Rains … Nussbaum. You’re up.”
Jerry Nussbaum wipes dewdrops of choco-Popsicle from his beard, leans back,
and triggers a
landslide of papers. “The cops are chasing their own asses on the St.
Christopher case, so how
about a Are You St. Christopher’s Next Slaying?’ piece? Profiles of all
the snuffs to date and
reconstructions of the victims’ last minutes. Where they were going, who
they were meeting,
what thoughts were going through their heads …”
“When St. Chris’s bullet went through their heads.” Roland Jakes laughs.
“Yeah, Jakes, let’s hope he’s attracted to flashy Hawaiian colors. Then
later I’m seeing the
colored streetcar driver the cops had on the rack last week. He’s suing the
police department for
wrongful arrest under the Civil Rights Act.”
“Could be a cover story. Luisa?”
“I met an atomic engineer.” Luisa ignores the indifference chilling the
room. “An inspector at
Seaboard Incorporated.” Nancy O’Hagan is doing her fingernails, driving
Luisa to present her
suspicions as facts. “He believes the new HYDRA nuclear reactor at
Swannekke Island isn’t
as safe as the official line. Isn’t safe at all, in fact. Its launch
ceremony is this afternoon, so I
want to drive out and see if I can turn anything up.”
“Hot shit, a technical launch ceremony,” exclaims Nussbaum. “What’s that
rumbling sound,
everyone? A Pulitzer Prize, rolling this way?”
“Oh, kiss my ass, Nussbaum.”
Jerry Nussbaum sighs. “In my wettest dreams …”
Luisa is torn between retaliation—Yeah, and letting the worm know how much
he riles you—
and ignoring him—Yeah, and letting the worm get away with saying what the
heck he wants.
Dom Grelsch breaks her impasse. “Marketeers prove”—he twirls a pencil—“
every scientific
term you use represents two thousand readers putting down the magazine and
turning on a
rerun of I Love Lucy.”
“Okay,” says Luisa. “How about ‘Seaboard Atom Bomb to Blow Buenas Yerbas
to Kingdom
Come!’?”
“Terrific, but you’ll need to prove it.”
“Like Jakes can prove his story?”
“Hey” Grelsch’s pencil stops twirling. “Fictitious people eaten by
fictitious fish can’t flay every
last dollar off you in the courts or lean on your bank to pull the plug. A
coast-to-coast operation
like Seaboard Power Inc. has lawyers who can and, sweet Mother of God, you
put a foot
wrong, they will.”
9
Luisa’s rust-orange VW Beetle travels a flat road toward a mile-long bridge
connecting Yerbas
Cape to Swannekke Island, whose power station dominates the lonely estuary.
The bridge
checkpoint is not quiet today A hundred-strong demonstration lines the last
stretch, chanting,
“Swannekke C over our dead bodies!” A wall of police keeps them back from
the line of nine
or ten vehicles. Luisa reads the placards while she waits. YOU ARE NOW
ENTERING
CANCER ISLAND, warns one, another, HELL, NO! WE WON’T GO! and,
enigmatically,
WHERE OH WHERE IS MARGO ROKER?
A guard taps on the window; Luisa winds it down and sees her face in the
guard’s sunglasses.
“Luisa Rey, Spyglass magazine.”
“Press pass, ma’am.”
Luisa gets it from her purse. “Expecting trouble today?”
“Nah.” He consults a clipboard and hands back her pass. “Only our regular
nature freaks from
the trailer park. The college boys are vacationing where the surf’s better.”
As she crosses the bridge, the Swannekke B plant emerges from behind the
older, grayer
cooling towers of Swannekke A. Once again, Luisa wonders about Rufus
Sixsmith. Why
wouldn’t he give me a contact number? Scientists can’t be telephobic. Why
did no one in the
super’s office in his apartment building even know his name? Scientists can
’t have aliases.
Twenty minutes later Luisa arrives at a colony of some two hundred luxury
homes overlooking
a sheltered bay. A hotel and golf course share the semiwooded slope below
the power station.
She leaves her Beetle in the R & D parking lot and looks at the power
station’s abstract
buildings half-hidden by the brow of the hill. An orderly row of palm trees
rustles in the
Pacific wind.
“Hi!” A Chinese-American woman strides up. “You look lost. Here for the
launch?” Her
stylish oxblood suit, flawless makeup, and sheer poise make Luisa feel
shabby in her blueberry
suede jacket. “Fay Li”—the woman offers her hand—“Seaboard PR.”
“Luisa Rey, Spyglass magazine.”
Fay Li’s handshake is powerful. “Spyglass? I didn’t realize—”
“—our editorial scope includes energy policy?”
Fay Li smiles. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s a feisty magazine.”
Luisa invokes Dom Grelsch’s reliable deity “Market research identifies a
growing public who
demand more substance. I was hired as Spyglass’s highbrow face.”
“Very glad you’ve come, Luisa, whatever your brow. Let me sign you in at
Reception. Security
insists on bag searches and the rest, but it’s no good having our guests
treated like saboteurs.
That’s why I was hired.”
10
Joe Napier watches a bank of CCTV screens covering a lecture theater, its
adjacent corridors,
and the Public Center grounds. He stands, fluffs up his special cushion, and
sits on it. Is it my
imagination, or are my old wounds aching more of late? His gaze flits from
screen to screen to
screen. One shows a technician doing a sound check; another, a TV crew
discussing angles
and light; Fay Li crossing the parking lot with a visitor; waitresses
pouring wine into hundreds
of glasses; a row of chairs beneath a banner reading SWANNEKKE B— AN
AMERICAN
MIRACLE.
The real miracle, Joseph Napier ruminates, was getting eleven out of twelve
scientists to forget
the existence of a nine-month inquiry. A screen shows these very scientists
drifting onstage,
chatting amicably Like Grimaldi says, every conscience has an off switch
somewhere. Napier’s
thoughts segue through memorable lines from the interviews that achieved the
collective
amnesia. “Between us, Dr. Franklin, the Pentagon’s lawyers are itching to
try out their shiny
new Security Act. The whistle-blower is to be blacklisted in every salaried
position in the
land.”
A janitor adds another chair to the row onstage.
“The choice is simple, Dr. Moses. If you want Soviet technology to burn
ahead of ours, leak
this report to your Union of Concerned Scientists, fly to Moscow to collect
your medal, but the
CIA has told me to tell you, you won’t be needing a round-trip ticket.”
The audience of dignitaries, scientists, think-tank members, and opinion
formers take their
seats. A screen shows William Wiley, vice CEO of Seaboard Inc., joking with
those VIPs to
be honored with a seat onstage.
“Professor Keene, the Defense Department brass are a little curious. Why
voice your doubts
now? Are you saying your work on the prototype was slipshod?”
A slide projector beams a fish-eye aerial shot of Swannekke B.
Eleven out of twelve. Only Rufus Sixsmith gets away.
Napier speaks into his walkie-talkie. “Fay? Show starts in ten minutes.”
Static. “Copy that, Joe. I’m escorting a visitor to the lecture theater.”
“Report to Security when you’re through, please.”
Static. “Copy. Over and out.”
Napier weighs the set in his hand. And Joe Napier? Has his conscience got an
off switch? He
sips his bitter black coffee. Hey, buddy, get off my case. I’m only
following orders. Eighteen
months till I retire, then it’s off to fish in sweet rushing rivers until I
turn into a goddamn
heron.
Milly his deceased wife, watches her husband from the photograph on his
console desk.
11
“Our great nation suffers from a debilitating addiction.” Alberto Grimaldi
, Seaboard CEO and
Newsweek Man of the Year, is king of the dramatic pause. “Its name is Oil.
” He is gilded by
the podium lights. “Geologists tell us, just seventy-four billion gallons
of this Jurassic ocean
scum remain in the Persian Gulf. Enough, maybe, to see out our century?
Probably not. The
most imperative question facing the USA, ladies and gentlemen, is ‘Then
what?’ ”
Alberto Grimaldi scans his audience. In the palm of my hand. “Some bury
their heads in the
sand. Some fantasize about wind turbines, reservoirs, and”—wry half smile
—“pig gas.”
Appreciative chuckle. “At Seaboard we deal in realities.” Voice up. “I am
here today to tell you
that the cure for oil is right here, right now, on Swannekke Island!”
He smiles as the cheers subside. “As of today, domestic, abundant, and safe
atomic energy has
come of age! Friends, I am so very, very proud to present one of the major
engineering
innovations in history … the HYDRA-Zero reactor!” The slide screen changes
to show a
cross-section diagram, and a primed section of the audience applauds wildly,
prompting most
of the theater to follow suit.
“But hey, now, enough of me, I’m only the CEO.” Affectionate laughter. “
Here to unveil our
viewing gallery and flick that switch to connect Swannekke B to the national
grid, the Seaboard
family is deeply honored to welcome a very special visitor. Known on Capitol
Hill as the
president’s ‘Energy Guru’ ”—full smile—“it gives me profound pleasure
to welcome a man
who needs no introduction. Federal Power Commissioner Lloyd Hooks!”
An immaculately groomed man strides onstage to great applause. Lloyd Hooks
and Alberto
Grimaldi grasp each other’s forearms in a gesture of fraternal love and
trust. “Your
scriptwriters are getting better,” Lloyd Hooks murmurs, as both men grin
broadly for the
audience, “but you’re still Greed on Two Legs.”
Alberto Grimaldi backslaps Lloyd Hooks and replies in kind, “You’ll only
wrangle your way
onto this company’s board over my dead body, you venal sonofabitch!”
Lloyd Hooks beams out at the audience. “So you can still come up with
creative solutions,
Alberto.”
A cannonade of flashes opens fire.
A young woman in a blueberry jacket slips out of a rear exit.
12
“The ladies’ restroom, please?”
A guard speaking on his walkie-talkie waves her down a corridor.
Luisa Rey glances back. The guard’s back is turned, so she continues on
around a corner and
into a grid of repeated corridors, chilled and muffled by humming air
coolers. She passes a pair
of hurrying technicians in overalls who eye her breasts from under their
caps but who do not
challenge her. Doors bear cryptic signs. W212 DEMI-OUTLETS, YOO9 SUBPASSES
[AC], V77O HAZ-ARDLESS [EXEMPTED]. Periodic higher-security doors have
keypad
entry systems. At a stairwell she examines a floor plan but finds no trace
of any Sixsmith.
“You lost, lady?”
Luisa does her best to recover her poise. A silver-haired black janitor
stares at her.
“Yes, I’m looking for Dr. Sixsmith’s room.” “Uh-huh. English guy. Third
floor, C105.”
“Thank you.”
“He ain’t been around a week or two.” “Is that a fact? Can you tell me
why?” “Uh-huh. Went
to Vegas on vacation.” “Dr. Sixsmith? Vegas?” “Uh-huh. So I was told.”
Room C105’s door is ajar. A recent attempt to erase “Dr. Sixsmith” from
the nameplate ended
in messy failure. Through the crack Luisa Rey watches a young man sitting on
the table, sifting
through a pile of a notebooks. The contents of the room are in several
shipping crates. Luisa
remembers her father saying, Acting like an insider can be enough to be one.
“Well,” says Luisa, strolling in. “You’re not Dr. Sixsmith, are you?”
The man drops the notebook guiltily, and Luisa knows she’s bought a few
moments. “Oh, my
God”—he stares back—“you must be Megan.”
Why be contradictory? “And you are?”
“Isaac Sachs. Engineer.” He gets to his feet and aborts a premature
handshake. “I worked with
your uncle on his report.” Brisk footsteps echo up the stairwell. Isaac
Sachs closes the door.
His voice is low and nervy: “Where’s Rufus hiding, Megan? I’ve been
worried sick. Have you
heard from him?”
“I was hoping you could tell me what’s happened.”
Fay Li strides in with the unimpressed security man. “Luisa. Still looking
for the ladies’
room?”
Act stupid. “No. I’m all finished with the ladies’ room—it was
spotlessly clean—but I’m late
for my appointment with Dr. Six-smith. Only … well, it seems he’s moved
out.”
Isaac Sachs makes a “hah?” noise. “You’re not Sixsmith’s niece?”
“Excuse me, but I never said I was.” Luisa produces a pre-prepared gray
lie for Fay Li. “I met
Dr. Sixsmith on Nantucket last spring. We found we were both based in Buenas
Yerbas, so he
gave me his card. I dug it out three weeks ago, called him up, and we
arranged to meet today to
discuss a science feature for Spyglass.” She consults her watch. “Ten
minutes ago. The launch
speeches went on longer than I’d expected, so I slipped quietly away. I
hope I haven’t caused
any trouble?”
Fay Li acts convinced. “We can’t have unauthorized people wandering around
a sensitive
research institute like ours.”
Luisa acts contrite. “I thought signing in and having my bag checked was
the security
procedure, but I guess that was naïve. Dr. Sixsmith will vouch for me,
though. Just ask him.”
Sachs and the guard both glance at Fay Li, who does not miss a beat. “That
isn’t going to be
possible. One of our Canadian projects needed Dr. Sixsmith’s attention. I
can only imagine his
secretary didn’t have your contact details when she cleared his
appointments diary”
Luisa looks at the boxes. “Looks like he’s going to be away for a while.”
“Yes, so we’re shipping him his resources. His consultancy here at
Swannekke was winding
up. Dr. Sachs here has done a gallant job of tying up the loose ends.”
“So much for my first interview with a great scientist.”
Fay Li holds the door open. “Maybe we can find you another.”
13
“Operator?” Rufus Sixsmith cradles the receiver in an anonymous suburban
motel outside
Buenas Yerbas. “I’m having trouble placing a call to Hawaii … yes. I’m
trying to call …” He
reads out Megan’s telephone number. “Yes, I’ll stay by the phone.”
On a TV with no yellow or green, Lloyd Hooks backslaps Alberto Grimaldi at
the inauguration
of the new HYDRA reactor at Swannekke Island. They salute the lecture
theater like
conquering sportsmen, and silver confetti falls from the roof. “No stranger
to controversy,”
says a reporter, “Seaboard CEO Alberto Grimaldi today announced the go-
ahead of
Swannekke C. Fifty million federal dollars will be poured into the second
HYDRA-Zero
reactor, and thousands of new jobs will be created. Fears that the mass
arrests seen earlier this
summer at Three Mile Island would be repeated in the Golden State did not
materialize.”
Frustrated and weary, Rufus Sixsmith addresses the TV “And when the
hydrogen buildup
blows the roof off the containment chamber? When prevailing winds shower
radiation over
California?” He turns the set off and squeezes the bridge of his nose. I
proved it. I proved it.
You couldn’t buy me, so you tried intimidation. I let you, Lord forgive me,
but no longer. I’m
not sitting on my conscience any longer.
The telephone rings. Sixsmith snatches it up. “Megan?”
A brusque male voice. “They’re coming.”
“Who is this?”
“They traced your last call to the Talbot Motel, 1046 Olympia Boulevard.
Get to the airport
now, get on the next flight for England, and conduct your exposé from over
there, if you must.
But go.”
“Why should I believe—”
“Use logic. If I’m lying, you’re still back in England safe and sound—
with your report. If I’m
not lying, you’re dead.”
“I demand to know—”
“You’ve got twenty minutes to get away, max. Go!”
Dial tone, a droning eternity
14
Jerry Nussbaum rotates his office chair, straddles it, places his folded
arms on its back, and
rests his chin on them. “Picture the scene, me and six dreadlocked freaks
of the negroid
persuasion, a handgun tickling my tonsils. Not talking dead-of-night Harlem
here, I’m talking
Greenwich goddamn Village in broad goddamn daylight after a sixteen-pound
steak with
Norman goddamn Mailer. So there we were, this black bro’ frisks me down
with his bitonal
paw and relieves me of my wallet. ‘Wassis? Alligator skin?’ ” Nuss-baum
does a Richard
Pryor accent. “ ‘No fuckin’ class, Whitey!’ Class? Those bums made me
turn out my pockets
for my every last cent—literally. But Nussbaum had the last laugh, you bet
he did. In the cab
back to Times Square, I wrote my now-classic ‘New Tribes’ editorial—no
point in false
modesty—and got it syndicated thirty times by the end of the week! My
muggers turned me
into a household name. So, Luey-Luey what say you take me to dinner and I
teach you how to
extract a little gold from the Fangs of Fate?”
Luisa’s typewriter pings. “If the muggers took your every last cent—
literally—what were you
doing in a cab from Greenwich Village to Times Square? Sell your body for
the fare?”
“You”—Nussbaum shifts his mass—“have a genius for missing the point.”
Roland Jakes drips candle wax onto a photograph. “Definition of the Week.
What’s a
conservative?”
The joke is old by summer 1975. “A mugged liberal.”
Jakes, stung, goes back to his picture-doctoring.
Luisa crosses the office to Dom Grelsch’s door. Her boss is speaking on the
phone in a low,
irate voice. Luisa waits outside but overhears. “No—no, no, Mr. Frum, it
is black-and-white,
tell me— hey, I’m talking now—tell me a more black-and-white ‘condition
’ than leukemia?
Know what I think? I think my wife is just one piece of paperwork between
you and your three
o’clock golf slot, isn’t she? Then prove it to me. Do you have a wife, Mr.
Frum? Do you? You
do. Can you imagine your wife lying in a hospital ward with her hair falling
out? … What?
What did you say? ‘Getting emotional won’t help’? Is that all you can
offer, Mr. Frum? Yeah,
buddy, you’re damn right I’ll be seeking legal counsel!” Grelsch slams
the receiver down, lays
into his punching bag gasping “Frum!” with each blow, collapses into his
chair, lights a
cigarette, and catches sight of Luisa hesitating in his doorway “Life. A
Force Ten shitstorm.
You hear any of that?”
“The gist. I can come back later.”
“No. Come in, sit down. Are you young, healthy, and strong, Luisa?”
“Yes.” Luisa sits on boxes. “Why?”
“Because what I gotta say about your article on this unsubstantiated cover-
up at Seaboard will,
frankly, leave you old, sick, and weak.”
15
At Buenas Yerbas International Airport, Dr. Rufus Sixsmith places a vanilla
binder into locker
number 909, glances around the crowded concourse, feeds the slot with coins,
turns the key,
and slips this into a padded khaki envelope addressed to Luisa Rey at
Spyglass, Klugh Bldg.
12F, 3rd Avenue, BY. Sixsmith’s pulse rises as he nears the postal desk.
What if they get me
before I reach it? His pulse rockets. Businessmen, families with luggage
carts, snakes of
elderly tourists all seem intent on thwarting his progress. The mailbox slot
looms closer. Just
yards away now, just inches.
The khaki envelope is swallowed and gone. Godspeed.
Sixsmith next lines up for an airplane ticket. News of delays lulls him like
a litany. He keeps a
nervous eye out for signs of Seaboard’s agents coming to pick him up at
this late hour. Finally,
a ticket clerk waves him over.
“I have to get to London. Any destination in the United Kingdom, in fact.
Any seat, any airline.
I’ll pay in cash.”
“Not a prayer, sir.” The clerk’s tiredness shows through her makeup. “
Earliest I can
manage”—she consults a teleprinted sheet— “London Heathrow … tomorrow
afternoon,
three-fifteen departure, Laker Skytrains, change at JFK.”
“It’s terribly important that I leave sooner.”
“I’m sure it is, sir, but we got air-traffic-control strikes and acres of
stranded passengers.”
Sixsmith tells himself that not even Seaboard could arrange aviation strikes
to detain him.
“Then tomorrow it shall have to be. One-way, business class, please,
nonsmoking. Is there
overnight accommodation anywhere in the airport?”
“Yes, sir, third level. Hotel Bon Voyage. You’ll be comfortable there. If
I can just see your
passport, please, so I can process your ticketing?”
16
A stained-glass sunset illuminates the velveteen Hemingway in Luisa’s
apartment. Luisa is
buried in Harnessing the Sun: Two Decades of Peacetime Atomic Power, chewing
a pen.
Javier is at her desk doing a sheet of long-division problems. Carole King’
s Tapestry LP is
playing at a low volume. Drifting through the windows comes the dim roar of
automobiles
heading home. The telephone rings, but Luisa lets it. Javier studies the
answering machine as it
clunks into action. “Hi, Luisa Rey can’t come to the phone right now, but
if you leave your
name and number, I’ll get back to you.”
“I loathe these contraptions,” complains the caller. “Cookie, it’s your
mother. I just heard from
Beatty Griffin, who told me you split up with Hal—last month? I was
dumbstruck! You didn’t
breathe a word at your father’s funeral, or at Alphonse’s. This bottling-
up worries me so much.
Dougie and I are having a fund-raiser for the American Cancer Society and it
’d mean the sun,
the moon, and the stars to us if you’d abandon your poky little nest just
for one weekend and
come stay, Cookie? The Henderson triplets will be here, that’s Damien the
cardiologist, Lance
the gynecologist, and Jesse the … Doug? Doug! Jesse Henderson, what does he
do? A lobotomist?
Oh, funny. Anyway, daughter of mine, Beatty tells me by some freak of
planetary
alignment all three brothers are unattached. On the hoof, Cookie, on the
hoof! So call the
moment you get this. All my love now.” She ends with a suction kiss, “
Mmmmchwaaa!”
“She sounds like the mother on Bewitched.” Javier lets a little time go by
“What’s
‘dumbstruck’?”
Luisa doesn’t look up. “When you’re so amazed you can’t speak.”
“She didn’t sound very dumbstruck, did she?”
Luisa is engrossed in her work.
“ ‘Cookie’?”
Luisa flings a slipper at the boy.
17
In his hotel room at the Bon Voyage, Dr. Rufus Sixsmith reads a sheaf of
letters written to him
nearly half a century ago by his friend Robert Frobisher. Sixsmith knows
them by heart, but
their texture, rustle, and his friend’s faded handwriting calm his nerves.
These letters are what
he would save from a burning building. At seven o’clock precisely, he
washes, changes his
shirt, and sandwiches the nine read letters in the Gideon’s Bible—this he
replaces in the
bedside cabinet. Sixsmith slips the unread letters into his jacket pocket
for the restaurant.
Dinner is a minute steak and strips of fried eggplant, with a poorly washed
salad. It deadens
rather than satisfies Sixsmith’s appetite. He leaves half on his plate and
sips carbonated water
as he reads Frobisher’s last letters. He witnesses himself through Robert’
s words searching
Bruges for his unstable friend, first love, and if I’m honest, my last.
In the hotel elevator Sixsmith considers the responsibility he put on Luisa
Rey’s shoulders,
wondering if he’s done the right thing. The curtains of his room blow in as
he opens the door.
He calls out, “Who’s in here?”
No one. No one knows where you are. His imagination has been playing tricks
on him for
weeks now. Sleep deprivation. “Look,” he tells himself, “in forty-eight
hours you’ll be back in
Cambridge on your rainy, safe, narrow island. You’ll have your facilities,
your allies, your
contacts, and you can plan your broadside on Seaboard from there.”
18
Bill Smoke watches Rufus Sixsmith leave his hotel room, waits five minutes,
then lets himself
in. He sits on the rim of the bathtub and flexes his gloved fists. No drug,
no religious
experience touches you like turning a man into a corpse. You need a brain,
though. Without
discipline and expertise, you’ll soon find yourself strapped into an
electric chair. The assassin
strokes a lucky Krugerrand in his pocket. Smoke is wary of being a slave to
superstition, but
he isn’t about to mess with the amulet just to prove a point. A tragedy for
loved ones, a big fat
nothing to everyone else, and a problem solved for my clients. I’m just the
instrument of my
clients’ will. If it wasn’t me it’d be the next fixer in the Yellow Pages
. Blame its user, blame its
maker, but don’t blame the gun. Bill Smoke hears the lock. Breathe. The
pills he took earlier
clarify his perception, terribly, and when Sixsmith shuffles into the
bedroom, humming
“Leaving on a Jet Plane,” the hit man could swear he can feel his victim’
s pulse, slower than
his own. Smoke sights his prey through the door crack. Sixsmith flumps onto
the bed. The
assassin visualizes the required motions: Three steps out, fire from the
side, through the
temple, up close. Smoke darts from the doorway; Sixsmith utters a guttural
syllable and tries to
rise, but the silenced bullet is already boring through the scientist’s
skull and into the mattress.
The body of Rufus Sixsmith falls back, as if he has curled up for a
postprandial nap.
Blood soaks into the thirsty eiderdown.
Fulfillment throbs in Bill Smoke’s brain. Look what I did.
19
Wednesday morning is smog-scorched and heat-hammered, like the last hundred
mornings and
the next fifty Luisa Rey drinks black coffee in the steamy cool of the Snow
White Diner on the
corner of Second Avenue and Sixteenth Street, a two-minute walk from the
Spyglass offices,
reading about a Baptist ex–naval nuclear engineer from Atlanta called James
Carter, who plans
to run for the Democratic nomination. Sixteenth Street traffic moves in
frustrated inches and
headlong stampedes. The sidewalks blur with hurrying people and
skateboarders. “Nothin’ for
breakfast this mornin’, Luisa?” asks Bart, the fry cook.
“Only news,” replies his very regular customer.
Roland Jakes trips over the doorway and makes his way to Luisa. “Uh, this
seat free? Didn’t
eat a bite this morning. Shirl’s left me. Again.”
“Features meeting in fifteen minutes.”
“Bags of time.” Jakes sits down and orders eggs over easy “Page nine,”
he says to Luisa.
“Right-hand bottom corner. Something you should see.”
Luisa turns to page nine and reaches for her coffee. Her hand freezes.
SCIENTIST SUICIDE AT B.Y. INT’L. AIRPORT HOTEL
Eminent British scientist Dr. Rufus Sixsmith was found dead Tuesday morning
in his room at
Buenas Yerbas International Airport’s Hotel Bon Voyage, having taken his
own life. Dr.
Sixsmith, former head of the Global Atomic Commission, had been employed as
a consultant
for Seaboard Corporation at the blue-chip utility’s Swannekke Island
installation outside
Buenas Yerbas City for ten months. He was known to have had a lifelong
battle with clinical
depression, and for the week prior to his death had been incommunicado. Ms.
Fay Li,
spokeswoman for Seaboard, said, “Dr. Sixsmith’s untimely death is a
tragedy for the entire
international scientific community. We at Seaboard Village on Swannekke
Island feel we’ve lost
not just a greatly respected colleague but a very dear friend. Our heartfelt
condolences go to
his own family and his many friends. He shall be greatly missed.” Dr. Six-
smith’s body,
discovered with a single gunshot wound to the head by hotel maids, is being
flown home for
burial in his native England. A medical examiner at BYPD confirmed there are
no suspicious
circumstances surrounding the incident.
“So”—Jakes grins—“is your exposé of the century screwed up now?”
Luisa’s skin prickles and her eardrums hurt.
“Whoops.” Jakes lights up a cigarette. “Were you close?”
“He couldn’t”—Luisa fumbles her words—“wouldn’t have done it.”
Jakes approximates gentleness. “Kinda looks like he did, Luisa.”
“You don’t kill yourself if you have a mission.”
“You might if your mission makes you crazy.”
“He was murdered, Jakes.”
Jakes represses a he re-we-go-again face. “Who by?”
“Seaboard Corporation. Of course.”
“Ah. His employer. Of course. Motive?”
Luisa forces herself to speak calmly and ignore Jakes’s mock conviction. “
He’d written a
report on a reactor type developed at Swannekke B, the HYDRA. Plans for Site
C are waiting
for Federal Power Commission approval. When it’s approved, Seaboard can
license the design
for the domestic and overseas market—the government contracts alone would
mean a stream of
revenue in the high tens of millions, annually. Sixsmith’s role was to give
the project his
imprimatur, but he hadn’t read the script and identified lethal design
flaws. In response,
Seaboard buried the report and denied its existence.”
“And your Dr. Sixsmith did what?”
“He was getting ready to go public.” Luisa slaps the newspaper. “This is
what the truth cost
him.”
Jakes pierces a wobbly dome of yolk with a toast soldier. “You, uh, know
what Grelsch is
going to say?”
“ ‘Hard evidence,’ ” says Luisa, like a doctor making a diagnosis. “
Look, Jakes, will you tell
Grelsch … just tell him I had to go somewhere.”
20
The manager at the Hotel Bon Voyage is having a bad day “No, you may not
see his room!
The specialized carpet cleaner has removed all traces of the incident. Who,
I add, we had to pay
from our own pocket! What kind of ghoul are you, anyway? A reporter? A ghost
hunter? A
novelist?”
“I’m”—Luisa Rey buckles with sobs from nowhere—“his niece, Megan
Sixsmith.”
A stony matriarch enfolds the weeping Luisa in her mountainous bust. Random
bystanders
shoot the manager foul looks. The manager goes pale and attempts damage
control. “Please,
come through to the back, I’ll get you a—”
“Glass of water!” snaps the matriarch, knocking the man’s hand away.
“Wendy! Water! Please, through here, why don’t you—”
“A chair, for goodness’ sake!” The matriarch supports Luisa into the
shady side office.
“Wendy! A chair! This instant!”
Luisa’s ally clasps her hands. “Let it out, honey, let it out, I’m
listening. I’m Janice from
Esphigmenou, Utah, and here is my story When I was your age, I was alone in
my house,
coming downstairs from my daughter’s nursery, and there on the halfway
landing stood my
mother. ‘Go check the baby, Janice,’ she said. I told my mother I’d
checked her one minute
ago, she was sleeping fine. My mother’s voice turned to ice. ‘Don’t argue
with me, young
lady, go check the baby, now!’ Sounds crazy, but only then I remembered my
mother had died
the Thanksgiving before. But I ran upstairs and found my daughter choking on
the cord from
the blind, wound around her neck. Thirty seconds, that would have been it.
So you see?”
Luisa blinks tearfully.
“You see, honey? They pass over, but they ain’t gone.”
The chastened manager returns with a shoe box. “Your uncle’s room is
occupied, I’m afraid,
but the maid found these letters inside the Gideon’s Bible. His name is on
the envelope.
Naturally, I was going to have them forwarded to your family, but since you
’re here …”
He hands her a sheaf of nine time-browned envelopes, each addressed to “
Rufus Sixsmith,
Esq. c/o Caius College, Cambridge, England.” One is stained by a very
recent tea bag. All are
badly crumpled and hastily smoothed out.
“Thank you,” says Luisa, vaguely, then more firmly. “Uncle Rufus valued
his correspondence,
and now it’s all I have left of him. I won’t take up any more of your time
. I’m sorry I fell to
pieces out there.”
The manager’s relief is palpable.
“You’re a very special person, Megan,” Janice from Esphigme-nou, Utah,
assures Luisa, as
they part in the hotel lobby.
“You’re a very special person, Janice,” Luisa replies and returns to the
parking level, passing
within ten yards of locker number 909.
21
Luisa Rey has been back at Spyglass’s offices for under a minute when Dom
Grelsch roars
over the newsroom chatter, “Miss Rey!”
Jerry Nussbaum and Roland Jakes look up from their desks, at Luisa, at each
other, and mouth,
“Ouch!” Luisa puts the Frobisher letters into a drawer, locks it, and
walks into Grelsch’s
office. “Dom, sorry I couldn’t make the meeting, I—”
“Spare me the woman’s trouble excuse. Shut the door.”
“I’m not in the habit of making any excuses.”
“Are you in the habit of making meetings? You’re paid to be.”
“I’m also paid to follow up stories.”
“So you flew off to the crime scene. Did you find hard evidence missed by
the cops? A
message, in blood, on the tiles? Alberto Grimaldi did it’?”
“Hard evidence isn’t hard evidence if you don’t break your back digging
for it. An editor
named Dom Grelsch told me that.”
Grelsch glares at her.
“I got a lead, Dom.”
“You got a lead.”
I can’t batter you, I can’t fool you, I can only hook your curiosity. “I
phoned the precinct where
Sixsmith’s case was processed.”
“There is no case! It was suicide! Unless we’re talking Marilyn Monroe,
suicides don’t sell
magazines. Too depressing.”
“Listen to me. Why did Sixsmith buy an airplane ticket if he was going to
put a bullet through
his head later that day?”
Grelsch extends his arms to show the size of his disbelief that he is even
having this
conversation. “A snap decision.”
“Then why would he have a typed suicide note—and no typewriter—ready and
waiting for this
snap decision?”
“I don’t know! I don’t care! I got a publication deadline Thursday night,
a dispute with the
printers, a delivery strike in the offing, and Ogilvy holding the Sword of
What’s-’is-name over
my head. Hold a séance and ask Sixsmith yourself! Sixsmith was a scientist.
Scientists are
unstable.”
“We were trapped in an elevator for ninety minutes. Cool as a cucumber.
Unstable just isn’t a
word that sticks to the man. Another thing. He shot himself—supposedly—
with just about the
quietest gun on the market. A Roachford .34 with fitted silencer. Catalog
order only. Why
would he go to the trouble?”
“So. The cops got it wrong, the ME got it wrong, everyone got it wrong
except Luisa Rey ace
cub reporter, whose penetrating insight concludes the world-famous number
cruncher was
assassinated just because he’d pointed out a few hitches in some report, a
report nobody agrees
exists. Am I right?”
“Half right. More likely, the police were encouraged to arrive at
conclusions convenient for
Seaboard.”
“Sure, a utility company buys the cops. Stupid me.”
“Count in their subsidiaries, Seaboard Corporation is the tenth biggest
corporation in the
country. They could buy Alaska if they wanted. Give me until Monday.”
“No! You got this week’s reviews and, yes, the food feature.” “If Bob
Woodward had told you
he suspected President Nixon had ordered a burglary of his political rival’
s offices and
recorded himself issuing the order, would you have said, ‘Forget it, Bob,
honey, I need eight
hundred words on salad dressings’?”
“Don’t you dare give me the I’m-an-outraged-feminist act.” “Then don’t
give me the listen-
I’ve-been-in-the-business-thirty-years act! One Jerry Nussbaum in the
building is bad
enough.”
“You’re squeezing size-eighteen reality into a size-eleven supposition.
The undoing of many a
fine newspaperman. Many a fine anyone.”
“Monday! I’ll get a copy of the Sixsmith Report.” “Promises you can’t
keep are not a sound
currency.” “Apart from getting on my knees and begging you, I don’t have
any other currency
C’mon. Dom Grelsch doesn’t snuff out solid investigative journalism just
because it doesn’t
turn up the goods in one morning. Dad told me you were just about the most
daring reporter
working anywhere in the mid-sixties.”
Grelsch swivels and looks over Third Avenue. “Did he bullshit!” “He did
too bullshit! That
exposé on Ross Zinn’s campaign funds in ’sixty-four. You took a bone-
chilling white
supremacist out of politics for good. Dad called you dogged, cussed, and
indefatigable. Ross
Zinn took nerve, sweat, and time. I’ll do the nerve and sweat, all I want
from you is a little
time.” “Roping your pa into this was a dirty trick.” “Journalism calls
for dirty tricks.”
Grelsch stubs his cigarette and lights another. “Monday, with Six-smith’s
inquiry, and it’s got
to be hurricane proof, Luisa, with names, sources, facts. Who squashed this
report, and why,
and how Swan-nekke B will turn Southern California into Hiroshima. Something
else. If you
get evidence Sixsmith was murdered, we’re going to the cops before we print
. I don’t want
dynamite under my car seat.”
“ ‘All the news without fear or favor.’ ”
“Beat it.”
Nancy O’Hagan makes a not-bad face as Luisa sits at her desk and takes out
Sixsmith’s
rescued letters.
In his office, Grelsch lays into his punching bag. “Dogged!” Wham! “
Cussed!” Wham!
“Indefatigable!” The editor catches his reflection, mocking him.
22
A Sephardic romance, composed before the expulsion of the Jews from Spain,
fills the Lost
Chord Music Store on the northwest corner of Spinoza Square and Sixth Avenue
. The welldressed
man on the telephone, pallid for this tanned city repeats the inquiry: “
Cloud Atlas
Sextet… Robert Frobisher … As a matter of fact I have heard of it, though
I’ve never laid my
sticky paws on an actual pressing…. Frobisher was a wunderkind, he died
just as he got
going…. Let me see here, I’ve got a list from a dealer in San Fran who
specializes in rarities….
Franck, Fitzroy Frobisher… Here we go, even a little footnote…. Only five
hundred
recordings pressed … in Holland, before the war, my, no wonder it’s rare…
. The dealer has a
copy of an acetate, made in the fifties … by a liquidated French outfit.
Cloud Atlas Sextet must
bring the kiss of death to all who take it on…. I’ll try, he had one as of
a month ago, but no
promises on the sound quality and I must warn you, cheap it ain’t…. It’s
quoted here at … one
hundred twenty dollars … plus our commission at ten percent, that makes …
It is? Okay, I’ll
take your name down…. Ray who? Oh, Miss R-E-Y, so sorry. Normally we ask
for a deposit,
but you’ve got an honest voice. A few days. You’re welcome now.” The
store clerk scribbles
himself a to-do note and lifts the stylus back to the start of “¿Por
qué lloras blanca niña?,”
lowers the needle onto shimmering black vinyl, and dreams of Jewish shepherd
boys plucking
their lyres on starlit Iberian hillsides.
23
Luisa Rey doesn’t see the dusty black Chevy coasting by as she enters her
apartment building.
Bill Smoke, driving the Chevy memorizes the address: 108, Pacific Eden
Apartments.
Luisa has reread Sixsmith’s letters a dozen times or more in the last day
and a half. They
disturb her. A university friend of Six-smith’s, Robert Frobisher, wrote
the series in the
summer of 1931 during a prolonged stay at a château in Belgium. It is
not the unflattering light
they shed on a pliable young Rufus Sixsmith that bothers Luisa but the
dizzying vividness of
the images of places and people that the letters have unlocked. Images so
vivid she can only call
them memories. The pragmatic journalist’s daughter would, and did, explain
these “memories”
as the work of an imagination hypersensitized by her father’s recent death,
but a detail in one
letter will not be dismissed. Robert Frobisher mentions a comet-shaped
birthmark between his
shoulder blade and collarbone.
I just don’t believe in this crap. I just don’t believe it. I don’t.
Builders are remodeling the lobby of Pacific Eden Apartments. Sheets are on
the floor, an
electrician is prodding a light fitting, an unseen hammerer hammers. Malcolm
the super
glimpses Luisa and calls out, “Hey, Luisa! An uninvited guest ran up to
your apartment twenty
minutes ago!” But the noise of a drill drowns him out, he has a man from
city hall on the phone
about building codes, and anyway, Luisa has already stepped into the
elevator.
24
“Surprise,” says Hal Brodie, drily, caught in the act of taking books and
records from Luisa’s
shelves and putting them into his gym bag. “Hey,” he says, to hide a jab
of guilt, “you’ve had
your hair cut short.”
Luisa isn’t very surprised. “Don’t all dumped women?”
Hal clicks in the back of his throat.
Luisa is angry with herself. “So. Reclamation Day.”
“Just about done.” Hal brushes imaginary dust off his hands. “Is the
selected Wallace Stevens
yours or mine?”
“It was a Christmas present from Phoebe to us. Phone Phoebe. Let her decide
. Or else rip out
the odd pages and leave me the even. This is like a no-knock raid. You could
’ve phoned.”
“I did. All I got was your machine. Junk it, if you never listen to it.”
“Don’t be stupid, it cost a fortune. So what brings you up to town, apart
from your love of
modernist poetry?”
“Location scouting for Starsky and Hutch.”
“Starsky and Hutch don’t live in Buenas Yerbas.”
“Starsky gets kidnapped by the West Coast Triad. There’s a gunfight on
Buenas Yerbas Bay
Bridge, and we’ve got a chase scene scripted with David and Paul running
over car roofs at
rush hour. It’ll be a headache to okay it with the traffic cops, but we
need to do it on location or
we’ll lose any semblance of artistic integrity”
“Hey. You’re not taking Blood on the Tracks.”
“It’s mine.”
“Not anymore.” Luisa is not joking.
With ironic deference, Brodie takes out the record from the gym bag. “Look,
I was sorry to
hear about your dad.”
Luisa nods, feels grief rise and her defenses stiffen. “Yeah.”
“I guess it was … a release, of sorts.”
True, but only the bereaved can actually say so. Luisa resists the
temptation to say something
acidic. She remembers her father ribbing Hal, “the TV Kid.” I am not going
to start crying.
“So, you’re doing okay?”
“I’m doing fine. And you?”
“Fine.” Luisa looks at the new gaps in her old shelves.
“Work’s good?”
“Work’s fine.” Put us both out of our misery. “I believe you have a key
that belongs to me.”
Hal zips up his gym bag, fishes in his pocket, and drops the door key onto
her palm. With a
flourish, to underline the symbolism of the act. Luisa smells an alien
aftershave and imagines
Her splashing it on him this morning. He didn’t own that shirt eight weeks
ago, either. The
cowboy boots they’d bought together the day of the Segovia concert. Hal
steps over a pair of
Javier’s filthy sneakers, and Luisa watches him think better of making a
funny about her new
man. Instead, he just says, “So long, then.”
Shake hands? Hug him? “Yeah.”
The door closes.
Luisa puts the chain on and replays the encounter. She turns on the shower
and undresses. Her
bathroom mirror is half-hidden by a shelf of shampoos, conditioners, a box
of sanitary
napkins, skin creams, and gift soaps. Luisa shunts these aside to get a
clearer view of a
birthmark between her shoulder blade and collarbone. Her encounter with Hal
is displaced.
Coincidences happen all the time. But it is undeniably shaped like a comet.
The mirror mists
over. Facts are your bread and butter. Birthmarks can look like anything you
choose, not only
comets. You’re still upset by Dad’s death, that’s all. The journalist
steps into the shower, but
her mind walks the passageways of Zedelghem château.
25
The Swannekke Island protesters’ camp lies on the mainland between a beach
and a marshy
lagoon. Behind the lagoon, acres of citrus orchards rise inland to arid
hills. Tatty tents,
rainbow-sprayed camper vans, and trailer homes look like unwanted gifts the
Pacific dumped
here. A strung banner declares: PLANET AGAINST SEABOARD. On the far side of
the
bridge sits Swannekke A, quivering like Utopia in a noon mirage. White
toddlers tanned brown
as leather paddle in the lazy shallows; a bearded apostle washes clothes in
a tub; a couple of
snaky teenagers kiss in the dune grass.
Luisa locks her VW and crosses the scrub to the encampment. Seagulls float
in the joyless heat.
Agricultural machinery drones in the distance. Several inhabitants approach
but not in a
friendly manner. “Yeah?” challenges a man, with a hawkish Native American
complexion.
“I presumed this was a public park.”
“You presumed wrong. It’s private.”
“I’m a journalist. I was hoping to interview a few of you.”
“Who do you work for?”
“Spyglass magazine.”
The bad weather lightens a little. “Shouldn’t you be writing about the
latest adventures of
Barbra Streisand’s nose?” says the Native American, adding a sardonic “No
disrespect.”
“Well, sorry, I’m not the Herald Tribune, but why not give me a chance?
You could use a little
positive coverage, unless you’re seriously planning to dismantle that
atomic time bomb across
the water by waving placards and strumming protest songs. No disrespect.”
A southerner growls: “Lady, you’re full of it.”
“The interview’s over,” says the Native American. “Get off this land.”
“Don’t worry, Milton”—an elderly, white-haired, russet-faced woman
stands on her trailer’s
step—“I’ll see this one.” An aristocratic mongrel watches from beside
his mistress. Clearly, her
word carries weight, for the crowd disperses with no further protest.
Luisa approaches the trailer. “The love and peace generation?”
“Nineteen seventy-five is nowhere near 1968. Seaboard has informers in our
network. Last
weekend the authorities wanted to clear the site for the VIPs, and blood was
spilled. That gave
the cops an excuse for a round of arrests. I’m afraid paranoia pays. Come
in. I’m Hester Van
Zandt.”
“I was very much hoping to meet you, Doctor,” says Luisa.
26
An hour later Luisa feeds her apple core to Hester Van Zandt’s genteel dog.
Van Zandt’s
bookshelf-lined office is as neat as Grelsch’s is chaotic. Luisa’s host is
finishing up. “The
conflict between corporations and activists is that of narcolepsy versus
remembrance. The
corporations have money, power, and influence. Our sole weapon is public
outrage. Outrage
blocked the Yuccan Dam, ousted Nixon, and in part, terminated the
monstrosities in Vietnam.
But outrage is unwieldy to manufacture and handle. First, you need scrutiny;
second,
widespread awareness; only when this reaches a critical mass does public
outrage explode into
being. Any stage may be sabotaged. The world’s Alberto Grimaldis can fight
scrutiny by
burying truth in committees, dullness, and misinformation, or by
intimidating the scrutinizers.
They can extinguish awareness by dumbing down education, owning TV stations,
paying
‘guest fees’ to leader writers, or just buying the media up. The media—
and not just The
Washington Post—is where democracies conduct their civil wars.”
“That’s why you rescued me from Milton and his compatriots.”
“I wanted to give you the truth as we see it, so you can at least make an
informed choice about
which side you’ll back. Write a satire about GreenFront New Waldenites in
their mini-
Woodstock and you’ll confirm every Republican Party prejudice and bury
truth a little deeper.
Write about radiation levels in seafood, ‘safe’ pollution limits set by
polluters, government
policy auctioned for campaign donations, and Seaboard’s private police
force, and you’ll raise
the temperature of public awareness, fractionally, toward its ignition point
.”
Luisa asks, “Did you know Rufus Sixsmith?”
“I certainly did, God rest his soul.”
“I’d have put you on opposing sides … or no?”
Van Zandt nods at Luisa’s tactics. “I met Rufus in the early sixties at a
think tank in D.C.,
connected with the Federal Power Commission. I was in awe of him! Nobel
laureate, veteran
of the Manhattan Project.”
“Might you know anything about a report he wrote condemning the HYDRA-Zero
and
demanding Swannekke B be taken off-line?”
“Dr. Sixsmith? Are you totally sure?”
“ ‘Totally sure’? No. ‘Pretty damn sure’? Yes.”
Van Zandt looks edgy. “My God, if GreenFront could get its hands on a copy
…” Her face
clouds over. “If the Dr. Rufus Sixsmith wrote a hatchet job on the HYDRA-
Zero, and if he
threatened to go public, well, I no longer believe he shot himself.”
Luisa notices they are both whispering. She asks the question she imagines
Grelsch asking:
“Doesn’t it smack of paranoia to believe Seaboard would assassinate a man
of Sixsmith’s
stature, just to avoid negative publicity?”
Van Zandt removes a photograph of a woman in her seventies from a corkboard.
“A name for
you. Margo Roker.”
“I saw her name on a placard the other day.”
“Margo’s been a GreenFront activist since Seaboard bought Swannekke Island
. She owns this
land and lets us operate here as a thorn in Seaboard’s side. Six weeks ago
her bungalow—two
miles up the coast—was burgled. Margo has no money, just a few scraps of
land, land she’s
refused to part with, whatever inducements Seaboard dangled. Well. The
burglars beat her
senseless, left her for dead, but took nothing. It’s not actually a murder
case, because Margo’s
still in a coma, so the police line is that it was a poorly planned heist
with an unfortunate end.”
“Unfortunate for Margo.”
“And pretty damn fortunate for Seaboard. The medical bills are burying her
family. A few days
after the assault, an LA. real estate company, Open Vista, steps up and
makes an offer to
Margo’s cousin for these acres of coastland scrub at quadruple its market
value. To make a
private nature reserve. So I ask GreenFront to do some research on Open
Vista. It was
registered just eight weeks ago, and guess whose name heads the list of
corporate donors?”
Van Zandt nods in the direction of Swannekke Island.
Luisa weighs all this. “You’ll be hearing from me, Hester.”
“I hope I will.”
27
Alberto Grimaldi enjoys his Extracurricular Security Briefings with Bill
Smoke and Joe Napier
in his Swannekke office. He likes the no-nonsense demeanor of both men, in
contrast to the
retinue of courtiers and petitioners. He likes sending his secretary into
the reception area where
company heads, union leaders, and government men are made to wait, ideally
for hours, and
hear her say, “Bill, Joe, Mr. Grimaldi has a slot for you now.” Smoke and
Napier let Grimaldi
indulge the J. Edgar Hoover side of his character. He thinks of Napier as a
steadfast bulldog
whose New Jersey childhood is unsoftened by thirty-five years of Californian
living; Bill
Smoke is his familiar, who passes through walls, ethics, and legality to
execute his master’s
will.
Today’s meeting is enhanced by Fay Li, summoned by Napier for the last item
on their
unwritten agenda: a journalist visiting Swannekke this weekend, Luisa Rey
who may or may
not pose a security risk. “So, Fay,” asks Grimaldi, balancing on the edge
of his desk, “what do
we know about her?”
Fay Li speaks as if from a mental checklist. “Reporter at Spyglass—I
presume we all know it?
Twenty-six, ambitious, more liberal than radical. Daughter of the Lester Rey
, foreign
correspondent, recently died. Mother remarried an architect after an
amicable divorce seven
years ago, lives in uptown Ewingsville, B.Y. No siblings. History and
economics at Berkeley,
summa cum laude. Started on the L.A. Recorder, political pieces in the
Tribune and Herald.
Single, lives alone, pays her bills on time.”
“Dull as ditch water,” comments Napier.
“Then remind me why we’re discussing her,” says Smoke.
Fay Li addresses Grimaldi: “We caught her wandering around Research on
Tuesday, during
the launch. She claimed to have an appointment with Dr. Sixsmith.”
“About?”
“A commissioned piece for Spyglass, but I think she was fishing.”
The CEO looks at Napier, who shrugs. “Difficult to read, Mr. Grimaldi. If
she was fishing, we
should assume she knows what sort of fish she was after.”
Grimaldi has a weakness for spelling out the obvious. “The report.”
“Journalists have feverish imaginations,” says Li, “especially hungry
young ones looking for
their first big scoop. I suppose she might think Dr. Sixsmith’s death could
be … How can I put
this?”
Alberto Grimaldi makes a puzzled face.
“Mr. Grimaldi,” fills in Smoke, “what I believe Fay has too much tact to
spit out is this: the
Rey woman might be imagining we rubbed out Dr. Sixsmith.”
“ ‘Rubbed out’? Good God. Really? Joe? What do you think?”
Napier spreads his palms. “Fay might be right, Mr. Grimaldi. Spyglass isn’
t known for
keeping its feet firmly rooted in fact.”
“Do we have any leverage with the magazine?” asks Grimaldi.
Napier shakes his head. “I’ll get on it.”
“She phoned,” continues Li, “asking if she could interview a few of our
people for a day-inthe-
life-of-a-scientist piece. So I invited her to the hotel for tonight’s
banquet and promised to
make a few introductions over the weekend. In fact”—she glances at her
watch—“I’m meeting
her there in an hour.”
“I okayed it, Mr. Grimaldi,” says Napier. “I’d rather have her snooping
under our noses, where
we can watch her.”
“Quite right, Joe. Quite right. Assess how much of a threat she poses. And
lay to rest any
morbid suspicions about poor Rufus at the same time.” Tight smiles all
around. “Well, Fay,
Joe, that’s a wrap, thanks for your time. Bill, a word on some matters in
Toronto.”
The CEO and his fixer are left alone.
“Our friend,” begins Grimaldi, “Lloyd Hooks. He worries me.”
Bill Smoke considers this. “Any angles?”
“He’s got a spring like he’s holding four aces. I don’t like it. Watch
him.”
Bill Smoke inclines his head.
“And you’d better have an accident up your sleeve for Luisa Rey Your work
at the airport was
exemplary, but Sixsmith was a distinguished foreign national, and we don’t
want this woman
to dig out any rumors of foul play” He nods after Napier and Li. “Do those
two suspect
anything about Sixsmith?”
“Li isn’t thinking anything. She’s a PR woman, period. Napier’s not
looking. There’s the
blind, Mr. Grimaldi, there’s the willfully blind, and then there’s the
soon to be retired.”
28
Isaac Sachs sits hunched in the bay window of the Swannekke Hotel bar and
watches yachts in
the creamy evening blues. A beer stands untouched on the table. The
scientist’s thoughts run
from Rufus Sixsmith’s death to the fear that his secreted-away copy of the
Sixsmith Report
might be found, to Napier’s warning about confidentiality The deal is, Dr.
Sachs, your ideas
are the property of Seaboard Corporation. You don’t want to welch on a deal
with a man like
Mr. Grimaldi, do you? Clumsy but effective.
Sachs tries to remember how it felt not to walk around with this knot in his
gut. He longs for
his old lab in Connecticut, where the world was made of mathematics, energy,
and atomic
cascades, and he was its explorer. He has no business in these political
orders of magnitude,
where erroneous loyalties can get your brain spattered over hotel bedrooms.
You’ll shred that
report, Sachs, page by goddamn page.
Then his thoughts slide to a hydrogen buildup, an explosion, packed
hospitals, the first deaths
by radiation poisoning. The official inquiry. The scapegoats. Sachs bangs
his knuckles
together. So far, his betrayal of Seaboard is a thought-crime, not one of
action. Dare I cross
that line? The hotel manager leads a bevy of florists into the banquet hall.
A woman saunters
downstairs, looks for someone who hasn’t yet arrived, and drifts into the
lively bar. Sachs
admires her well-chosen suede suit, her svelte figure, her quiet pearls. The
barman pours her a
glass of white wine and makes a joke that earns an acknowledgment but not a
smile. She turns
his way, and he recognizes the woman he mistook for Megan Sixsmith five days
ago: the knot
of fear yanks tight, and Sachs hurries out via the veranda, keeping his face
averted.
Luisa wanders over to the bay window. An untouched beer sits on the table,
but there’s no sign
of its owner, so she sits down on the warmed seat. It’s the best seat in
the house. She watches
yachts in the creamy evening blues.
29
Alberto Grimaldi’s gaze wanders the candlelit banquet hall. The room
bubbles with sentences
more spoken than listened to. His own speech got more and longer laughs than
that of Lloyd
Hooks, who now sits in sober consultation with Grimaldi’s vice CEO, William
Wiley. Now,
what is that pair discussing so intently? Grimaldi jots another mental memo
for Bill Smoke.
The head of the Environmental Protection Agency is telling him an
interminable story about
Henry Kissinger’s schooldays, so Grimaldi addresses an imaginary audience
on the subject of
power.
“Power. What do we mean? ‘The ability to determine another man’s luck.’
You men of
science, building tycoons, and opinion formers: my jet could take off from
LaGuardia, and
before I touched down in B.Y. you’d be a nobody. You Wall Street moguls,
elected officials,
judges, I might need more time to knock you off your perches, but your
eventual downfall
would be just as total.” Grimaldi checks with the EPA man to ensure his
attention isn’t being
missed—it isn’t. “Yet how is it some men attain mastery over others while
the vast majority
live and die as minions, as livestock? The answer is a holy trinity. First:
God-given gifts of
charisma. Second: the discipline to nurture these gifts to maturity, for
though humanity’s
topsoil is fertile with talent, only one seed in ten thousand will ever
flower—for want of
discipline.” Grimaldi glimpses Fay Li steer the troublesome Luisa Rey to a
circle where Spiro
Agnew holds court. The reporter is prettier in the flesh than her photograph
noosed Sixsmith. He catches Bill Smoke’s eye. “Third: the will to power.
This is the enigma at
the core of the various destinies of men. What drives some to accrue power
where the majority
of their compatriots lose, mishandle, or eschew power? Is it addiction?
Wealth? Survival?
Natural selection? I propose these are all pretexts and results, not the
root cause. The only
answer can be ‘There is no “Why” This is our nature.’ ‘Who and ‘What’
run deeper than
‘Why’”
The head of the Environmental Protection Agency quakes with mirth at his own
punch line.
Grimaldi chuckles through his teeth. “A killer, Tom, an absolute killer.”
30
Luisa Rey plays the ditzy reporter on her best behavior to assure Fay Li she
poses no threat.
Only then might she be given a free enough rein to sniff out Sixsmith’s
fellow dissidents. Joe
Napier, head of Security reminds Luisa of her father—quiet, sober, similar
age and hair loss.
Once or twice during the sumptuous ten-course meal she caught him watching
her
thoughtfully. “And, Fay, you never feel confined on Swannekke Island, at
all?”
“Swannekke? It’s paradise!” enthuses the publicist. “Buenas Yerbas only
an hour away, LA.
down the coast, my family up in San Francisco, it’s ideal. Subsidized
stores and utilities, free
clinic, clean air, zero crime, sea views. Even the men,” she confides,
sotto voce, “come readyvetted—
in fact I can access their personnel files—so you know there won’t be any
total freaks
in the dating pool. Speaking of which—Isaac! Isaac! You’re being
conscripted.” Fay Li grabs
Isaac Sachs’s elbow. “You’ll remember bumping into Luisa Rey the other
day?”
“I’m one lucky conscript. Hi, Luisa, again.”
Luisa feels an edginess in his handshake.
“Miss Rey is here,” says Fay Li, “to write an article on Swannekke
anthropology.”
“Oh? We’re a dull tribe. I hope you’ll meet your word count.”
Fay Li turns her beam on full. “I’m sure Isaac could find a little time to
answer any of your
questions, Luisa. Rght, Isaac?”
“I’m the very dullest of the dull.”
“Don’t believe him, Luisa,” Fay Li warns her. “It’s just a part of
Isaac’s strategy. Once your
defenses are down, he pounces.”
The alleged lady-killer rocks on his heels, smiling at his toes
uncomfortably
31
“Isaac Sachs’s tragic flaw,” analyzes Isaac Sachs, slumped in the bay
window across from
Luisa Rey two hours later, “is this. Too cowardly to be a warrior, but not
enough of a coward
to lie down and roll over like a good doggy.” His words slip like Bambi on
ice. A mostly
empty wine bottle stands on the table. The bar is deserted. Sachs can’t
remember when he was
last this drunk, or this tense and relaxed at the same time: relaxed,
because an intelligent young
woman is enjoying his company; tense, because he is ready to lance the boil
on his conscience.
To Sachs’s wry surprise, he is attracted to Luisa Rey, and he sorely
regrets they met in these
circumstances. The woman and the reporter keep blurring into one another. “
Let’s change the
subject,” Sachs says. “Your car, your”—he does a Hollywood SS officer
accent—“
‘Volkswagen.’ What’s its name?”
“How do you know my Beetle has a name?”
“All Beetle owners give their cars names. But please don’t tell me it’s
John, George, Paul, or
Ringo.” God, Luisa Rey, you’re beautiful.
She says, “You’ll laugh.”
“I won’t.”
“You will.”
“I, Isaac Caspar Sachs, solemnly vow not to laugh.”
“You’d better not with a middle name like Caspar. It’s Garcia.”
They both shake, noiselessly, until they burst into laughter. Maybe she
likes me too, maybe
she’s not just doing her job.
Luisa lassos her laughter in. “Is that all your vows are worth?”
Sachs makes a mea culpa gesture and dabs his eyes. “They normally last
longer. I don’t know
why it’s so funny, I mean, Garcia”— he snorts—“isn’t such a funny name
. I once dated a girl
who called her car Rosinante, for Chrissakes.”
“An ex-Berserkeley Beatnik boyfriend named it. After Jerry Garcia, y’ know
, the Grateful
Dead man. He abandoned it at my dorm when its engine sent a gasket through
the back around
the time he dumped me for a cheerleader. Cheesy, but true.”
“And you didn’t take a blowtorch to it?”
“It’s not Garcia’s fault his ex-owner was a swindling sperm gun.”
“The guy must have been mad.” Sachs didn’t plan to say so, but he’s not
ashamed he did.
Luisa Rey nods in gracious acknowledgment. “Anyway Garcia suits the car.
Never stays
tuned, prone to flashes of speed, falling to bits, its trunk won’t lock, it
leaks oil, but never
seems to give up the ghost.”
Invite her back, Sachs thinks. Don’t be stupid, you’re not a pair of kids.
They watch the breakers crash in the moonlight.
Say it. “The other day”—his voice is a murmur and he feels sick—“you
were looking for
something in Sixsmith’s room.” The shadows seem to prick up their ears. “
Weren’t you?”
Luisa checks for eavesdroppers and speaks very quietly “I understand Dr.
Sixsmith wrote a
certain report.”
“Rufus had to work closely with the team who designed and built the thing.
That meant me.”
“Then you know what his conclusions were? About the HYDRA reactor?”
“We all do! Jessops, Moses, Keene … they all know.”
“About a design flaw?”
“Yes.” Nothing has changed, except everything.
“How bad would an accident be?”
“If Dr. Sixsmith is right, it’ll be much, much worse than bad.”
“Why isn’t Swannekke B just shut down pending further inquiry?”
“Money, power, usual suspects.”
“Do you agree with Sixsmith’s findings?”
Carefully. “I agree a substantial theoretical risk is present.”
“Were you pressured to keep your doubts to yourselves?”
“Every scientist was. Every scientist agreed to. Except for Six-smith.”
“Who, Isaac? Alberto Grimaldi? Does it go up to the top?”
“Luisa, what would you do with a copy of the report, if ‘one found its way
into your hands?”
“Go public as fast as I possibly could.”
“Are you aware of …” I can’t say it.
“Aware that people in the upper echelons would rather see me dead than see
HYDRA
discredited? Right now it’s all I’m aware of.”
“I can’t make any promises.” Christ, how feeble. “I became a scientist
because … it’s like
panning for gold in a muddy torrent. Truth is the gold. I—I don’t know
what I want to do …”
“Journalists work in torrents just as muddy”
The moon is over the water.
“Do,” says Luisa finally “whatever you can’t not do.”
32
In blustery early sunshine Luisa Rey watches golfers traverse the lush
course, wondering what
might have happened last night if she’d invited Isaac Sachs up. He’s due
to meet her for
breakfast.
She wonders if she should have phoned Javier. You’re not his mother, you’
re not his
guardian, you’re just a neighbor. She’s not convinced, but just as she
didn’t know how to
ignore the boy she found sobbing by the garbage chute, just as she couldn’t
not go down to the
super’s, borrow his keys, and pick through a garbage can for his precious
stamp albums, now
she doesn’t know how to extricate herself. He hasn’t got anyone else, and
eleven-year-olds
don’t do subtlety Anyway, who else have you got?
“You look like you got the weight of the world,” says Joe Napier.
“Joe. Have a seat.”
“Don’t mind if I do. I’m the bearer of bad news. Isaac Sachs sends his
sincere apologies, but
he’s got to stand you up.”
“Oh?”
“Alberto Grimaldi flew out to our Three Mile Island site this morning—
wooing a group of
Germans. Sidney Jessops was going along as the technical support, but Sid’s
father had a heart
attack, and Isaac was the next choice.”
“Oh. Has he left already?”
“Afraid so. He’s”—Napier checks his watch—“over the Colorado Rockies.
Breast-feeding a
hangover, shouldn’t wonder.”
Don’t let your disappointment show. “When’s he due back?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Oh.” Damn, damn, damn.
“I’m twice Isaac’s age and three times uglier, but Fay’s asked me to
show you around the site.
She’s scheduled a few interviews with some people she thinks’ll interest
you.”
“Joe, it’s too kind of you all to give me such generous slices of your
weekends,” says Luisa.
Did you know Sachs was on the verge of defection? How? Unless Sachs was a
plant? I’m out
of my depth here.
“I’m a lonely old man with too much time on my hands.”
33
“So R & D is called the Chicken Coop because the eggheads live there.”
Luisa jots in her
notebook, smiling, as Joe Napier holds open the control-room door two hours
later. “What do
you call the reactor building?”
A gum-chewing technician calls out: “Home of the Brave.”
Joe’s expression says funny. “That’s definitely off the record.”
“Has Joe told you what we call the security wing?” The controller grins.
Luisa shakes her head.
“Planet of the Apes.” He turns to Napier. “Introduce your guest, Joe.”
“Carlo Böhn, Luisa Rey Luisa’s a reporter, Carlo’s a chief
technician. Stick around and you’ll
hear plenty of other names for him.”
“Let me show you around my little empire, if Joe’ll give you up for five
minutes.”
Napier watches Luisa as Böhn explains the fluorescent-lit chamber of
panels and gauges.
Underlings check printouts, frown at dials, tick clipboards. Böhn
flirts with her, catches
Napier’s eye, when Luisa’s back is turned, and mimes melon-breasts; Napier
shakes his sober
head. Milly would have clucked over you, he thinks. Had you over for dinner,
fed you way too
much, and nagged you on what you need to be nagged about. He recalls Luisa
as a precocious
little six-year-old. Must be two decades since I saw you at the last Tenth
Precinct Station
reunion. Of all the professions that lippy little girl could have entered,
of all the reporters who
could have caught the scent of Sixsmith’s death, why Lester Rey’s daughter
? Why so soon
before I retire? Who dreamed up this sick joke? The city? Napier could cry.
34
Fay Li searches Luisa Rey’s room swiftly and adeptly as the sun sets. She
checks inside the
toilet cistern; under the mattress for slits; the carpets, for loose flaps;
inside the minibar; in the
closet. The original might have been Xeroxed down to a quarter of its bulk.
Li’s tame
receptionist reported Sachs and Luisa talking until the early hours. Sachs
was removed this
morning, but he’s no idiot, he could have deposited it for her. She
unscrews the telephone
mouthpiece and finds Napier’s favored transmitter, one disguised as a
resistor. She probes the
recesses of Luisa’s overnight bag but finds no printed matter except Zen
and the Art of
Motorcycle Maintenance. She flicks through the reporter’s notepad on the
desk, but Luisa’s
encrypted shorthand doesn’t reveal much.
Fay Li wonders if she’s wasting her time. Wasting your time? Mexxon Oil
upped their offer to
one hundred thousand dollars for the Sixsmith Report. And if they’re
serious about a hundred
thousand, they’ll be serious about a million. For discrediting the entire
atomic energy
program into an adolescent grave, a million is a snip. So keep searching.
The phone buzzes four times: a warning that Luisa Rey is in the lobby,
waiting for the elevator.
Li ensures nothing is amiss and leaves, taking the stairs down. After ten
minutes she rings up
to Luisa from the front desk. “Hi, Luisa, it’s Fay. Been back long?”
“Just long enough for a quick shower.”
“Productive afternoon, I hope?”
“Very much so. I’ve got enough material for two or three pieces.”
“Terrific. Listen, unless you’ve got other plans, how about dinner at the
golf club? Swannekke
lobster is the best this side of anywhere.”
“Quite a claim.”
“I’m not asking you to take my word for it.”
35
Crustacean shrapnel is piled high. Luisa and Fay Li dab their fingers in
pots of lemon-scented
water, and Li’s eyebrow tells the waiter to remove the plates. “What a
mess I’ve made.” Luisa
drops her napkin. “I’m the slob of the class, Fay You should open a
finishing school for young
ladies in Switzerland.”
“That’s not how most people in Seaboard Village see me. Did anyone tell
you my nickname?
No? Mr. Li.”
Luisa isn’t sure what response is expected. “A little context might help.”
“My first week on the job, I’m up in the canteen, fixing myself a coffee.
This engineer comes
up, tells me he’s got a problem of a mechanical nature, and asks if I can
help. His buddies are
sniggering in the background. I say, ‘I doubt it.’ The guy says, ‘Sure
you can help.’ He wants
me to oil his bolt and relieve the excess pressure on his nuts.”
“This engineer was how old? Thirteen?”
“Forty married, two kids. So his buddies are snorting with laughter now.
What would you do?
Dash off some witty put-down line, let ’em know you’re riled? Slap him,
get labeled
hysterical? Besides, creeps like that enjoy being slapped. Do nothing? So
any man on site can
say shit like that to you with impunity?”
“An official complaint?”
“Prove that women run to senior men when the going gets tough?”
“So what did you do?”
“Had him transferred to our Kansas plant. Middle of nowhere, middle of
January. I pity his
wife, but she married him. Word gets around, I get dubbed Mr. Li. A real
woman wouldn’t
have treated the poor guy so cruelly, no, a real woman would have taken his
joke as a
compliment.” Fay Li smooths wrinkles in the tablecloth. “You run up
against this crap in your
work?”
Luisa thinks of Nussbaum and Jakes. “All the time.”
“Maybe our daughters’ll live in a liberated world, but us, forget it. We’
ve got to help ourselves,
Luisa. Men won’t do it for us.”
The journalist senses a shifting of the agenda.
Fay Li leans in. “I hope you’ll consider me your own insider here on
Swannekke Island.”
Luisa probes with caution. “Journalists need insiders, Fay, so I’ll
certainly bear it in mind. I
have to warn you, though, Spyglass doesn’t have the resources for the kind
of remuneration
you may be—”
“Men invented money Women invented mutual aid.”
It’s a wise soul, thinks Luisa, who can distinguish traps from
opportunities. “I’m not sure …
how a small-time reporter could ‘aid’ a woman of your standing, Fay.”
“Don’t underestimate yourself. Friendly journalists make valuable allies.
If there comes a time
when you want to discuss any matters weightier than how many french fries
the Swannekke
engineers consume per annum”—her voice sinks below the clinking of cutlery
, cocktail-bar
piano music, and background laughter— “such as data on the HYDRA reactor
as compiled by
Dr. Sixsmith, purely for example, I guarantee you’ll find me much more
cooperative than you
think.”
Fay Li clicks her fingers, and the dessert trolley is already on its way. “
Now, the lemon-andmelon
sherbet, very low in calories, it cleanses the palate, ideal before coffee.
Trust me on
this?”
The transformation is so total, Luisa almost wonders if she just heard what
she just heard. “I’ll
trust you on this.”
“Glad we understand each other.”
Luisa wonders: What level of deceit is permissible in journalism? She
remembers her father’s
answer, one afternoon in the hospital garden: Did I ever lie to get my story
? Ten-mile-high
whoppers every day before breakfast, f it got me one inch closer to the
truth.
36
A ringing phone flips Luisa’s dreams over and she lands in the moonlit room
. She grabs the
lamp, the clock radio, and finally the receiver. For a moment she cannot
remember her name or
what bed she is in. “Luisa?” offers a voice from the black gulf.
“Yeah, Luisa Rey.”
“Luisa, it’s me, Isaac, Isaac Sachs, calling long distance.”
“Isaac! Where are you? What time is it? Why—”
“Shush, shush, sorry I woke you, and sorry I was dragged away at the crack
of dawn
yesterday. Listen, I’m in Philadelphia. It’s seven-thirty eastern, it’ll
be getting light soon in
California. You still there, Luisa? I haven’t lost you?”
He’s afraid. “Yeah, Isaac, I’m listening.”
“Before I left Swannekke, I gave Garcia a present to give to you, just a
dolce far niente.” He
tries to make the sentence sound casual. “Understand?”
What in God’s name is he talking about?
“You hear me, Luisa? Garcia has a present for you.”
A more alert quarter of Luisa’s brain muscles in. Isaac Sachs left the
Sixsmith Report in your
VW. You mentioned the trunk didn’t lock. He assumes we are being
eavesdropped. “That’s
very kind of you, Isaac. Hope it didn’t cost you too much.”
“Worth every cent. Sorry to disturb your beauty sleep.”
“Have a safe flight, and see you soon. Dinner, maybe?”
“I’d love that. Well, got a plane to catch.”
“Safe flight.” Luisa hangs up.
Leave later, in an orderly fashion? Or get off Swannekke right now?
37
A quarter of a mile across the science village, Joe Napier’s window frames
the hour-beforedawn
night sky. A console of electronic monitoring equipment occupies half the
room. From a
loudspeaker the sound of a dead phone line purrs. Napier rewinds a squawking
reel-to-reel.
“Before I left Swannekke, I gave Garcia a present to give to you, just a
dolce far niente….
Understand?”
Garcia? Garcia?
Napier grimaces at his cold coffee and opens a folder labeled “LR#2.”
Colleagues, friends,
contacts … no Garcia in the index. Better warn Bill Smoke not to approach
Luisa until I’ve had
the chance to speak with her. He flicks his lighter into life. Bill Smoke is
a difficult man to find,
let alone warn. Napier draws acrid smoke down into his lungs. His telephone
rings: it’s Bill
Smoke. “So, who the fuck’s this Garcia?”
“Don’t know, nothing on file. Listen, I don’t want you to—”
“It’s your fucking job to know, Napier.”
So, you’re addressing me like that now? “Hey! Hold your—”
“Hey yourself.” Bill Smoke hangs up.
Bad, bad, very bad. Joe grabs his jacket, snuffs his cigarette, leaves his
quarters, and strides
across the site to Luisa’s hotel. A five-minute walk. He recalls the menace
in Bill Smoke’s tone
and breaks into a run.
38
A swarm of déjà vu haunts Luisa as she stuffs her belongings into her
overnight bag. Robert
Frobisher doing a dine and dash from another hotel. She takes the stairs
down to the empty
lobby. The carpet is silent as snow. A radio whispers sweet nothings in the
back office. Luisa
creeps to the main doors, hoping to leave with no explanation required. The
doors are locked to
keep people out, not in, and soon Luisa is striding across the hotel lawn to
the parking lot. A
predawn ocean breeze makes vague promises. The night sky inland is turning
dark rose.
Nobody else is about, but as she nears her car, Luisa forces herself not to
break into a run. Stay
calm, unhurried, and you can say you’re driving along the cape for the
sunrise.
At first glance the trunk is empty, but the carpet covers a bulge. Under the
flap Luisa finds a
package wrapped in a black plastic trash bag. She removes a vanilla binder.
She reads its cover
in the semilight: The HYDRAZero Reactor—An Operational Assessment Model—
Project
Head Dr. Rufus Sixsmith—Unauthorized Possession Is a Federal Crime Under
the Military &
Industrial Espionage Act 1971. Some five hundred pages of tables, flowcharts
, mathematics,
and evidence. A sense of elation booms and echoes. Steady, this is only the
end of the
beginning.
Motion in the middle distance catches Luisa’s eye. A man. Luisa ducks
behind Garcia. “Hey!
Luisa! Hold it!” Joe Napier! As if in a dream of keys and locks and doors,
Luisa stows the
vanilla binder in its black trash bag under the passenger seat—Napier is
running now, his
flashlight beam swishing the half darkness. The engine makes a lazy, leonine
roar—the VW
reverses too fast. Joe Napier thumps into the back, yells, and Luisa
glimpses him hopping like
a slapstick actor.
She does not stop to apologize.
39
Bill Smoke’s dusty black Chevy skids to a stop by the island checkpoint of
Swannekke Bridge.
A string of lights dots the mainland across the straits. The guard
recognizes the car and is
already by its driver’s window. “Good morning, sir!”
“Looking that way Richter, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Mr. Smoke.”
“I’m guessing Joe Napier has just called you and ordered you not to let an
orange VW pass the
checkpoint.”
“That’s correct, Mr. Smoke.”
“I’m here to countermand that order, on Mr. Grimaldi’s personal authority
You will raise the
barrier for the VW and let me follow. You’ll phone your buddy on the
mainland checkpoint
now and tell him not to let anything through until he sees my car. When Mr.
Napier gets here,
about fifteen minutes from now, you will tell him Alberto Grimaldi says, ‘
Go back to bed.’
Understand, Richter?”
“Understood, Mr. Smoke.”
“You got married this spring, if memory serves?”
“You have an excellent memory, sir.”
“I do. Hoping to start a family?”
“My wife’s four months pregnant, Mr. Smoke.”
“A piece of advice, Richter, on how to succeed in the security business.
Would you like to hear
this piece of advice, son?”
“I would, sir.”
“The dumbest dog can sit and watch. What takes brains is knowing when to
look away Am I
making sense to you, Richter?”
“You’re making absolute sense, Mr. Smoke.”
“Then your young family’s future is secure.”
Smoke reverses his car alongside the guardhouse and slumps low. Sixty
seconds later, a
choking VW swerves around the headland. Luisa halts, rolls down her window,
Richter
appears, and Smoke catches the words “family emergency.” Richter tells her
to have a safe trip,
and the barrier rises.
Bill Smoke puts his car into first, second. The sonic texture of the road
surface changes as the
Chevy reaches the bridge. Third gear, fourth, pedal down. The clapped-out
Beetle’s taillights
zoom up, fifty yards, thirty yards, ten … Smoke hasn’t switched his lights
on. He swerves into
the empty oncoming lane, shifts into fifth gear, and draws alongside. Smoke
smiles. She thinks
I’m Joe Napier. He yanks the wheel sharply, and metal screams as the Beetle
is sandwiched
between his car and the bridge railing until the railing unzips from its
concrete and the Beetle
lurches out into space.
Smoke slams the brakes. He gets out into the cool air and smells hot rubber.
Back a ways, sixty
seventy feet down, a VWs front bumper vanishes into the hollow sea. If her
back didn’t snap,
she’ll have drowned in three minutes. Bill Smoke inspects the damage to his
car’s bodywork
and feels deflation. Anonymous, faceless homicides, he decides, lack the
thrill of human
contact.
The American sun, cranked up to full volume, proclaims a new dawn.
the first luisa rey
mystery
I
Rufus Sixsmith leans over the balcony and estimates his body’s velocity
when it hits the
sidewalk and lays his dilemmas to rest. A telephone rings in the unlit room.
Sixsmith dares not
answer. Disco music booms from the next apartment, where a party is in full
swing, and
Sixsmith feels older than his sixty-six years. Smog obscures the stars, but
north and south
along the coastal strip, Buenas Yerbas’s billion lights simmer. West, the
Pacific eternity East,
our denuded, heroic, pernicious, enshrined, thirsty berserk-ing American
continent.
A young woman emerges from the next-door party and leans over the
neighboring balcony.
Her hair is shorn, her violet dress is elegant, but she looks incurably sad
and alone. Propose a
suicide pact, why don’t you? Sixsmith isn’t serious, and he isn’t going
to jump either, not if an
ember of humor still glows. Besides, a quiet accident is precisely what
Grimaldi, Napier, and
those sharp-suited hoodlums are praying for. Sixsmith shuffles inside and
pours himself
another generous vermouth from his absent host’s minibar, dips his hands in
the icebox, then
wipes his face. Go out somewhere and phone Megan, she’s your only friend
left. He knows he
won’t. You can’t drag her into this lethal mess. The disco thump pulses in
his temples, but it’s
a borrowed apartment and he judges it unwise to complain. Buenas Yerbas isn
’t Cambridge.
Anyway, you’re in hiding. The breeze slams the balcony door, and in fear
Sixsmith spills half
his vermouth. No, you old fool, it wasn’t a gunshot.
He mops up the spillage with a kitchen towel, turns on the TV with the sound
down low, and
trawls the channels for M*A*S*H. It’s on somewhere. Just have to keep
looking.
2
Luisa Rey hears a clunk from the neighboring balcony “Hello?” Nobody. Her
stomach warns
her to set down her tonic water. It was the bathroom you needed, not fresh
air, but she can’t
face weaving back through the party and, anyway, there’s no time—down the
side of the
building she heaves: once, twice, a vision of greasy chicken, and a third
time. That, she wipes
her eyes, is the third foulest thing you’ve ever done. She slooshes her
mouth out, spits residue
into a flowerpot behind a screen. Luisa dabs her lips with a tissue and
finds a mint in her
handbag. Go home and just dream up your crappy three hundred words for once.
People only
look at the pictures, anyhow.
A man too old for his leather trousers, bare torso, and zebra waistcoat
steps onto the balcony.
“Luisaaa!” A crafted golden beard and a moonstone-and-jade ankh around his
neck. “Hiya!
Come out for a little stargazing, huh? Dig. Bix brought eight ounces of snow
with him, man.
One wild cat. Hey, did I say in the interview? I’m trying on the name Ganja
at the moment.
Maharaj Aja says Richard is outa sync with my Iovedic Self.”
“Who?”
“My guru, Luisaaa, my guru! He’s on his last reincarnation before—”
Richard’s fingers go
puff! Nirvanawards. “Come to an audience. His waiting list normally takes,
like, forever, but
jade-ankh disciples get personal audiences on the same afternoon. Like, why
go through college
and shit when Maharaj Aja can, like, teach you everything about … It.” He
frames the moon in
his fingers. “Words are so … uptight… Space … it’s so … y know, like,
total. Smoke some
weed? Acapulco Gold. Got it off of Bix.” He edges nearer. “Say, Lu, let’s
get high after the
party Alone together, my place, dig? You could get a very exclusive
interview. I may even
write you a song and put it on my next LP.”
“I’ll pass.”
The minor-league rock musician narrows his eyes. “Unlucky time of the month
, huh? How’s
next week? I thought all you media chicks are on the Pill, like, forever.”
“Does Bix sell you your pickup lines, too?”
He sniggers. “Hey, has that cat been telling you things?”
“Richard, just so there’s no uncertainty I’d rather jump off this balcony
than sleep with you,
any time of any month. I really
would.”
“Whoah!” His hand jerks back as if stung. “Pick-ky! Who d’you think you
are, like, Joni
fucking Mitchell? You’re only a fucking gossip columnist in a magazine that
like no one ever
reads!”
3
The elevator doors close just as Luisa Rey reaches them, but the unseen
occupant jams them
with his cane. “Thank you,” says Luisa to the old man. “Glad the age of
chivalry isn’t totally
dead.”
He gives a grave nod.
Luisa thinks, He looks like he’s been given a week to live. She presses G.
The ancient elevator
begins its descent. A leisurely needle counts off the stories. Its motor
whines, its cables grind,
but between the tenth and ninth stories a gatta-gatta-gatta detonates then
dies with a phzzz-zzzzz-
z. Luisa and Sixsmith thump to the floor. The light stutters on and off
before settling on a
buzzing sepia.
“You okay? Can you get up?”
The sprawled old man recovers himself a little. “No bones broken, I think,
but I’ll stay seated,
thank you.” His old-school English accent reminds Luisa of the tiger in The
Jungle Book. “The
power might restart suddenly.”
“Christ,” mutters Luisa. “A power outage. Perfect end to a perfect day.”
She presses the
emergency button. Nothing. She presses the intercom button and hollers: “
Hey! Anyone
there?” Static hiss. “We have a situation here! Can anyone hear us?”
Luisa and the old man regard each other, sideways, listening.
No reply. Just vague submarine noises.
Luisa inspects the ceiling. “Got to be an access hatch …” There isn’t.
She peels up the carpet—
a steel floor. “Only in movies, I guess.”
“Are you still glad,” asks the old man, “the age of chivalry isn’t dead?”
Luisa manages a smile, just. “We might be here some time. Last month’s
brownout lasted
seven hours.” Well, at least I’m not confined with a psychopath, a
claustrophobe, or Richard
Ganga.
4
Rufus Sixsmith sits propped in a corner sixty minutes later, dabbing his
forehead with his
handkerchief. “I subscribed to Illustrated Planet in 1967 to read your
father’s dispatches from
Vietnam. Lester Rey was one of only four or five journalists who grasped the
war from the
Asian perspective. I’m fascinated to hear how a policeman became one of the
best
correspondents of his generation.”
“You asked for it.” The story is polished with each retelling. “Dad
joined the BYPD just weeks
before Pearl Harbor, which is why he spent the war here and not in the
Pacific like his brother
Howie, who got blown to pieces by a Japanese land mine playing beach
volleyball in the
Solomons. Pretty soon, it became apparent Dad was a Tenth Precinct case, and
that’s where he
wound up. There’s such a precinct in every city in the country—a sort of
pen where they
transfer all the straight cops who won’t go on the take and who won’t turn
a blind eye. So
anyway, on V-J night, Buenas Yerbas was one citywide party and you can
imagine, the police
were stretched thin. Dad got a call reporting looting down on Sil-vaplana
Wharf, a sort of noman’s-
land between Tenth Precinct, the BY Port Authority and Spinoza Precinct. Dad
and his
partner, a man named Nat Wakefield, drove down to take a look. They park
between a pair of
cargo containers, kill the engine, proceed on foot, and see maybe two dozen
men loading crates
from a warehouse into an armored truck. The light was dim, but the men sure
weren’t
dockworkers and they weren’t in military uniform. Wake-field tells Dad to
go and radio for
backup. Just as Dad gets to the radio, a call comes through saying the
original order to
investigate looting has been countermanded. Dad reports what he’d seen, but
the order is
repeated, so Dad runs back to the warehouse just in time to see his partner
accept a light from
one of the men and get shot six times in the back. Dad somehow keeps his
nerve, sprints back
to his squad car, and manages to radio out a Code 8 — a Mayday—before his
car shivers with
bullets. He’s surrounded on all sides except the dockside, so over the edge
he dives, into a
cocktail of diesel, trash, sewage, and sea. He swims underneath the quay—in
those days
Silvaplana Wharf was a steel structure like a giant boardwalk, not the
concrete peninsula it is
today—and hauls himself up a service ladder, soaked, one shoe missing, with
his nonfunctioning
revolver. All he can do is observe the men, who are just finishing up when a
couple of Spinoza Precinct squad cars arrive on the scene. Before Dad can
circle around the
yard to warn the officers, a hopelessly uneven gunfight breaks out—the
gunmen pepper the
two squad cars with submachine guns. The truck starts up, the gunmen jump
aboard, they pull
out of the yard and lob a couple of hand grenades from the back. Whether
they were intended
to maim or just to discourage heroics, who knows? but one caught Dad and
made a human
pincushion of him. He woke up two days later in the hospital minus his left
eye. The papers
described the incident as an opportunistic raid by a gang of thieves who got
lucky. The Tenth
Precinct men reckoned a syndicate who’d been siphoning off arms throughout
the war decided
to shift their stock, now that the war was over and accounting would get
tightened up. There
was pressure for a wider investigation into the Silvaplana Shootings—three
dead cops meant
something in 1945—but the mayor’s office blocked it. Draw your own
conclusions. Dad did,
and they jaded his faith in law enforcement. By the time he was out of the
hospital eight months
later, he’d completed a correspondence course in journalism.” “Good grief
,” says Sixsmith.
“The rest you may know. Covered Korea for Illustrated Planet, then became
West Coast
Herald’s Latin America man. He was in Vietnam for the battle of Ap Bac and
stayed based in
Saigon until his first collapse back in March. It’s a miracle my parents’
marriage lasted the
years it did—y know, the longest I spent with him was April to July this
year, in the hospice.”
Luisa is quiet. “I miss him, Rufus, chronically I keep forgetting he’s
dead. I keep thinking he’s
away on assignment, somewhere, and he’ll be flying in any day soon.”
“He must have been proud of you, following in his footsteps.”
“Oh, Luisa Rey is no Lester Rey I wasted years being rebellious and
liberated, posing as a poet
and working in a bookstore on En-gels Street. My posturing convinced no one,
my poetry was
‘so vacuous it isn’t even bad’—so said Lawrence Ferlinghetti—and the
bookstore went bust.
So I’m still only a columnist.” Luisa rubs her tired eyes, thinking of
Rchard Ganga’s parting
shot. “No award-winning copy from war zones. I had high hopes when I moved
to Spyglass,
but simpering gossip on celebrity parties is the closest I’ve gotten so far
to Dad’s vocation.”
“Ah, but is it well-written simpering gossip?”
“Oh, it’s excellently written simpering gossip.”
“Then don’t bemoan your misspent life quite yet. Forgive me for flaunting
my experience, but
you have no conception of what a misspent life constitutes.”
5
“Hitchcock loves the limelight,” says Luisa, her bladder now growing
uncomfortable, “but
hates interviews. He didn’t answer my questions because he didn’t really
hear them. His best
works, he said, are roller coasters that scare the riders out of their wits
but let them off at the
end giggling and eager for another ride. I put it to the great man, the key
to fictitious terror is
partition or containment: so long as the Bates Motel is sealed off from our
world, we want to
peer in, like at a scorpion enclosure. But a film that shows the world is a
Bates Motel, well,
that’s … the stuff of Buchenwald, dystopia, depression. We’ll dip our
toes in a predatory,
amoral, godless universe—but only our toes. Hitchcock’s response was”—
Luisa does an
above-average impersonation—“ ‘I’m a director in Hollywood, young lady,
not an Oracle at
Delphi.’ I asked why Buenas Yerbas had never featured in his films.
Hitchcock answered,
‘This town marries the worst of San Francisco with the worst of Los Angeles
. Buenas Yerbas
is a city of nowhere.’ He spoke in bons mots like that, not to you, but
into the ear of posterity
for dinner-party guests of the future to say, ‘That’s one of Hitchcock’s,
you know.’ ”
Sixsmith wrings sweat from his handkerchief. “I saw Charade with my niece
at an art-house
cinema last year. Was that Hitchcock? She strong-arms me into seeing these
things, to prevent
me from growing ‘square.’ I rather enjoyed it, but my niece said Audrey
Hepburn was a
‘bubblehead.’ Delicious word.”
“Charade’s the one where the plot swings on the stamps?”
“A contrived puzzle, yes, but all thrillers would wither without
contrivance. Hitchcock’s
Buenas Yerbas remark puts me in mind of John F. Kennedy’s observation about
New York.
Do you know it? ‘Most cities are nouns, but New York is a verb’ What might
Buenas Yerbas
be, I wonder?”
“A string of adjectives and conjunctions?”
“Or an expletive?”
6
“Megan, my treasured niece.” Rufus Sixsmith shows Luisa a photograph of a
bronzed young
woman and a fitter, healthier self taken at a sunny marina. The photographer
said something
funny just before the shutter clicked. Their legs dangle over the stern of a
small yacht named
Starfish. “That’s my old tub, a relic from more dynamic days.”
Luisa makes polite noises about not being old.
“Truly. If I went on a serious voyage now I’d need to hire a small crew. I
still spend a lot of
weekends on her, pottering about the marina and doing a little thinking, a
little work. Megan
likes the sea, too. She’s a born physicist with a better head for
mathematics than I ever had,
rather to her mother’s chagrin. My brother didn’t marry Megan’s mother
for her brain, I’m
sorry to say She buys into feng shui or I Ching or whatever instant-
enlightenment mumbo
jumbo is top of the charts. But Megan possesses a superb mind. She spent a
year of her Ph.D.
at my old college at Cambridge. A woman, at Caius! Now she’s finishing her
radioastronomy
research at the big dishes on Hawaii. While her mother and her stepfather
crisp themselves to
toast on the beach in the name of Leisure, Megan and I knock around
equations in the bar.”
“Any children of your own, Rufus?”
“I’ve been married to science all my life.” Sixsmith changes the subject.
“A hypothetical
question, Miss Rey What price would you pay, as a journalist I mean, to
protect a source?”
Luisa doesn’t consider the question. “If I believed in the issue? Any.”
“Prison, for example, for contempt of court?”
“If it came to it, yes.”
“Would you be prepared to … compromise your own safety?”
“Well …” Luisa does consider this. “I … guess I’d have to.”
“Have to? How so?”
“My father braved booby-trapped marshes and the wrath of generals for the
sake of his
journalistic integrity What kind of a mockery of his life would it be if his
daughter bailed when
things got a little tough?”
Tell her. Sixsmith opens his mouth to tell her everything—the whitewashing
at Seaboard, the
blackmailing, the corruption—but without warning the elevator lurches,
rumbles, and resumes
its descent. Its occupants squint in the restored light, and Sixsmith finds
his resolve has
crumbled away. The needle swings round to G.
The air in the lobby feels as fresh as mountain water.
“I’ll telephone you, Miss Rey,” says Sixsmith, as Luisa hands him his
stick, “soon.” Will I
break this promise or keep it? “Do you know?” he says. “I feel I’ve
known you for years, not
ninety minutes.”
7
The flat world is curved in the boy’s eye. Javier Gomez leafs through a
stamp album under an
Anglepoise lamp. A team of huskies barks on an Alaskan stamp, a Hawaiian
nene honks and
waddles on a fifty-cents special edition, a paddle steamer churns up an inky
Congo. A key
turns in the lock, and Luisa Rey stumbles in, kicking off her shoes in the
kitchenette. She is
exasperated to find him here. “Javier!”
“Oh, hi.”
“Don’t ‘Oh, hi’ me. You promised not to jump across the balconies ever
again! Suppose
someone reports a burglar to the cops? Suppose you slipped and fell?”
“Then just give me a key.”
Luisa strangles an invisible neck. “I can’t rest easy knowing an eleven-
year-old can waltz into
my living space whenever …” your mom’s out all night, Luisa replaces with
“… there’s a slow
night on TV.”
“So why leave the bathroom window open?”
“Because if there’s one thing worse than you jumping the gap once, it’d
be you jumping the
gap again when you couldn’t get in.”
“I’ll be eleven in January.”
“No key”
“Friends give each other keys.”
“Not when one is twenty-six and the other is still in the fifth grade.”
“So why are you back so late? Meet anyone interesting?”
Luisa glares. “Trapped by the brownout in an elevator. None of your
business, anyhow,
mister.” She switches on the main light and flinches when she sees the mean
red welt on
Javier’s face. “What the—what happened?”
The boy glances at the apartment wall, then returns to his stamps.
“Wolfman?”
Javier shakes his head, folds a tiny paper strip, and licks both sides. “
That Clark guy came
back. Mom’s working the graveyard shift at the hotel all this week, and he
’s waiting for her.
He asked me stuff about Wolfman, and I told him it wasn’t any of his
business.” Javier
attaches the hinge to the stamp. “It doesn’t hurt. I already dabbed stuff
on it.” Luisa’s hand is
already on the telephone. “Don’t phone Mom! She’ll rush back, there’ll
be a massive fight, and
the hotel’ll fire her like last time and the time before.” Luisa considers
this, replaces the
receiver, and starts for the door. “Don’t go around there! He’s sick in
the head! He’ll get angry
and wreck our stuff, then we’ll probably get evicted or something! Please.
” Luisa looks away.
She takes a deep breath. “Cocoa?” “Yes, please.” The boy is determined
not to cry, but his jaw
aches with the effort. He wipes his eyes on his wrists. “Luisa?” “Yes,
Javi, you’re sleeping on
my sofa tonight, it’s okay”
8
Dom Grelsch’s office is a study in ordered chaos. The view across Third
Avenue shows a wall
of offices much like his own. An Incredible Hulk punching bag hangs from a
metal gallows in
the corner. The editor-in-chief of Spyglass magazine declares the Monday A.M
. features
meeting open by stabbing a stubby digit at Roland Jakes, a grizzled,
prunelike man in an aloha
shirt, flared Wranglers, and dying sandals. “Jakes.”
“I, uh, wanna follow up my Terror in Sewerland series, to tie in with Jaws
fever. Dirk Melon,
he can be a freelance hack, is found under 50th East Street on a routine
maintenance inspection.
Or rather his, uh, remains are. Dental records and tattered press pass ID
him. Flesh torn from
corpse in manner consistent with Ser-rasalmus scapularis—I thank you—queen
bitch of all
piranhas, imported by fish freaks, then flushed down toilets when the meat
bill gets too big. I’ll
phone Captain Vermin at City Hall and have him deny a spate of attacks on
sewage workers.
Taking notes, Luisa? Believe nothing till it’s officially denied. So c’mon
, Grelsch. Time you
gave me that raise?”
“Just be grateful your last paycheck didn’t boing. On my desk by eleven
tomorrow, with a pic
of one of those snappers. A question, Luisa?”
“Yes. Is there a new editorial policy no one’s told me about that excludes
articles containing
truth?”
“Hey, metaphysics seminar is on the roof. Just take the elevator up and
keep walking until you
hit the sidewalk. Anything is true if enough people believe it is. Nancy,
what’ve you got for
me?”
Nancy O’Hagan has conservative clothes, a pickled complexion, and giraffe-
size eyelashes that
often come unstuck. “My trusty mole got a picture of the bar on the
president’s airplane.
‘Wing-dings and gin slings on Air Force One.’ The dumb money says the last
drop’s been
squeezed out of the old soak, but Auntie Nance thinks not.”
Grelsch considers. Telephones ring and typewriters clack in the background.
“Okay, if nothing
fresher comes up. Oh, and interview that ventriloquist puppet guy who lost
his arms for It
Never Rains … Nussbaum. You’re up.”
Jerry Nussbaum wipes dewdrops of choco-Popsicle from his beard, leans back,
and triggers a
landslide of papers. “The cops are chasing their own asses on the St.
Christopher case, so how
about a Are You St. Christopher’s Next Slaying?’ piece? Profiles of all
the snuffs to date and
reconstructions of the victims’ last minutes. Where they were going, who
they were meeting,
what thoughts were going through their heads …”
“When St. Chris’s bullet went through their heads.” Roland Jakes laughs.
“Yeah, Jakes, let’s hope he’s attracted to flashy Hawaiian colors. Then
later I’m seeing the
colored streetcar driver the cops had on the rack last week. He’s suing the
police department for
wrongful arrest under the Civil Rights Act.”
“Could be a cover story. Luisa?”
“I met an atomic engineer.” Luisa ignores the indifference chilling the
room. “An inspector at
Seaboard Incorporated.” Nancy O’Hagan is doing her fingernails, driving
Luisa to present her
suspicions as facts. “He believes the new HYDRA nuclear reactor at
Swannekke Island isn’t
as safe as the official line. Isn’t safe at all, in fact. Its launch
ceremony is this afternoon, so I
want to drive out and see if I can turn anything up.”
“Hot shit, a technical launch ceremony,” exclaims Nussbaum. “What’s that
rumbling sound,
everyone? A Pulitzer Prize, rolling this way?”
“Oh, kiss my ass, Nussbaum.”
Jerry Nussbaum sighs. “In my wettest dreams …”
Luisa is torn between retaliation—Yeah, and letting the worm know how much
he riles you—
and ignoring him—Yeah, and letting the worm get away with saying what the
heck he wants.
Dom Grelsch breaks her impasse. “Marketeers prove”—he twirls a pencil—“
every scientific
term you use represents two thousand readers putting down the magazine and
turning on a
rerun of I Love Lucy.”
“Okay,” says Luisa. “How about ‘Seaboard Atom Bomb to Blow Buenas Yerbas
to Kingdom
Come!’?”
“Terrific, but you’ll need to prove it.”
“Like Jakes can prove his story?”
“Hey” Grelsch’s pencil stops twirling. “Fictitious people eaten by
fictitious fish can’t flay every
last dollar off you in the courts or lean on your bank to pull the plug. A
coast-to-coast operation
like Seaboard Power Inc. has lawyers who can and, sweet Mother of God, you
put a foot
wrong, they will.”
9
Luisa’s rust-orange VW Beetle travels a flat road toward a mile-long bridge
connecting Yerbas
Cape to Swannekke Island, whose power station dominates the lonely estuary.
The bridge
checkpoint is not quiet today A hundred-strong demonstration lines the last
stretch, chanting,
“Swannekke C over our dead bodies!” A wall of police keeps them back from
the line of nine
or ten vehicles. Luisa reads the placards while she waits. YOU ARE NOW
ENTERING
CANCER ISLAND, warns one, another, HELL, NO! WE WON’T GO! and,
enigmatically,
WHERE OH WHERE IS MARGO ROKER?
A guard taps on the window; Luisa winds it down and sees her face in the
guard’s sunglasses.
“Luisa Rey, Spyglass magazine.”
“Press pass, ma’am.”
Luisa gets it from her purse. “Expecting trouble today?”
“Nah.” He consults a clipboard and hands back her pass. “Only our regular
nature freaks from
the trailer park. The college boys are vacationing where the surf’s better.”
As she crosses the bridge, the Swannekke B plant emerges from behind the
older, grayer
cooling towers of Swannekke A. Once again, Luisa wonders about Rufus
Sixsmith. Why
wouldn’t he give me a contact number? Scientists can’t be telephobic. Why
did no one in the
super’s office in his apartment building even know his name? Scientists can
’t have aliases.
Twenty minutes later Luisa arrives at a colony of some two hundred luxury
homes overlooking
a sheltered bay. A hotel and golf course share the semiwooded slope below
the power station.
She leaves her Beetle in the R & D parking lot and looks at the power
station’s abstract
buildings half-hidden by the brow of the hill. An orderly row of palm trees
rustles in the
Pacific wind.
“Hi!” A Chinese-American woman strides up. “You look lost. Here for the
launch?” Her
stylish oxblood suit, flawless makeup, and sheer poise make Luisa feel
shabby in her blueberry
suede jacket. “Fay Li”—the woman offers her hand—“Seaboard PR.”
“Luisa Rey, Spyglass magazine.”
Fay Li’s handshake is powerful. “Spyglass? I didn’t realize—”
“—our editorial scope includes energy policy?”
Fay Li smiles. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s a feisty magazine.”
Luisa invokes Dom Grelsch’s reliable deity “Market research identifies a
growing public who
demand more substance. I was hired as Spyglass’s highbrow face.”
“Very glad you’ve come, Luisa, whatever your brow. Let me sign you in at
Reception. Security
insists on bag searches and the rest, but it’s no good having our guests
treated like saboteurs.
That’s why I was hired.”
10
Joe Napier watches a bank of CCTV screens covering a lecture theater, its
adjacent corridors,
and the Public Center grounds. He stands, fluffs up his special cushion, and
sits on it. Is it my
imagination, or are my old wounds aching more of late? His gaze flits from
screen to screen to
screen. One shows a technician doing a sound check; another, a TV crew
discussing angles
and light; Fay Li crossing the parking lot with a visitor; waitresses
pouring wine into hundreds
of glasses; a row of chairs beneath a banner reading SWANNEKKE B— AN
AMERICAN
MIRACLE.
The real miracle, Joseph Napier ruminates, was getting eleven out of twelve
scientists to forget
the existence of a nine-month inquiry. A screen shows these very scientists
drifting onstage,
chatting amicably Like Grimaldi says, every conscience has an off switch
somewhere. Napier’s
thoughts segue through memorable lines from the interviews that achieved the
collective
amnesia. “Between us, Dr. Franklin, the Pentagon’s lawyers are itching to
try out their shiny
new Security Act. The whistle-blower is to be blacklisted in every salaried
position in the
land.”
A janitor adds another chair to the row onstage.
“The choice is simple, Dr. Moses. If you want Soviet technology to burn
ahead of ours, leak
this report to your Union of Concerned Scientists, fly to Moscow to collect
your medal, but the
CIA has told me to tell you, you won’t be needing a round-trip ticket.”
The audience of dignitaries, scientists, think-tank members, and opinion
formers take their
seats. A screen shows William Wiley, vice CEO of Seaboard Inc., joking with
those VIPs to
be honored with a seat onstage.
“Professor Keene, the Defense Department brass are a little curious. Why
voice your doubts
now? Are you saying your work on the prototype was slipshod?”
A slide projector beams a fish-eye aerial shot of Swannekke B.
Eleven out of twelve. Only Rufus Sixsmith gets away.
Napier speaks into his walkie-talkie. “Fay? Show starts in ten minutes.”
Static. “Copy that, Joe. I’m escorting a visitor to the lecture theater.”
“Report to Security when you’re through, please.”
Static. “Copy. Over and out.”
Napier weighs the set in his hand. And Joe Napier? Has his conscience got an
off switch? He
sips his bitter black coffee. Hey, buddy, get off my case. I’m only
following orders. Eighteen
months till I retire, then it’s off to fish in sweet rushing rivers until I
turn into a goddamn
heron.
Milly his deceased wife, watches her husband from the photograph on his
console desk.
11
“Our great nation suffers from a debilitating addiction.” Alberto Grimaldi
, Seaboard CEO and
Newsweek Man of the Year, is king of the dramatic pause. “Its name is Oil.
” He is gilded by
the podium lights. “Geologists tell us, just seventy-four billion gallons
of this Jurassic ocean
scum remain in the Persian Gulf. Enough, maybe, to see out our century?
Probably not. The
most imperative question facing the USA, ladies and gentlemen, is ‘Then
what?’ ”
Alberto Grimaldi scans his audience. In the palm of my hand. “Some bury
their heads in the
sand. Some fantasize about wind turbines, reservoirs, and”—wry half smile
—“pig gas.”
Appreciative chuckle. “At Seaboard we deal in realities.” Voice up. “I am
here today to tell you
that the cure for oil is right here, right now, on Swannekke Island!”
He smiles as the cheers subside. “As of today, domestic, abundant, and safe
atomic energy has
come of age! Friends, I am so very, very proud to present one of the major
engineering
innovations in history … the HYDRA-Zero reactor!” The slide screen changes
to show a
cross-section diagram, and a primed section of the audience applauds wildly,
prompting most
of the theater to follow suit.
“But hey, now, enough of me, I’m only the CEO.” Affectionate laughter. “
Here to unveil our
viewing gallery and flick that switch to connect Swannekke B to the national
grid, the Seaboard
family is deeply honored to welcome a very special visitor. Known on Capitol
Hill as the
president’s ‘Energy Guru’ ”—full smile—“it gives me profound pleasure
to welcome a man
who needs no introduction. Federal Power Commissioner Lloyd Hooks!”
An immaculately groomed man strides onstage to great applause. Lloyd Hooks
and Alberto
Grimaldi grasp each other’s forearms in a gesture of fraternal love and
trust. “Your
scriptwriters are getting better,” Lloyd Hooks murmurs, as both men grin
broadly for the
audience, “but you’re still Greed on Two Legs.”
Alberto Grimaldi backslaps Lloyd Hooks and replies in kind, “You’ll only
wrangle your way
onto this company’s board over my dead body, you venal sonofabitch!”
Lloyd Hooks beams out at the audience. “So you can still come up with
creative solutions,
Alberto.”
A cannonade of flashes opens fire.
A young woman in a blueberry jacket slips out of a rear exit.
12
“The ladies’ restroom, please?”
A guard speaking on his walkie-talkie waves her down a corridor.
Luisa Rey glances back. The guard’s back is turned, so she continues on
around a corner and
into a grid of repeated corridors, chilled and muffled by humming air
coolers. She passes a pair
of hurrying technicians in overalls who eye her breasts from under their
caps but who do not
challenge her. Doors bear cryptic signs. W212 DEMI-OUTLETS, YOO9 SUBPASSES
[AC], V77O HAZ-ARDLESS [EXEMPTED]. Periodic higher-security doors have
keypad
entry systems. At a stairwell she examines a floor plan but finds no trace
of any Sixsmith.
“You lost, lady?”
Luisa does her best to recover her poise. A silver-haired black janitor
stares at her.
“Yes, I’m looking for Dr. Sixsmith’s room.” “Uh-huh. English guy. Third
floor, C105.”
“Thank you.”
“He ain’t been around a week or two.” “Is that a fact? Can you tell me
why?” “Uh-huh. Went
to Vegas on vacation.” “Dr. Sixsmith? Vegas?” “Uh-huh. So I was told.”
Room C105’s door is ajar. A recent attempt to erase “Dr. Sixsmith” from
the nameplate ended
in messy failure. Through the crack Luisa Rey watches a young man sitting on
the table, sifting
through a pile of a notebooks. The contents of the room are in several
shipping crates. Luisa
remembers her father saying, Acting like an insider can be enough to be one.
“Well,” says Luisa, strolling in. “You’re not Dr. Sixsmith, are you?”
The man drops the notebook guiltily, and Luisa knows she’s bought a few
moments. “Oh, my
God”—he stares back—“you must be Megan.”
Why be contradictory? “And you are?”
“Isaac Sachs. Engineer.” He gets to his feet and aborts a premature
handshake. “I worked with
your uncle on his report.” Brisk footsteps echo up the stairwell. Isaac
Sachs closes the door.
His voice is low and nervy: “Where’s Rufus hiding, Megan? I’ve been
worried sick. Have you
heard from him?”
“I was hoping you could tell me what’s happened.”
Fay Li strides in with the unimpressed security man. “Luisa. Still looking
for the ladies’
room?”
Act stupid. “No. I’m all finished with the ladies’ room—it was
spotlessly clean—but I’m late
for my appointment with Dr. Six-smith. Only … well, it seems he’s moved
out.”
Isaac Sachs makes a “hah?” noise. “You’re not Sixsmith’s niece?”
“Excuse me, but I never said I was.” Luisa produces a pre-prepared gray
lie for Fay Li. “I met
Dr. Sixsmith on Nantucket last spring. We found we were both based in Buenas
Yerbas, so he
gave me his card. I dug it out three weeks ago, called him up, and we
arranged to meet today to
discuss a science feature for Spyglass.” She consults her watch. “Ten
minutes ago. The launch
speeches went on longer than I’d expected, so I slipped quietly away. I
hope I haven’t caused
any trouble?”
Fay Li acts convinced. “We can’t have unauthorized people wandering around
a sensitive
research institute like ours.”
Luisa acts contrite. “I thought signing in and having my bag checked was
the security
procedure, but I guess that was naïve. Dr. Sixsmith will vouch for me,
though. Just ask him.”
Sachs and the guard both glance at Fay Li, who does not miss a beat. “That
isn’t going to be
possible. One of our Canadian projects needed Dr. Sixsmith’s attention. I
can only imagine his
secretary didn’t have your contact details when she cleared his
appointments diary”
Luisa looks at the boxes. “Looks like he’s going to be away for a while.”
“Yes, so we’re shipping him his resources. His consultancy here at
Swannekke was winding
up. Dr. Sachs here has done a gallant job of tying up the loose ends.”
“So much for my first interview with a great scientist.”
Fay Li holds the door open. “Maybe we can find you another.”
13
“Operator?” Rufus Sixsmith cradles the receiver in an anonymous suburban
motel outside
Buenas Yerbas. “I’m having trouble placing a call to Hawaii … yes. I’m
trying to call …” He
reads out Megan’s telephone number. “Yes, I’ll stay by the phone.”
On a TV with no yellow or green, Lloyd Hooks backslaps Alberto Grimaldi at
the inauguration
of the new HYDRA reactor at Swannekke Island. They salute the lecture
theater like
conquering sportsmen, and silver confetti falls from the roof. “No stranger
to controversy,”
says a reporter, “Seaboard CEO Alberto Grimaldi today announced the go-
ahead of
Swannekke C. Fifty million federal dollars will be poured into the second
HYDRA-Zero
reactor, and thousands of new jobs will be created. Fears that the mass
arrests seen earlier this
summer at Three Mile Island would be repeated in the Golden State did not
materialize.”
Frustrated and weary, Rufus Sixsmith addresses the TV “And when the
hydrogen buildup
blows the roof off the containment chamber? When prevailing winds shower
radiation over
California?” He turns the set off and squeezes the bridge of his nose. I
proved it. I proved it.
You couldn’t buy me, so you tried intimidation. I let you, Lord forgive me,
but no longer. I’m
not sitting on my conscience any longer.
The telephone rings. Sixsmith snatches it up. “Megan?”
A brusque male voice. “They’re coming.”
“Who is this?”
“They traced your last call to the Talbot Motel, 1046 Olympia Boulevard.
Get to the airport
now, get on the next flight for England, and conduct your exposé from over
there, if you must.
But go.”
“Why should I believe—”
“Use logic. If I’m lying, you’re still back in England safe and sound—
with your report. If I’m
not lying, you’re dead.”
“I demand to know—”
“You’ve got twenty minutes to get away, max. Go!”
Dial tone, a droning eternity
14
Jerry Nussbaum rotates his office chair, straddles it, places his folded
arms on its back, and
rests his chin on them. “Picture the scene, me and six dreadlocked freaks
of the negroid
persuasion, a handgun tickling my tonsils. Not talking dead-of-night Harlem
here, I’m talking
Greenwich goddamn Village in broad goddamn daylight after a sixteen-pound
steak with
Norman goddamn Mailer. So there we were, this black bro’ frisks me down
with his bitonal
paw and relieves me of my wallet. ‘Wassis? Alligator skin?’ ” Nuss-baum
does a Richard
Pryor accent. “ ‘No fuckin’ class, Whitey!’ Class? Those bums made me
turn out my pockets
for my every last cent—literally. But Nussbaum had the last laugh, you bet
he did. In the cab
back to Times Square, I wrote my now-classic ‘New Tribes’ editorial—no
point in false
modesty—and got it syndicated thirty times by the end of the week! My
muggers turned me
into a household name. So, Luey-Luey what say you take me to dinner and I
teach you how to
extract a little gold from the Fangs of Fate?”
Luisa’s typewriter pings. “If the muggers took your every last cent—
literally—what were you
doing in a cab from Greenwich Village to Times Square? Sell your body for
the fare?”
“You”—Nussbaum shifts his mass—“have a genius for missing the point.”
Roland Jakes drips candle wax onto a photograph. “Definition of the Week.
What’s a
conservative?”
The joke is old by summer 1975. “A mugged liberal.”
Jakes, stung, goes back to his picture-doctoring.
Luisa crosses the office to Dom Grelsch’s door. Her boss is speaking on the
phone in a low,
irate voice. Luisa waits outside but overhears. “No—no, no, Mr. Frum, it
is black-and-white,
tell me— hey, I’m talking now—tell me a more black-and-white ‘condition
’ than leukemia?
Know what I think? I think my wife is just one piece of paperwork between
you and your three
o’clock golf slot, isn’t she? Then prove it to me. Do you have a wife, Mr.
Frum? Do you? You
do. Can you imagine your wife lying in a hospital ward with her hair falling
out? … What?
What did you say? ‘Getting emotional won’t help’? Is that all you can
offer, Mr. Frum? Yeah,
buddy, you’re damn right I’ll be seeking legal counsel!” Grelsch slams
the receiver down, lays
into his punching bag gasping “Frum!” with each blow, collapses into his
chair, lights a
cigarette, and catches sight of Luisa hesitating in his doorway “Life. A
Force Ten shitstorm.
You hear any of that?”
“The gist. I can come back later.”
“No. Come in, sit down. Are you young, healthy, and strong, Luisa?”
“Yes.” Luisa sits on boxes. “Why?”
“Because what I gotta say about your article on this unsubstantiated cover-
up at Seaboard will,
frankly, leave you old, sick, and weak.”
15
At Buenas Yerbas International Airport, Dr. Rufus Sixsmith places a vanilla
binder into locker
number 909, glances around the crowded concourse, feeds the slot with coins,
turns the key,
and slips this into a padded khaki envelope addressed to Luisa Rey at
Spyglass, Klugh Bldg.
12F, 3rd Avenue, BY. Sixsmith’s pulse rises as he nears the postal desk.
What if they get me
before I reach it? His pulse rockets. Businessmen, families with luggage
carts, snakes of
elderly tourists all seem intent on thwarting his progress. The mailbox slot
looms closer. Just
yards away now, just inches.
The khaki envelope is swallowed and gone. Godspeed.
Sixsmith next lines up for an airplane ticket. News of delays lulls him like
a litany. He keeps a
nervous eye out for signs of Seaboard’s agents coming to pick him up at
this late hour. Finally,
a ticket clerk waves him over.
“I have to get to London. Any destination in the United Kingdom, in fact.
Any seat, any airline.
I’ll pay in cash.”
“Not a prayer, sir.” The clerk’s tiredness shows through her makeup. “
Earliest I can
manage”—she consults a teleprinted sheet— “London Heathrow … tomorrow
afternoon,
three-fifteen departure, Laker Skytrains, change at JFK.”
“It’s terribly important that I leave sooner.”
“I’m sure it is, sir, but we got air-traffic-control strikes and acres of
stranded passengers.”
Sixsmith tells himself that not even Seaboard could arrange aviation strikes
to detain him.
“Then tomorrow it shall have to be. One-way, business class, please,
nonsmoking. Is there
overnight accommodation anywhere in the airport?”
“Yes, sir, third level. Hotel Bon Voyage. You’ll be comfortable there. If
I can just see your
passport, please, so I can process your ticketing?”
16
A stained-glass sunset illuminates the velveteen Hemingway in Luisa’s
apartment. Luisa is
buried in Harnessing the Sun: Two Decades of Peacetime Atomic Power, chewing
a pen.
Javier is at her desk doing a sheet of long-division problems. Carole King’
s Tapestry LP is
playing at a low volume. Drifting through the windows comes the dim roar of
automobiles
heading home. The telephone rings, but Luisa lets it. Javier studies the
answering machine as it
clunks into action. “Hi, Luisa Rey can’t come to the phone right now, but
if you leave your
name and number, I’ll get back to you.”
“I loathe these contraptions,” complains the caller. “Cookie, it’s your
mother. I just heard from
Beatty Griffin, who told me you split up with Hal—last month? I was
dumbstruck! You didn’t
breathe a word at your father’s funeral, or at Alphonse’s. This bottling-
up worries me so much.
Dougie and I are having a fund-raiser for the American Cancer Society and it
’d mean the sun,
the moon, and the stars to us if you’d abandon your poky little nest just
for one weekend and
come stay, Cookie? The Henderson triplets will be here, that’s Damien the
cardiologist, Lance
the gynecologist, and Jesse the … Doug? Doug! Jesse Henderson, what does he
do? A lobotomist?
Oh, funny. Anyway, daughter of mine, Beatty tells me by some freak of
planetary
alignment all three brothers are unattached. On the hoof, Cookie, on the
hoof! So call the
moment you get this. All my love now.” She ends with a suction kiss, “
Mmmmchwaaa!”
“She sounds like the mother on Bewitched.” Javier lets a little time go by
“What’s
‘dumbstruck’?”
Luisa doesn’t look up. “When you’re so amazed you can’t speak.”
“She didn’t sound very dumbstruck, did she?”
Luisa is engrossed in her work.
“ ‘Cookie’?”
Luisa flings a slipper at the boy.
17
In his hotel room at the Bon Voyage, Dr. Rufus Sixsmith reads a sheaf of
letters written to him
nearly half a century ago by his friend Robert Frobisher. Sixsmith knows
them by heart, but
their texture, rustle, and his friend’s faded handwriting calm his nerves.
These letters are what
he would save from a burning building. At seven o’clock precisely, he
washes, changes his
shirt, and sandwiches the nine read letters in the Gideon’s Bible—this he
replaces in the
bedside cabinet. Sixsmith slips the unread letters into his jacket pocket
for the restaurant.
Dinner is a minute steak and strips of fried eggplant, with a poorly washed
salad. It deadens
rather than satisfies Sixsmith’s appetite. He leaves half on his plate and
sips carbonated water
as he reads Frobisher’s last letters. He witnesses himself through Robert’
s words searching
Bruges for his unstable friend, first love, and if I’m honest, my last.
In the hotel elevator Sixsmith considers the responsibility he put on Luisa
Rey’s shoulders,
wondering if he’s done the right thing. The curtains of his room blow in as
he opens the door.
He calls out, “Who’s in here?”
No one. No one knows where you are. His imagination has been playing tricks
on him for
weeks now. Sleep deprivation. “Look,” he tells himself, “in forty-eight
hours you’ll be back in
Cambridge on your rainy, safe, narrow island. You’ll have your facilities,
your allies, your
contacts, and you can plan your broadside on Seaboard from there.”
18
Bill Smoke watches Rufus Sixsmith leave his hotel room, waits five minutes,
then lets himself
in. He sits on the rim of the bathtub and flexes his gloved fists. No drug,
no religious
experience touches you like turning a man into a corpse. You need a brain,
though. Without
discipline and expertise, you’ll soon find yourself strapped into an
electric chair. The assassin
strokes a lucky Krugerrand in his pocket. Smoke is wary of being a slave to
superstition, but
he isn’t about to mess with the amulet just to prove a point. A tragedy for
loved ones, a big fat
nothing to everyone else, and a problem solved for my clients. I’m just the
instrument of my
clients’ will. If it wasn’t me it’d be the next fixer in the Yellow Pages
. Blame its user, blame its
maker, but don’t blame the gun. Bill Smoke hears the lock. Breathe. The
pills he took earlier
clarify his perception, terribly, and when Sixsmith shuffles into the
bedroom, humming
“Leaving on a Jet Plane,” the hit man could swear he can feel his victim’
s pulse, slower than
his own. Smoke sights his prey through the door crack. Sixsmith flumps onto
the bed. The
assassin visualizes the required motions: Three steps out, fire from the
side, through the
temple, up close. Smoke darts from the doorway; Sixsmith utters a guttural
syllable and tries to
rise, but the silenced bullet is already boring through the scientist’s
skull and into the mattress.
The body of Rufus Sixsmith falls back, as if he has curled up for a
postprandial nap.
Blood soaks into the thirsty eiderdown.
Fulfillment throbs in Bill Smoke’s brain. Look what I did.
19
Wednesday morning is smog-scorched and heat-hammered, like the last hundred
mornings and
the next fifty Luisa Rey drinks black coffee in the steamy cool of the Snow
White Diner on the
corner of Second Avenue and Sixteenth Street, a two-minute walk from the
Spyglass offices,
reading about a Baptist ex–naval nuclear engineer from Atlanta called James
Carter, who plans
to run for the Democratic nomination. Sixteenth Street traffic moves in
frustrated inches and
headlong stampedes. The sidewalks blur with hurrying people and
skateboarders. “Nothin’ for
breakfast this mornin’, Luisa?” asks Bart, the fry cook.
“Only news,” replies his very regular customer.
Roland Jakes trips over the doorway and makes his way to Luisa. “Uh, this
seat free? Didn’t
eat a bite this morning. Shirl’s left me. Again.”
“Features meeting in fifteen minutes.”
“Bags of time.” Jakes sits down and orders eggs over easy “Page nine,”
he says to Luisa.
“Right-hand bottom corner. Something you should see.”
Luisa turns to page nine and reaches for her coffee. Her hand freezes.
SCIENTIST SUICIDE AT B.Y. INT’L. AIRPORT HOTEL
Eminent British scientist Dr. Rufus Sixsmith was found dead Tuesday morning
in his room at
Buenas Yerbas International Airport’s Hotel Bon Voyage, having taken his
own life. Dr.
Sixsmith, former head of the Global Atomic Commission, had been employed as
a consultant
for Seaboard Corporation at the blue-chip utility’s Swannekke Island
installation outside
Buenas Yerbas City for ten months. He was known to have had a lifelong
battle with clinical
depression, and for the week prior to his death had been incommunicado. Ms.
Fay Li,
spokeswoman for Seaboard, said, “Dr. Sixsmith’s untimely death is a
tragedy for the entire
international scientific community. We at Seaboard Village on Swannekke
Island feel we’ve lost
not just a greatly respected colleague but a very dear friend. Our heartfelt
condolences go to
his own family and his many friends. He shall be greatly missed.” Dr. Six-
smith’s body,
discovered with a single gunshot wound to the head by hotel maids, is being
flown home for
burial in his native England. A medical examiner at BYPD confirmed there are
no suspicious
circumstances surrounding the incident.
“So”—Jakes grins—“is your exposé of the century screwed up now?”
Luisa’s skin prickles and her eardrums hurt.
“Whoops.” Jakes lights up a cigarette. “Were you close?”
“He couldn’t”—Luisa fumbles her words—“wouldn’t have done it.”
Jakes approximates gentleness. “Kinda looks like he did, Luisa.”
“You don’t kill yourself if you have a mission.”
“You might if your mission makes you crazy.”
“He was murdered, Jakes.”
Jakes represses a he re-we-go-again face. “Who by?”
“Seaboard Corporation. Of course.”
“Ah. His employer. Of course. Motive?”
Luisa forces herself to speak calmly and ignore Jakes’s mock conviction. “
He’d written a
report on a reactor type developed at Swannekke B, the HYDRA. Plans for Site
C are waiting
for Federal Power Commission approval. When it’s approved, Seaboard can
license the design
for the domestic and overseas market—the government contracts alone would
mean a stream of
revenue in the high tens of millions, annually. Sixsmith’s role was to give
the project his
imprimatur, but he hadn’t read the script and identified lethal design
flaws. In response,
Seaboard buried the report and denied its existence.”
“And your Dr. Sixsmith did what?”
“He was getting ready to go public.” Luisa slaps the newspaper. “This is
what the truth cost
him.”
Jakes pierces a wobbly dome of yolk with a toast soldier. “You, uh, know
what Grelsch is
going to say?”
“ ‘Hard evidence,’ ” says Luisa, like a doctor making a diagnosis. “
Look, Jakes, will you tell
Grelsch … just tell him I had to go somewhere.”
20
The manager at the Hotel Bon Voyage is having a bad day “No, you may not
see his room!
The specialized carpet cleaner has removed all traces of the incident. Who,
I add, we had to pay
from our own pocket! What kind of ghoul are you, anyway? A reporter? A ghost
hunter? A
novelist?”
“I’m”—Luisa Rey buckles with sobs from nowhere—“his niece, Megan
Sixsmith.”
A stony matriarch enfolds the weeping Luisa in her mountainous bust. Random
bystanders
shoot the manager foul looks. The manager goes pale and attempts damage
control. “Please,
come through to the back, I’ll get you a—”
“Glass of water!” snaps the matriarch, knocking the man’s hand away.
“Wendy! Water! Please, through here, why don’t you—”
“A chair, for goodness’ sake!” The matriarch supports Luisa into the
shady side office.
“Wendy! A chair! This instant!”
Luisa’s ally clasps her hands. “Let it out, honey, let it out, I’m
listening. I’m Janice from
Esphigmenou, Utah, and here is my story When I was your age, I was alone in
my house,
coming downstairs from my daughter’s nursery, and there on the halfway
landing stood my
mother. ‘Go check the baby, Janice,’ she said. I told my mother I’d
checked her one minute
ago, she was sleeping fine. My mother’s voice turned to ice. ‘Don’t argue
with me, young
lady, go check the baby, now!’ Sounds crazy, but only then I remembered my
mother had died
the Thanksgiving before. But I ran upstairs and found my daughter choking on
the cord from
the blind, wound around her neck. Thirty seconds, that would have been it.
So you see?”
Luisa blinks tearfully.
“You see, honey? They pass over, but they ain’t gone.”
The chastened manager returns with a shoe box. “Your uncle’s room is
occupied, I’m afraid,
but the maid found these letters inside the Gideon’s Bible. His name is on
the envelope.
Naturally, I was going to have them forwarded to your family, but since you
’re here …”
He hands her a sheaf of nine time-browned envelopes, each addressed to “
Rufus Sixsmith,
Esq. c/o Caius College, Cambridge, England.” One is stained by a very
recent tea bag. All are
badly crumpled and hastily smoothed out.
“Thank you,” says Luisa, vaguely, then more firmly. “Uncle Rufus valued
his correspondence,
and now it’s all I have left of him. I won’t take up any more of your time
. I’m sorry I fell to
pieces out there.”
The manager’s relief is palpable.
“You’re a very special person, Megan,” Janice from Esphigme-nou, Utah,
assures Luisa, as
they part in the hotel lobby.
“You’re a very special person, Janice,” Luisa replies and returns to the
parking level, passing
within ten yards of locker number 909.
21
Luisa Rey has been back at Spyglass’s offices for under a minute when Dom
Grelsch roars
over the newsroom chatter, “Miss Rey!”
Jerry Nussbaum and Roland Jakes look up from their desks, at Luisa, at each
other, and mouth,
“Ouch!” Luisa puts the Frobisher letters into a drawer, locks it, and
walks into Grelsch’s
office. “Dom, sorry I couldn’t make the meeting, I—”
“Spare me the woman’s trouble excuse. Shut the door.”
“I’m not in the habit of making any excuses.”
“Are you in the habit of making meetings? You’re paid to be.”
“I’m also paid to follow up stories.”
“So you flew off to the crime scene. Did you find hard evidence missed by
the cops? A
message, in blood, on the tiles? Alberto Grimaldi did it’?”
“Hard evidence isn’t hard evidence if you don’t break your back digging
for it. An editor
named Dom Grelsch told me that.”
Grelsch glares at her.
“I got a lead, Dom.”
“You got a lead.”
I can’t batter you, I can’t fool you, I can only hook your curiosity. “I
phoned the precinct where
Sixsmith’s case was processed.”
“There is no case! It was suicide! Unless we’re talking Marilyn Monroe,
suicides don’t sell
magazines. Too depressing.”
“Listen to me. Why did Sixsmith buy an airplane ticket if he was going to
put a bullet through
his head later that day?”
Grelsch extends his arms to show the size of his disbelief that he is even
having this
conversation. “A snap decision.”
“Then why would he have a typed suicide note—and no typewriter—ready and
waiting for this
snap decision?”
“I don’t know! I don’t care! I got a publication deadline Thursday night,
a dispute with the
printers, a delivery strike in the offing, and Ogilvy holding the Sword of
What’s-’is-name over
my head. Hold a séance and ask Sixsmith yourself! Sixsmith was a scientist.
Scientists are
unstable.”
“We were trapped in an elevator for ninety minutes. Cool as a cucumber.
Unstable just isn’t a
word that sticks to the man. Another thing. He shot himself—supposedly—
with just about the
quietest gun on the market. A Roachford .34 with fitted silencer. Catalog
order only. Why
would he go to the trouble?”
“So. The cops got it wrong, the ME got it wrong, everyone got it wrong
except Luisa Rey ace
cub reporter, whose penetrating insight concludes the world-famous number
cruncher was
assassinated just because he’d pointed out a few hitches in some report, a
report nobody agrees
exists. Am I right?”
“Half right. More likely, the police were encouraged to arrive at
conclusions convenient for
Seaboard.”
“Sure, a utility company buys the cops. Stupid me.”
“Count in their subsidiaries, Seaboard Corporation is the tenth biggest
corporation in the
country. They could buy Alaska if they wanted. Give me until Monday.”
“No! You got this week’s reviews and, yes, the food feature.” “If Bob
Woodward had told you
he suspected President Nixon had ordered a burglary of his political rival’
s offices and
recorded himself issuing the order, would you have said, ‘Forget it, Bob,
honey, I need eight
hundred words on salad dressings’?”
“Don’t you dare give me the I’m-an-outraged-feminist act.” “Then don’t
give me the listen-
I’ve-been-in-the-business-thirty-years act! One Jerry Nussbaum in the
building is bad
enough.”
“You’re squeezing size-eighteen reality into a size-eleven supposition.
The undoing of many a
fine newspaperman. Many a fine anyone.”
“Monday! I’ll get a copy of the Sixsmith Report.” “Promises you can’t
keep are not a sound
currency.” “Apart from getting on my knees and begging you, I don’t have
any other currency
C’mon. Dom Grelsch doesn’t snuff out solid investigative journalism just
because it doesn’t
turn up the goods in one morning. Dad told me you were just about the most
daring reporter
working anywhere in the mid-sixties.”
Grelsch swivels and looks over Third Avenue. “Did he bullshit!” “He did
too bullshit! That
exposé on Ross Zinn’s campaign funds in ’sixty-four. You took a bone-
chilling white
supremacist out of politics for good. Dad called you dogged, cussed, and
indefatigable. Ross
Zinn took nerve, sweat, and time. I’ll do the nerve and sweat, all I want
from you is a little
time.” “Roping your pa into this was a dirty trick.” “Journalism calls
for dirty tricks.”
Grelsch stubs his cigarette and lights another. “Monday, with Six-smith’s
inquiry, and it’s got
to be hurricane proof, Luisa, with names, sources, facts. Who squashed this
report, and why,
and how Swan-nekke B will turn Southern California into Hiroshima. Something
else. If you
get evidence Sixsmith was murdered, we’re going to the cops before we print
. I don’t want
dynamite under my car seat.”
“ ‘All the news without fear or favor.’ ”
“Beat it.”
Nancy O’Hagan makes a not-bad face as Luisa sits at her desk and takes out
Sixsmith’s
rescued letters.
In his office, Grelsch lays into his punching bag. “Dogged!” Wham! “
Cussed!” Wham!
“Indefatigable!” The editor catches his reflection, mocking him.
22
A Sephardic romance, composed before the expulsion of the Jews from Spain,
fills the Lost
Chord Music Store on the northwest corner of Spinoza Square and Sixth Avenue
. The welldressed
man on the telephone, pallid for this tanned city repeats the inquiry: “
Cloud Atlas
Sextet… Robert Frobisher … As a matter of fact I have heard of it, though
I’ve never laid my
sticky paws on an actual pressing…. Frobisher was a wunderkind, he died
just as he got
going…. Let me see here, I’ve got a list from a dealer in San Fran who
specializes in rarities….
Franck, Fitzroy Frobisher… Here we go, even a little footnote…. Only five
hundred
recordings pressed … in Holland, before the war, my, no wonder it’s rare…
. The dealer has a
copy of an acetate, made in the fifties … by a liquidated French outfit.
Cloud Atlas Sextet must
bring the kiss of death to all who take it on…. I’ll try, he had one as of
a month ago, but no
promises on the sound quality and I must warn you, cheap it ain’t…. It’s
quoted here at … one
hundred twenty dollars … plus our commission at ten percent, that makes …
It is? Okay, I’ll
take your name down…. Ray who? Oh, Miss R-E-Y, so sorry. Normally we ask
for a deposit,
but you’ve got an honest voice. A few days. You’re welcome now.” The
store clerk scribbles
himself a to-do note and lifts the stylus back to the start of “¿Por
qué lloras blanca niña?,”
lowers the needle onto shimmering black vinyl, and dreams of Jewish shepherd
boys plucking
their lyres on starlit Iberian hillsides.
23
Luisa Rey doesn’t see the dusty black Chevy coasting by as she enters her
apartment building.
Bill Smoke, driving the Chevy memorizes the address: 108, Pacific Eden
Apartments.
Luisa has reread Sixsmith’s letters a dozen times or more in the last day
and a half. They
disturb her. A university friend of Six-smith’s, Robert Frobisher, wrote
the series in the
summer of 1931 during a prolonged stay at a château in Belgium. It is
not the unflattering light
they shed on a pliable young Rufus Sixsmith that bothers Luisa but the
dizzying vividness of
the images of places and people that the letters have unlocked. Images so
vivid she can only call
them memories. The pragmatic journalist’s daughter would, and did, explain
these “memories”
as the work of an imagination hypersensitized by her father’s recent death,
but a detail in one
letter will not be dismissed. Robert Frobisher mentions a comet-shaped
birthmark between his
shoulder blade and collarbone.
I just don’t believe in this crap. I just don’t believe it. I don’t.
Builders are remodeling the lobby of Pacific Eden Apartments. Sheets are on
the floor, an
electrician is prodding a light fitting, an unseen hammerer hammers. Malcolm
the super
glimpses Luisa and calls out, “Hey, Luisa! An uninvited guest ran up to
your apartment twenty
minutes ago!” But the noise of a drill drowns him out, he has a man from
city hall on the phone
about building codes, and anyway, Luisa has already stepped into the
elevator.
24
“Surprise,” says Hal Brodie, drily, caught in the act of taking books and
records from Luisa’s
shelves and putting them into his gym bag. “Hey,” he says, to hide a jab
of guilt, “you’ve had
your hair cut short.”
Luisa isn’t very surprised. “Don’t all dumped women?”
Hal clicks in the back of his throat.
Luisa is angry with herself. “So. Reclamation Day.”
“Just about done.” Hal brushes imaginary dust off his hands. “Is the
selected Wallace Stevens
yours or mine?”
“It was a Christmas present from Phoebe to us. Phone Phoebe. Let her decide
. Or else rip out
the odd pages and leave me the even. This is like a no-knock raid. You could
’ve phoned.”
“I did. All I got was your machine. Junk it, if you never listen to it.”
“Don’t be stupid, it cost a fortune. So what brings you up to town, apart
from your love of
modernist poetry?”
“Location scouting for Starsky and Hutch.”
“Starsky and Hutch don’t live in Buenas Yerbas.”
“Starsky gets kidnapped by the West Coast Triad. There’s a gunfight on
Buenas Yerbas Bay
Bridge, and we’ve got a chase scene scripted with David and Paul running
over car roofs at
rush hour. It’ll be a headache to okay it with the traffic cops, but we
need to do it on location or
we’ll lose any semblance of artistic integrity”
“Hey. You’re not taking Blood on the Tracks.”
“It’s mine.”
“Not anymore.” Luisa is not joking.
With ironic deference, Brodie takes out the record from the gym bag. “Look,
I was sorry to
hear about your dad.”
Luisa nods, feels grief rise and her defenses stiffen. “Yeah.”
“I guess it was … a release, of sorts.”
True, but only the bereaved can actually say so. Luisa resists the
temptation to say something
acidic. She remembers her father ribbing Hal, “the TV Kid.” I am not going
to start crying.
“So, you’re doing okay?”
“I’m doing fine. And you?”
“Fine.” Luisa looks at the new gaps in her old shelves.
“Work’s good?”
“Work’s fine.” Put us both out of our misery. “I believe you have a key
that belongs to me.”
Hal zips up his gym bag, fishes in his pocket, and drops the door key onto
her palm. With a
flourish, to underline the symbolism of the act. Luisa smells an alien
aftershave and imagines
Her splashing it on him this morning. He didn’t own that shirt eight weeks
ago, either. The
cowboy boots they’d bought together the day of the Segovia concert. Hal
steps over a pair of
Javier’s filthy sneakers, and Luisa watches him think better of making a
funny about her new
man. Instead, he just says, “So long, then.”
Shake hands? Hug him? “Yeah.”
The door closes.
Luisa puts the chain on and replays the encounter. She turns on the shower
and undresses. Her
bathroom mirror is half-hidden by a shelf of shampoos, conditioners, a box
of sanitary
napkins, skin creams, and gift soaps. Luisa shunts these aside to get a
clearer view of a
birthmark between her shoulder blade and collarbone. Her encounter with Hal
is displaced.
Coincidences happen all the time. But it is undeniably shaped like a comet.
The mirror mists
over. Facts are your bread and butter. Birthmarks can look like anything you
choose, not only
comets. You’re still upset by Dad’s death, that’s all. The journalist
steps into the shower, but
her mind walks the passageways of Zedelghem château.
25
The Swannekke Island protesters’ camp lies on the mainland between a beach
and a marshy
lagoon. Behind the lagoon, acres of citrus orchards rise inland to arid
hills. Tatty tents,
rainbow-sprayed camper vans, and trailer homes look like unwanted gifts the
Pacific dumped
here. A strung banner declares: PLANET AGAINST SEABOARD. On the far side of
the
bridge sits Swannekke A, quivering like Utopia in a noon mirage. White
toddlers tanned brown
as leather paddle in the lazy shallows; a bearded apostle washes clothes in
a tub; a couple of
snaky teenagers kiss in the dune grass.
Luisa locks her VW and crosses the scrub to the encampment. Seagulls float
in the joyless heat.
Agricultural machinery drones in the distance. Several inhabitants approach
but not in a
friendly manner. “Yeah?” challenges a man, with a hawkish Native American
complexion.
“I presumed this was a public park.”
“You presumed wrong. It’s private.”
“I’m a journalist. I was hoping to interview a few of you.”
“Who do you work for?”
“Spyglass magazine.”
The bad weather lightens a little. “Shouldn’t you be writing about the
latest adventures of
Barbra Streisand’s nose?” says the Native American, adding a sardonic “No
disrespect.”
“Well, sorry, I’m not the Herald Tribune, but why not give me a chance?
You could use a little
positive coverage, unless you’re seriously planning to dismantle that
atomic time bomb across
the water by waving placards and strumming protest songs. No disrespect.”
A southerner growls: “Lady, you’re full of it.”
“The interview’s over,” says the Native American. “Get off this land.”
“Don’t worry, Milton”—an elderly, white-haired, russet-faced woman
stands on her trailer’s
step—“I’ll see this one.” An aristocratic mongrel watches from beside
his mistress. Clearly, her
word carries weight, for the crowd disperses with no further protest.
Luisa approaches the trailer. “The love and peace generation?”
“Nineteen seventy-five is nowhere near 1968. Seaboard has informers in our
network. Last
weekend the authorities wanted to clear the site for the VIPs, and blood was
spilled. That gave
the cops an excuse for a round of arrests. I’m afraid paranoia pays. Come
in. I’m Hester Van
Zandt.”
“I was very much hoping to meet you, Doctor,” says Luisa.
26
An hour later Luisa feeds her apple core to Hester Van Zandt’s genteel dog.
Van Zandt’s
bookshelf-lined office is as neat as Grelsch’s is chaotic. Luisa’s host is
finishing up. “The
conflict between corporations and activists is that of narcolepsy versus
remembrance. The
corporations have money, power, and influence. Our sole weapon is public
outrage. Outrage
blocked the Yuccan Dam, ousted Nixon, and in part, terminated the
monstrosities in Vietnam.
But outrage is unwieldy to manufacture and handle. First, you need scrutiny;
second,
widespread awareness; only when this reaches a critical mass does public
outrage explode into
being. Any stage may be sabotaged. The world’s Alberto Grimaldis can fight
scrutiny by
burying truth in committees, dullness, and misinformation, or by
intimidating the scrutinizers.
They can extinguish awareness by dumbing down education, owning TV stations,
paying
‘guest fees’ to leader writers, or just buying the media up. The media—
and not just The
Washington Post—is where democracies conduct their civil wars.”
“That’s why you rescued me from Milton and his compatriots.”
“I wanted to give you the truth as we see it, so you can at least make an
informed choice about
which side you’ll back. Write a satire about GreenFront New Waldenites in
their mini-
Woodstock and you’ll confirm every Republican Party prejudice and bury
truth a little deeper.
Write about radiation levels in seafood, ‘safe’ pollution limits set by
polluters, government
policy auctioned for campaign donations, and Seaboard’s private police
force, and you’ll raise
the temperature of public awareness, fractionally, toward its ignition point
.”
Luisa asks, “Did you know Rufus Sixsmith?”
“I certainly did, God rest his soul.”
“I’d have put you on opposing sides … or no?”
Van Zandt nods at Luisa’s tactics. “I met Rufus in the early sixties at a
think tank in D.C.,
connected with the Federal Power Commission. I was in awe of him! Nobel
laureate, veteran
of the Manhattan Project.”
“Might you know anything about a report he wrote condemning the HYDRA-Zero
and
demanding Swannekke B be taken off-line?”
“Dr. Sixsmith? Are you totally sure?”
“ ‘Totally sure’? No. ‘Pretty damn sure’? Yes.”
Van Zandt looks edgy. “My God, if GreenFront could get its hands on a copy
…” Her face
clouds over. “If the Dr. Rufus Sixsmith wrote a hatchet job on the HYDRA-
Zero, and if he
threatened to go public, well, I no longer believe he shot himself.”
Luisa notices they are both whispering. She asks the question she imagines
Grelsch asking:
“Doesn’t it smack of paranoia to believe Seaboard would assassinate a man
of Sixsmith’s
stature, just to avoid negative publicity?”
Van Zandt removes a photograph of a woman in her seventies from a corkboard.
“A name for
you. Margo Roker.”
“I saw her name on a placard the other day.”
“Margo’s been a GreenFront activist since Seaboard bought Swannekke Island
. She owns this
land and lets us operate here as a thorn in Seaboard’s side. Six weeks ago
her bungalow—two
miles up the coast—was burgled. Margo has no money, just a few scraps of
land, land she’s
refused to part with, whatever inducements Seaboard dangled. Well. The
burglars beat her
senseless, left her for dead, but took nothing. It’s not actually a murder
case, because Margo’s
still in a coma, so the police line is that it was a poorly planned heist
with an unfortunate end.”
“Unfortunate for Margo.”
“And pretty damn fortunate for Seaboard. The medical bills are burying her
family. A few days
after the assault, an LA. real estate company, Open Vista, steps up and
makes an offer to
Margo’s cousin for these acres of coastland scrub at quadruple its market
value. To make a
private nature reserve. So I ask GreenFront to do some research on Open
Vista. It was
registered just eight weeks ago, and guess whose name heads the list of
corporate donors?”
Van Zandt nods in the direction of Swannekke Island.
Luisa weighs all this. “You’ll be hearing from me, Hester.”
“I hope I will.”
27
Alberto Grimaldi enjoys his Extracurricular Security Briefings with Bill
Smoke and Joe Napier
in his Swannekke office. He likes the no-nonsense demeanor of both men, in
contrast to the
retinue of courtiers and petitioners. He likes sending his secretary into
the reception area where
company heads, union leaders, and government men are made to wait, ideally
for hours, and
hear her say, “Bill, Joe, Mr. Grimaldi has a slot for you now.” Smoke and
Napier let Grimaldi
indulge the J. Edgar Hoover side of his character. He thinks of Napier as a
steadfast bulldog
whose New Jersey childhood is unsoftened by thirty-five years of Californian
living; Bill
Smoke is his familiar, who passes through walls, ethics, and legality to
execute his master’s
will.
Today’s meeting is enhanced by Fay Li, summoned by Napier for the last item
on their
unwritten agenda: a journalist visiting Swannekke this weekend, Luisa Rey
who may or may
not pose a security risk. “So, Fay,” asks Grimaldi, balancing on the edge
of his desk, “what do
we know about her?”
Fay Li speaks as if from a mental checklist. “Reporter at Spyglass—I
presume we all know it?
Twenty-six, ambitious, more liberal than radical. Daughter of the Lester Rey
, foreign
correspondent, recently died. Mother remarried an architect after an
amicable divorce seven
years ago, lives in uptown Ewingsville, B.Y. No siblings. History and
economics at Berkeley,
summa cum laude. Started on the L.A. Recorder, political pieces in the
Tribune and Herald.
Single, lives alone, pays her bills on time.”
“Dull as ditch water,” comments Napier.
“Then remind me why we’re discussing her,” says Smoke.
Fay Li addresses Grimaldi: “We caught her wandering around Research on
Tuesday, during
the launch. She claimed to have an appointment with Dr. Sixsmith.”
“About?”
“A commissioned piece for Spyglass, but I think she was fishing.”
The CEO looks at Napier, who shrugs. “Difficult to read, Mr. Grimaldi. If
she was fishing, we
should assume she knows what sort of fish she was after.”
Grimaldi has a weakness for spelling out the obvious. “The report.”
“Journalists have feverish imaginations,” says Li, “especially hungry
young ones looking for
their first big scoop. I suppose she might think Dr. Sixsmith’s death could
be … How can I put
this?”
Alberto Grimaldi makes a puzzled face.
“Mr. Grimaldi,” fills in Smoke, “what I believe Fay has too much tact to
spit out is this: the
Rey woman might be imagining we rubbed out Dr. Sixsmith.”
“ ‘Rubbed out’? Good God. Really? Joe? What do you think?”
Napier spreads his palms. “Fay might be right, Mr. Grimaldi. Spyglass isn’
t known for
keeping its feet firmly rooted in fact.”
“Do we have any leverage with the magazine?” asks Grimaldi.
Napier shakes his head. “I’ll get on it.”
“She phoned,” continues Li, “asking if she could interview a few of our
people for a day-inthe-
life-of-a-scientist piece. So I invited her to the hotel for tonight’s
banquet and promised to
make a few introductions over the weekend. In fact”—she glances at her
watch—“I’m meeting
her there in an hour.”
“I okayed it, Mr. Grimaldi,” says Napier. “I’d rather have her snooping
under our noses, where
we can watch her.”
“Quite right, Joe. Quite right. Assess how much of a threat she poses. And
lay to rest any
morbid suspicions about poor Rufus at the same time.” Tight smiles all
around. “Well, Fay,
Joe, that’s a wrap, thanks for your time. Bill, a word on some matters in
Toronto.”
The CEO and his fixer are left alone.
“Our friend,” begins Grimaldi, “Lloyd Hooks. He worries me.”
Bill Smoke considers this. “Any angles?”
“He’s got a spring like he’s holding four aces. I don’t like it. Watch
him.”
Bill Smoke inclines his head.
“And you’d better have an accident up your sleeve for Luisa Rey Your work
at the airport was
exemplary, but Sixsmith was a distinguished foreign national, and we don’t
want this woman
to dig out any rumors of foul play” He nods after Napier and Li. “Do those
two suspect
anything about Sixsmith?”
“Li isn’t thinking anything. She’s a PR woman, period. Napier’s not
looking. There’s the
blind, Mr. Grimaldi, there’s the willfully blind, and then there’s the
soon to be retired.”
28
Isaac Sachs sits hunched in the bay window of the Swannekke Hotel bar and
watches yachts in
the creamy evening blues. A beer stands untouched on the table. The
scientist’s thoughts run
from Rufus Sixsmith’s death to the fear that his secreted-away copy of the
Sixsmith Report
might be found, to Napier’s warning about confidentiality The deal is, Dr.
Sachs, your ideas
are the property of Seaboard Corporation. You don’t want to welch on a deal
with a man like
Mr. Grimaldi, do you? Clumsy but effective.
Sachs tries to remember how it felt not to walk around with this knot in his
gut. He longs for
his old lab in Connecticut, where the world was made of mathematics, energy,
and atomic
cascades, and he was its explorer. He has no business in these political
orders of magnitude,
where erroneous loyalties can get your brain spattered over hotel bedrooms.
You’ll shred that
report, Sachs, page by goddamn page.
Then his thoughts slide to a hydrogen buildup, an explosion, packed
hospitals, the first deaths
by radiation poisoning. The official inquiry. The scapegoats. Sachs bangs
his knuckles
together. So far, his betrayal of Seaboard is a thought-crime, not one of
action. Dare I cross
that line? The hotel manager leads a bevy of florists into the banquet hall.
A woman saunters
downstairs, looks for someone who hasn’t yet arrived, and drifts into the
lively bar. Sachs
admires her well-chosen suede suit, her svelte figure, her quiet pearls. The
barman pours her a
glass of white wine and makes a joke that earns an acknowledgment but not a
smile. She turns
his way, and he recognizes the woman he mistook for Megan Sixsmith five days
ago: the knot
of fear yanks tight, and Sachs hurries out via the veranda, keeping his face
averted.
Luisa wanders over to the bay window. An untouched beer sits on the table,
but there’s no sign
of its owner, so she sits down on the warmed seat. It’s the best seat in
the house. She watches
yachts in the creamy evening blues.
29
Alberto Grimaldi’s gaze wanders the candlelit banquet hall. The room
bubbles with sentences
more spoken than listened to. His own speech got more and longer laughs than
that of Lloyd
Hooks, who now sits in sober consultation with Grimaldi’s vice CEO, William
Wiley. Now,
what is that pair discussing so intently? Grimaldi jots another mental memo
for Bill Smoke.
The head of the Environmental Protection Agency is telling him an
interminable story about
Henry Kissinger’s schooldays, so Grimaldi addresses an imaginary audience
on the subject of
power.
“Power. What do we mean? ‘The ability to determine another man’s luck.’
You men of
science, building tycoons, and opinion formers: my jet could take off from
LaGuardia, and
before I touched down in B.Y. you’d be a nobody. You Wall Street moguls,
elected officials,
judges, I might need more time to knock you off your perches, but your
eventual downfall
would be just as total.” Grimaldi checks with the EPA man to ensure his
attention isn’t being
missed—it isn’t. “Yet how is it some men attain mastery over others while
the vast majority
live and die as minions, as livestock? The answer is a holy trinity. First:
God-given gifts of
charisma. Second: the discipline to nurture these gifts to maturity, for
though humanity’s
topsoil is fertile with talent, only one seed in ten thousand will ever
flower—for want of
discipline.” Grimaldi glimpses Fay Li steer the troublesome Luisa Rey to a
circle where Spiro
Agnew holds court. The reporter is prettier in the flesh than her photograph
noosed Sixsmith. He catches Bill Smoke’s eye. “Third: the will to power.
This is the enigma at
the core of the various destinies of men. What drives some to accrue power
where the majority
of their compatriots lose, mishandle, or eschew power? Is it addiction?
Wealth? Survival?
Natural selection? I propose these are all pretexts and results, not the
root cause. The only
answer can be ‘There is no “Why” This is our nature.’ ‘Who and ‘What’
run deeper than
‘Why’”
The head of the Environmental Protection Agency quakes with mirth at his own
punch line.
Grimaldi chuckles through his teeth. “A killer, Tom, an absolute killer.”
30
Luisa Rey plays the ditzy reporter on her best behavior to assure Fay Li she
poses no threat.
Only then might she be given a free enough rein to sniff out Sixsmith’s
fellow dissidents. Joe
Napier, head of Security reminds Luisa of her father—quiet, sober, similar
age and hair loss.
Once or twice during the sumptuous ten-course meal she caught him watching
her
thoughtfully. “And, Fay, you never feel confined on Swannekke Island, at
all?”
“Swannekke? It’s paradise!” enthuses the publicist. “Buenas Yerbas only
an hour away, LA.
down the coast, my family up in San Francisco, it’s ideal. Subsidized
stores and utilities, free
clinic, clean air, zero crime, sea views. Even the men,” she confides,
sotto voce, “come readyvetted—
in fact I can access their personnel files—so you know there won’t be any
total freaks
in the dating pool. Speaking of which—Isaac! Isaac! You’re being
conscripted.” Fay Li grabs
Isaac Sachs’s elbow. “You’ll remember bumping into Luisa Rey the other
day?”
“I’m one lucky conscript. Hi, Luisa, again.”
Luisa feels an edginess in his handshake.
“Miss Rey is here,” says Fay Li, “to write an article on Swannekke
anthropology.”
“Oh? We’re a dull tribe. I hope you’ll meet your word count.”
Fay Li turns her beam on full. “I’m sure Isaac could find a little time to
answer any of your
questions, Luisa. Rght, Isaac?”
“I’m the very dullest of the dull.”
“Don’t believe him, Luisa,” Fay Li warns her. “It’s just a part of
Isaac’s strategy. Once your
defenses are down, he pounces.”
The alleged lady-killer rocks on his heels, smiling at his toes
uncomfortably
31
“Isaac Sachs’s tragic flaw,” analyzes Isaac Sachs, slumped in the bay
window across from
Luisa Rey two hours later, “is this. Too cowardly to be a warrior, but not
enough of a coward
to lie down and roll over like a good doggy.” His words slip like Bambi on
ice. A mostly
empty wine bottle stands on the table. The bar is deserted. Sachs can’t
remember when he was
last this drunk, or this tense and relaxed at the same time: relaxed,
because an intelligent young
woman is enjoying his company; tense, because he is ready to lance the boil
on his conscience.
To Sachs’s wry surprise, he is attracted to Luisa Rey, and he sorely
regrets they met in these
circumstances. The woman and the reporter keep blurring into one another. “
Let’s change the
subject,” Sachs says. “Your car, your”—he does a Hollywood SS officer
accent—“
‘Volkswagen.’ What’s its name?”
“How do you know my Beetle has a name?”
“All Beetle owners give their cars names. But please don’t tell me it’s
John, George, Paul, or
Ringo.” God, Luisa Rey, you’re beautiful.
She says, “You’ll laugh.”
“I won’t.”
“You will.”
“I, Isaac Caspar Sachs, solemnly vow not to laugh.”
“You’d better not with a middle name like Caspar. It’s Garcia.”
They both shake, noiselessly, until they burst into laughter. Maybe she
likes me too, maybe
she’s not just doing her job.
Luisa lassos her laughter in. “Is that all your vows are worth?”
Sachs makes a mea culpa gesture and dabs his eyes. “They normally last
longer. I don’t know
why it’s so funny, I mean, Garcia”— he snorts—“isn’t such a funny name
. I once dated a girl
who called her car Rosinante, for Chrissakes.”
“An ex-Berserkeley Beatnik boyfriend named it. After Jerry Garcia, y’ know
, the Grateful
Dead man. He abandoned it at my dorm when its engine sent a gasket through
the back around
the time he dumped me for a cheerleader. Cheesy, but true.”
“And you didn’t take a blowtorch to it?”
“It’s not Garcia’s fault his ex-owner was a swindling sperm gun.”
“The guy must have been mad.” Sachs didn’t plan to say so, but he’s not
ashamed he did.
Luisa Rey nods in gracious acknowledgment. “Anyway Garcia suits the car.
Never stays
tuned, prone to flashes of speed, falling to bits, its trunk won’t lock, it
leaks oil, but never
seems to give up the ghost.”
Invite her back, Sachs thinks. Don’t be stupid, you’re not a pair of kids.
They watch the breakers crash in the moonlight.
Say it. “The other day”—his voice is a murmur and he feels sick—“you
were looking for
something in Sixsmith’s room.” The shadows seem to prick up their ears. “
Weren’t you?”
Luisa checks for eavesdroppers and speaks very quietly “I understand Dr.
Sixsmith wrote a
certain report.”
“Rufus had to work closely with the team who designed and built the thing.
That meant me.”
“Then you know what his conclusions were? About the HYDRA reactor?”
“We all do! Jessops, Moses, Keene … they all know.”
“About a design flaw?”
“Yes.” Nothing has changed, except everything.
“How bad would an accident be?”
“If Dr. Sixsmith is right, it’ll be much, much worse than bad.”
“Why isn’t Swannekke B just shut down pending further inquiry?”
“Money, power, usual suspects.”
“Do you agree with Sixsmith’s findings?”
Carefully. “I agree a substantial theoretical risk is present.”
“Were you pressured to keep your doubts to yourselves?”
“Every scientist was. Every scientist agreed to. Except for Six-smith.”
“Who, Isaac? Alberto Grimaldi? Does it go up to the top?”
“Luisa, what would you do with a copy of the report, if ‘one found its way
into your hands?”
“Go public as fast as I possibly could.”
“Are you aware of …” I can’t say it.
“Aware that people in the upper echelons would rather see me dead than see
HYDRA
discredited? Right now it’s all I’m aware of.”
“I can’t make any promises.” Christ, how feeble. “I became a scientist
because … it’s like
panning for gold in a muddy torrent. Truth is the gold. I—I don’t know
what I want to do …”
“Journalists work in torrents just as muddy”
The moon is over the water.
“Do,” says Luisa finally “whatever you can’t not do.”
32
In blustery early sunshine Luisa Rey watches golfers traverse the lush
course, wondering what
might have happened last night if she’d invited Isaac Sachs up. He’s due
to meet her for
breakfast.
She wonders if she should have phoned Javier. You’re not his mother, you’
re not his
guardian, you’re just a neighbor. She’s not convinced, but just as she
didn’t know how to
ignore the boy she found sobbing by the garbage chute, just as she couldn’t
not go down to the
super’s, borrow his keys, and pick through a garbage can for his precious
stamp albums, now
she doesn’t know how to extricate herself. He hasn’t got anyone else, and
eleven-year-olds
don’t do subtlety Anyway, who else have you got?
“You look like you got the weight of the world,” says Joe Napier.
“Joe. Have a seat.”
“Don’t mind if I do. I’m the bearer of bad news. Isaac Sachs sends his
sincere apologies, but
he’s got to stand you up.”
“Oh?”
“Alberto Grimaldi flew out to our Three Mile Island site this morning—
wooing a group of
Germans. Sidney Jessops was going along as the technical support, but Sid’s
father had a heart
attack, and Isaac was the next choice.”
“Oh. Has he left already?”
“Afraid so. He’s”—Napier checks his watch—“over the Colorado Rockies.
Breast-feeding a
hangover, shouldn’t wonder.”
Don’t let your disappointment show. “When’s he due back?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Oh.” Damn, damn, damn.
“I’m twice Isaac’s age and three times uglier, but Fay’s asked me to
show you around the site.
She’s scheduled a few interviews with some people she thinks’ll interest
you.”
“Joe, it’s too kind of you all to give me such generous slices of your
weekends,” says Luisa.
Did you know Sachs was on the verge of defection? How? Unless Sachs was a
plant? I’m out
of my depth here.
“I’m a lonely old man with too much time on my hands.”
33
“So R & D is called the Chicken Coop because the eggheads live there.”
Luisa jots in her
notebook, smiling, as Joe Napier holds open the control-room door two hours
later. “What do
you call the reactor building?”
A gum-chewing technician calls out: “Home of the Brave.”
Joe’s expression says funny. “That’s definitely off the record.”
“Has Joe told you what we call the security wing?” The controller grins.
Luisa shakes her head.
“Planet of the Apes.” He turns to Napier. “Introduce your guest, Joe.”
“Carlo Böhn, Luisa Rey Luisa’s a reporter, Carlo’s a chief
technician. Stick around and you’ll
hear plenty of other names for him.”
“Let me show you around my little empire, if Joe’ll give you up for five
minutes.”
Napier watches Luisa as Böhn explains the fluorescent-lit chamber of
panels and gauges.
Underlings check printouts, frown at dials, tick clipboards. Böhn
flirts with her, catches
Napier’s eye, when Luisa’s back is turned, and mimes melon-breasts; Napier
shakes his sober
head. Milly would have clucked over you, he thinks. Had you over for dinner,
fed you way too
much, and nagged you on what you need to be nagged about. He recalls Luisa
as a precocious
little six-year-old. Must be two decades since I saw you at the last Tenth
Precinct Station
reunion. Of all the professions that lippy little girl could have entered,
of all the reporters who
could have caught the scent of Sixsmith’s death, why Lester Rey’s daughter
? Why so soon
before I retire? Who dreamed up this sick joke? The city? Napier could cry.
34
Fay Li searches Luisa Rey’s room swiftly and adeptly as the sun sets. She
checks inside the
toilet cistern; under the mattress for slits; the carpets, for loose flaps;
inside the minibar; in the
closet. The original might have been Xeroxed down to a quarter of its bulk.
Li’s tame
receptionist reported Sachs and Luisa talking until the early hours. Sachs
was removed this
morning, but he’s no idiot, he could have deposited it for her. She
unscrews the telephone
mouthpiece and finds Napier’s favored transmitter, one disguised as a
resistor. She probes the
recesses of Luisa’s overnight bag but finds no printed matter except Zen
and the Art of
Motorcycle Maintenance. She flicks through the reporter’s notepad on the
desk, but Luisa’s
encrypted shorthand doesn’t reveal much.
Fay Li wonders if she’s wasting her time. Wasting your time? Mexxon Oil
upped their offer to
one hundred thousand dollars for the Sixsmith Report. And if they’re
serious about a hundred
thousand, they’ll be serious about a million. For discrediting the entire
atomic energy
program into an adolescent grave, a million is a snip. So keep searching.
The phone buzzes four times: a warning that Luisa Rey is in the lobby,
waiting for the elevator.
Li ensures nothing is amiss and leaves, taking the stairs down. After ten
minutes she rings up
to Luisa from the front desk. “Hi, Luisa, it’s Fay. Been back long?”
“Just long enough for a quick shower.”
“Productive afternoon, I hope?”
“Very much so. I’ve got enough material for two or three pieces.”
“Terrific. Listen, unless you’ve got other plans, how about dinner at the
golf club? Swannekke
lobster is the best this side of anywhere.”
“Quite a claim.”
“I’m not asking you to take my word for it.”
35
Crustacean shrapnel is piled high. Luisa and Fay Li dab their fingers in
pots of lemon-scented
water, and Li’s eyebrow tells the waiter to remove the plates. “What a
mess I’ve made.” Luisa
drops her napkin. “I’m the slob of the class, Fay You should open a
finishing school for young
ladies in Switzerland.”
“That’s not how most people in Seaboard Village see me. Did anyone tell
you my nickname?
No? Mr. Li.”
Luisa isn’t sure what response is expected. “A little context might help.”
“My first week on the job, I’m up in the canteen, fixing myself a coffee.
This engineer comes
up, tells me he’s got a problem of a mechanical nature, and asks if I can
help. His buddies are
sniggering in the background. I say, ‘I doubt it.’ The guy says, ‘Sure
you can help.’ He wants
me to oil his bolt and relieve the excess pressure on his nuts.”
“This engineer was how old? Thirteen?”
“Forty married, two kids. So his buddies are snorting with laughter now.
What would you do?
Dash off some witty put-down line, let ’em know you’re riled? Slap him,
get labeled
hysterical? Besides, creeps like that enjoy being slapped. Do nothing? So
any man on site can
say shit like that to you with impunity?”
“An official complaint?”
“Prove that women run to senior men when the going gets tough?”
“So what did you do?”
“Had him transferred to our Kansas plant. Middle of nowhere, middle of
January. I pity his
wife, but she married him. Word gets around, I get dubbed Mr. Li. A real
woman wouldn’t
have treated the poor guy so cruelly, no, a real woman would have taken his
joke as a
compliment.” Fay Li smooths wrinkles in the tablecloth. “You run up
against this crap in your
work?”
Luisa thinks of Nussbaum and Jakes. “All the time.”
“Maybe our daughters’ll live in a liberated world, but us, forget it. We’
ve got to help ourselves,
Luisa. Men won’t do it for us.”
The journalist senses a shifting of the agenda.
Fay Li leans in. “I hope you’ll consider me your own insider here on
Swannekke Island.”
Luisa probes with caution. “Journalists need insiders, Fay, so I’ll
certainly bear it in mind. I
have to warn you, though, Spyglass doesn’t have the resources for the kind
of remuneration
you may be—”
“Men invented money Women invented mutual aid.”
It’s a wise soul, thinks Luisa, who can distinguish traps from
opportunities. “I’m not sure …
how a small-time reporter could ‘aid’ a woman of your standing, Fay.”
“Don’t underestimate yourself. Friendly journalists make valuable allies.
If there comes a time
when you want to discuss any matters weightier than how many french fries
the Swannekke
engineers consume per annum”—her voice sinks below the clinking of cutlery
, cocktail-bar
piano music, and background laughter— “such as data on the HYDRA reactor
as compiled by
Dr. Sixsmith, purely for example, I guarantee you’ll find me much more
cooperative than you
think.”
Fay Li clicks her fingers, and the dessert trolley is already on its way. “
Now, the lemon-andmelon
sherbet, very low in calories, it cleanses the palate, ideal before coffee.
Trust me on
this?”
The transformation is so total, Luisa almost wonders if she just heard what
she just heard. “I’ll
trust you on this.”
“Glad we understand each other.”
Luisa wonders: What level of deceit is permissible in journalism? She
remembers her father’s
answer, one afternoon in the hospital garden: Did I ever lie to get my story
? Ten-mile-high
whoppers every day before breakfast, f it got me one inch closer to the
truth.
36
A ringing phone flips Luisa’s dreams over and she lands in the moonlit room
. She grabs the
lamp, the clock radio, and finally the receiver. For a moment she cannot
remember her name or
what bed she is in. “Luisa?” offers a voice from the black gulf.
“Yeah, Luisa Rey.”
“Luisa, it’s me, Isaac, Isaac Sachs, calling long distance.”
“Isaac! Where are you? What time is it? Why—”
“Shush, shush, sorry I woke you, and sorry I was dragged away at the crack
of dawn
yesterday. Listen, I’m in Philadelphia. It’s seven-thirty eastern, it’ll
be getting light soon in
California. You still there, Luisa? I haven’t lost you?”
He’s afraid. “Yeah, Isaac, I’m listening.”
“Before I left Swannekke, I gave Garcia a present to give to you, just a
dolce far niente.” He
tries to make the sentence sound casual. “Understand?”
What in God’s name is he talking about?
“You hear me, Luisa? Garcia has a present for you.”
A more alert quarter of Luisa’s brain muscles in. Isaac Sachs left the
Sixsmith Report in your
VW. You mentioned the trunk didn’t lock. He assumes we are being
eavesdropped. “That’s
very kind of you, Isaac. Hope it didn’t cost you too much.”
“Worth every cent. Sorry to disturb your beauty sleep.”
“Have a safe flight, and see you soon. Dinner, maybe?”
“I’d love that. Well, got a plane to catch.”
“Safe flight.” Luisa hangs up.
Leave later, in an orderly fashion? Or get off Swannekke right now?
37
A quarter of a mile across the science village, Joe Napier’s window frames
the hour-beforedawn
night sky. A console of electronic monitoring equipment occupies half the
room. From a
loudspeaker the sound of a dead phone line purrs. Napier rewinds a squawking
reel-to-reel.
“Before I left Swannekke, I gave Garcia a present to give to you, just a
dolce far niente….
Understand?”
Garcia? Garcia?
Napier grimaces at his cold coffee and opens a folder labeled “LR#2.”
Colleagues, friends,
contacts … no Garcia in the index. Better warn Bill Smoke not to approach
Luisa until I’ve had
the chance to speak with her. He flicks his lighter into life. Bill Smoke is
a difficult man to find,
let alone warn. Napier draws acrid smoke down into his lungs. His telephone
rings: it’s Bill
Smoke. “So, who the fuck’s this Garcia?”
“Don’t know, nothing on file. Listen, I don’t want you to—”
“It’s your fucking job to know, Napier.”
So, you’re addressing me like that now? “Hey! Hold your—”
“Hey yourself.” Bill Smoke hangs up.
Bad, bad, very bad. Joe grabs his jacket, snuffs his cigarette, leaves his
quarters, and strides
across the site to Luisa’s hotel. A five-minute walk. He recalls the menace
in Bill Smoke’s tone
and breaks into a run.
38
A swarm of déjà vu haunts Luisa as she stuffs her belongings into her
overnight bag. Robert
Frobisher doing a dine and dash from another hotel. She takes the stairs
down to the empty
lobby. The carpet is silent as snow. A radio whispers sweet nothings in the
back office. Luisa
creeps to the main doors, hoping to leave with no explanation required. The
doors are locked to
keep people out, not in, and soon Luisa is striding across the hotel lawn to
the parking lot. A
predawn ocean breeze makes vague promises. The night sky inland is turning
dark rose.
Nobody else is about, but as she nears her car, Luisa forces herself not to
break into a run. Stay
calm, unhurried, and you can say you’re driving along the cape for the
sunrise.
At first glance the trunk is empty, but the carpet covers a bulge. Under the
flap Luisa finds a
package wrapped in a black plastic trash bag. She removes a vanilla binder.
She reads its cover
in the semilight: The HYDRAZero Reactor—An Operational Assessment Model—
Project
Head Dr. Rufus Sixsmith—Unauthorized Possession Is a Federal Crime Under
the Military &
Industrial Espionage Act 1971. Some five hundred pages of tables, flowcharts
, mathematics,
and evidence. A sense of elation booms and echoes. Steady, this is only the
end of the
beginning.
Motion in the middle distance catches Luisa’s eye. A man. Luisa ducks
behind Garcia. “Hey!
Luisa! Hold it!” Joe Napier! As if in a dream of keys and locks and doors,
Luisa stows the
vanilla binder in its black trash bag under the passenger seat—Napier is
running now, his
flashlight beam swishing the half darkness. The engine makes a lazy, leonine
roar—the VW
reverses too fast. Joe Napier thumps into the back, yells, and Luisa
glimpses him hopping like
a slapstick actor.
She does not stop to apologize.
39
Bill Smoke’s dusty black Chevy skids to a stop by the island checkpoint of
Swannekke Bridge.
A string of lights dots the mainland across the straits. The guard
recognizes the car and is
already by its driver’s window. “Good morning, sir!”
“Looking that way Richter, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Mr. Smoke.”
“I’m guessing Joe Napier has just called you and ordered you not to let an
orange VW pass the
checkpoint.”
“That’s correct, Mr. Smoke.”
“I’m here to countermand that order, on Mr. Grimaldi’s personal authority
You will raise the
barrier for the VW and let me follow. You’ll phone your buddy on the
mainland checkpoint
now and tell him not to let anything through until he sees my car. When Mr.
Napier gets here,
about fifteen minutes from now, you will tell him Alberto Grimaldi says, ‘
Go back to bed.’
Understand, Richter?”
“Understood, Mr. Smoke.”
“You got married this spring, if memory serves?”
“You have an excellent memory, sir.”
“I do. Hoping to start a family?”
“My wife’s four months pregnant, Mr. Smoke.”
“A piece of advice, Richter, on how to succeed in the security business.
Would you like to hear
this piece of advice, son?”
“I would, sir.”
“The dumbest dog can sit and watch. What takes brains is knowing when to
look away Am I
making sense to you, Richter?”
“You’re making absolute sense, Mr. Smoke.”
“Then your young family’s future is secure.”
Smoke reverses his car alongside the guardhouse and slumps low. Sixty
seconds later, a
choking VW swerves around the headland. Luisa halts, rolls down her window,
Richter
appears, and Smoke catches the words “family emergency.” Richter tells her
to have a safe trip,
and the barrier rises.
Bill Smoke puts his car into first, second. The sonic texture of the road
surface changes as the
Chevy reaches the bridge. Third gear, fourth, pedal down. The clapped-out
Beetle’s taillights
zoom up, fifty yards, thirty yards, ten … Smoke hasn’t switched his lights
on. He swerves into
the empty oncoming lane, shifts into fifth gear, and draws alongside. Smoke
smiles. She thinks
I’m Joe Napier. He yanks the wheel sharply, and metal screams as the Beetle
is sandwiched
between his car and the bridge railing until the railing unzips from its
concrete and the Beetle
lurches out into space.
Smoke slams the brakes. He gets out into the cool air and smells hot rubber.
Back a ways, sixty
seventy feet down, a VWs front bumper vanishes into the hollow sea. If her
back didn’t snap,
she’ll have drowned in three minutes. Bill Smoke inspects the damage to his
car’s bodywork
and feels deflation. Anonymous, faceless homicides, he decides, lack the
thrill of human
contact.
The American sun, cranked up to full volume, proclaims a new dawn.
S*I
10 楼
不用
【在 T****1 的大作中提到】
: 多谢，如果是在同一个学校，我觉得应该可以马上转的。
: 但我目前涉及到换学校，需要跟目前ISSO说我要停止我的J1吗？ 谢谢
【在 T****1 的大作中提到】
: 多谢，如果是在同一个学校，我觉得应该可以马上转的。
: 但我目前涉及到换学校，需要跟目前ISSO说我要停止我的J1吗？ 谢谢
c*t
11 楼
THE GHASTLY ORDEAL OF TIMOTHY CAVENDISH
One bright dusk, four, five, no, my God, six summers ago, I strolled along a
Greenwich
avenue of mature chestnuts and mock oranges in a state of grace. Those
Regency residences
number among London’s costliest properties, but should you ever inherit one
, dear Reader, sell
it, don’t live in it. Houses like these secrete some dark sorcery that
transforms their owners into
fruitcakes. One such victim, an ex-chief of Rhodesian police, had, on the
evening in question,
written me a check as rotund as himself to edit and print his autobiography
My state of grace
was thanks in part to this check, and in part to a 1983 Chablis from the
Duruzoi vineyard, a
magic potion that dissolves our myriad tragedies into mere misunderstandings.
A trio of teenettes, dressed like Prostitute Barbie, approached, drift-
netting the width of the
pavement. I stepped into the road to avoid collision. But as we drew level
they tore wrappers
off their lurid ice lollies and just dropped them. My sense of well-being
was utterly V-2’d. I
mean, we were level with a bin! Tim Cavendish the Disgusted Citizen
exclaimed to the
offenders: “You know, you should pick those up.”
A snorted “Whatchyoo gonna do ’bou’ it?” glanced off my back.
Ruddy she-apes. “I have no intention of doing anything about it,” I
remarked, over my
shoulder, “I merely said that you—”
My knees buckled and the pavement cracked my cheek, shaking loose an early
memory of a
tricycle accident before pain erased everything but pain. A sharp knee
squashed my face into
leaf mold. I tasted blood. My sixtysomething wrist was winched back through
ninety degrees
of agony and my Ingersoll Solar was unclasped. I recall a pick ’n’ mix of
obscenities ancient
and modern, but before my muggers could filch my wallet, the chimes of an
ice-cream van
playing “The Girl from Ipanema” scattered my assailants, like vam-piresses
the minute before
dawn.
“And you didn’t report them? You dolt!” Madame X sprinkled synthetic
sugar over her
breakfast bran the next morning. “Phone the police for Christ’s sake. What
are you waiting for?
The trail’ll go cold.” Alas, I had already amplified the truth and told
her my muggers were five
louts with swastikas shaved onto their skulls. How could I now file a report
saying three
prepubescent lollipop girls had bested me so effortlessly? The boys in blue
would have choked
on their Penguin biscuits. No, my assault was not added to our nation’s
wishfully fulfilled
crime statistics. Had my purloined Ingersoll not been a love present from a
sunnier era of our
now-Arctic marriage, I would have kept mum about the entire incident.
Where was I?
Odd how the wrong stories pop into one’s head at my age.
It’s not odd, no, it’s ruddy scary I meant to begin this narrative with
Dermot Hoggins. That’s
the problem with inking one’s memoirs in longhand. You can’t go changing
what you’ve
already set down, not without botching things up even more.
Look, I was Dermot “Duster” Hoggins’s editor, not his shrink or his ruddy
astrologer, so how
could I have known what lay in store for Sir Felix Finch on that infamous
night? Sir Felix
Finch, Minister of Culture and El Supremo at the Trafalgar Review of Books,
how he blazed
across the media sky, how visible he remains to the naked eye even now,
twelve months later.
Tabloidoids read all about it across the front page; broadsheeters spilt
their granola when Radio
4 reported who had fallen and how. That aviary of vultures and tits, “the
columnists,” eulogized
the Lost King of Arts in tribute after twittering tribute.
I, by contrast, have maintained a dignified counsel until now. I should warn
the busy reader,
however, that the after-dinner mint of Felix Finch is merely the aperitif of
my own peripatetic
tribulations. The Ghastly Ordeal of Timothy Cavendish, if you will. Now that
is a snappy title.
’Twas the Night of the Lemon Prize Awards, held in Jake’s Starlight Bar,
grandly reopened
atop a Bayswater edifice with a rooftop garden thrown in for good measure.
The whole ruddy
publishing food chain had taken to the air and roosted at Jake’s. The
haunted writers, the
celebrity chefs, the suits, the goateed buyers, the malnourished booksellers
, packs of hacks and
photographers who take “Drop dead!” to mean “Why, I’d love to!” Let me
scotch that insidious
little rumor implying Dermot’s invitation was my doing, that, oh, yes,
Timothy Cavendish
knew his author was lusting for a high-profile revenge, QED, the entire
tragedy was a publicity
stunt. Tosh dreamt up by jealous rivals! No one ever owned up to sending
Dermot Hoggins’s
invitation, and she is hardly likely to step forward now.
Anyway, the winner was announced, and we all know who got the fifty-K prize
money I got
sloshed. Guy the Guy introduced me to a cocktail called “Ground Control to
Major Tom.”
Time’s Arrow became Time’s Boomerang, and I lost count of all my majors. A
jazz sextet
kicked off a rumba. I went onto the balcony for a breather and surveyed the
hubbub from
without. Literary London at play put me in mind of Gibbon on the Age of the
Antonines. “A
cloud of critics, of compilers, of commentators, darkened the face of
learning, and the decline
of genius was soon followed by the corruption of taste.”
Dermot found me; bad news inexorably does. Let me reiterate, bumping into
Pope Pius XIII
would have surprised me less. In fact, His Infallibility would have blended
in better—my
malcontent author wore a banana suit over a chocolate shirt and a Ribena tie
. I hardly need
remind the curious reader that Knuckle Sandwich was yet to take the book
world by storm. It
was yet to enter a bookshop, in fact, except the sage John Sandoe’s of
Chelsea, and those
hapless newsagents, once Jewish, then Sikh, now Eritrean, located in the
Hoggins Bros.’ East
End parish. Indeed, it was matters of publicity and distribution that Dermot
wished to discuss
on the roof garden.
I explained to him for the hundredth time how an author-partnership setup
like Cavendish
Publishing simply cannot fritter away money on fancy catalogs and team-
building go-karting
weekends for sales forces. I explained, yet again, that my authors derived
fulfillment from
presenting their handsomely bound volumes to friends, to family, to
posterity I explained, yet
again, that the gangster-chic market was saturated; and that even Moby-Dick
bombed in
Melville’s lifetime, though I did not deploy that particular verb. “It is
a truly fabulous memoir,”
I assured him. “Give it time.”
Dermot, drunk, doleful, and deaf, looked over the railings. “All them
chimneys. Long way
down.”
The menace, I trusted, was imaginary. “Quite.”
“Mum took me to Mary Poppins when I was a nipper. Chimney sweeps dancing on
rooftops.
She watched it on video, too. Over and over. In her nursing home.”
“I remember when it came out. That dates me.”
“Here.” Dermot frowned and pointed into the bar through the French windows
. “Who’s that?”
“Who’s who?”
“Him in the bow tie chatting up the tiara in the bin liner.”
“The presenter fellow, Felix … oh, Felix whatizzit?”
“Felix f*****g Finch! That c*** who shat on my book in his poncy f*****g
mag?”
“It wasn’t your best review, but—”
“It was my only f*****g review!”
“It really didn’t read so badly—”
“Yeah? ‘None-hit wonders like Mr. Hoggins are the roadkills of modern
letters.’ Notice how
people insert the ‘Mr.’ before sinking the blade in? ‘Mr. Hoggins should
apologize to the trees
felled for his bloated “autobio-novel.” Four hundred vainglorious pages
expire in an ending flat
and inane quite beyond belief ”
“Steady now, Dermot, nobody actually reads the Trafalgar.”
“ ’Scuse!” My author collared a waiter. “Heard of the Trafalgar Review
of Books?”
“Why sure,” the East European waiter replied. “My entire faculty swears
by the TRB, they’ve
got the smartest reviewers.”
Dermot flung his glass over the railing.
“Come now, what’s a reviewer?” I reasoned. “One who reads quickly,
arrogantly, but never
wisely …”
The jazz sextet finished their number, and Dermot left my sentence dangling.
I was drunk
enough to justify a taxi and was about to leave when a Cockney town crier
soundalike silenced
the entire gathering: “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury! Your attention,
please!”
Saints preserve us, Dermot was clanging a couple of trays together. “We
have an additional
award tonight, fellow book fairies!” he bellowed. Ignoring arch chuckles
and “Oooooo!”s, he
produced an envelope from his jacket pocket, slit it open, and pretended to
read: “Award for
Most Eminent Literary Critic.” His audience looked on, cockatooed, booed,
or turned away in
embarrassment. “Competition was fierce, but the panel was unanimous in
choosing His
Imperial Majesty of the Trafalgar Review of Books, Mr.—beg pudding, Sir—
Felix Finch O, B,
and E, come—on—darn!”
Stirrers crowed. “Bravo, Felix! Bravo!” Finch wouldn’t have been a critic
if he didn’t love
unearned attention. Doubtless he was already composing copy in his head for
his Sunday
Times column, “A Finch About Town.” For his part, Dermot was all sincerity
and smiles.
“What might my prize be, I wonder?” Finch smirked as the applause subsided
. “A signed copy
of an unpulped Knuckle Sandwich? Can’t be many of those left!” Finch’s
coterie chorused
hooty laughter, spurring on their commissar. “Or do I win a free flight to
a South American
country with leaky extradition treaties?”
“Yeah, lovie”—Dermot winked—“a free flight is exactly what you won.”
My author grabbed Finch’s lapels, rolled backwards, sank his feet into
Finch’s girth, and judopropelled
the shorter-than-generally-realized media personality high into the night
air! High
above the pansies lining the balcony railing.
Finch’s shriek—his life—ended in crumpled metal, twelve floors down.
Someone’s drink poured onto the carpet.
Dermot “Duster” Hoggins brushed his lapels, leaned over the balcony, and
yelled: “So who’s
expired in an ending flat and inane quite beyond belief now?”
The dumbstruck crowd parted as the murderer made his way to the nibblies
table. Several
witnesses later recalled a dark halo. He selected a Belgian cracker adorned
with Biscay
anchovies and parsley drizzled with sesame oil.
The crowd’s senses flooded back. Gagging noises, oh-my-Gods, and a stampede
for the stairs.
The most frightful hullabaloo! My thoughts? Honestly? Horror. Assuredly.
Shock? You bet.
Disbelief? Naturally Fear? Not really.
I will not deny a nascent sense of a silver lining to this tragic turn. My
Haymarket office suite
housed ninety-five unsold shrink-wraps of Dermot Hoggins’s Knuckle Sandwich
, impassioned
memoir of Britain’s soon to be most famous murderer. Frank Sprat—my
stalwart printer in
Sevenoaks, to whom I owed so much money I had the poor man over a barrel—
still had the
plates and was ready to roll at a moment’s notice.
Hardcovers, ladies and gentlemen.
Fourteen pounds ninety-nine pence a shot.
A taste of honey!
As an experienced editor, I disapprove of flashbacks, foreshadow-ings, and
tricksy devices;
they belong in the 1980s with MA.s in postmodernism and chaos theory I make
no apology,
however, for (re)starting my own narrative with my version of that shocking
affair. You see, it
paved my first good intention on the road to Hull, or rather Hull’s
hinterland, where my ghastly
ordeal is fated to unfold. My fortune took the glorious turn I had foreseen
after Felix Finch’s
Final Fling. On the wings of sweet, free publicity, my Knuckle Sandwich
turkey soared up the
bestseller charts, where it roosted until poor Dermot was sentenced to
fifteen of the best in
Wormwood Scrubs. The trial made the Nine O’Clock News at every turn. In
death Sir Felix
changed from a smug-scented pomposity with a Stalinist grip on Arts Council
money into, oh,
Britain’s best-loved arts guru since the last one.
On the steps of the Old Bailey, his widow told reporters fifteen years was
“disgustingly
lenient,” and the very next day a “Duster Hoggins, Rot in Hell!” campaign
was launched.
Dermot’s family counterattacked on chat shows, Finch’s offending review
was pored over,
BBC2 commissioned a special documentary in which the lesbian who interviewed
me edited
my witticisms wholly out of context. Who cared? The money pot bubbled away—
no, it boiled
over and set the entire ruddy kitchen alight. Cavendish Publishing— Mrs.
Latham and I, that is
—didn’t know what had hit us. We had to take on two of her nieces (part-
time, of course, I
wasn’t getting clobbered for National Insurance). The original Knuckle
Sandwich shrink-wraps
vanished within thirty-six hours, and Frank Sprat was reprinting on a near-
monthly basis.
Nothing in my four decades in the publishing game had geared us for such
success. Running
costs had always been recouped from author donations—not from actual ruddy
sales! It
seemed almost unethical. Yet here I was with a bestseller of one-in-a-decade
proportions on my
lists. People ask me, “Tim, how do you account for its runaway success?”
Knuckle Sandwich was actually a well-written, gutsy fictional memoir.
Culture vultures
discussed its sociopolitical subtexts first on late-night shows, then on
breakfast TV Neo-Nazis
bought it for its generous lashings of violence. Worcestershire housewives
bought it because it
was a damn fine read. Homosexuals bought it out of tribal loyalty It shifted
ninety thousand,
yes, ninety thousand copies in four months, and yes, I am still talking
hardcover. The feature
film should be in production as I write. At the Frankfurt Book love-in I was
feted by people
who until then had never so much as paused to scrape me off their shoes.
That odious label
“Vanity Publisher” became “Creative Financier.” Translation rights fell
like territories in the
final round of Risk. The American publishers, glory glory Hallelujah, they
loved the Limey-
Aristo-Gets- Comeuppance-from-Downtrodden-Gaelic-Son hook, and a
transatlantic auction
skyrocketed the advance to giddy heights. I, yes, I, had exclusive rights to
this platinum goose
with a bad case of the trots! Money entered my cavernously empty accounts
like the North Sea
through a Dutch dike. My “personal banking consultant,” a spiv named
Elliot McCluskie, sent
me a Christmas card photo of his Midwich Cuckoo offspring. The primates on
the Groucho
Club door greeted me with a “Pleasant evening, Mr. Cavendish,” instead of
an “Oy you got to
be signed in by a member!” When I announced that I would be handling the
paperback release
myself, the Sundays’ book pages ran pieces depicting Cavendish Publishing
as a dynamic,
white-hot player in a cloud of decrepit gas giants. I even made the FT
Was it any wonder Mrs. Latham and I were overstretched—just a smidge—on
the
bookkeeping front?
Success intoxicates rookies in the blink of an eye. I got business cards
printed up: Cavendish-
Redux, Publishers of Cutting-Edge Fiction. Well, I thought, why not sell
publications instead
of publication? Why not become the serious publisher that the world lauded
me as?
Alackaday! Those dinky little cards were the red flag waved at the Bull of
Fate. At the first
rumor that Tim Cavendish was flush, my saber-toothed meerkat creditors
bounded into my
office. As ever, I left the gnostic algebra of what to pay whom and when to
my priceless Mrs.
Latham. So it was, I was mentally and financially underprepared when my
midnight callers
visited, nearly a year after the Felix Finch Night. I confess that since
Madame X left me (my
cuckold was a dentist, I shall reveal the truth no matter how painful)
Housekeeping Anarchy
had reigned o’er my Putney domicile (oh, very well, the bastard was a
German), so my
porcelain throne has long been my de facto office seat. A decent Cognac sits
under the ballgowned
lavatory-roll cover, and I leave the door open so I can hear the kitchen
radio.
The night in question, I had put aside my perpetual lavatory read, The
Decline and Fall of the
Roman Empire, because of all the manuscripts (inedible green tomatoes)
submitted to
Cavendish-Redux, my new stable of champions. I suppose it was about eleven o
’clock when I
heard my front door being interfered with. Skinhead munchkins mug-or-
treating?
Cherry knockers? The wind?
Next thing I knew, the door flew in off its ruddy hinges! I was thinking al-
Qaeda, I was
thinking ball lightning, but no. Down the hallway tramped what seemed like
an entire rugby
team, though my intruders numbered only three. (You’ll notice, I am always
attacked in threes.)
“Timothy,” pronounced the gargoyliest, “Cavendish, I presume. Caught with
your cacks
down.”
“My business hours are eleven to two, gentlemen,” Bogart would have said,
“with a three-hour
break for lunch. Kindly leave.” All I could do was blurt, “Oy! My door! My
ruddy door!”
Thug Two lit a cigarette. “We visited Dermot today. He’s a bit frustrated.
Who wouldn’t be?”
The pieces fell into place. I fell into pieces. “Dermot’s brothers!” (I’
d read all about them in
Dermot’s book. Eddie, Mozza, Jarvis.)
Hot ash burnt my thigh, and I lost track of which face uttered what. It was
a Francis Bacon
triptych come to life. “Knuckle Sandwich is doing nicely, by the looks of
things.”
“Piles of it in the airport bookshops.”
“You must at least of suspected we’d come calling.”
“A man of your business acumen.”
The London Irish unnerve me at the best of times. “Boys, boys. Dermot
signed a copyrighttransfer
contract. Look, look, it’s industry standard, I have a copy in my briefcase
here …” I
did indeed have the document to hand. “Clause eighteen, about copyright …
means Knuckle
Sandwich, legally, is … er …” It wasn’t easy to tell them this with my
briefs around my ankles.
“Er, legally the property of Cavendish Publishing.”
Jarvis Hoggins scanned the contract for a moment but tore it up when it
proved longer than his
concentration span. “Dermot signed this f*****g pants when his book was
just a f*****g
hobby”
“A present to our sick old mam, God rest her soul.”
“A souvenir of Dad’s heyday.”
“Dermot never signed no f*****g contract for the event of the f*****g
season.”
“We paid your printer, Mr. Sprat, a little visit. He went through the
economics for us.”
Contract confetti showered. Mozza was close enough for me to smell his
dinner. “Quite a hill
of Hoggins Bros.’ cash you’ve raked in, it seems.”
“I’m sure we can agree on a, um, um, funds flowchart, which will—”
Eddie cut in: “Let’s make it three.”
I feigned a wince. “Three thousand pounds? Boys, I don’t think—”
“Don’t be a silly billy.” Mozza pinched my cheek. “Three—o’— clock.
Tomorrow afternoon.
Your office.”
I had no choice. “Perhaps we might … er … moot a provisional sum to
conclude this meeting,
as a basis for … ongoing negotiation.”
“Okeydokey What sum did we moot earlier, Mozza?”
“Fifty K sounded reasonable.”
My cry of pain was unfeigned. “Fifty thousand pounds?”
“For starters.”
My intestines bubbled, toiled and troubled. “Do you really think I keep
that kind of money
lying around in shoe boxes?” I pitched my voice for Dirty Harry, but it was
more Lisping
Baggins.
“I hope you keep it lying around somewhere, Grandpops.”
“Cash.”
“No bollocks. No checks.”
“No promises. No deferments.”
“Old-fashioned money A shoe box will do fine.”
“Gentlemen, I’m happy to pay a negotiated consideration, but the law—”
Jarvis whistled through his teeth. “Will the law help a man of your years
bounce back from
multiple spinal fractures, Timothy?”
Eddie: “Men of your age don’t bounce. They splat.”
I fought with all my might, but my sphincter was no longer my own and a
cannonade fired off.
Amusement or condescension I could have borne, but my tormentors’ pity
signified my abject
defeat. The toilet chain was pulled.
“Three o’clock.” Cavendish-Redux went down the pan. Out trooped the thugs
, over my
prostrate door. Eddie turned for a last word. “Dermot did a nice little
paragraph in his book. On
loan defaulters.”
I refer the curious reader to page 244 of Knuckle Sandwich, available from
your local
bookshop. Not on a full stomach.
Outside my Haymarket office suite taxis inched and sprinted. Inside my inner
sanctum, Mrs.
Latham’s Nefertiti earrings (a gift from me to mark her tenth year with
Cavendish Publishing, I
found them in a British Museum Gift Shop bargain bin) jingled as she shook
her head, no, no,
no. “And I am telling you, Mr. Cavendish, that I cannot find you fifty
thousand pounds by
three o’clock this afternoon. I cannot find you five thousand pounds. Every
Knuckle Sandwich
penny has already been Hoovered up by long-standing debts.”
“Doesn’t anybody owe us money?”
“I always keep on top of the invoicing, Mr. Cavendish, do I not?”
Desperation makes me wheedle. “This is the age of ready credit!”
“This is the age of credit limits, Mr. Cavendish.”
I retired to my office, poured myself a whiskey, and slooshed down my dicky-
ticker pills
before tracing Captain Cook’s last voyage on my antique globe. Mrs. Latham
brought in the
mail and left without a word. Bills, junk, moral muggings from charity
fundraisers, and a
package addressed “FAO The Visionary Editor of Knuckle Sandwich,”
containing a MS titled
Half-Lives—lousy name for a work of fiction—and subtitled The First Luisa
Rey Mystery.
Lousier and lousier. Its lady author, one dubiously named Hilary V Hush,
began her covering
letter with the following: “When I was nine my mom took me to Lourdes to
pray for my bedwetting
to be cured. Imagine my surprise when not Saint Bernadette but Alain-
Fournier
appeared in a vision that night.”
Nutcase ahoy. I threw the letter away into my “Urgent Business” tray and
switched on my
spanking new fat-gigabyte computer for a game of Minesweeper. After getting
blown up twice
I telephoned Sotheby’s to offer Charles Dickens’s own, original, authentic
writing desk for
auction with a reserve price of sixty thousand. A charming evaluator named
Kirpal Singh
commiserated that the novelist’s desk was already accounted for by the
Dickens House
museum and hoped I’d not been fleeced too painfully I confess, I do lose
track of my little
elaborations. Next I called Elliot McCluskie and asked after his delightful
kiddies. “Fine, thank
you.” He asked after my delightful business. I asked for a loan of eighty
thousand pounds. He
began with a thoughtful “Right …” I lowered my ceiling to sixty Elliot
pointed out that my
performance-linked credit stream still had a twelve-month flow horizon
before resizing could
be feasibly optioned. Oh, I miss the days when they’d laugh like a hyena,
tell you to go to hell,
and hang up. I traced Magellan’s voyage across my globe and longed for a
century when a
fresh beginning was no further than the next clipper out of Dept-ford. My
pride already in
tatters, I gave Madame X a bell. She was having her A.M. soak. I explained
the gravity of my
situation. She laughed like a hyena, told me to go to hell, and hung up. I
spun my globe. I spun
my globe.
Mrs. Latham eyeballed me like a hawk watching a bunny as I stepped outside.
“No, not a loan
shark, Mr. Cavendish. It just isn’t worth it.”
“Never fear, Mrs. Latham, I’m just going to pay a call on the one man in
this world who
believes in me, fair weather or foul.” In the lift I reminded my reflection
, “Blood is thicker than
water,” before spiking my palm on the spoke of my telescopic umbrella.
“Oh, Satan’s gonads, not you. Look, just get lost and leave us in peace.”
My brother glared
across his swimming pool as I stepped down his patio. Denholme’s never swum
in his pool, as
far as I know, but he does all the chlorinating and whatnot every week just
the same, even in
blustery drizzle. He trawled for leaves with a big net on a pole. “I’m not
lending you a ruddy
farthing until you pay back the last lot. Why must I forever be giving you
handouts? No. Don’t
answer.” Denholme scooped a fistful of soggy leaves from the net. “Just
get back in your taxi
and bugger off. I’ll only ask you nicely once.”
“How’s Georgette?” I brushed aphids off his shriveled rose petals.
“Georgette’s going bonkers surely and steadily, not that you ever evince
an ounce of genuine
interest when you don’t want money.”
I watched a worm return to soil and wished I was it. “Denny, I’ve had a
minor run-in with the
wrong sort. If I can’t get my hands on sixty thousand pounds, I’m going to
take an awful
beating.”
“Get them to video it for us.”
“I’m not joking, Denholme.”
“Nor am I! So, you’re shoddy at being duplicitous. What of it? Why is this
my problem?”
“We’re brothers! Don’t you have a conscience?”
“I sat on the board of a merchant bank for thirty years.”
An amputated sycamore tree shed once green foliage like desperate men shed
once steadfast
resolutions. “Help, Denny. Please. Thirty grand would be a start.”
I had pushed too hard. “Damn it to hell, Tim, my bank crashed! We were bled
dry by those
bloodsuckers at Lloyd’s! The days when I had that kind of spondulics at my
beck and call are
gone, gone, gone! Our house is mortgaged, twice over! I’m the mighty fallen
, you’re the
minuscule fallen. Anyway, you’ve got this ruddy book flying out of every
bookshop in the
known world!” My face said what I had no words for. “Oh, Christ, you idiot
. What’s the
repayment schedule?” I looked at my watch. “Three o’clock this afternoon.
” “Forget it.”
Denholme put down his net. “File for bankruptcy. Reynard’ll do the papers
for you, he’s a
good man. A hard bullet to bite, I should know, but it’ll get your
creditors off your back. The
law is clear—”
“Law? The only experience my creditors have of the law is squatting over a
can in an
overcrowded cell.” “Then go to ground.”
“These people are very, very well connected with the ground.” “Not beyond
the M25 they
aren’t, I bet. Stay with friends.” Friends? I crossed off those to whom I
owed money, the dead,
the disappeared-down-time’s-rabbit-hole, and I was left with …
Denholme made his final offer. “I can’t lend you money. I don’t have any.
But I’m owed a
favor or two by a comfortable place where you could possibly lie low for a
while.”
Temple of the Rat King. Ark of the Soot God. Sphincter of Hades. Yes, King’
s Cross Station,
where, according to Knuckle Sandwich, a blow job costs only five quid—any
of the furthestleft
three cubicles in the men’s lavvy downstairs, twenty-four hours a day. I
called Mrs.
Latham to explain I would be in Prague for a three-week meeting with Václav
Havel, a lie
whose consequences stuck with me like herpes. Mrs. Latham wished me bon
voyage. She
could handle the Hogginses. Mrs. Latham could handle the Ten Plagues of
Egypt. I don’t
deserve her, I know it. I often wonder why she’s stayed at Cavendish
Publishing. It isn’t for
what I pay her.
I navigated the array of ticket types on the ticket machine: Day Return with
Railcard Off Peak,
Cheap Day Single Without Railcard on Peak, and on, and on, but which, oh,
which do I need?
A menacing finger tapped my shoulder and I jumped a mile—it was only a
little old lady
advising me that returns are cheaper than singles. I assumed she was
doolally but, stone the
ruddy crows, ’twas so. I slid in a banknote with our monarch’s head up,
then down, then front
first, then back first, but each time the machine spat it out.
So I joined the queue for a human ticket seller. Thirty-one people were
ahead of me, yes, I
counted every one. The ticket sellers drifted in and out from their counters
much as the fancy
took them. A looped advertisement on a screen urged me to invest in a stair-
lift. Finally, finally,
my turn was up: “Hello, I need a ticket to Hull.”
The ticket woman toyed with her chunky ethnic rings. “Leaving when?”
“As soon as possible.”
“As in ‘today’?”
“ ‘Today usually means ‘as soon as possible,’ yes.”
“I ain’t sellin’ you a ticket for today. That’s them winders over there.
This winder is advance
tickets only.”
“But the red flashing sign told me to come to your counter.”
“Couldn’t have done. Move along, now. You’re holding up the queue.”
“No, that sign ruddy well did send me to this counter! I’ve been queuing
for twenty minutes!”
She looked interested for the first time. “You want me to change the rules
for your benefit?”
Anger sparked in Timothy Cavendish like forks in microwaves. “I want you to
evolve
problem-solving intelligence and sell me a ticket to Hull!”
“I ain’t standing for being addressed in that tone.”
“I’m the ruddy customer! I won’t be addressed like that! Get me your
ruddy supervisor!”
“I am my supervisor.”
Snarling an oath from an Icelandic saga, I reclaimed my place at the head of
the queue.
“Oy!” yelled a punk rocker, with studs in his cranium. “There’s a fackin
’ queue!”
Never apologize, advises Lloyd George. Say it again, only this time, ruder.
“I know there’s a
‘fackin’ queue’! I already queued in it once and I am not going to queue
again just because
Nina Simone over there won’t sell me a ruddy ticket!”
A colored yeti in a clip-on uniform swooped. “Wassa bovver?”
“This old man here reckons his colostomy bag entitles him to jump the queue
,” said the
skinhead, “and make racist slurs about the lady of Afro-Caribbean
extraction in the advancetravel
window.”
I couldn’t believe I was hearing this.
“Look, matey”—the yeti addressed me with condescension reserved for the
handicapped or
elderly—“we got queues in this country to keep things fair, see, and if
you don’t like it you
should go back to where you come from, getit?”
“Do I look like a ruddy Egyptian? Do I? I know there’s a queue! How?
Because I already
queued in this queue, so—”
“This gentleman claims you ain’t.”
“Him? Will he still be a ‘gentleman’ when he daubs Asylum Scrounger’ on
your housingassociation
flat?”
His eyeballs swelled, they really did. “The Transport Police can boot you
off the premises, or
you can join this queue like a member of a civilized society Whichever is
fine by me. Jumping
queues is not fine by me.”
“But if I queue all over again I’ll miss my connections!”
“Tough,” he enunciated, “titty!”
I appealed to the people behind that Sid Rotten look-alike. Maybe they had
seen me in the
queue, maybe they hadn’t, but nobody met my eye. England has gone to the
dogs, oh, the dogs,
the ruddy dogs.
Over an hour later London shunted itself southward, taking the Curse of the
Brothers Hoggins
with it. Commuters, these hapless souls who enter a lottery of death twice
daily on Britain’s
decrepit railways, packed the dirty train. Airplanes circled in holding
patterns over Heathrow,
densely as gnats over a summer puddle. Too much matter in this ruddy city
Still. I felt the exhilaration of a journey begun, and I let my guard drop.
A volume I once
published, True Recollections of a Northern Territories Magistrate, claims
that shark victims
experience an anesthetic vision of floating away, all danger gone, into the
Pacific blue, at the
very moment they are being minced in that funnel of teeth. I, Timothy
Cavendish, was that
swimmer, watching London roll away, yes, you, you sly, toupeed quizmaster of
a city you and
your tenements of Somalians; viaducts of Kingdom Brunel; malls of casualized
labor; strata of
soot-blitzed bricks and muddy bones of Doctors Dee, Crippen et al.; hot
glass office buildings
where the blooms of youth harden into aged cacti like my penny-pinching
brother.
Essex raised its ugly head. When I was a scholarship boy at the local
grammar, son of a cityhall
toiler on the make, this county was synonymous with liberty success, and
Cambridge.
Now look at it. Shopping malls and housing estates pursue their creeping
invasion of our
ancient land. A North Sea wind snatched frilly clouds in its teeth and
scarpered off to the
Midlands. The countryside proper began at last. My mother had a cousin out
here, her family
had a big house, I think they moved to Winnipeg for a better life. There!
There, in the shadow
of that DIY warehouse, once stood a row of walnut trees where me and Pip
Oakes—a
childhood chum who died aged thirteen under the wheels of an oil tanker—
varnished a canoe
one summer and sailed it along the Say Sticklebacks in jars. There, right
there, around that bend
we lit a fire and cooked beans and potatoes wrapped in silver foil! Come
back, oh, come back!
Is one glimpse all I get? Hedgeless, featureless fields. Essex is Winnipeg,
now. Stubble was
burnt, and the air tasted of crisp bacon sarnies. My thoughts flew off with
other fairies, and we
were past Saffron Walden when the train juddered to a halt. “Um …,” said
the intercom. “John,
is this on? John, what button do I press?” Cough. “SouthNet Trains regrets
that this service
will make an unscheduled stop at the next station due to … a missing driver
. This unscheduled
stop will continue for the duration that it takes to locate an appropriate
driver. SouthNet Trains
assures you we are striving hard”—I clearly discerned a background snigger
!—“to restore our
normal excellent standard of service.” Rail rage chain-reactioned down the
compartments,
though in our age crimes are not committed by criminals conveniently at hand
but by executive
pens far beyond the mob’s reach, back in London’s postmodern HQs of glass
and steel. Half
the mob owns shares in what it would pound to atoms, anyway.
So there we sat. I wished I had brought something to read. At least I had a
seat, and I wouldn’t
have given it up for Helen Keller. The evening was lemon blue. Trackside
shadows grew
monolithic. Commuters sent calls to families on mobile phones. I wondered
how that dodgy
Australian magistrate knew what flashed through the minds of the shark-eaten
. Lucky express
trains with nonmiss-ing drivers shot past. I needed the loo, but it didn’t
bear imagining. I
opened my briefcase for a bag of Werner’s toffees but came up with Half-
Lives—The First
Luisa Rey Mystery. I leafed through its first few pages. It would be a
better book if Hilary V
Hush weren’t so artsily-fartsily Clever. She had written it in neat little
chap-teroids, doubtless
with one eye on the Hollywood screenplay. Static squealed in the speakers.
“This is a
passenger announcement. SouthNet Trains regrets that as a suitable driver
for this train cannot
be located we will proceed to Little Chesterford station, where a
complimentary coach will
transport passengers on to Cambridge. Those able to are recommended to make
alternative
travel arrangements, as the coach will not reach Little Chesterford station
[how that name
chimed in my memory!] for … an unknown duration. Further details can be
found on our
website.” The train crawled a mile of twilight. Bats and wind-borne rubbish
overtook us. Who
was driving now if there wasn’t a driver?
Stop, shudder, doors open. The abler-bodied streamed off the train, over the
footbridge, leaving
me and a couple of taxidermist’s castoffs to limp in their wake at quarter
speed. I heaved
myself up the steps and paused for breath. There I was. Standing on the
footbridge of Little
Chesterford station. Ye gods, of all the rural stations for a marooning. The
bridle path to
Ursula’s old house still skirted the cornfield. Not much else did I
recognize. The Sacred Barn
of the Longest Snog was now Essex’s Premier Fitness Club. Ursula had met me
in her froggy
Citroën that night during reading week in our first term, right … on
this triangle of gravel, here.
How bohemian, Young Tim had thought, to be met by a woman in a car. I was
Tutankhamen
in my royal barge, rowed by Nubian slaves to the Temple of Sacrifice. Ursula
drove me the
few hundred yards to Dockery House, commissioned in Art Nouveau times by a
Scandiwegian
consul. We had the place to ourselves, while Mater and Pater were in Greece
holidaying with Lawrence Durrell, if memory serves. (“Memory Serves.”
Duplicitous couplet.)
Four decades later the beams of headlights from executive cars in the
station car park lit up a
freak plague of daddy longlegs, and one fugitive publishing gentleman in a
flapping raincoat
striding around a field now lying fallow for EU subsidies. You would think a
place the size of
England could easily hold all the happenings in one humble lifetime without
much overlap—I
mean, it’s not ruddy Luxembourg we live in—but no, we cross, crisscross,
and recross our old
tracks like figure skaters. Dockery House was still standing, isolated from
its neighbors by a
privet fence. How opulent the building had felt after my own parents’ bland
box of suburbia—
One day, I promised, I’m going to live in a house like this. Another
promise I’ve broken; at
least that one was only to myself.
I skirted the edge of the property down an access road to a building site. A
sign read: HAZLE
CLOSE—HIGHLY PRIZED EXECUTIVE HOMES IN THE HEART OF ENGLAND.
Upstairs at Dockery lights were on. I imagined a childless couple listening
to a wireless. The
old stained-glass door had been replaced by something more burglarproof That
reading week
I’d entered Dockery ready to peel off my shameful virginity but I’d been
so in awe of my
Divine Cleopatra, so nervous, so eyeballed up on her father’s whiskey, so
floppy with green
sap that, well, I’d rather draw a veil over the embarrassment of that night
, even at forty years’
remove. Very well, forty-seven years’ remove. That same white-leafed oak
had scratted at
Ursula’s window as I attempted to perform, long after I could decently
pretend I was still
warming up. Ursula had a gramophone record of Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano
Concerto in
her bedroom, that room there, where the electric candle glows in the window.
To this day I cannot hear Rachmaninoff without flinching.
The odds of Ursula still living at Dockery House were zilch, I knew. Last I
heard she was
running a PR office in Los Angeles. Nonetheless, I squeezed myself through
the evergreen
hedge and pressed my nose up against the unlit, uncurtained dining room
window, trying to
peer in. That autumn night long ago Ursula had served a blob of grilled
cheese on a slice of
ham on a breast of chicken. Right there—right here. I could still taste it.
I can still taste it as I
write these words.
Flash!
The room was lit electric marigold, and in waltzed—backwards, luckily for
me—a little witch
with red corkscrew curls. “Mummy!” I half-heard, half-lip-read through the
glass. “Mummy!”
and in came Mummy, with the same corkscrew curls. This being proof enough
for me that
Ursula’s family had long vacated the house, I backtracked into the
shrubbery—but I turned
once more and resumed my spying because … well, because, ahem, je suis un
homme
solitaire. Mummy was repairing a broken broomstick while the girl sat on the
table swinging
her legs. An adult werewolf came in and removed his mask, and oddly, though
not so oddly I
suppose, I recognized him—that current-affairs TV presenter, one of Felix
Finch’s tribe.
Jeremy Someone, Heathcliff eyebrows, terrier manners, you know the chap. He
took some
insulation tape from the Welsh dresser drawer and muscled in on the
broomstick repair job.
Then Grandma entered this domestic frieze, and damn me once, damn me twice,
damn me
always make it nice, ’twas Ursula. The Ursula. My Ursula.
Behold that spry, elderly lady! In my memory she hadn’t aged a day—what
makeup artist had
savaged her dewy youth? (The same one who savaged yours, Timbo.) She spoke,
and her
daughter and granddaughter giggled, yes, giggled, and I giggled too … What?
What did she
say? Tell me the joke! She stuffed a red stocking with newspaper balls. A
devil’s tail. She
attached it to her posterior with a safety pin, and a memory from a
university Halloween Ball
cracked on the hard rim of my heart and the yolk dribbled out—shed dressed
like a devilette
then, too, shed put on red face paint, wed kissed all night, just kissed,
and in the morning we
found a builders’ café that sold dirty mugs of strong, milky tea and
enough eggs to fill, to kill,
the Swiss Army. Toast and hot canned tomatoes. HP Sauce. Be honest,
Cavendish, was any
other breakfast in your life ever so delectable?
So drunk was I on nostalgia, I ordered myself to leave before I did anything
stupid. A nasty
voice just a few feet away said this— “Don’t move a muscle or I’ll
mackasser you and put you
in a stew!”
Shocked? Jet-assisted Vertical Ruddy Takeoff! Luckily my would-be butcherer
was not a day
older than ten, and his chain saw’s teeth were cardboard, but his bloodied
bandages were rather
effective. In a low voice, I told him so. He wrinkled his face at me. “Are
you Grandma
Ursula’s friend?”
“Once upon a time, yes, I was.”
“What have you come to the party as? Where’s your costume?”
Time to leave. I edged back into the evergreen. “This is my costume.”
He picked his nose. “A dead man digged up from the churchyard?”
“Charmed, but no. I’ve come as the Ghost of Christmas Past.”
“But it’s Halloween, not Christmas.”
“No!” I slapped my forehead. “Really?”
“Yeah …”
“Then I’m ten months late! This is terrible! I’d better get back before
my absence is noticed—
and remarked upon!”
The boy did a cartoon kung-fu pose and waved his chain saw at me. “Not so
fast, Green
Goblin! You’re a trespasser! I’m telling the police of you!”
War. “Tell-tale-tit, are you? Two can play at that game. If you tell on me,
I’ll tell my friend the
Ghost of Christmas Future where your house is, and do you know what he’ll
do to you?”
The wide-eyed shitletto shook his head, shaken and stirred.
“When your family is all tucked up asleep in your snug little beds, he’ll
slide into your house
through the crack under the door and eat—your—puppy!” The venom in my
bile duct pumped
fast. “He’ll leave its curly tail under your pillow and you’ll get blamed
. Your little friends will
all scream, ‘Puppy slayer!’ whenever they see you coming. You’ll grow old
and friendless and
die, alone, miserably, on Christmas morning half a century from now. So if I
were you, I
wouldn’t breathe a word to anyone about seeing me.”
I pushed myself through the hedge before he could take it all in. As I was
heading back to the
station along the pavement, the wind carried his sob: “But I don’t even
have a puppy …”
I hid behind Private Eye in the health center’s Wellness Café, which was
doing a fine trade
with us maroonees. I half-expected a furious Ursula to turn up with her
grandchild and a local
bobby. Private lifeboats came to rescue the stockbrokers. Old Father Timothy
offers this advice
to his younger readers, included for free in the price of this memoir:
conduct your life in such a
way that, when your train breaks down in the eve of your years, you have a
warm, dry car
driven by a loved one—or a hired one, it matters not—to take you home.
A venerable coach arrived three Scotches later. Venerable? Ruddy Edwardian.
I had to endure
chatty students all the way to Cambridge. Boyfriend worries, sadistic
lecturers, demonic
housemates, reality TV, strewth, I had no idea children of their age were so
hyperactive. When
I finally reached Cambridge station, I looked for a telephone box to tell
Aurora House not to
expect me until the following day, but the first two telephones were
vandalized (in Cambridge,
I ask you!), and only when I got to the third did I look at the address and
see that Denholme
had neglected to write the number. I found a hotel for commercial travelers
next to a
launderette. I forget its name, but I knew from its reception that the place
was a crock of cat
crap, and as usual my first impression was spot on. I was too ruddy whacked
to shop around
for something nicer, however, and my wallet was too starved. My room had
high windows
with blinds I couldn’t lower because I am not twelve feet tall. The khaki
pellets in the bathtub
were indeed mouse droppings, the shower knob came off in my hand, and the
hot water was
tepid. I fumigated the room with cigar smoke and lay on my bed trying to
recall the bedrooms
of all my lovers, in order, looking down the mucky telescope of time. Prince
Rupert and the
Boys failed to stir. I felt strangely unconcerned with the idea of the
Hoggins Bros. plundering
my flat back in Putney. Must be lean pickings compared to most of their
heists, if Knuckle
Sandwich is anything to go by. A few nice first editions, but little else of
value. My television
died the night George Bush II snatched the throne and I haven’t dared
replace it. Madame X
took back her antiques and heirlooms. I ordered a triple Scotch from room
service—damn me if
I’d share a bar with a cabal of salesmen boasting about boobs and bonuses.
When my treble
whiskey finally came it was actually a stingy double, so I said so. The
ferrety adolescent just
shrugged. No apology, just a shrug. I asked him to lower my blind, but he
took one look and
huffed, “Can’t reach that!” I gave him a frosty “That will be all, then,
” instead of a tip. He
broke wind as he left, poisonously I read more of Half-Lives but fell asleep
just after Rufus
Sixsmith was found murdered. In a lucid dream I was looking after a little
asylum-seeker boy
who begged for a go in one of those rides in the corners of supermarkets you
put fifty p into. I
said, “Oh, all right,” but when the child climbed out he had turned into
Nancy Reagan. How
could I explain that to his mother?
I woke up in darkness with a mouth like Super Glue. The Mighty Gibbon’s
assessment of
history—“little more than the register of the crimes, follies, and
misfortunes of mankind”—
ticker-taped by for no apparent reason. Timothy Cavendish’s time on Earth,
in thirteen words. I
refought old arguments, then fought arguments that have never even existed.
I smoked a cigar
until the high windows showed streaks of a watery dawn. I shaved my jowls. A
pinched
Ulsterwoman downstairs served a choice of burnt or frozen toast with sachets
of lipstickcolored
jam and unsalted butter . I remembered Jake Balokowsky’s quip about
Normandy:
Cornwall with something to eat.
Back at the station my woes began afresh when I tried to get a refund on
yesterday’s disrupted
journey. The ticket-wallah, whose pimples bubbled as I watched, was as
intractably dense as
his counterpart in King’s Cross. The corporation breeds them from the same
stem cell. My
blood pressure neared its record. “What do you mean, yesterday’s ticket is
now invalid? It’s
not my fault my ruddy train broke down!”
“Not our fault neither. SouthNet run the trains. We’re Ticket-Lords, see.”
“Then to whom do I complain?”
“Well, SouthNet Loco are owned by a holding company in Düs-seldorf who are
owned by that
mobile-phone company in Finland, so you’d be best off trying someone in
Helsinki. You
should thank your lucky stars it wasn’t a derailment. Get a lot of those,
these days.”
Sometimes the fluffy bunny of incredulity zooms round the bend so rapidly
that the greyhound
of language is left, agog, in the starting cage. A feisty stagger was needed
to reach the next train
before it left—only to find it had been canceled! But, “luckily,” the
train before mine was so
late that it still hadn’t departed. All the seats were taken, and I had to
squeeze into a three-inch
slot. I lost my balance when the train pulled away, but a human crumple zone
buffered my fall.
We stayed like that, half fallen. The Diagonal People.
Cambridge outskirts are all science parks now. Ursula and I went punting
below that quaint
bridge, where those Biotech Space Age cuboids now sit cloning humans for
shady Koreans.
Oh, aging is ruddy unbearable! The I’s we were yearn to breathe the world’
s air again, but can
they ever break out from these calcified cocoons? Oh, can they hell.
Witchy trees bent before the enormous sky. Our train had made an unscheduled
and
unexplained stop on a blasted heath, for how long, I do not recall. My watch
was stuck in the
middle of last night. (I miss my Ingersoll, even today.) My fellow
passengers’ features melted
into forms that were half familiar: an estate agent behind me, yacking on
his mobile telephone, I
could swear he was my sixth-form hockey captain; the grim woman two seats
ahead, reading A
Moveable Feast, isn’t she that Inland Revenue gorgon who gave me such a
grilling a few years
ago?
Finally the couplings whimpered and the train limped off at a slow haul to
another country
station whose flaky name board read “Adlestrop.” A voice with a bad cold
announced:
“Centrallo Trains regrets that due to a braking-systems failure this train
will make a brief stop at
this—sneeze—station. Passengers are directed to alight here … and wait
for a substitute train.”
My fellow travelers gasped, groaned, swore, shook their heads. “Centrallo
Trains apologizes
for any—sneeze—inconvenience this may cause, and assures you we are
working hard to
restore our normal excellent standard of—huge sneeze—service. Gi’ us a
tissue, John.”
Fact: rolling stock in this country is built in Hamburg or somewhere, and
when the German
engineers test British-bound trains, they use imported lengths of our
buggered, privatized
tracks because the decently maintained European rails won’t provide
accurate testing
conditions. Who really won the ruddy war? I should have fled the Hogginses
up the Great
North Road on a ruddy pogo stick.
I elbowed my way into the grubby café, bought a pie that tasted of shoe
polish and a pot of tea
with cork crumbs floating in it, and eavesdropped on a pair of Shetland pony
breeders.
Despondency makes one hanker after lives one never led. Why have you given
your life to
books, TC? Dull, dull, dull! The memoirs are bad enough, but all that ruddy
fiction! Hero goes
on a journey, stranger comes to town, somebody wants something, they get it
or they don’t,
will is pitted against will. “Admire me, for I am a metaphor.”
I groped my way to the ammonia-smelling gents’, where a joker had stolen
the bulb. I had just
unzipped myself when a voice arose from the shadows. “Hey, mistah, got a
light or sumfink?”
Steadying my cardiac arrest, I fumbled for my lighter. The flame conjured a
Rastafarian in
Holbein embers, just a few inches away, a cigar held in his thick lips. “
Fanks,” whispered my
black Virgil, inclining his head to bring the tip into the flame.
“You’re, erm, most welcome, quite,” I said.
His wide, flat nose twitched. “So, where you heading, man?”
My hand checked my wallet was still there. “Hull …” A witless fib ran
wild. “To return a
novel. To a librarian who works there. A very famous poet. At the university
It’s in my bag.
It’s called Half-Lives.” The Rastafarian’s cigar smelt of compost. I can
never guess what
they’re really thinking. Not that I’ve ever really known any. I’m not a
racialist, but I do believe
the ingredients in so-called melting pots take generations to melt. “Mistah
,” the Rastafarian told
me, “you need”—and I flinched—“some o’ this.” I obeyed his offer and
sucked on his turdthick
cigar.
Ruddy hell! “What is this stuff?”
He made a noise like a didgeridoo at the root of his throat. “That don’t
grow in Marlboro
Country” My head enlarged itself by a magnitude of many hundreds, Alice-
style, and became a
multistory car park wherein dwelt a thousand and one operatic Citroëns.
“My word, you can
say that again,” mouthed the Man Formerly Known as Tim Cavendish.
Next thing I remember, I was on the train again, wondering who had walled up
my
compartment with moss-stained bricks. “We’re ready for you now, Mr.
Cavendish,” a bald,
spectacled coot told me. Nobody was there, or anywhere. Only a cleaner,
making his way
down the vacant train, putting litter into a sack. I lowered myself onto the
platform. The cold
sank its fangs into my exposed neck and frisked me for uninsulated patches.
Back in King’s
Cross? No, this was wintriest Gdansk. In a panic I realized I didn’t have
my bag and umbrella.
I climbed aboard and retrieved them from the luggage rack. My muscles seemed
to have
atrophied in my sleep. Outside, a baggage cart passed, driven by a
Modigliani. Where in hell
was this place?
“Yurrin Hulpal,” the Modigliani answered.
Arabic? My brain proposed the following: a Eurostar train had stopped at
Adlestrop, I had
boarded and slept all the way to Istanbul Central. Addled brain. I needed a
clear sign, in
English.
WELCOME TO HULL.
Praise be, my journey was nearly over. When had I last been this far north?
Never, that’s
when. I gulped cold air to stub out a sudden urge to throw up—that’s right
, Tim, drink it down.
The offended stomach supplies pictures of the cause of its discomfort, and
the Rastafarian’s
cigar flashed before me. The station was painted in all blacks. I rounded a
corner and found
two luminous clock faces hung above the exit, but clocks in disagreement are
worse than no
clock at all. No watcher at the gates wanted to see my exorbitantly priced
ticket, and I felt
cheated. Out front a curb crawler prowled here, a window blinked there,
music waxed and
waned from a pub across the bypass. “Spare change?” asked, no, demanded,
no, accused, a
miserable dog in a blanket. His master’s nose, eyebrows, and lips were so
pierced with
ironmongery that a powerful electromagnet would have shredded his face in a
single pass.
What do these people do at airport metal detectors? “Got any change?” I
saw myself as he saw
me, a frail old giffer in a friendless late city The dog rose, scenting
vulnerability An invisible
guardian took my elbow and led me to a taxi rank.
The taxi seemed to have been going round the same roundabout for a miniature
eternity A
howling singer on the radio strummed a song about how everything that dies
someday comes
back. (Heaven forfend—remember the Monkey’s Paw!) The driver’s head was
far, far too big
for his shoulders, he must have had that Elephant Man disease, but when he
turned round I
made out his turban. He was bemoaning his clientele. “Always they say, ‘
Bet it ain’t this cold
where you’re from, eh?’ and always I say, ‘Dead wrong, mate. You’ve
obviously never visited
Manchester in February’ ”
“You do know the way to Aurora House, don’t you?” I asked, and the Sikh
said, “Look,
we’ve arrived already” The narrow driveway ended at an imposing Edwardian
residence of
indeterminate size. “Sick teen-squid Zachary.”
“I don’t know anyone of that name.”
He looked at me, puzzled, then repeated, “Sixteen—quid— exactly”
“Oh. Yes.” My wallet was not in my trouser pockets, or my jacket pocket.
Or my shirt pocket.
Nor did it reappear in my trouser pockets. The awful truth smacked my face.
“I’ve been ruddy
robbed!”
“I resent the insinuation. My taxi has a municipal meter.”
“No, you don’t understand, my wallet’s been stolen.”
“Oh, then I understand.” Good, he understands. “I understand very well!”
The wrath of the
subcontinent swarmed in the dark. “You’re thinking, That curry muncher
knows whose side
the fuzz’ll take.”
“Nonsense!” I protested. “Look, I’ve got coins, change, yes, a pocketful
of change … here …
yes, thank God! Yes, I think I’ve got it …”
He counted his ducats. “Tip?”
“Take it.” I had emptied all the shrapnel into his other hand and
scrambled outside, straight into
a ditch. From my accident-victim’s-eye view I saw the taxi speed away, and
I suffered a
disagreeable flashback to my Greenwich mugging. It wasn’t the watch or even
the bruises or
the shock that had scarred me so. It was that I was a man who had once faced
down and bested
a quartet of Arab ragamuffins in Aden, but in the girls’ eyes I was … old,
merely old. Not
behaving the way an old man should—invisible, silent, and scared—was,
itself, sufficient
provocation.
I scaled the ramp up to the imposing glass doors. The reception area glowed
grail gold. I
knocked, and a woman who could have been cast for the stage musical of
Florence Nightingale
smiled at me. I felt like someone had waved a magic wand and said, “
Cavendish, all your
troubles are over!”
Florence let me in. “Welcome to Aurora House, Mr. Cavendish!”
“Oh, thank you, thank you. Today has been too ruddy awful for words.”
An angel incarnate. “The main thing is you’ve arrived safely now.”
“Look, there is a slight fiscal embarrassment I should mention at this time
. You see, on my way
here—”
“All you need to worry about now is getting a good night’s sleep.
Everything is taken care of.
Just sign here and I can show you to your room. It’s a nice quiet one
overlooking the garden.
You’ll love it.”
Moist-eyed with gratitude, I followed her to my sanctuary. The hotel was
modern, spotless,
with very soft lighting in the sleepy corridors. I recognized aromas from my
childhood but
couldn’t quite identify them. Up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire. My room
was simple, its
sheets crisp and clean, with towels ready on the heated rail. “Will you be
all right from now,
Mr. Cavendish?”
“Bliss, my dear.”
“Sweet dreams, then.” I knew they would be. I took a quick shower, slipped
into my jimjams,
and cleaned my teeth. My bed was firm but comfy as beaches in Tahiti. The
Hoggins Horrors
were east of the Horn, I was scot-free, and Denny, dearest Denholme, was
footing my bill.
Brother in need, brother indeed. Sirens sang in my marshmallow pillows. In
the morning life
would begin afresh, afresh, afresh. This time round I would do everything
right.
“In the morning.” Fate is fond of booby-trapping those three little words.
I awoke to discover a
not-so-young woman with a pageboy haircut rifling through my personal
effects like a bargain
hunter. “What the ruddy hell are you doing in my room, you pilfering warty
sow?” I halfroared,
half-wheezed.
The female put down my jacket without guilt. “Because you are new I will
not have you eat
soap powder. This time. Be warned. I do not stand for offensive language in
Aurora House.
Not from anyone. And I never make idle threats, Mr. Cavendish. Never.”
A robber reprimanding his victim for bad language! “I’ll ruddy well talk
to you how I ruddy
well like, you stinking ruddy thief! Make me eat soap powder? I’d like to
see you try! Let’s call
Hotel Security! Let’s call the police! You ask about offensive language,
and I’ll ask about
breaking, entry, and theft!”
She came over to my bed and slapped me hard across the chops.
I was so shocked I just fell back onto my pillow.
“A disappointing start. I am Mrs. Noakes. You do not wish to cross me.”
Was this some sort of a kinky S & M hotel? Had a madwoman broken into my
room after
learning my name from the hotel register?
“Smoking is discouraged here. I will have to confiscate these cigars. The
lighter is far too
dangerous for you to play with. And what, pray, are these?” She dangled my
keys.
“Keys. What do you think they are?”
“Keys go walkies! Let’s give them to Mrs. Judd for safekeeping, shall we?”
“Let’s not give them to anyone, you crazy dragon! You strike me! You rob
me! What kind of
ruddy hotel hires thieves for chambermaids?”
The creature stuffed her booty into a little burglar’s bag. “No more
valuables to be taken care
of?”
“Put those items back! Now! Or I’ll have your job, I swear it!”
“I’ll take that as a no. Breakfast is eight sharp. Boiled eggs with toast
soldiers today None for
the tardy.”
I got dressed the moment she was gone, and looked for the phone. There wasn
’t one. After a
very quick wash—my bathroom had been designed for disabled people, it was
all rounded
edges and fitted with handrails—I hurried to Reception, determined to have
due justice. I had
acquired a limp but was unsure how. I was lost. Baroque music lilted in
identical chair-lined
corridors. A leprous gnome gripped my wrist and showed me a jar of hazelnut
butter. “If you
want to take this home, I’ll jolly well tell you why I don’t.”
“You’ve mistaken me for someone else.” I scraped the creature’s hand off
mine and passed
through a dining room area where the guests were seated in rows and
waitresses were bringing
bowls in from the kitchen.
What was so odd?
The youngest guests were in their seventies. The oldest guests were three
hundred plus. Was it
the week after the schools went back?
I had it. You probably spotted it pages ago, dear Reader.
Aurora House was a nursing home for the elderly
That ruddy brother of mine! This was his idea of a joke!
Mrs. Judd and her Oil of Olay smile were manning Reception. “Hello, Mr.
Cavendish. Feeling
super this morning?”
“Yes. No. An absurd misunderstanding has occurred.”
“Is that a fact?”
“It most certainly is a fact. I checked in last night believing Aurora
House was a hotel. My
brother made the booking, you see. But … oh, it’s his idea of a practical
joke. Not in the least
bit funny His contemptible ruse only ‘worked’ because a Rastafarian gave
me a puff of a
sinister cigar in Adlestrop, and also, the ruddy stem-cell twins who sold me
my ticket here,
they wore me out so. But listen. You have a bigger problem closer to home—
some demented
bitch called Noakes is running about the place impersonating a chambermaid.
She’s probably
riddled with Alzheimer’s, but yowie, she’s got a slap on her. She stole my
keys! Now, in a gogo
bar in Phuket, that’d be par for the course, but in an old wrecks’ home in
Hull? You’d get
closed down if I was an inspector, you know.”
Mrs. Judd’s smile was now battery acid.
“I want my keys back,” she made me say “Right away”
“Aurora House is your home now, Mr. Cavendish. Your signature authorizes us
to apply
compliancy And I’d get out of the habit of referring to my sister in those
tones.”
“Compliancy? Signature? Sister?”
“The custody document you signed last night. Your residency papers.”
“No, no, no. That was the hotel registry! Never mind, it’s all academic. I
’ll be on my way after
breakfast. Make that before breakfast, I smelt the slops! My, this will make
a heck of a dinnerparty
story Once I’ve strangled my brother. Bill him, by the way Only I must
insist on having
my keys returned. And you’d better call me a cab.”
“Most of our guests get cold feet on their first mornings.”
“My feet are quite warm, but I haven’t made myself clear. If you don’t—”
“Mr. Cavendish, why don’t you eat your breakfast first and—”
“Keys!”
“We have your written permission to hold your valuables in the office safe.”
“Then I must speak with the management.”
“That would be my sister, Nurse Noakes.”
“No akes? Management?”
“Nurse Noakes.”
“Then I must speak with the board of governors, or the owner.”
“They would be me.”
“Look.” Gulliver and Lilliputians. “You’re breaking the ruddy … Anti-
Incarceration Act, or
whatever it is.”
“You’ll find temper tantrums won’t help you at Aurora House.”
“Your telephone, please. I wish to call the police.”
“Residents aren’t permitted to—”
“I am not a ruddy resident! And since you won’t give me back my keys, I’
ll be back later this
morning with one very pissed-off officer of the law.” I shoved the main
door, but it shoved
back harder. Some ruddy security lock. I tried the fire door across the
porch. Locked. Over
Mrs. Judd’s protests I smashed a release catch with a little hammer, the
door opened, and I was
a free man. Ruddy hell, the cold smacked my face with an iron spade! Now I
knew why
northerners go in for beards, woad, and body grease. I marched down the
curving driveway
through worm-blasted rhododendrons, resisting a strong temptation to break
into a run. I
haven’t run since the mid-seventies. I was level with a lawn mower
contraption when a shaggy
giant in groundsman’s overalls rose from the earth like Ye Greene Knycht.
He was removing
the remains of a hedgehog from its blades with his bloody hands. “Off
somewhere?”
“You bet I am! To the land of the living.” I strode on. Leaves turned to
soil beneath my feet.
Thus it is, trees eat themselves. I was disorientated to discover how the
drive wound back to
the dining room annex. I had taken a bad turn. The Undead of Aurora House
watched me
through the wall of glass. “Soylent Green is people!” I mocked their
hollow stares, “Soylent
Green is made of people!” They looked puzzled—I am, alas, the Last of my
Tribe. One of the
wrinklies tapped on the window and pointed behind me. I turned, and the ogre
slung me over
his shoulder. My breath was squeezed out with his every stride. He stank of
fertilizer. “I’ve
better things to do than this …”
“Then go and do them!” I struggled in vain to get him in a neck-lock, but
I don’t think he even
noticed. So I used my superior powers of language to chain the villain: “
You cruddy ruddy
rugger-bugger yob! This is assault! This is illegal confinement!”
He bear-hugged me several degrees tighter to silence me, and I am afraid I
bit his ear. A
strategic mistake. In one powerful yank my trousers were pulled from my
waist—was he going
to bugger me? What he did was even less pleasant. He laid me on the body of
his mowing
machine, pinned me down with one hand, and caned me with a bamboo cane in
the other. The
pain cracked across my unfleshy shanks, once, twice, again-again, again-
again, again-again!
Christ, such pain!
I shouted, then cried, then whimpered for him to stop. Whack! Whack! Whack!
Nurse Noakes
finally ordered the giant to desist. My buttocks were two giant wasp stings!
The woman’s
voice hissed in my ear: “The world outside has no place for you. Aurora
House is where you
live now. Is reality sinking in? Or shall I ask Mr. Withers here to go over
things one more
time?”
“Tell her to go to hell,” warned my spirit, “or you’ll regret it later.”
“Tell her what she wants to hear,” shrieked my nervous system, “or you’
ll regret it now.”
The spirit was willing but the flesh was weak.
I was sent to my room without breakfast. I plotted vengeance, litigation,
and torture. I inspected
my cell. Door, locked from outside, no keyhole. Window that opened only six
inches. Heavyduty
sheets made of egg-carton fibers with plastic undersheet. Armchair, washable
seat cover.
Moppable carpet. “Easy-wipe” wallpaper. “En suite” bathroom: soap,
shampoo, flannel, ratty
towel, no window. Picture of cottage captioned: “A House is Made by Hands,
but a Home is
Made by Hearts.” Prospects for breakout: piss-poor.
Still, I believed my confinement would not last until noon. One of several
exits must open up.
The management would realize its mistake, apologize profusely, sack the
Offending Noakes,
and beg me to take compensation in cash. Or, Denholme would learn his gag
had backfired and
command my release. Or, the accountant would realize nobody was paying my
bills and boot
me out. Or, Mrs. Latham would report me missing, my disappearance would
feature on
Crimewatch UK, and the police would trace my whereabouts.
Around eleven the door was unlocked. I readied myself to reject apologies
and go for the
jugular. A once stately woman sailed in. Seventy years old, eighty eighty-
five, who knows
when they’re that old? A rickety greyhound in a blazer followed his
mistress. “Good morning,”
began the woman. I stood, and did not offer my visitors a seat.
“I beg to differ.”
“My name is Gwendolin Bendincks.”
“Don’t blame me.”
Nonplussed, she took the armchair. “This”—she indicated the greyhound—“
is Gordon
Warlock-Williams. Why don’t you take a seat? We head the Residents’
Committee.”
“Very nice for you, but since I am not a—”
“I had intended to introduce myself at breakfast, but the morning’s
unpleasantness occurred
before we could take you under our wing.”
“All water under the bridge, now, Cavendish,” gruffed Gordon Warlock-
Williams. “No one’ll
mention it again, boyo, rest assured.” Welsh, yes, he would have to be
Welsh.
Mrs. Bendincks leant forward. “But understand this, Mr. Cavendish: boat
rockers are not
welcome here.”
“Then expel me! I beg you!”
“Aurora House does not expel,” said the sanctimonious moo, “but you will
be medicated, if
your behavior warrants it, for your own protection.”
Ominous, no? I had seen One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest with an
extraordinarily talentless
but wealthy and widowed poetess whose collected works, Verses Wild & Wayward
, I was
annotating but who was less widowed than initially claimed, alas. “Look, I
’m sure you’re a
reasonable woman.” The oxymoron passed without comment. “So read my lips.
I am not
supposed to be here. I checked into Aurora House believing it to be a hotel.”
“Ah, but we do understand, Mr. Cavendish!” Gwendolin Bendincks nodded.
“No you don’t!”
“Everyone’s visited by the Glum Family at first, but you’ll soon cheer up
when you see how
your loved ones have acted in your best interests.”
“All my loved ones’ are dead or bonkers or at the BBC, except my prankster
brother!” You can
see it, can’t you, dear Reader? I was a man in a horror B-movie asylum. The
more I ranted and
raged, the more I proved that I was exactly where I should be.
“This is the best hotel you’ll ever stay in, boyo!” His teeth were
biscuit colored. Were he a
horse, you couldn’t have given him away “A five-star one, look you. Meals
get provided, all
your laundry is done. Activities laid on, from crochet to croquet. No
confusing bills, no
youngsters joyriding in your motor. Aurora House is a ball! Just obey the
regulations and stop
rubbing Nurse Noakes up the wrong way She’s not a cruel woman.”
“ ‘Unlimited power in the hands of limited people always leads to cruelty.
’ ” Warlock-Williams
looked at me as if I had spoken in tongues. “Solzhenitsyn.”
“Betwys y Coed was always good enough for Marjorie and me. But look you
here! I felt just
the same in my first week. Barely spoke to a soul, eh, Mrs. Bendincks, a
major sourpuss, eh?”
“A maximus sourpuss, Mr. Warlock-Williams!”
“But now I’m happy as a pig in clover! Eh?”
Mrs. Bendincks smiled, ’twas a ghastly sight. “We’re here to help you
reorientate. Now, I
understand you were in publishing. Sadly”—she tapped her head—“Mrs.
Birkin is less able to
record Residents’ Committee meeting minutes than she once was. A fine
opportunity for you to
jolly well get involved!”
“I still am in publishing! Do I look like I should be here?” The silence
was intolerable. “Oh, get
out!”
“Disappointed.” She gazed at the leaf-littered lawn, dotted with worm
casts. “Aurora House is
your world now, Mr. Cavendish.” My head was cork and the corkscrew was
Gwendolin
Bendincks. “Yes, you are in a Rest Home. The day has come. Your stay can be
miserable or
pleasant. But your stay is permanent. Think on, Mr. Cavendish.” She knocked
on the door.
Unseen forces let my tormentors exit but slammed it shut in my face.
I noticed that for the duration of the interview my flies had been wide open.
Behold your future, Cavendish the Younger. You will not apply for membership
, but the tribe
of the elderly will claim you. Your present will not keep pace with the
world’s. This slippage
will stretch your skin, sag your skeleton, erode your hair and memory, make
your skin turn
opaque so your twitching organs and blue-cheese veins will be semivisible.
You will venture
out only in daylight, avoiding weekends and school holidays. Language, too,
will leave you
behind, betraying your tribal affiliations whenever you speak. On escalators
, on trunk roads, in
supermarket aisles, the living will overtake you, incessantly. Elegant women
will not see you.
Store detectives will not see you. Salespeople will not see you, unless they
sell stair lifts or
fraudulent insurance policies. Only babies, cats, and drug addicts will
acknowledge your
existence. So do not fritter away your days. Sooner than you fear, you will
stand before a
mirror in a care home, look at your body, and think, E.T., locked in a ruddy
cupboard for a
fortnight.
A sexless automaton brought lunch on a tray. I’m not being insulting, but I
truly couldn’t tell if
she or he was a he or a she. It had a slight mustache but tiny breasts too.
I thought about
knocking it out cold and making a Steve McQueen dash for liberty but I had
no weapon except
a bar of soap and nothing to tie it up with except my belt.
Lunch was a tepid lamb chop. The potatoes were starch grenades. The canned
carrots were
revolting because that is their nature. “Look,” I begged the automaton, “
at least bring me some
Dijon mustard.” It showed no evidence of understanding. “Coarse grain, or
medium. I’m not
fussy” She turned to go. “Wait! You—speak-ee— English?” She was gone.
My dinner
outstared me.
My strategy had been wrong from square one. I had tried to shout my way out
of this absurdity
but the institutionalized cannot do this. Slavers welcome the odd rebel to
dress down before the
others. In all the prison literature I’ve read, from The Gulag Archipelago
to An Evil Cradling to
Knuckle Sandwich, rights must be horse-traded and accrued with cunning.
Prisoner resistance
merely justifies an ever-fiercer imprisonment in the minds of the
imprisoners.
Now was the season for subterfuge. I should take copious notes for my
eventual compensation
settlement. I should be courteous to the Black Noakes. But as I pushed cold
peas onto my
plastic fork, a chain of firecrackers exploded in my skull and the old world
came to an abrupt
end.
One bright dusk, four, five, no, my God, six summers ago, I strolled along a
Greenwich
avenue of mature chestnuts and mock oranges in a state of grace. Those
Regency residences
number among London’s costliest properties, but should you ever inherit one
, dear Reader, sell
it, don’t live in it. Houses like these secrete some dark sorcery that
transforms their owners into
fruitcakes. One such victim, an ex-chief of Rhodesian police, had, on the
evening in question,
written me a check as rotund as himself to edit and print his autobiography
My state of grace
was thanks in part to this check, and in part to a 1983 Chablis from the
Duruzoi vineyard, a
magic potion that dissolves our myriad tragedies into mere misunderstandings.
A trio of teenettes, dressed like Prostitute Barbie, approached, drift-
netting the width of the
pavement. I stepped into the road to avoid collision. But as we drew level
they tore wrappers
off their lurid ice lollies and just dropped them. My sense of well-being
was utterly V-2’d. I
mean, we were level with a bin! Tim Cavendish the Disgusted Citizen
exclaimed to the
offenders: “You know, you should pick those up.”
A snorted “Whatchyoo gonna do ’bou’ it?” glanced off my back.
Ruddy she-apes. “I have no intention of doing anything about it,” I
remarked, over my
shoulder, “I merely said that you—”
My knees buckled and the pavement cracked my cheek, shaking loose an early
memory of a
tricycle accident before pain erased everything but pain. A sharp knee
squashed my face into
leaf mold. I tasted blood. My sixtysomething wrist was winched back through
ninety degrees
of agony and my Ingersoll Solar was unclasped. I recall a pick ’n’ mix of
obscenities ancient
and modern, but before my muggers could filch my wallet, the chimes of an
ice-cream van
playing “The Girl from Ipanema” scattered my assailants, like vam-piresses
the minute before
dawn.
“And you didn’t report them? You dolt!” Madame X sprinkled synthetic
sugar over her
breakfast bran the next morning. “Phone the police for Christ’s sake. What
are you waiting for?
The trail’ll go cold.” Alas, I had already amplified the truth and told
her my muggers were five
louts with swastikas shaved onto their skulls. How could I now file a report
saying three
prepubescent lollipop girls had bested me so effortlessly? The boys in blue
would have choked
on their Penguin biscuits. No, my assault was not added to our nation’s
wishfully fulfilled
crime statistics. Had my purloined Ingersoll not been a love present from a
sunnier era of our
now-Arctic marriage, I would have kept mum about the entire incident.
Where was I?
Odd how the wrong stories pop into one’s head at my age.
It’s not odd, no, it’s ruddy scary I meant to begin this narrative with
Dermot Hoggins. That’s
the problem with inking one’s memoirs in longhand. You can’t go changing
what you’ve
already set down, not without botching things up even more.
Look, I was Dermot “Duster” Hoggins’s editor, not his shrink or his ruddy
astrologer, so how
could I have known what lay in store for Sir Felix Finch on that infamous
night? Sir Felix
Finch, Minister of Culture and El Supremo at the Trafalgar Review of Books,
how he blazed
across the media sky, how visible he remains to the naked eye even now,
twelve months later.
Tabloidoids read all about it across the front page; broadsheeters spilt
their granola when Radio
4 reported who had fallen and how. That aviary of vultures and tits, “the
columnists,” eulogized
the Lost King of Arts in tribute after twittering tribute.
I, by contrast, have maintained a dignified counsel until now. I should warn
the busy reader,
however, that the after-dinner mint of Felix Finch is merely the aperitif of
my own peripatetic
tribulations. The Ghastly Ordeal of Timothy Cavendish, if you will. Now that
is a snappy title.
’Twas the Night of the Lemon Prize Awards, held in Jake’s Starlight Bar,
grandly reopened
atop a Bayswater edifice with a rooftop garden thrown in for good measure.
The whole ruddy
publishing food chain had taken to the air and roosted at Jake’s. The
haunted writers, the
celebrity chefs, the suits, the goateed buyers, the malnourished booksellers
, packs of hacks and
photographers who take “Drop dead!” to mean “Why, I’d love to!” Let me
scotch that insidious
little rumor implying Dermot’s invitation was my doing, that, oh, yes,
Timothy Cavendish
knew his author was lusting for a high-profile revenge, QED, the entire
tragedy was a publicity
stunt. Tosh dreamt up by jealous rivals! No one ever owned up to sending
Dermot Hoggins’s
invitation, and she is hardly likely to step forward now.
Anyway, the winner was announced, and we all know who got the fifty-K prize
money I got
sloshed. Guy the Guy introduced me to a cocktail called “Ground Control to
Major Tom.”
Time’s Arrow became Time’s Boomerang, and I lost count of all my majors. A
jazz sextet
kicked off a rumba. I went onto the balcony for a breather and surveyed the
hubbub from
without. Literary London at play put me in mind of Gibbon on the Age of the
Antonines. “A
cloud of critics, of compilers, of commentators, darkened the face of
learning, and the decline
of genius was soon followed by the corruption of taste.”
Dermot found me; bad news inexorably does. Let me reiterate, bumping into
Pope Pius XIII
would have surprised me less. In fact, His Infallibility would have blended
in better—my
malcontent author wore a banana suit over a chocolate shirt and a Ribena tie
. I hardly need
remind the curious reader that Knuckle Sandwich was yet to take the book
world by storm. It
was yet to enter a bookshop, in fact, except the sage John Sandoe’s of
Chelsea, and those
hapless newsagents, once Jewish, then Sikh, now Eritrean, located in the
Hoggins Bros.’ East
End parish. Indeed, it was matters of publicity and distribution that Dermot
wished to discuss
on the roof garden.
I explained to him for the hundredth time how an author-partnership setup
like Cavendish
Publishing simply cannot fritter away money on fancy catalogs and team-
building go-karting
weekends for sales forces. I explained, yet again, that my authors derived
fulfillment from
presenting their handsomely bound volumes to friends, to family, to
posterity I explained, yet
again, that the gangster-chic market was saturated; and that even Moby-Dick
bombed in
Melville’s lifetime, though I did not deploy that particular verb. “It is
a truly fabulous memoir,”
I assured him. “Give it time.”
Dermot, drunk, doleful, and deaf, looked over the railings. “All them
chimneys. Long way
down.”
The menace, I trusted, was imaginary. “Quite.”
“Mum took me to Mary Poppins when I was a nipper. Chimney sweeps dancing on
rooftops.
She watched it on video, too. Over and over. In her nursing home.”
“I remember when it came out. That dates me.”
“Here.” Dermot frowned and pointed into the bar through the French windows
. “Who’s that?”
“Who’s who?”
“Him in the bow tie chatting up the tiara in the bin liner.”
“The presenter fellow, Felix … oh, Felix whatizzit?”
“Felix f*****g Finch! That c*** who shat on my book in his poncy f*****g
mag?”
“It wasn’t your best review, but—”
“It was my only f*****g review!”
“It really didn’t read so badly—”
“Yeah? ‘None-hit wonders like Mr. Hoggins are the roadkills of modern
letters.’ Notice how
people insert the ‘Mr.’ before sinking the blade in? ‘Mr. Hoggins should
apologize to the trees
felled for his bloated “autobio-novel.” Four hundred vainglorious pages
expire in an ending flat
and inane quite beyond belief ”
“Steady now, Dermot, nobody actually reads the Trafalgar.”
“ ’Scuse!” My author collared a waiter. “Heard of the Trafalgar Review
of Books?”
“Why sure,” the East European waiter replied. “My entire faculty swears
by the TRB, they’ve
got the smartest reviewers.”
Dermot flung his glass over the railing.
“Come now, what’s a reviewer?” I reasoned. “One who reads quickly,
arrogantly, but never
wisely …”
The jazz sextet finished their number, and Dermot left my sentence dangling.
I was drunk
enough to justify a taxi and was about to leave when a Cockney town crier
soundalike silenced
the entire gathering: “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury! Your attention,
please!”
Saints preserve us, Dermot was clanging a couple of trays together. “We
have an additional
award tonight, fellow book fairies!” he bellowed. Ignoring arch chuckles
and “Oooooo!”s, he
produced an envelope from his jacket pocket, slit it open, and pretended to
read: “Award for
Most Eminent Literary Critic.” His audience looked on, cockatooed, booed,
or turned away in
embarrassment. “Competition was fierce, but the panel was unanimous in
choosing His
Imperial Majesty of the Trafalgar Review of Books, Mr.—beg pudding, Sir—
Felix Finch O, B,
and E, come—on—darn!”
Stirrers crowed. “Bravo, Felix! Bravo!” Finch wouldn’t have been a critic
if he didn’t love
unearned attention. Doubtless he was already composing copy in his head for
his Sunday
Times column, “A Finch About Town.” For his part, Dermot was all sincerity
and smiles.
“What might my prize be, I wonder?” Finch smirked as the applause subsided
. “A signed copy
of an unpulped Knuckle Sandwich? Can’t be many of those left!” Finch’s
coterie chorused
hooty laughter, spurring on their commissar. “Or do I win a free flight to
a South American
country with leaky extradition treaties?”
“Yeah, lovie”—Dermot winked—“a free flight is exactly what you won.”
My author grabbed Finch’s lapels, rolled backwards, sank his feet into
Finch’s girth, and judopropelled
the shorter-than-generally-realized media personality high into the night
air! High
above the pansies lining the balcony railing.
Finch’s shriek—his life—ended in crumpled metal, twelve floors down.
Someone’s drink poured onto the carpet.
Dermot “Duster” Hoggins brushed his lapels, leaned over the balcony, and
yelled: “So who’s
expired in an ending flat and inane quite beyond belief now?”
The dumbstruck crowd parted as the murderer made his way to the nibblies
table. Several
witnesses later recalled a dark halo. He selected a Belgian cracker adorned
with Biscay
anchovies and parsley drizzled with sesame oil.
The crowd’s senses flooded back. Gagging noises, oh-my-Gods, and a stampede
for the stairs.
The most frightful hullabaloo! My thoughts? Honestly? Horror. Assuredly.
Shock? You bet.
Disbelief? Naturally Fear? Not really.
I will not deny a nascent sense of a silver lining to this tragic turn. My
Haymarket office suite
housed ninety-five unsold shrink-wraps of Dermot Hoggins’s Knuckle Sandwich
, impassioned
memoir of Britain’s soon to be most famous murderer. Frank Sprat—my
stalwart printer in
Sevenoaks, to whom I owed so much money I had the poor man over a barrel—
still had the
plates and was ready to roll at a moment’s notice.
Hardcovers, ladies and gentlemen.
Fourteen pounds ninety-nine pence a shot.
A taste of honey!
As an experienced editor, I disapprove of flashbacks, foreshadow-ings, and
tricksy devices;
they belong in the 1980s with MA.s in postmodernism and chaos theory I make
no apology,
however, for (re)starting my own narrative with my version of that shocking
affair. You see, it
paved my first good intention on the road to Hull, or rather Hull’s
hinterland, where my ghastly
ordeal is fated to unfold. My fortune took the glorious turn I had foreseen
after Felix Finch’s
Final Fling. On the wings of sweet, free publicity, my Knuckle Sandwich
turkey soared up the
bestseller charts, where it roosted until poor Dermot was sentenced to
fifteen of the best in
Wormwood Scrubs. The trial made the Nine O’Clock News at every turn. In
death Sir Felix
changed from a smug-scented pomposity with a Stalinist grip on Arts Council
money into, oh,
Britain’s best-loved arts guru since the last one.
On the steps of the Old Bailey, his widow told reporters fifteen years was
“disgustingly
lenient,” and the very next day a “Duster Hoggins, Rot in Hell!” campaign
was launched.
Dermot’s family counterattacked on chat shows, Finch’s offending review
was pored over,
BBC2 commissioned a special documentary in which the lesbian who interviewed
me edited
my witticisms wholly out of context. Who cared? The money pot bubbled away—
no, it boiled
over and set the entire ruddy kitchen alight. Cavendish Publishing— Mrs.
Latham and I, that is
—didn’t know what had hit us. We had to take on two of her nieces (part-
time, of course, I
wasn’t getting clobbered for National Insurance). The original Knuckle
Sandwich shrink-wraps
vanished within thirty-six hours, and Frank Sprat was reprinting on a near-
monthly basis.
Nothing in my four decades in the publishing game had geared us for such
success. Running
costs had always been recouped from author donations—not from actual ruddy
sales! It
seemed almost unethical. Yet here I was with a bestseller of one-in-a-decade
proportions on my
lists. People ask me, “Tim, how do you account for its runaway success?”
Knuckle Sandwich was actually a well-written, gutsy fictional memoir.
Culture vultures
discussed its sociopolitical subtexts first on late-night shows, then on
breakfast TV Neo-Nazis
bought it for its generous lashings of violence. Worcestershire housewives
bought it because it
was a damn fine read. Homosexuals bought it out of tribal loyalty It shifted
ninety thousand,
yes, ninety thousand copies in four months, and yes, I am still talking
hardcover. The feature
film should be in production as I write. At the Frankfurt Book love-in I was
feted by people
who until then had never so much as paused to scrape me off their shoes.
That odious label
“Vanity Publisher” became “Creative Financier.” Translation rights fell
like territories in the
final round of Risk. The American publishers, glory glory Hallelujah, they
loved the Limey-
Aristo-Gets- Comeuppance-from-Downtrodden-Gaelic-Son hook, and a
transatlantic auction
skyrocketed the advance to giddy heights. I, yes, I, had exclusive rights to
this platinum goose
with a bad case of the trots! Money entered my cavernously empty accounts
like the North Sea
through a Dutch dike. My “personal banking consultant,” a spiv named
Elliot McCluskie, sent
me a Christmas card photo of his Midwich Cuckoo offspring. The primates on
the Groucho
Club door greeted me with a “Pleasant evening, Mr. Cavendish,” instead of
an “Oy you got to
be signed in by a member!” When I announced that I would be handling the
paperback release
myself, the Sundays’ book pages ran pieces depicting Cavendish Publishing
as a dynamic,
white-hot player in a cloud of decrepit gas giants. I even made the FT
Was it any wonder Mrs. Latham and I were overstretched—just a smidge—on
the
bookkeeping front?
Success intoxicates rookies in the blink of an eye. I got business cards
printed up: Cavendish-
Redux, Publishers of Cutting-Edge Fiction. Well, I thought, why not sell
publications instead
of publication? Why not become the serious publisher that the world lauded
me as?
Alackaday! Those dinky little cards were the red flag waved at the Bull of
Fate. At the first
rumor that Tim Cavendish was flush, my saber-toothed meerkat creditors
bounded into my
office. As ever, I left the gnostic algebra of what to pay whom and when to
my priceless Mrs.
Latham. So it was, I was mentally and financially underprepared when my
midnight callers
visited, nearly a year after the Felix Finch Night. I confess that since
Madame X left me (my
cuckold was a dentist, I shall reveal the truth no matter how painful)
Housekeeping Anarchy
had reigned o’er my Putney domicile (oh, very well, the bastard was a
German), so my
porcelain throne has long been my de facto office seat. A decent Cognac sits
under the ballgowned
lavatory-roll cover, and I leave the door open so I can hear the kitchen
radio.
The night in question, I had put aside my perpetual lavatory read, The
Decline and Fall of the
Roman Empire, because of all the manuscripts (inedible green tomatoes)
submitted to
Cavendish-Redux, my new stable of champions. I suppose it was about eleven o
’clock when I
heard my front door being interfered with. Skinhead munchkins mug-or-
treating?
Cherry knockers? The wind?
Next thing I knew, the door flew in off its ruddy hinges! I was thinking al-
Qaeda, I was
thinking ball lightning, but no. Down the hallway tramped what seemed like
an entire rugby
team, though my intruders numbered only three. (You’ll notice, I am always
attacked in threes.)
“Timothy,” pronounced the gargoyliest, “Cavendish, I presume. Caught with
your cacks
down.”
“My business hours are eleven to two, gentlemen,” Bogart would have said,
“with a three-hour
break for lunch. Kindly leave.” All I could do was blurt, “Oy! My door! My
ruddy door!”
Thug Two lit a cigarette. “We visited Dermot today. He’s a bit frustrated.
Who wouldn’t be?”
The pieces fell into place. I fell into pieces. “Dermot’s brothers!” (I’
d read all about them in
Dermot’s book. Eddie, Mozza, Jarvis.)
Hot ash burnt my thigh, and I lost track of which face uttered what. It was
a Francis Bacon
triptych come to life. “Knuckle Sandwich is doing nicely, by the looks of
things.”
“Piles of it in the airport bookshops.”
“You must at least of suspected we’d come calling.”
“A man of your business acumen.”
The London Irish unnerve me at the best of times. “Boys, boys. Dermot
signed a copyrighttransfer
contract. Look, look, it’s industry standard, I have a copy in my briefcase
here …” I
did indeed have the document to hand. “Clause eighteen, about copyright …
means Knuckle
Sandwich, legally, is … er …” It wasn’t easy to tell them this with my
briefs around my ankles.
“Er, legally the property of Cavendish Publishing.”
Jarvis Hoggins scanned the contract for a moment but tore it up when it
proved longer than his
concentration span. “Dermot signed this f*****g pants when his book was
just a f*****g
hobby”
“A present to our sick old mam, God rest her soul.”
“A souvenir of Dad’s heyday.”
“Dermot never signed no f*****g contract for the event of the f*****g
season.”
“We paid your printer, Mr. Sprat, a little visit. He went through the
economics for us.”
Contract confetti showered. Mozza was close enough for me to smell his
dinner. “Quite a hill
of Hoggins Bros.’ cash you’ve raked in, it seems.”
“I’m sure we can agree on a, um, um, funds flowchart, which will—”
Eddie cut in: “Let’s make it three.”
I feigned a wince. “Three thousand pounds? Boys, I don’t think—”
“Don’t be a silly billy.” Mozza pinched my cheek. “Three—o’— clock.
Tomorrow afternoon.
Your office.”
I had no choice. “Perhaps we might … er … moot a provisional sum to
conclude this meeting,
as a basis for … ongoing negotiation.”
“Okeydokey What sum did we moot earlier, Mozza?”
“Fifty K sounded reasonable.”
My cry of pain was unfeigned. “Fifty thousand pounds?”
“For starters.”
My intestines bubbled, toiled and troubled. “Do you really think I keep
that kind of money
lying around in shoe boxes?” I pitched my voice for Dirty Harry, but it was
more Lisping
Baggins.
“I hope you keep it lying around somewhere, Grandpops.”
“Cash.”
“No bollocks. No checks.”
“No promises. No deferments.”
“Old-fashioned money A shoe box will do fine.”
“Gentlemen, I’m happy to pay a negotiated consideration, but the law—”
Jarvis whistled through his teeth. “Will the law help a man of your years
bounce back from
multiple spinal fractures, Timothy?”
Eddie: “Men of your age don’t bounce. They splat.”
I fought with all my might, but my sphincter was no longer my own and a
cannonade fired off.
Amusement or condescension I could have borne, but my tormentors’ pity
signified my abject
defeat. The toilet chain was pulled.
“Three o’clock.” Cavendish-Redux went down the pan. Out trooped the thugs
, over my
prostrate door. Eddie turned for a last word. “Dermot did a nice little
paragraph in his book. On
loan defaulters.”
I refer the curious reader to page 244 of Knuckle Sandwich, available from
your local
bookshop. Not on a full stomach.
Outside my Haymarket office suite taxis inched and sprinted. Inside my inner
sanctum, Mrs.
Latham’s Nefertiti earrings (a gift from me to mark her tenth year with
Cavendish Publishing, I
found them in a British Museum Gift Shop bargain bin) jingled as she shook
her head, no, no,
no. “And I am telling you, Mr. Cavendish, that I cannot find you fifty
thousand pounds by
three o’clock this afternoon. I cannot find you five thousand pounds. Every
Knuckle Sandwich
penny has already been Hoovered up by long-standing debts.”
“Doesn’t anybody owe us money?”
“I always keep on top of the invoicing, Mr. Cavendish, do I not?”
Desperation makes me wheedle. “This is the age of ready credit!”
“This is the age of credit limits, Mr. Cavendish.”
I retired to my office, poured myself a whiskey, and slooshed down my dicky-
ticker pills
before tracing Captain Cook’s last voyage on my antique globe. Mrs. Latham
brought in the
mail and left without a word. Bills, junk, moral muggings from charity
fundraisers, and a
package addressed “FAO The Visionary Editor of Knuckle Sandwich,”
containing a MS titled
Half-Lives—lousy name for a work of fiction—and subtitled The First Luisa
Rey Mystery.
Lousier and lousier. Its lady author, one dubiously named Hilary V Hush,
began her covering
letter with the following: “When I was nine my mom took me to Lourdes to
pray for my bedwetting
to be cured. Imagine my surprise when not Saint Bernadette but Alain-
Fournier
appeared in a vision that night.”
Nutcase ahoy. I threw the letter away into my “Urgent Business” tray and
switched on my
spanking new fat-gigabyte computer for a game of Minesweeper. After getting
blown up twice
I telephoned Sotheby’s to offer Charles Dickens’s own, original, authentic
writing desk for
auction with a reserve price of sixty thousand. A charming evaluator named
Kirpal Singh
commiserated that the novelist’s desk was already accounted for by the
Dickens House
museum and hoped I’d not been fleeced too painfully I confess, I do lose
track of my little
elaborations. Next I called Elliot McCluskie and asked after his delightful
kiddies. “Fine, thank
you.” He asked after my delightful business. I asked for a loan of eighty
thousand pounds. He
began with a thoughtful “Right …” I lowered my ceiling to sixty Elliot
pointed out that my
performance-linked credit stream still had a twelve-month flow horizon
before resizing could
be feasibly optioned. Oh, I miss the days when they’d laugh like a hyena,
tell you to go to hell,
and hang up. I traced Magellan’s voyage across my globe and longed for a
century when a
fresh beginning was no further than the next clipper out of Dept-ford. My
pride already in
tatters, I gave Madame X a bell. She was having her A.M. soak. I explained
the gravity of my
situation. She laughed like a hyena, told me to go to hell, and hung up. I
spun my globe. I spun
my globe.
Mrs. Latham eyeballed me like a hawk watching a bunny as I stepped outside.
“No, not a loan
shark, Mr. Cavendish. It just isn’t worth it.”
“Never fear, Mrs. Latham, I’m just going to pay a call on the one man in
this world who
believes in me, fair weather or foul.” In the lift I reminded my reflection
, “Blood is thicker than
water,” before spiking my palm on the spoke of my telescopic umbrella.
“Oh, Satan’s gonads, not you. Look, just get lost and leave us in peace.”
My brother glared
across his swimming pool as I stepped down his patio. Denholme’s never swum
in his pool, as
far as I know, but he does all the chlorinating and whatnot every week just
the same, even in
blustery drizzle. He trawled for leaves with a big net on a pole. “I’m not
lending you a ruddy
farthing until you pay back the last lot. Why must I forever be giving you
handouts? No. Don’t
answer.” Denholme scooped a fistful of soggy leaves from the net. “Just
get back in your taxi
and bugger off. I’ll only ask you nicely once.”
“How’s Georgette?” I brushed aphids off his shriveled rose petals.
“Georgette’s going bonkers surely and steadily, not that you ever evince
an ounce of genuine
interest when you don’t want money.”
I watched a worm return to soil and wished I was it. “Denny, I’ve had a
minor run-in with the
wrong sort. If I can’t get my hands on sixty thousand pounds, I’m going to
take an awful
beating.”
“Get them to video it for us.”
“I’m not joking, Denholme.”
“Nor am I! So, you’re shoddy at being duplicitous. What of it? Why is this
my problem?”
“We’re brothers! Don’t you have a conscience?”
“I sat on the board of a merchant bank for thirty years.”
An amputated sycamore tree shed once green foliage like desperate men shed
once steadfast
resolutions. “Help, Denny. Please. Thirty grand would be a start.”
I had pushed too hard. “Damn it to hell, Tim, my bank crashed! We were bled
dry by those
bloodsuckers at Lloyd’s! The days when I had that kind of spondulics at my
beck and call are
gone, gone, gone! Our house is mortgaged, twice over! I’m the mighty fallen
, you’re the
minuscule fallen. Anyway, you’ve got this ruddy book flying out of every
bookshop in the
known world!” My face said what I had no words for. “Oh, Christ, you idiot
. What’s the
repayment schedule?” I looked at my watch. “Three o’clock this afternoon.
” “Forget it.”
Denholme put down his net. “File for bankruptcy. Reynard’ll do the papers
for you, he’s a
good man. A hard bullet to bite, I should know, but it’ll get your
creditors off your back. The
law is clear—”
“Law? The only experience my creditors have of the law is squatting over a
can in an
overcrowded cell.” “Then go to ground.”
“These people are very, very well connected with the ground.” “Not beyond
the M25 they
aren’t, I bet. Stay with friends.” Friends? I crossed off those to whom I
owed money, the dead,
the disappeared-down-time’s-rabbit-hole, and I was left with …
Denholme made his final offer. “I can’t lend you money. I don’t have any.
But I’m owed a
favor or two by a comfortable place where you could possibly lie low for a
while.”
Temple of the Rat King. Ark of the Soot God. Sphincter of Hades. Yes, King’
s Cross Station,
where, according to Knuckle Sandwich, a blow job costs only five quid—any
of the furthestleft
three cubicles in the men’s lavvy downstairs, twenty-four hours a day. I
called Mrs.
Latham to explain I would be in Prague for a three-week meeting with Václav
Havel, a lie
whose consequences stuck with me like herpes. Mrs. Latham wished me bon
voyage. She
could handle the Hogginses. Mrs. Latham could handle the Ten Plagues of
Egypt. I don’t
deserve her, I know it. I often wonder why she’s stayed at Cavendish
Publishing. It isn’t for
what I pay her.
I navigated the array of ticket types on the ticket machine: Day Return with
Railcard Off Peak,
Cheap Day Single Without Railcard on Peak, and on, and on, but which, oh,
which do I need?
A menacing finger tapped my shoulder and I jumped a mile—it was only a
little old lady
advising me that returns are cheaper than singles. I assumed she was
doolally but, stone the
ruddy crows, ’twas so. I slid in a banknote with our monarch’s head up,
then down, then front
first, then back first, but each time the machine spat it out.
So I joined the queue for a human ticket seller. Thirty-one people were
ahead of me, yes, I
counted every one. The ticket sellers drifted in and out from their counters
much as the fancy
took them. A looped advertisement on a screen urged me to invest in a stair-
lift. Finally, finally,
my turn was up: “Hello, I need a ticket to Hull.”
The ticket woman toyed with her chunky ethnic rings. “Leaving when?”
“As soon as possible.”
“As in ‘today’?”
“ ‘Today usually means ‘as soon as possible,’ yes.”
“I ain’t sellin’ you a ticket for today. That’s them winders over there.
This winder is advance
tickets only.”
“But the red flashing sign told me to come to your counter.”
“Couldn’t have done. Move along, now. You’re holding up the queue.”
“No, that sign ruddy well did send me to this counter! I’ve been queuing
for twenty minutes!”
She looked interested for the first time. “You want me to change the rules
for your benefit?”
Anger sparked in Timothy Cavendish like forks in microwaves. “I want you to
evolve
problem-solving intelligence and sell me a ticket to Hull!”
“I ain’t standing for being addressed in that tone.”
“I’m the ruddy customer! I won’t be addressed like that! Get me your
ruddy supervisor!”
“I am my supervisor.”
Snarling an oath from an Icelandic saga, I reclaimed my place at the head of
the queue.
“Oy!” yelled a punk rocker, with studs in his cranium. “There’s a fackin
’ queue!”
Never apologize, advises Lloyd George. Say it again, only this time, ruder.
“I know there’s a
‘fackin’ queue’! I already queued in it once and I am not going to queue
again just because
Nina Simone over there won’t sell me a ruddy ticket!”
A colored yeti in a clip-on uniform swooped. “Wassa bovver?”
“This old man here reckons his colostomy bag entitles him to jump the queue
,” said the
skinhead, “and make racist slurs about the lady of Afro-Caribbean
extraction in the advancetravel
window.”
I couldn’t believe I was hearing this.
“Look, matey”—the yeti addressed me with condescension reserved for the
handicapped or
elderly—“we got queues in this country to keep things fair, see, and if
you don’t like it you
should go back to where you come from, getit?”
“Do I look like a ruddy Egyptian? Do I? I know there’s a queue! How?
Because I already
queued in this queue, so—”
“This gentleman claims you ain’t.”
“Him? Will he still be a ‘gentleman’ when he daubs Asylum Scrounger’ on
your housingassociation
flat?”
His eyeballs swelled, they really did. “The Transport Police can boot you
off the premises, or
you can join this queue like a member of a civilized society Whichever is
fine by me. Jumping
queues is not fine by me.”
“But if I queue all over again I’ll miss my connections!”
“Tough,” he enunciated, “titty!”
I appealed to the people behind that Sid Rotten look-alike. Maybe they had
seen me in the
queue, maybe they hadn’t, but nobody met my eye. England has gone to the
dogs, oh, the dogs,
the ruddy dogs.
Over an hour later London shunted itself southward, taking the Curse of the
Brothers Hoggins
with it. Commuters, these hapless souls who enter a lottery of death twice
daily on Britain’s
decrepit railways, packed the dirty train. Airplanes circled in holding
patterns over Heathrow,
densely as gnats over a summer puddle. Too much matter in this ruddy city
Still. I felt the exhilaration of a journey begun, and I let my guard drop.
A volume I once
published, True Recollections of a Northern Territories Magistrate, claims
that shark victims
experience an anesthetic vision of floating away, all danger gone, into the
Pacific blue, at the
very moment they are being minced in that funnel of teeth. I, Timothy
Cavendish, was that
swimmer, watching London roll away, yes, you, you sly, toupeed quizmaster of
a city you and
your tenements of Somalians; viaducts of Kingdom Brunel; malls of casualized
labor; strata of
soot-blitzed bricks and muddy bones of Doctors Dee, Crippen et al.; hot
glass office buildings
where the blooms of youth harden into aged cacti like my penny-pinching
brother.
Essex raised its ugly head. When I was a scholarship boy at the local
grammar, son of a cityhall
toiler on the make, this county was synonymous with liberty success, and
Cambridge.
Now look at it. Shopping malls and housing estates pursue their creeping
invasion of our
ancient land. A North Sea wind snatched frilly clouds in its teeth and
scarpered off to the
Midlands. The countryside proper began at last. My mother had a cousin out
here, her family
had a big house, I think they moved to Winnipeg for a better life. There!
There, in the shadow
of that DIY warehouse, once stood a row of walnut trees where me and Pip
Oakes—a
childhood chum who died aged thirteen under the wheels of an oil tanker—
varnished a canoe
one summer and sailed it along the Say Sticklebacks in jars. There, right
there, around that bend
we lit a fire and cooked beans and potatoes wrapped in silver foil! Come
back, oh, come back!
Is one glimpse all I get? Hedgeless, featureless fields. Essex is Winnipeg,
now. Stubble was
burnt, and the air tasted of crisp bacon sarnies. My thoughts flew off with
other fairies, and we
were past Saffron Walden when the train juddered to a halt. “Um …,” said
the intercom. “John,
is this on? John, what button do I press?” Cough. “SouthNet Trains regrets
that this service
will make an unscheduled stop at the next station due to … a missing driver
. This unscheduled
stop will continue for the duration that it takes to locate an appropriate
driver. SouthNet Trains
assures you we are striving hard”—I clearly discerned a background snigger
!—“to restore our
normal excellent standard of service.” Rail rage chain-reactioned down the
compartments,
though in our age crimes are not committed by criminals conveniently at hand
but by executive
pens far beyond the mob’s reach, back in London’s postmodern HQs of glass
and steel. Half
the mob owns shares in what it would pound to atoms, anyway.
So there we sat. I wished I had brought something to read. At least I had a
seat, and I wouldn’t
have given it up for Helen Keller. The evening was lemon blue. Trackside
shadows grew
monolithic. Commuters sent calls to families on mobile phones. I wondered
how that dodgy
Australian magistrate knew what flashed through the minds of the shark-eaten
. Lucky express
trains with nonmiss-ing drivers shot past. I needed the loo, but it didn’t
bear imagining. I
opened my briefcase for a bag of Werner’s toffees but came up with Half-
Lives—The First
Luisa Rey Mystery. I leafed through its first few pages. It would be a
better book if Hilary V
Hush weren’t so artsily-fartsily Clever. She had written it in neat little
chap-teroids, doubtless
with one eye on the Hollywood screenplay. Static squealed in the speakers.
“This is a
passenger announcement. SouthNet Trains regrets that as a suitable driver
for this train cannot
be located we will proceed to Little Chesterford station, where a
complimentary coach will
transport passengers on to Cambridge. Those able to are recommended to make
alternative
travel arrangements, as the coach will not reach Little Chesterford station
[how that name
chimed in my memory!] for … an unknown duration. Further details can be
found on our
website.” The train crawled a mile of twilight. Bats and wind-borne rubbish
overtook us. Who
was driving now if there wasn’t a driver?
Stop, shudder, doors open. The abler-bodied streamed off the train, over the
footbridge, leaving
me and a couple of taxidermist’s castoffs to limp in their wake at quarter
speed. I heaved
myself up the steps and paused for breath. There I was. Standing on the
footbridge of Little
Chesterford station. Ye gods, of all the rural stations for a marooning. The
bridle path to
Ursula’s old house still skirted the cornfield. Not much else did I
recognize. The Sacred Barn
of the Longest Snog was now Essex’s Premier Fitness Club. Ursula had met me
in her froggy
Citroën that night during reading week in our first term, right … on
this triangle of gravel, here.
How bohemian, Young Tim had thought, to be met by a woman in a car. I was
Tutankhamen
in my royal barge, rowed by Nubian slaves to the Temple of Sacrifice. Ursula
drove me the
few hundred yards to Dockery House, commissioned in Art Nouveau times by a
Scandiwegian
consul. We had the place to ourselves, while Mater and Pater were in Greece
holidaying with Lawrence Durrell, if memory serves. (“Memory Serves.”
Duplicitous couplet.)
Four decades later the beams of headlights from executive cars in the
station car park lit up a
freak plague of daddy longlegs, and one fugitive publishing gentleman in a
flapping raincoat
striding around a field now lying fallow for EU subsidies. You would think a
place the size of
England could easily hold all the happenings in one humble lifetime without
much overlap—I
mean, it’s not ruddy Luxembourg we live in—but no, we cross, crisscross,
and recross our old
tracks like figure skaters. Dockery House was still standing, isolated from
its neighbors by a
privet fence. How opulent the building had felt after my own parents’ bland
box of suburbia—
One day, I promised, I’m going to live in a house like this. Another
promise I’ve broken; at
least that one was only to myself.
I skirted the edge of the property down an access road to a building site. A
sign read: HAZLE
CLOSE—HIGHLY PRIZED EXECUTIVE HOMES IN THE HEART OF ENGLAND.
Upstairs at Dockery lights were on. I imagined a childless couple listening
to a wireless. The
old stained-glass door had been replaced by something more burglarproof That
reading week
I’d entered Dockery ready to peel off my shameful virginity but I’d been
so in awe of my
Divine Cleopatra, so nervous, so eyeballed up on her father’s whiskey, so
floppy with green
sap that, well, I’d rather draw a veil over the embarrassment of that night
, even at forty years’
remove. Very well, forty-seven years’ remove. That same white-leafed oak
had scratted at
Ursula’s window as I attempted to perform, long after I could decently
pretend I was still
warming up. Ursula had a gramophone record of Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano
Concerto in
her bedroom, that room there, where the electric candle glows in the window.
To this day I cannot hear Rachmaninoff without flinching.
The odds of Ursula still living at Dockery House were zilch, I knew. Last I
heard she was
running a PR office in Los Angeles. Nonetheless, I squeezed myself through
the evergreen
hedge and pressed my nose up against the unlit, uncurtained dining room
window, trying to
peer in. That autumn night long ago Ursula had served a blob of grilled
cheese on a slice of
ham on a breast of chicken. Right there—right here. I could still taste it.
I can still taste it as I
write these words.
Flash!
The room was lit electric marigold, and in waltzed—backwards, luckily for
me—a little witch
with red corkscrew curls. “Mummy!” I half-heard, half-lip-read through the
glass. “Mummy!”
and in came Mummy, with the same corkscrew curls. This being proof enough
for me that
Ursula’s family had long vacated the house, I backtracked into the
shrubbery—but I turned
once more and resumed my spying because … well, because, ahem, je suis un
homme
solitaire. Mummy was repairing a broken broomstick while the girl sat on the
table swinging
her legs. An adult werewolf came in and removed his mask, and oddly, though
not so oddly I
suppose, I recognized him—that current-affairs TV presenter, one of Felix
Finch’s tribe.
Jeremy Someone, Heathcliff eyebrows, terrier manners, you know the chap. He
took some
insulation tape from the Welsh dresser drawer and muscled in on the
broomstick repair job.
Then Grandma entered this domestic frieze, and damn me once, damn me twice,
damn me
always make it nice, ’twas Ursula. The Ursula. My Ursula.
Behold that spry, elderly lady! In my memory she hadn’t aged a day—what
makeup artist had
savaged her dewy youth? (The same one who savaged yours, Timbo.) She spoke,
and her
daughter and granddaughter giggled, yes, giggled, and I giggled too … What?
What did she
say? Tell me the joke! She stuffed a red stocking with newspaper balls. A
devil’s tail. She
attached it to her posterior with a safety pin, and a memory from a
university Halloween Ball
cracked on the hard rim of my heart and the yolk dribbled out—shed dressed
like a devilette
then, too, shed put on red face paint, wed kissed all night, just kissed,
and in the morning we
found a builders’ café that sold dirty mugs of strong, milky tea and
enough eggs to fill, to kill,
the Swiss Army. Toast and hot canned tomatoes. HP Sauce. Be honest,
Cavendish, was any
other breakfast in your life ever so delectable?
So drunk was I on nostalgia, I ordered myself to leave before I did anything
stupid. A nasty
voice just a few feet away said this— “Don’t move a muscle or I’ll
mackasser you and put you
in a stew!”
Shocked? Jet-assisted Vertical Ruddy Takeoff! Luckily my would-be butcherer
was not a day
older than ten, and his chain saw’s teeth were cardboard, but his bloodied
bandages were rather
effective. In a low voice, I told him so. He wrinkled his face at me. “Are
you Grandma
Ursula’s friend?”
“Once upon a time, yes, I was.”
“What have you come to the party as? Where’s your costume?”
Time to leave. I edged back into the evergreen. “This is my costume.”
He picked his nose. “A dead man digged up from the churchyard?”
“Charmed, but no. I’ve come as the Ghost of Christmas Past.”
“But it’s Halloween, not Christmas.”
“No!” I slapped my forehead. “Really?”
“Yeah …”
“Then I’m ten months late! This is terrible! I’d better get back before
my absence is noticed—
and remarked upon!”
The boy did a cartoon kung-fu pose and waved his chain saw at me. “Not so
fast, Green
Goblin! You’re a trespasser! I’m telling the police of you!”
War. “Tell-tale-tit, are you? Two can play at that game. If you tell on me,
I’ll tell my friend the
Ghost of Christmas Future where your house is, and do you know what he’ll
do to you?”
The wide-eyed shitletto shook his head, shaken and stirred.
“When your family is all tucked up asleep in your snug little beds, he’ll
slide into your house
through the crack under the door and eat—your—puppy!” The venom in my
bile duct pumped
fast. “He’ll leave its curly tail under your pillow and you’ll get blamed
. Your little friends will
all scream, ‘Puppy slayer!’ whenever they see you coming. You’ll grow old
and friendless and
die, alone, miserably, on Christmas morning half a century from now. So if I
were you, I
wouldn’t breathe a word to anyone about seeing me.”
I pushed myself through the hedge before he could take it all in. As I was
heading back to the
station along the pavement, the wind carried his sob: “But I don’t even
have a puppy …”
I hid behind Private Eye in the health center’s Wellness Café, which was
doing a fine trade
with us maroonees. I half-expected a furious Ursula to turn up with her
grandchild and a local
bobby. Private lifeboats came to rescue the stockbrokers. Old Father Timothy
offers this advice
to his younger readers, included for free in the price of this memoir:
conduct your life in such a
way that, when your train breaks down in the eve of your years, you have a
warm, dry car
driven by a loved one—or a hired one, it matters not—to take you home.
A venerable coach arrived three Scotches later. Venerable? Ruddy Edwardian.
I had to endure
chatty students all the way to Cambridge. Boyfriend worries, sadistic
lecturers, demonic
housemates, reality TV, strewth, I had no idea children of their age were so
hyperactive. When
I finally reached Cambridge station, I looked for a telephone box to tell
Aurora House not to
expect me until the following day, but the first two telephones were
vandalized (in Cambridge,
I ask you!), and only when I got to the third did I look at the address and
see that Denholme
had neglected to write the number. I found a hotel for commercial travelers
next to a
launderette. I forget its name, but I knew from its reception that the place
was a crock of cat
crap, and as usual my first impression was spot on. I was too ruddy whacked
to shop around
for something nicer, however, and my wallet was too starved. My room had
high windows
with blinds I couldn’t lower because I am not twelve feet tall. The khaki
pellets in the bathtub
were indeed mouse droppings, the shower knob came off in my hand, and the
hot water was
tepid. I fumigated the room with cigar smoke and lay on my bed trying to
recall the bedrooms
of all my lovers, in order, looking down the mucky telescope of time. Prince
Rupert and the
Boys failed to stir. I felt strangely unconcerned with the idea of the
Hoggins Bros. plundering
my flat back in Putney. Must be lean pickings compared to most of their
heists, if Knuckle
Sandwich is anything to go by. A few nice first editions, but little else of
value. My television
died the night George Bush II snatched the throne and I haven’t dared
replace it. Madame X
took back her antiques and heirlooms. I ordered a triple Scotch from room
service—damn me if
I’d share a bar with a cabal of salesmen boasting about boobs and bonuses.
When my treble
whiskey finally came it was actually a stingy double, so I said so. The
ferrety adolescent just
shrugged. No apology, just a shrug. I asked him to lower my blind, but he
took one look and
huffed, “Can’t reach that!” I gave him a frosty “That will be all, then,
” instead of a tip. He
broke wind as he left, poisonously I read more of Half-Lives but fell asleep
just after Rufus
Sixsmith was found murdered. In a lucid dream I was looking after a little
asylum-seeker boy
who begged for a go in one of those rides in the corners of supermarkets you
put fifty p into. I
said, “Oh, all right,” but when the child climbed out he had turned into
Nancy Reagan. How
could I explain that to his mother?
I woke up in darkness with a mouth like Super Glue. The Mighty Gibbon’s
assessment of
history—“little more than the register of the crimes, follies, and
misfortunes of mankind”—
ticker-taped by for no apparent reason. Timothy Cavendish’s time on Earth,
in thirteen words. I
refought old arguments, then fought arguments that have never even existed.
I smoked a cigar
until the high windows showed streaks of a watery dawn. I shaved my jowls. A
pinched
Ulsterwoman downstairs served a choice of burnt or frozen toast with sachets
of lipstickcolored
jam and unsalted butter . I remembered Jake Balokowsky’s quip about
Normandy:
Cornwall with something to eat.
Back at the station my woes began afresh when I tried to get a refund on
yesterday’s disrupted
journey. The ticket-wallah, whose pimples bubbled as I watched, was as
intractably dense as
his counterpart in King’s Cross. The corporation breeds them from the same
stem cell. My
blood pressure neared its record. “What do you mean, yesterday’s ticket is
now invalid? It’s
not my fault my ruddy train broke down!”
“Not our fault neither. SouthNet run the trains. We’re Ticket-Lords, see.”
“Then to whom do I complain?”
“Well, SouthNet Loco are owned by a holding company in Düs-seldorf who are
owned by that
mobile-phone company in Finland, so you’d be best off trying someone in
Helsinki. You
should thank your lucky stars it wasn’t a derailment. Get a lot of those,
these days.”
Sometimes the fluffy bunny of incredulity zooms round the bend so rapidly
that the greyhound
of language is left, agog, in the starting cage. A feisty stagger was needed
to reach the next train
before it left—only to find it had been canceled! But, “luckily,” the
train before mine was so
late that it still hadn’t departed. All the seats were taken, and I had to
squeeze into a three-inch
slot. I lost my balance when the train pulled away, but a human crumple zone
buffered my fall.
We stayed like that, half fallen. The Diagonal People.
Cambridge outskirts are all science parks now. Ursula and I went punting
below that quaint
bridge, where those Biotech Space Age cuboids now sit cloning humans for
shady Koreans.
Oh, aging is ruddy unbearable! The I’s we were yearn to breathe the world’
s air again, but can
they ever break out from these calcified cocoons? Oh, can they hell.
Witchy trees bent before the enormous sky. Our train had made an unscheduled
and
unexplained stop on a blasted heath, for how long, I do not recall. My watch
was stuck in the
middle of last night. (I miss my Ingersoll, even today.) My fellow
passengers’ features melted
into forms that were half familiar: an estate agent behind me, yacking on
his mobile telephone, I
could swear he was my sixth-form hockey captain; the grim woman two seats
ahead, reading A
Moveable Feast, isn’t she that Inland Revenue gorgon who gave me such a
grilling a few years
ago?
Finally the couplings whimpered and the train limped off at a slow haul to
another country
station whose flaky name board read “Adlestrop.” A voice with a bad cold
announced:
“Centrallo Trains regrets that due to a braking-systems failure this train
will make a brief stop at
this—sneeze—station. Passengers are directed to alight here … and wait
for a substitute train.”
My fellow travelers gasped, groaned, swore, shook their heads. “Centrallo
Trains apologizes
for any—sneeze—inconvenience this may cause, and assures you we are
working hard to
restore our normal excellent standard of—huge sneeze—service. Gi’ us a
tissue, John.”
Fact: rolling stock in this country is built in Hamburg or somewhere, and
when the German
engineers test British-bound trains, they use imported lengths of our
buggered, privatized
tracks because the decently maintained European rails won’t provide
accurate testing
conditions. Who really won the ruddy war? I should have fled the Hogginses
up the Great
North Road on a ruddy pogo stick.
I elbowed my way into the grubby café, bought a pie that tasted of shoe
polish and a pot of tea
with cork crumbs floating in it, and eavesdropped on a pair of Shetland pony
breeders.
Despondency makes one hanker after lives one never led. Why have you given
your life to
books, TC? Dull, dull, dull! The memoirs are bad enough, but all that ruddy
fiction! Hero goes
on a journey, stranger comes to town, somebody wants something, they get it
or they don’t,
will is pitted against will. “Admire me, for I am a metaphor.”
I groped my way to the ammonia-smelling gents’, where a joker had stolen
the bulb. I had just
unzipped myself when a voice arose from the shadows. “Hey, mistah, got a
light or sumfink?”
Steadying my cardiac arrest, I fumbled for my lighter. The flame conjured a
Rastafarian in
Holbein embers, just a few inches away, a cigar held in his thick lips. “
Fanks,” whispered my
black Virgil, inclining his head to bring the tip into the flame.
“You’re, erm, most welcome, quite,” I said.
His wide, flat nose twitched. “So, where you heading, man?”
My hand checked my wallet was still there. “Hull …” A witless fib ran
wild. “To return a
novel. To a librarian who works there. A very famous poet. At the university
It’s in my bag.
It’s called Half-Lives.” The Rastafarian’s cigar smelt of compost. I can
never guess what
they’re really thinking. Not that I’ve ever really known any. I’m not a
racialist, but I do believe
the ingredients in so-called melting pots take generations to melt. “Mistah
,” the Rastafarian told
me, “you need”—and I flinched—“some o’ this.” I obeyed his offer and
sucked on his turdthick
cigar.
Ruddy hell! “What is this stuff?”
He made a noise like a didgeridoo at the root of his throat. “That don’t
grow in Marlboro
Country” My head enlarged itself by a magnitude of many hundreds, Alice-
style, and became a
multistory car park wherein dwelt a thousand and one operatic Citroëns.
“My word, you can
say that again,” mouthed the Man Formerly Known as Tim Cavendish.
Next thing I remember, I was on the train again, wondering who had walled up
my
compartment with moss-stained bricks. “We’re ready for you now, Mr.
Cavendish,” a bald,
spectacled coot told me. Nobody was there, or anywhere. Only a cleaner,
making his way
down the vacant train, putting litter into a sack. I lowered myself onto the
platform. The cold
sank its fangs into my exposed neck and frisked me for uninsulated patches.
Back in King’s
Cross? No, this was wintriest Gdansk. In a panic I realized I didn’t have
my bag and umbrella.
I climbed aboard and retrieved them from the luggage rack. My muscles seemed
to have
atrophied in my sleep. Outside, a baggage cart passed, driven by a
Modigliani. Where in hell
was this place?
“Yurrin Hulpal,” the Modigliani answered.
Arabic? My brain proposed the following: a Eurostar train had stopped at
Adlestrop, I had
boarded and slept all the way to Istanbul Central. Addled brain. I needed a
clear sign, in
English.
WELCOME TO HULL.
Praise be, my journey was nearly over. When had I last been this far north?
Never, that’s
when. I gulped cold air to stub out a sudden urge to throw up—that’s right
, Tim, drink it down.
The offended stomach supplies pictures of the cause of its discomfort, and
the Rastafarian’s
cigar flashed before me. The station was painted in all blacks. I rounded a
corner and found
two luminous clock faces hung above the exit, but clocks in disagreement are
worse than no
clock at all. No watcher at the gates wanted to see my exorbitantly priced
ticket, and I felt
cheated. Out front a curb crawler prowled here, a window blinked there,
music waxed and
waned from a pub across the bypass. “Spare change?” asked, no, demanded,
no, accused, a
miserable dog in a blanket. His master’s nose, eyebrows, and lips were so
pierced with
ironmongery that a powerful electromagnet would have shredded his face in a
single pass.
What do these people do at airport metal detectors? “Got any change?” I
saw myself as he saw
me, a frail old giffer in a friendless late city The dog rose, scenting
vulnerability An invisible
guardian took my elbow and led me to a taxi rank.
The taxi seemed to have been going round the same roundabout for a miniature
eternity A
howling singer on the radio strummed a song about how everything that dies
someday comes
back. (Heaven forfend—remember the Monkey’s Paw!) The driver’s head was
far, far too big
for his shoulders, he must have had that Elephant Man disease, but when he
turned round I
made out his turban. He was bemoaning his clientele. “Always they say, ‘
Bet it ain’t this cold
where you’re from, eh?’ and always I say, ‘Dead wrong, mate. You’ve
obviously never visited
Manchester in February’ ”
“You do know the way to Aurora House, don’t you?” I asked, and the Sikh
said, “Look,
we’ve arrived already” The narrow driveway ended at an imposing Edwardian
residence of
indeterminate size. “Sick teen-squid Zachary.”
“I don’t know anyone of that name.”
He looked at me, puzzled, then repeated, “Sixteen—quid— exactly”
“Oh. Yes.” My wallet was not in my trouser pockets, or my jacket pocket.
Or my shirt pocket.
Nor did it reappear in my trouser pockets. The awful truth smacked my face.
“I’ve been ruddy
robbed!”
“I resent the insinuation. My taxi has a municipal meter.”
“No, you don’t understand, my wallet’s been stolen.”
“Oh, then I understand.” Good, he understands. “I understand very well!”
The wrath of the
subcontinent swarmed in the dark. “You’re thinking, That curry muncher
knows whose side
the fuzz’ll take.”
“Nonsense!” I protested. “Look, I’ve got coins, change, yes, a pocketful
of change … here …
yes, thank God! Yes, I think I’ve got it …”
He counted his ducats. “Tip?”
“Take it.” I had emptied all the shrapnel into his other hand and
scrambled outside, straight into
a ditch. From my accident-victim’s-eye view I saw the taxi speed away, and
I suffered a
disagreeable flashback to my Greenwich mugging. It wasn’t the watch or even
the bruises or
the shock that had scarred me so. It was that I was a man who had once faced
down and bested
a quartet of Arab ragamuffins in Aden, but in the girls’ eyes I was … old,
merely old. Not
behaving the way an old man should—invisible, silent, and scared—was,
itself, sufficient
provocation.
I scaled the ramp up to the imposing glass doors. The reception area glowed
grail gold. I
knocked, and a woman who could have been cast for the stage musical of
Florence Nightingale
smiled at me. I felt like someone had waved a magic wand and said, “
Cavendish, all your
troubles are over!”
Florence let me in. “Welcome to Aurora House, Mr. Cavendish!”
“Oh, thank you, thank you. Today has been too ruddy awful for words.”
An angel incarnate. “The main thing is you’ve arrived safely now.”
“Look, there is a slight fiscal embarrassment I should mention at this time
. You see, on my way
here—”
“All you need to worry about now is getting a good night’s sleep.
Everything is taken care of.
Just sign here and I can show you to your room. It’s a nice quiet one
overlooking the garden.
You’ll love it.”
Moist-eyed with gratitude, I followed her to my sanctuary. The hotel was
modern, spotless,
with very soft lighting in the sleepy corridors. I recognized aromas from my
childhood but
couldn’t quite identify them. Up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire. My room
was simple, its
sheets crisp and clean, with towels ready on the heated rail. “Will you be
all right from now,
Mr. Cavendish?”
“Bliss, my dear.”
“Sweet dreams, then.” I knew they would be. I took a quick shower, slipped
into my jimjams,
and cleaned my teeth. My bed was firm but comfy as beaches in Tahiti. The
Hoggins Horrors
were east of the Horn, I was scot-free, and Denny, dearest Denholme, was
footing my bill.
Brother in need, brother indeed. Sirens sang in my marshmallow pillows. In
the morning life
would begin afresh, afresh, afresh. This time round I would do everything
right.
“In the morning.” Fate is fond of booby-trapping those three little words.
I awoke to discover a
not-so-young woman with a pageboy haircut rifling through my personal
effects like a bargain
hunter. “What the ruddy hell are you doing in my room, you pilfering warty
sow?” I halfroared,
half-wheezed.
The female put down my jacket without guilt. “Because you are new I will
not have you eat
soap powder. This time. Be warned. I do not stand for offensive language in
Aurora House.
Not from anyone. And I never make idle threats, Mr. Cavendish. Never.”
A robber reprimanding his victim for bad language! “I’ll ruddy well talk
to you how I ruddy
well like, you stinking ruddy thief! Make me eat soap powder? I’d like to
see you try! Let’s call
Hotel Security! Let’s call the police! You ask about offensive language,
and I’ll ask about
breaking, entry, and theft!”
She came over to my bed and slapped me hard across the chops.
I was so shocked I just fell back onto my pillow.
“A disappointing start. I am Mrs. Noakes. You do not wish to cross me.”
Was this some sort of a kinky S & M hotel? Had a madwoman broken into my
room after
learning my name from the hotel register?
“Smoking is discouraged here. I will have to confiscate these cigars. The
lighter is far too
dangerous for you to play with. And what, pray, are these?” She dangled my
keys.
“Keys. What do you think they are?”
“Keys go walkies! Let’s give them to Mrs. Judd for safekeeping, shall we?”
“Let’s not give them to anyone, you crazy dragon! You strike me! You rob
me! What kind of
ruddy hotel hires thieves for chambermaids?”
The creature stuffed her booty into a little burglar’s bag. “No more
valuables to be taken care
of?”
“Put those items back! Now! Or I’ll have your job, I swear it!”
“I’ll take that as a no. Breakfast is eight sharp. Boiled eggs with toast
soldiers today None for
the tardy.”
I got dressed the moment she was gone, and looked for the phone. There wasn
’t one. After a
very quick wash—my bathroom had been designed for disabled people, it was
all rounded
edges and fitted with handrails—I hurried to Reception, determined to have
due justice. I had
acquired a limp but was unsure how. I was lost. Baroque music lilted in
identical chair-lined
corridors. A leprous gnome gripped my wrist and showed me a jar of hazelnut
butter. “If you
want to take this home, I’ll jolly well tell you why I don’t.”
“You’ve mistaken me for someone else.” I scraped the creature’s hand off
mine and passed
through a dining room area where the guests were seated in rows and
waitresses were bringing
bowls in from the kitchen.
What was so odd?
The youngest guests were in their seventies. The oldest guests were three
hundred plus. Was it
the week after the schools went back?
I had it. You probably spotted it pages ago, dear Reader.
Aurora House was a nursing home for the elderly
That ruddy brother of mine! This was his idea of a joke!
Mrs. Judd and her Oil of Olay smile were manning Reception. “Hello, Mr.
Cavendish. Feeling
super this morning?”
“Yes. No. An absurd misunderstanding has occurred.”
“Is that a fact?”
“It most certainly is a fact. I checked in last night believing Aurora
House was a hotel. My
brother made the booking, you see. But … oh, it’s his idea of a practical
joke. Not in the least
bit funny His contemptible ruse only ‘worked’ because a Rastafarian gave
me a puff of a
sinister cigar in Adlestrop, and also, the ruddy stem-cell twins who sold me
my ticket here,
they wore me out so. But listen. You have a bigger problem closer to home—
some demented
bitch called Noakes is running about the place impersonating a chambermaid.
She’s probably
riddled with Alzheimer’s, but yowie, she’s got a slap on her. She stole my
keys! Now, in a gogo
bar in Phuket, that’d be par for the course, but in an old wrecks’ home in
Hull? You’d get
closed down if I was an inspector, you know.”
Mrs. Judd’s smile was now battery acid.
“I want my keys back,” she made me say “Right away”
“Aurora House is your home now, Mr. Cavendish. Your signature authorizes us
to apply
compliancy And I’d get out of the habit of referring to my sister in those
tones.”
“Compliancy? Signature? Sister?”
“The custody document you signed last night. Your residency papers.”
“No, no, no. That was the hotel registry! Never mind, it’s all academic. I
’ll be on my way after
breakfast. Make that before breakfast, I smelt the slops! My, this will make
a heck of a dinnerparty
story Once I’ve strangled my brother. Bill him, by the way Only I must
insist on having
my keys returned. And you’d better call me a cab.”
“Most of our guests get cold feet on their first mornings.”
“My feet are quite warm, but I haven’t made myself clear. If you don’t—”
“Mr. Cavendish, why don’t you eat your breakfast first and—”
“Keys!”
“We have your written permission to hold your valuables in the office safe.”
“Then I must speak with the management.”
“That would be my sister, Nurse Noakes.”
“No akes? Management?”
“Nurse Noakes.”
“Then I must speak with the board of governors, or the owner.”
“They would be me.”
“Look.” Gulliver and Lilliputians. “You’re breaking the ruddy … Anti-
Incarceration Act, or
whatever it is.”
“You’ll find temper tantrums won’t help you at Aurora House.”
“Your telephone, please. I wish to call the police.”
“Residents aren’t permitted to—”
“I am not a ruddy resident! And since you won’t give me back my keys, I’
ll be back later this
morning with one very pissed-off officer of the law.” I shoved the main
door, but it shoved
back harder. Some ruddy security lock. I tried the fire door across the
porch. Locked. Over
Mrs. Judd’s protests I smashed a release catch with a little hammer, the
door opened, and I was
a free man. Ruddy hell, the cold smacked my face with an iron spade! Now I
knew why
northerners go in for beards, woad, and body grease. I marched down the
curving driveway
through worm-blasted rhododendrons, resisting a strong temptation to break
into a run. I
haven’t run since the mid-seventies. I was level with a lawn mower
contraption when a shaggy
giant in groundsman’s overalls rose from the earth like Ye Greene Knycht.
He was removing
the remains of a hedgehog from its blades with his bloody hands. “Off
somewhere?”
“You bet I am! To the land of the living.” I strode on. Leaves turned to
soil beneath my feet.
Thus it is, trees eat themselves. I was disorientated to discover how the
drive wound back to
the dining room annex. I had taken a bad turn. The Undead of Aurora House
watched me
through the wall of glass. “Soylent Green is people!” I mocked their
hollow stares, “Soylent
Green is made of people!” They looked puzzled—I am, alas, the Last of my
Tribe. One of the
wrinklies tapped on the window and pointed behind me. I turned, and the ogre
slung me over
his shoulder. My breath was squeezed out with his every stride. He stank of
fertilizer. “I’ve
better things to do than this …”
“Then go and do them!” I struggled in vain to get him in a neck-lock, but
I don’t think he even
noticed. So I used my superior powers of language to chain the villain: “
You cruddy ruddy
rugger-bugger yob! This is assault! This is illegal confinement!”
He bear-hugged me several degrees tighter to silence me, and I am afraid I
bit his ear. A
strategic mistake. In one powerful yank my trousers were pulled from my
waist—was he going
to bugger me? What he did was even less pleasant. He laid me on the body of
his mowing
machine, pinned me down with one hand, and caned me with a bamboo cane in
the other. The
pain cracked across my unfleshy shanks, once, twice, again-again, again-
again, again-again!
Christ, such pain!
I shouted, then cried, then whimpered for him to stop. Whack! Whack! Whack!
Nurse Noakes
finally ordered the giant to desist. My buttocks were two giant wasp stings!
The woman’s
voice hissed in my ear: “The world outside has no place for you. Aurora
House is where you
live now. Is reality sinking in? Or shall I ask Mr. Withers here to go over
things one more
time?”
“Tell her to go to hell,” warned my spirit, “or you’ll regret it later.”
“Tell her what she wants to hear,” shrieked my nervous system, “or you’
ll regret it now.”
The spirit was willing but the flesh was weak.
I was sent to my room without breakfast. I plotted vengeance, litigation,
and torture. I inspected
my cell. Door, locked from outside, no keyhole. Window that opened only six
inches. Heavyduty
sheets made of egg-carton fibers with plastic undersheet. Armchair, washable
seat cover.
Moppable carpet. “Easy-wipe” wallpaper. “En suite” bathroom: soap,
shampoo, flannel, ratty
towel, no window. Picture of cottage captioned: “A House is Made by Hands,
but a Home is
Made by Hearts.” Prospects for breakout: piss-poor.
Still, I believed my confinement would not last until noon. One of several
exits must open up.
The management would realize its mistake, apologize profusely, sack the
Offending Noakes,
and beg me to take compensation in cash. Or, Denholme would learn his gag
had backfired and
command my release. Or, the accountant would realize nobody was paying my
bills and boot
me out. Or, Mrs. Latham would report me missing, my disappearance would
feature on
Crimewatch UK, and the police would trace my whereabouts.
Around eleven the door was unlocked. I readied myself to reject apologies
and go for the
jugular. A once stately woman sailed in. Seventy years old, eighty eighty-
five, who knows
when they’re that old? A rickety greyhound in a blazer followed his
mistress. “Good morning,”
began the woman. I stood, and did not offer my visitors a seat.
“I beg to differ.”
“My name is Gwendolin Bendincks.”
“Don’t blame me.”
Nonplussed, she took the armchair. “This”—she indicated the greyhound—“
is Gordon
Warlock-Williams. Why don’t you take a seat? We head the Residents’
Committee.”
“Very nice for you, but since I am not a—”
“I had intended to introduce myself at breakfast, but the morning’s
unpleasantness occurred
before we could take you under our wing.”
“All water under the bridge, now, Cavendish,” gruffed Gordon Warlock-
Williams. “No one’ll
mention it again, boyo, rest assured.” Welsh, yes, he would have to be
Welsh.
Mrs. Bendincks leant forward. “But understand this, Mr. Cavendish: boat
rockers are not
welcome here.”
“Then expel me! I beg you!”
“Aurora House does not expel,” said the sanctimonious moo, “but you will
be medicated, if
your behavior warrants it, for your own protection.”
Ominous, no? I had seen One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest with an
extraordinarily talentless
but wealthy and widowed poetess whose collected works, Verses Wild & Wayward
, I was
annotating but who was less widowed than initially claimed, alas. “Look, I
’m sure you’re a
reasonable woman.” The oxymoron passed without comment. “So read my lips.
I am not
supposed to be here. I checked into Aurora House believing it to be a hotel.”
“Ah, but we do understand, Mr. Cavendish!” Gwendolin Bendincks nodded.
“No you don’t!”
“Everyone’s visited by the Glum Family at first, but you’ll soon cheer up
when you see how
your loved ones have acted in your best interests.”
“All my loved ones’ are dead or bonkers or at the BBC, except my prankster
brother!” You can
see it, can’t you, dear Reader? I was a man in a horror B-movie asylum. The
more I ranted and
raged, the more I proved that I was exactly where I should be.
“This is the best hotel you’ll ever stay in, boyo!” His teeth were
biscuit colored. Were he a
horse, you couldn’t have given him away “A five-star one, look you. Meals
get provided, all
your laundry is done. Activities laid on, from crochet to croquet. No
confusing bills, no
youngsters joyriding in your motor. Aurora House is a ball! Just obey the
regulations and stop
rubbing Nurse Noakes up the wrong way She’s not a cruel woman.”
“ ‘Unlimited power in the hands of limited people always leads to cruelty.
’ ” Warlock-Williams
looked at me as if I had spoken in tongues. “Solzhenitsyn.”
“Betwys y Coed was always good enough for Marjorie and me. But look you
here! I felt just
the same in my first week. Barely spoke to a soul, eh, Mrs. Bendincks, a
major sourpuss, eh?”
“A maximus sourpuss, Mr. Warlock-Williams!”
“But now I’m happy as a pig in clover! Eh?”
Mrs. Bendincks smiled, ’twas a ghastly sight. “We’re here to help you
reorientate. Now, I
understand you were in publishing. Sadly”—she tapped her head—“Mrs.
Birkin is less able to
record Residents’ Committee meeting minutes than she once was. A fine
opportunity for you to
jolly well get involved!”
“I still am in publishing! Do I look like I should be here?” The silence
was intolerable. “Oh, get
out!”
“Disappointed.” She gazed at the leaf-littered lawn, dotted with worm
casts. “Aurora House is
your world now, Mr. Cavendish.” My head was cork and the corkscrew was
Gwendolin
Bendincks. “Yes, you are in a Rest Home. The day has come. Your stay can be
miserable or
pleasant. But your stay is permanent. Think on, Mr. Cavendish.” She knocked
on the door.
Unseen forces let my tormentors exit but slammed it shut in my face.
I noticed that for the duration of the interview my flies had been wide open.
Behold your future, Cavendish the Younger. You will not apply for membership
, but the tribe
of the elderly will claim you. Your present will not keep pace with the
world’s. This slippage
will stretch your skin, sag your skeleton, erode your hair and memory, make
your skin turn
opaque so your twitching organs and blue-cheese veins will be semivisible.
You will venture
out only in daylight, avoiding weekends and school holidays. Language, too,
will leave you
behind, betraying your tribal affiliations whenever you speak. On escalators
, on trunk roads, in
supermarket aisles, the living will overtake you, incessantly. Elegant women
will not see you.
Store detectives will not see you. Salespeople will not see you, unless they
sell stair lifts or
fraudulent insurance policies. Only babies, cats, and drug addicts will
acknowledge your
existence. So do not fritter away your days. Sooner than you fear, you will
stand before a
mirror in a care home, look at your body, and think, E.T., locked in a ruddy
cupboard for a
fortnight.
A sexless automaton brought lunch on a tray. I’m not being insulting, but I
truly couldn’t tell if
she or he was a he or a she. It had a slight mustache but tiny breasts too.
I thought about
knocking it out cold and making a Steve McQueen dash for liberty but I had
no weapon except
a bar of soap and nothing to tie it up with except my belt.
Lunch was a tepid lamb chop. The potatoes were starch grenades. The canned
carrots were
revolting because that is their nature. “Look,” I begged the automaton, “
at least bring me some
Dijon mustard.” It showed no evidence of understanding. “Coarse grain, or
medium. I’m not
fussy” She turned to go. “Wait! You—speak-ee— English?” She was gone.
My dinner
outstared me.
My strategy had been wrong from square one. I had tried to shout my way out
of this absurdity
but the institutionalized cannot do this. Slavers welcome the odd rebel to
dress down before the
others. In all the prison literature I’ve read, from The Gulag Archipelago
to An Evil Cradling to
Knuckle Sandwich, rights must be horse-traded and accrued with cunning.
Prisoner resistance
merely justifies an ever-fiercer imprisonment in the minds of the
imprisoners.
Now was the season for subterfuge. I should take copious notes for my
eventual compensation
settlement. I should be courteous to the Black Noakes. But as I pushed cold
peas onto my
plastic fork, a chain of firecrackers exploded in my skull and the old world
came to an abrupt
end.
s*u
12 楼
Once your H1B visa get approved, your J1 become invalid.
【在 T****1 的大作中提到】
: 多谢，如果是在同一个学校，我觉得应该可以马上转的。
: 但我目前涉及到换学校，需要跟目前ISSO说我要停止我的J1吗？ 谢谢
【在 T****1 的大作中提到】
: 多谢，如果是在同一个学校，我觉得应该可以马上转的。
: 但我目前涉及到换学校，需要跟目前ISSO说我要停止我的J1吗？ 谢谢
c*t
13 楼
AN ORISON OF SONMI~451
On behalf of my ministry, thank you for agreeing to this final interview.
Please remember, this
isn’t an interrogation, or a trial. Your version of the truth is the only
one that matters.
TRUTH IS SINGULAR. ITS “VERSIONS” ARE MISTRUTHS.
… Good. Ordinarily, I begin by asking prisoners to recall their earliest
memories to provide a
context for corpocratic historians of the future. Fabricants have no
earliest memories,
Archivist. One twenty-four-hour cycle in Papa Song’s is indistinguishable
from any other.
Then why not describe this “cycle”?
If you wish. A server is woken at hour four-thirty by stimulin in the
airflow, then yellow-up in
our dormroom. After a minute in the hy-giener and steamer, we put on fresh
uniforms before
filing into the restaurant. Our seer and aides gather us around Papa’s
Plinth for Matins, we
recite the Six Catechisms, then our beloved Logoman appears and delivers his
Sermon. At hour
five we man our tellers around the Hub, ready for the elevator to bring the
new day’s first
consumers. For the following nineteen hours we greet diners, input orders,
tray food, vend
drinks, upstock condiments, wipe tables, and bin garbage. Vespers follows
cleaning, then we
imbibe one Soapsac in the dormroom. That is the blueprint of every unvarying
day
You have no rests?
Only purebloods are entitled to “rests,” Archivist. For fabricants, “
rests” would be an act of
time theft. Until curfew at hour zero, every minute must be devoted to the
service and
enrichment of Papa Song.
Do servers—unascended servers, I mean—never wonder about life outside your
dome, or did
you believe your dinery was the whole cosmos? Oh, our intelligence is not so
crude that we
cannot conceive of an outside. Remember, at Matins, Papa Song shows us
pictures of Xultation
and Hawaii, and AdV instreams images of a cosmology beyond our servery
Moreover, we
know both diners and the food we serve comes from a place not in the dome.
But it is true, we
rarely wonder about life on the surface. Additionally, Soap contains
amnesiads designed to
deaden curiosity
What about your sense of time? Of the future?
Papa Song announces the passing hours to the diners, so I noticed the time
of day, dimly, yes.
Also we were aware of passing years by annual stars added to our collars,
and by the Star
Sermon on New Year’s Matins. We had only one long-term future: Xultation.
Could you describe this annual “Star Sermon” ceremony?
After Matins on First Day, Seer Rhee would pin a star on every server’s
collar. The elevator
then took those lucky Twelvestarred sisters for conveyance to Papa Song’s
Ark. For the xiters,
it is a momentous occasion: for the remainder, one of acute envy. Later, we
saw smiling
Sonmis, Yoonas, Ma-Leu-Das, and Hwa-Soons on 3-D as they embarked for Hawaii
, arrived
at Xultation, and finally were transformed into consumers with Soulrings.
Our x-sisters praised
Papa Song’s kindnesses and xhorted us to repay our Investment diligently We
marveled at their
boutiques, malls, dineries; jade seas, rose skies, wildflowers; lace,
cottages, butterflies; though
we could not name these marvels.
I’d like to ask about the infamous Yoona~939.
I knew Yoona~939 better than any fabricant: some purebloods know more of her
neurochemical history than me, but perhaps these individuals will be named
later. On my
awakening at Papa Song’s, Seer Rhee assigned me to Yoona~939’s teller. He
believed it was
aesthetically pleasing to alternate stemtypes around the Hub. Yoona~939 was
tenstarred that
year. She seemed aloof and sullen, so I regretted not being partnered with
another Sonmi.
However, by my first tenthday I had come to learn her aloofness was in fact
watchfulness. Her
sullenness hid a subtle dignity She decifered the orders of drunk customers,
and warned me of
Seer Rhee’s ill-tempered inspections. In no small part it is thanks to
Yoona~939 that I have
survived as long as I have.
This “subtle dignity” you mention—was it a result of her ascension?
Postgrad Boom-Sook’s research notes were so sparse I cannot be certain when
Yoona~939’s
ascension was triggered, xactly However, I believe that ascension merely
frees what Soap
represses, including the xpression of an innate personality possessed by all
fabricants.
Popular wisdom has it that fabricants don’t have personalities.
This fallacy is propagated for the comfort of purebloods.
“Comfort”? How do you mean?
To enslave an individual troubles your consciences, Archivist, but to
enslave a clone is no more
troubling than owning the latest six-wheeler ford, ethically. Because you
cannot discern our
differences, you believe we have none. But make no mistake: even same-stem
fabricants
cultured in the same wombtank are as singular as snow-flakes.
Then I stand corrected. When did Yoona~939’s deviances—perhaps I should
say singularities
—first become apparent to you?
Ah, questions of when are difficult to answer in a world without calendars
or real windows,
twelve floors underground. Perhaps around month six of my first year, I
became aware of
Yoona~939’s irregular speech.
Irregular?
Firstly, she spoke more: during offpeak moments at our teller; as we cleaned
the consumers’
hygieners; even as we imbibed Soap in the dormroom. It amused us, even the
stiff Ma-Leu-
Das. Secondly, Yoona’s speech grew more complex as the year aged.
Orientation teaches us
the lexicon we need for our work, but Soap erases xtra words we acquire
later. So to our ears,
Yoona’s sentences were filled with noises devoid of meaning. She sounded,
in a word,
pureblood. Thirdly, Yoona took pleasure in humor: she hummed Papa’s Psalm
in absurd
variations; in our dormroom, when aides were absent, she mimicked pureblood
habits like
yawning, sneezing, or burping. Humor is the ovum of dissent, and the Juche
should fear it.
In my xperience, fabricants have difficulties threading together an original
sentence of five
words. How could Yoona~939—or you, for that matter—acquire verbal
dexterity in such a
hermetic world, even with a rising IQ?
An ascending fabricant absorbs language, thirstily, in spite of am-nesiads.
During my
ascension, I was often shocked to hear new words fly from my own mouth,
gleaned from
consumers, Seer Rhee, AdV, and Papa Song himself. A dinery is not a hermetic
world: every
prison has jailers and walls. Jailers are ducts and walls conduct.
A more metaphysical question … were you happy, back in those days?
Before my ascension, you mean? If, by happiness, you mean the absence of
adversity I and all
fabricants are the happiest stratum in corpocracy as genomicists insist.
However, if happiness
means the conquest of adversity or a sense of purpose, or the xercise of one
’s will to power,
then of all Nea So Copros’s slaves we surely are the most miserable. I
endured drudgery but
enjoy it no more than yourself.
Slaves, you say? Even infant consumers know, the very word slave is
abolished throughout
Nea So Copros!
Corpocracy is built on slavery, whether or not the word is sanctioned.
Archivist, I do not wish
to offend you, but is your youth dewdrugged or genuine? I am puzzled. Why
has my case been
assigned to an apparently inxperienced corpocrat?
No offense taken, Sonmi. I am an xpedience—and yes, an undewdrugged xpedi-
ence, I am still
in my twenties. The xecs at the Ministry of Unanimity insisted that you, as
a heretic, had
nothing to offer corpocracy’s archives but sedition and blasphemy
Genomicists, for whom you
are a holy grail, as you know, pulled levers on the Juche to have Rule 54.
iii—the right to
archivism—enforced against Unanimity’s wishes, but they hadn’t reckoned
on senior
archivists watching your trial and judging your case too hazardous to risk
their reputations—
and pensions—on. Now, I’m only eighth-stratum at my uninfluential ministry
, but when I
petitioned to orison your testimony, approval was granted before I had the
chance to come to
my senses. My friends told me I was crazy.
So you are gambling your career on this interview?
… That is the truth of the matter, yes.
Your frankness is refreshing after so much duplicity
A duplicitous archivist wouldn’t be much use to future historians, in my
view. Could you tell
me a little more about Seer Rhee? His journal weighed heavily against you at
your trial. What
manner of seer was he?
Poor Seer Rhee was corp man, to the bone, but long past the age when seers
are promoted to
power. Like many of this dying corpocracy’s purebloods, he clung to the
belief that hard work
and a blemishless record were enough to achieve status, so he curfewed many
nights in the
dinery office to impress the corp hierarchy In sum: a whipman to his
fabricants; a sycofant to
his upstrata, and courteous to his cuckolds.
His cuckolds?
Yes. Seer Rhee should be understood in the context of his wife. Mrs. Rhee
had sold her child
quota early in their marriage, made shrewd investments, and used her husband
as a dollarudder.
According to his aides’ gossip, she spent most of our seer’s salary on
facescaping.
Certainly, her seventy-plus years could pass for thirty Mrs. Rhee visited
the dinery from time
to time to inspect the latest male aides, gossip added. Any who spurned her
advances could
xpect a posting to bleakest Manchuria. But why she never used her apparent
corp influence to
advance Seer Rhee’s career is a mystery I will not now live to see solved.
Yoona~939’s notoriety must have threatened the seer’s “blemishless record
” severely,
wouldn’t you agree?
Certainly. A dinery server behaving like a pureblood attracts trouble;
trouble attracts blame;
blame demands a scapegoat. When Seer Rhee noticed Yoona’s deviations from
Catechism, he
bypassed destarring and requested a corp medic to xamine her for
reorientation. This tactical
mistake xplains the seer’s lackluster career. Yoona~939 performed as
genomed, and the
visiting medic gave her a clean bill. Seer Rhee was thenceforth unable to
discipline Yoona
without implying criticism of a senior corp medic.
When did Yoona~939 first attempt to make you complicit in her crimes?
I suppose the first time was when she xplained a newfound word, secret, one
slow hour at the
teller. The idea of knowing information no one else, not even Papa Song,
knew was beyond
my grasp, so as we lay in our cots my teller-sister promised to show me what
she could not
xplain.
When I next woke it was not to the glare of yellow-up but to Yoona, shaking
me, in the neardark.
Our sisters lay dorming, immobile but for minute spasms. Yoona ordered me,
like a seer,
to follow her. I protested, I was afraid. She told me not to be, she wished
to show me the
meaning of secret, and led me into the dome. Its unfamiliar silence fritened
me further: its
beloved reds and yellows were eerie grays and browns in the curfew lite.
Seer Rhee’s office
door leaked thin lite. Yoona pushed it open.
Our seer lay slumped on his desk. Drool glued his chin to his sony, his
eyelids remmed, and a
gurgle was trapped in his throat. Every tenthnite, Yoona told me, he would
imbibe Soap and
sleep thru to yellow-up. As you know, Soap affects purebloods more
powerfully than us, and
my sister kicked his unresponding body to prove the point. Yoona found my
horror at this
blasphemy merely amusing. “Do what you like to him,” I remember her
telling me. “He has
lived with fabricants for so long he is very nearly one of us.” Then she
told me she would
show me a greater secret still. Yoona xtracted Rhee’s keys from his pocket
and led me to the
dome’s north quarter. Between the elevator and the northeast hygiener, she
told me to xamine
the wall. I saw nothing. “Look again,” Yoona urged, “look properly.”
This time I saw a speck,
a tiny crack. Yoona inserted a key, and a rectangle in the dome wall swung
inward. The dusty
darkness gave no clue. Yoona took my hand; I hesitated. If wandering around
the dinery
during curfew was not a destarrable offense, entering unknown doorways
surely was. But my
sister’s will was stronger than mine. She pulled me through, shut the door
behind us, and
whispered, “Now, dear sister Sonmi, you are inside a secret.”
A white blade sliced the black: a miraculous moving knife that gave form to
the stuffy nothing.
I discerned a narrow storeroom, crammed with stacked seats, plastic plants,
coats, fans, hats, a
burnt-out sun, many umbrellas; Yoona’s face, my hands. My heart beat fast.
What is that
knife? I asked. “Only lite, from a flashlite,” answered Yoona. I asked, Is
lite alive? Yoona
answered, “Perhaps lite is life, sister.” A consumer had left the
flashlite on a seat in our quarter,
she xplained, but instead of giving it to our aide, Yoona had hidden it here
. This confession
shocked me most of all, in a way
How so?
Catechism Three teaches that for servers to keep anything denies Papa Song’
s love for us and
cheats His Investment. I wondered, did Yoona~939 still observe any Catechism
? But
misgivings, though grave, were soon lost in the treasures Yoona showed me
there: a box of
unpaired earrings, beads, tiaras. The xquisite sensation of dressing in
pureblood clothes
overcame my fear of being discovered. Greatest of all, however, was a book,
a picture book.
Not many of those around these days.
Indeed not. Yoona mistook it for a broken sony which showed the world
outside. You must
imagine our awe as we looked at the grimy server serving three ugly sisters;
seven stunted
fabricants carrying bizarre cutlery behind a shining girl; a house built of
candy. Castles,
mirrors, dragons. Remember, I was ignorant of these words as a server, as I
was the majority
of words I employ in this Testimony. Yoona told me AdV and 3-D show only a
dull portion of
the world beyond the elevator: its full xtent encompassed wonders even
beyond Xultation. So
many strangenesses in one curfew toxed my head. My sister said we must get
back to our cots
before yellow-up but promised to take me back inside her secret, next time.
How many “next times” were there?
Ten, or fifteen, approx. In time, it was only during these visits to her
secret room that
Yoona~939 became her animated self. Leafing through her book of outside, she
voiced doubts
that shook even my own love of Papa Song and faith in corpocracy to the core.
What shapes did these doubts take?
Questions: How could Papa Song stand on His Plinth in Chongmyo Plaza Servery
and stroll
Xultation’s beaches with our Souled sisters simultaneously? Why were
fabricants born into
debt but purebloods not? Who decided Papa Song’s Investment took twelve
years to repay?
Why not eleven? Six? One?
How did you respond to such blasphemous hubris?
I begged Yoona to stop, or at least to fake normalcy in the dinery I was a
well-orientated server
in those days, you see, not the evildoer, the threat to civilization, I am
now. Moreover, I was
scared of being destarred for failing to judas Yoona to Seer Rhee. I prayed
to Papa Song to
heal my friend, but her deviances became more blatant, not less. Yoona
watched AdV openly
as she wiped tables. Our sisters sensed her crimes and avoided her. One nite
, Yoona told me
that she wanted to xit the dinery and never come back. She told me I should
xit too: that
purebloods force fabricants to work in domes so they can enjoy the beautiful
places her book
showed, her “broken sony” without sharing them. In response, I recited
Catechism Six, I told
her I could never commit such a wicked deviance against Papa Song and His
Investment.
Yoona~939 reacted angrily. Yes, Archivist, an angry fabricant. She called me
a fool and
coward, she said I was no better than those other clones.
Two un-Souled fabricants, fleeing their corp, unaided? Unanimity would round
you up in five
minutes.
But how could Yoona know that? Her “broken sony” promised a world of lost
forests, folded
mountains, and labyrinthine hiding places. To mistake a book of fairy tales
for Nea So Copros
may seem laughable to you, a pureblood, but perpetual encagement endows any
mirage of
salvation with credibility Ascension creates a hunger sharp enough to
consume the subject’s
sanity in time. In consumers, this state is termed chronic depression. Yoona
had sunk to this
same condition by my first winter, when diners brushed snow off their nikes
and we had to
mop the floors regularly. By then she had ceased communicating with me, so
her isolation was
total.
Are you saying mental illness triggered the Yoona~939 Atrocity?
I am, emphatically. Mental illness triggered by xperimental error.
Would you describe the events of that New Year’s Eve from your vantage
point?
I was wiping tables on my quarter’s raised rim, so I had a clear view of
the east. Ma-Leu-
Da~108 and Yoona~939 were manning our busy teller. A children’s party was
in progress.
Balloons, streamers, and hats obscured the area around the elevator.
Popsongs and noise of
five hundred–plus diners reverbed round the dome. Papa Song was
boomeranging 3-D fireeclairs
over the children’s heads: they passed thru their fingers and fluttered
back to land on our
Logo-man’s snaky tongue. I saw Yoona~939 leave our teller, the precise
moment you
understand, and I knew something terrible was going to happen.
She hadn’t told you of her escape plan?
As I said, she had ceased to acknowledge my xistence. But I do not believe
she had a plan: I
believe she merely “snapped,” in pureblood terms. My sister proceeded,
unhurriedly, out of our
quarter, toward the elevator. She was timing her approach. The aides were
too busy to notice
her: Seer Rhee was in his office. Few diners noticed, or looked up from
their sonys or AdV,
and why should they? When Yoona scooped up a boy in a sailor suit and headed
for the
elevator, the purebloods who saw merely assumed she was a fabricant maid
ordered by her
mistress to take her charge home.
Media reported that Yoona~939 stole the child to employ as a pureblood
shield on the surface.
Media reported the “atrocity” xactly as Unanimity directed. Yoona carried
the boy into the
elevator because somehow she had learned of that basic precaution corps take
function without a Soul onboard. The risk of being noticed aboard an
elevator full of
consumers was too high, so Yoona believed her best hope lay in borrowing a
child and using
his Soul to make an otherwise-empty elevator convey her to freedom.
You sound very sure of your thesis.
If my xperiences do not give me the right to be sure, whose do? The events
that followed, I
need not recount.
Nonetheless, please describe the Yoona~939 Atrocity, as you saw it.
Very well. The child’s mother saw her son in Yoona’s arms as the elevator
doors closed. She
screamed: “A clone’s taken my boy!” A chain reaction of hysteria began.
Trays were flung,
shakes spilled, sonys dropped. Some diners believed the earthquake
cushioning had
malfunctioned and dived under the tables. An off-duty enforcer unholstered
his colt, waded
into the heart of the turmoil, and bellowed for order. He fired a sonicshot,
ill-advisedly in a
sealed space, causing many to believe terrorists were firing on consumers. I
remember seeing
Seer Rhee emerge from his office, slip on a spilled drink, and vanish under
a swell of
customers now stampeding for the elevator. Many were injured in this crush.
Aide Cho was
yelling into his handsony I could not hear what. Rumors ricocheted around
the dome: a Yoona
had kidnapped a boy, no, a baby no, a pureblood had kidnapped a Yoona; an
enforcer had shot
a boy no, a fabricant had hit the seer whose nose was bleeding. All the
while, Papa Song
surfed noodle waves on His Plinth. Then someone shouted that the elevator
was descending,
and silence seized the dinery as quickly as panic had less than a minute
before. The enforcer
shouted for space, crouched, and aimed at the doors. The crush of consumers
cleared in an
instant. The elevator reached the dinery, and its doors opened.
The boy was quivering, balled into one corner. His sailor suit was no longer
white. Perhaps my
last memory in the Litehouse will be Yoona~939’s body, turned into a pulp
of bullet holes.
That image is burned into every pureblood memory, too, Sonmi. When I got
home that nite my
dormmates were glued to the sony Half of Nea So Copros’s New Year
Festivities were
canceled, the other half was decidedly muted. Media alternated footage from
the in-dinery
nikon with the Chongmyo Plaza public order nikon, showing the passing
enforcer neutralize
Yoona~939. We couldn’t believe what we were seeing. We were sure a Union
terrorist had
facescaped herself to look like a server, for twisted propaganda purposes.
When Unanimity
confirmed the fabricant was a genuine Yoona … we … I …
You felt the corpocratic world order had changed, irrevocably You vowed
never to trust any
fabricant. You knew that Abolitionism was as dangerous and insidious a dogma
as Unionism.
You supported the resultant Homeland Laws dictated by the Beloved Chairman,
wholeheartedly.
All of those, yes. What happened down in your dinery, meanwhile?
Unanimity arrived in force to blip every diner’s Soul and to nikon
eyewitnesses’ accounts as
the dome was evacuated. We cleaned the dinery and imbibed Soap without
Vespers. The
following yellow-up, my sisters’ memories of Yoona~939’s killing remained
largely intact.
That Matins, instead of the customary Starring Ceremony, Papa Song delivered
His Anti-
Union Sermon.
I still find it incredible that a Logoman told his fabricants about Union.
Such was the shock, the panic. Doubtless the Sermon’s primary goal was to
show Media that
the Papa Song Corp had a damage control strategy in place. Papa Song’s
upstrata lexicon that
Matins supports this theory. It was quite a performance.
Would you recount what you remember for my orison?
Our Logoman’s head filled half the dome, so we seemed to stand inside his
mind. His
clownish xpression was heavy with grief and rage, and his clown’s voice
rang with despair.
The Hwa-Soons trembled, the aides looked awed, and Seer Rhee was pasty and
sick. Papa
Song told us a gas called evil xists in the world; purebloods called
terrorists breathe in this evil,
and this gas makes them hate all that is free, orderly, good, and
corpocratic; a group of
terrorists called Union had caused yesterday’s atrocity by infecting one of
our own sisters,
Yoona~939 of the Chongmyo Plaza Dinery, with evil; instead of judasing Union
, Yoona~939
had let the evil take her into temptation and deviance; and were it not for
the dedication of
Unanimity with whom Papa Song Corp has always fully cooperated, a consumer’
s innocent
son would now be dead. The boy had survived, but diners’ trust in our
beloved corp had been
wounded, grievously. The challenge before us, Papa Song concluded, was to
work harder than
ever to earn back that trust.
Therefore: we must be vigilant against evil, every minute of every day. This
new Catechism
was more important than all others. If we obeyed, our Papa would love us
forever. If we failed
to obey, Papa would zerostar us year after year and we would never get to
Xultation. Did we
understand?
My sisters’ understanding would have been hazy at best; our Logoman had
used many words
we did not know. Nevertheless, cries of “Yes, Papa Song!” echoed around
the Plinth.
“I cannot hear you!” our Logoman xhorted us.
“Yes, Papa Song!” every server in every dinery in corpocracy shouted, “
Yes, Papa Song!”
As I said, quite a performance.
You said in your trial that Yoona~939 couldn’t have been a Union member. Do
you still
maintain that position?
Yes. How and when could Union recruit her? Why would a Union-man risk the
xposure? Of
what worth was a genomed server to a terrorist ring?
I’m puzzled. If amnesiads in Soap “nullify” memory, how come you can
recall the events of
that time with such precision and clarity?
Because my own ascension had already begun. Even to a thoroughbred imbecile
like Boom-
Sook, the degradation of Yoona~939’s neurochemical stability was obvious,
so another guinea
pig was being prepared. The amnesiads in my Soapsac were reduced,
accordingly, and
ascension catalysts instreamed.
So … after the Sermon, New Year’s Day was business as usual?
Business, yes; usual, no. The Starring Ceremony was perfunctory. Two
Twelvestarreds were
escorted into the elevator by Aide Ahn. These were replaced by two Kyelims.
Yoona~939 was
replaced by a new Yoona. Seer Rhee inserted our new stars into our collars
in grave silence;
applause was deemed inappropriate. Soon after, Media streamed in, flashing
nikons and
besieging the office. Our seer could get them out only by first letting them
nikon the new
Yoona lying in the elevator with a ~939 sticker on her collar, covered in
tomato sauce. Later,
Unanimity medics xamined each of us in turn. I was fritened of incriminating
myself, but only
my birthmark provoked any passing comment.
Your birthmark? I didn’t know fabricants have birthmarks.
We do not, so mine always caused me embarrassment in the steamer.
Ma-Leu-Da~108 called it “Sonmi~451’s stain.”
Would you show it to my orison, just as a curio?
If you wish. Here, between my collarbone and shoulder blade.
Xtraordinary It looks like a comet, don’t you think?
Hae-Joo Im made xactly the same remark, curiously
Huh, well, coincidences happen. Did Seer Rhee retain his position?
Yes, but it brought the unlucky man little solace. He reminded his corp xecs
how he had
“smelled deviance” on Yoona~939 months before, thus passing blame to the
medic who
xamined her. Chongmyo Plaza profits soon returned to average levels:
purebloods have short
memories where their stomachs are concerned. Kyelim~689 and Kyelim~889 were
a further
attraction: as a newly created stemtype, they drew queues of fabricant
spotters.
And it was around this time that you grew aware of your own ascension?
Correct. You wish me to describe the xperience? It mirrored Yoona~939’s, I
now recognize.
Firstly, a voice spoke in my head. It alarmed me greatly, until I learned
that no one else could
hear this voice, known to purebloods as “sentience.” Secondly, my language
evolved: for
xample, if I meant to say good, my mouth substituted a finer-tuned word such
as favorable,
pleasing, or correct. In a climate when purebloods thruout the Twelve Cities
were reporting
fabricant deviations at the rate of thousands a week, this was a dangerous
development, and I
sought to curtail it. Thirdly, my curiosity about all things grew acute: the
“hunger” Yoona~939
had spoken of. I eavesdropped diners’ sonys, AdV, Boardmen’s speeches,
anything, to learn.
I, too, yearned to see where the elevator led. Nor did the fact that two
fabricants, working side
by side on the same teller in the same dinery both xperienced these radical
mental changes
evade me. Lastly my sense of alienation grew. Amongst my sisters I alone
understood our
xistence’s futility and drudgery. I even woke during curfew, but never
entered the secret room,
or even dared move until yellow-up. Yoona’s doubts about Papa Song haunted
me. Ah, I
envied my uncritical, unthinking sisters. But most of all, I was afraid.
How long did you have to endure that state?
Some months. Until the ninthnite of the last week of fourth-month,
specifically. I woke during
curfew to a faint sound of breaking glass. My sisters were all dorming: only
Seer Rhee was in
the dome at such an hour. Time passed. Curiosity defeated my fear, finally,
and I opened the
dormroom door. Across the dome, our seer’s office was open. Rhee lay in
lamplite, face flat
against the floor, his chair upended. I crossed the dinery. Blood leaked
from his eyes and
nostrils, and a used Soapsac was crumpled on the desk. Seer did not have the
color of the
living.
Rhee was dead? An overdose?
Whatever the official verdict, the office stunk of Soap soporifix. A server
usually imbibes three
milligrams: Rhee appeared to have taken a quarter-liter sac, so suicide
seems a reasonable
conclusion. I faced a grand quandary. If I sonyd for a medic, perhaps I
could save my seer’s
life, but how to xplain my intervention? Healthy fabricants, as you know,
never wake during
curfew. Bleak as the life of an ascending fabricant was, the prospect of
reorientation was
bleaker.
You said you envied your unthinking, untroubled sisters.
That is not quite the same as wishing to be one. I returned to my
cot.
That decision didn’t cause you any guilt, later?
Not much: Rhee’s decision was his own. But I had a foreboding that the nite
’s events were not
yet over, and sure enough, when yellow-up came, my sisters stayed in their
cots. The air
carried no scent of stimulin, and no aide had reported for work. I discerned
the sound of a sony
being used. Wondering if Seer Rhee had somehow recovered, I left the
dormroom and looked
into the dome.
A man in a dark suit sat there. He had tubed himself a coffee and watched me
watching him
across the dinery He spoke, finally. “Good morning, Sonmi~451. I hope you’
re feeling better
today than Seer Rhee.”
He sounds like an enforcer.
The man introduced himself as Chang, a chauffeur. I apologized: I did not
know the word. A
chauffeur, the soft-spoken visitor xplained, drives fords for xecs and
Boardmen but sometimes
serves as a messenger, too. He, Mr. Chang, had a message for me, Sonmi~451,
from his own
seer. This message was in fact a choice. I could leave the dinery now and
repay my Investment
outside, or else stay where I was, wait for Unanimity and their DNA sniffers
to come and
investigate the death of Seer Rhee, and be xposed as a Union spy.
Not much of a choice.
No. I had no possessions to pack or farewells to make. In the elevator, Mr.
Chang pressed a
panel. As the doors closed on my old life, my only life, I could not begin
to imagine what
waited above me.
My torso squashed my suddenly feeble legs: I was supported by Mr. Chang, who
said every
inside fabricant xperiences the same nausea, the first time. Yoona~939 must
have dropped the
boy as she underwent the same mechanical ascension in that same elevator. To
dam the
unpleasantness, I found myself recalling scenes from Yoona’s broken sony:
the cobweb
streams, gnarled towers, the unnamed wonders. As the elevator slowed, my
torso seemed to
rise, dis-orientingly Mr. Chang announced, “Ground level,” and the doors
opened on outside.
I almost envy you. Please, describe xactly what you saw.
Chongmyo Plaza, predawn. Cold! I had never known cold. How vast it seemed,
yet the plaza
cannot be more than five hundred meters across. Around the feet of the
Beloved Chairman,
consumers hurried; walkway sweepers droned; taxis buzzed riders; inching
fords fumed;
crawling trashtrucks churned; thruways, eight lanes wide, lined by sunpoles;
ducts rumbling
underfoot; neonized logos blaring; sirens, engines, circuitry, new lite of
new intensities at new
angles.
It must have been overwhelming.
Even the smells were new, after the dinery’s scented airflow. Kim-chi,
fordfumes, sewage. A
running consumer missed me by a centimeter, shouted, “Watch where you’re
standin’, you
democratin’ clone!” and was gone. My hair stirred in the breath of a giant
, invisible fan, and
Mr. Chang xplained how the streets funnel the morning wind to high speeds.
He steered me
across the walkway to a mirrored ford. Three young men admiring the vehicle
disappeared as
we approached, and the rear door hissed open. The chauffeur ushered me
inside and closed the
door. I crouched. A bearded passenger slouched in the roomy interior,
working on his sony He
xuded authority Mr. Chang sat in front, and the ford edged into the traffic:
I saw Papa Song’s
golden arches recede into a hundred other corp logos, and a new city of
symbols slid by, most
entirely new. When the ford braked, I lost my balance, and the bearded man
mumbled that no
one would object if I sat down. I apologized for not knowing the right
Catechism here and
intoned, “My collar is Sonmi~451,” as taught in Orientation. The passenger
just rubbed his red
eyes and asked Mr. Chang for a weather report. I do not recall what the
chauffeur said, only
that the fordjams were bad, and the bearded man looking at his rolex and
cursing the slowness.
Didn’t you ask where you were being taken?
Why ask a question whose answer would demand ten more questions? Remember,
Archivist, I
had never seen an xterior, nor xperienced conveyance: yet there I was,
thruwaying Nea So
Copros’s second biggest conurb. I was less a cross-zone tourist, more a
time traveler from a
past century
The ford cleared the urban canopy near Moon Tower, and I saw my first dawn
over the
Kangwon-Do Mountains. I cannot describe what I felt. The Immanent Chairman’
s one true
sun, its molten lite, petro-clouds, His dome of sky. To my further
astonishment, the bearded
passenger was dozing. Why did the entire conurb not grind to a halt and give
praise in the face
of such ineluctable beauty?
What else caught your eye?
Oh, the greenness of green: back under the canopy, our ford slowed by a dew
garden between
squattened buildings. Feathery, fronded, moss drenched, green. In the dinery
the sole samples
of green were chlorophyll squares and diners’ clothes, so I assumed it was
a precious, rare
substance. Therefore, the dew garden and its rainbows sleeving along the
fordway astounded
me. East, dormblocks lined the thruway each adorned by the corpocratic flag,
until the
waysides fell away and we passed over a wide, winding, ordure-brown strip
empty of fords. I
summoned up courage to ask Mr. Chang what it might be. The passenger
answered: “Han
River. Songsu Bridge.”
I could only ask, what were these things?
“Water, a thruway of water.” Tiredness and disappointment flattened his
voice. “Oh, notch up
another wasted early morning, Chang.” I was confused by the difference
between water in the
dinery and the river’s sludge. Mr. Chang indicated the low peak ahead. “
Mount Taemosan,
Sonmi. Your new home.”
So you were taken to the University straight from Papa Song’s?
To reduce xperimental contamination, yes. The road upzigged thru woodland.
Trees, their
incremental gymnastics and noisy silence, yes, and their greenness, still
mesmerize me. Soon
we arrived on the plateau campus. Cuboid buildings clustered: young
purebloods paced narrow
walkways where litter drifted and lichen yeasted. The ford coasted to a halt
under a rainstained,
sun-cracked overhang. Mr. Chang led me into a lobby leaving the bearded
passenger to
doze in the ford. Mount Taemosan’s high air tasted clean, but the lobby was
grimed and unlit.
We paused at the foot of a double-helix staircase. This is an old-style
elevator, Mr. Chang
xplained. “The university xercises students’ bodies as well as their minds
.” So I battled gravity
for the first time, step by step, grasping the handrail. Two students
descended the down-helix,
laughing at my clumsiness. One commented, “That specimen won’t be making a
bid for
freedom anytime soon.” Mr. Chang warned me not to look over my shoulder; I
did so,
foolishly, and vertigo tipped me over. Had my guide not caught me, I would
have fallen.
It took several minutes to ascend to the sixth floor, the topmost. Here, a
slitted corridor ended at
a door, slitely ajar, name-plated BOOM-SOOK KIM. Mr. Chang knocked, but no
answer
came.
“Wait in here for Mr. Kim,” the chauffeur told me. “Obey him as a seer.”
I entered and turned
to ask Mr. Chang what work I should do, but the chauffeur had gone. I was
quite alone for the
first time in my life.
What did you think of your new quarters?
Dirty Our dinery you see, was always spotless: the Catechisms preach
cleanliness. Boom-Sook
Kim’s lab was, in contrast, a long gallery, rancid with pureblood male odor
. Bins overflowed; a
crossbow target hung by the door; the walls were lined with lab benches,
buried desks,
obsolete sonys, and sagging bookshelves. A framed kodak of a smiling boy and
a dead,
bloodied snow leopard hung over the only desk to show evidence of use. A
filthy window
overlooked a neglected courtyard where a mottled figure stood on a Plinth. I
wondered if he
was my new Logoman, but he never stirred.
In a cramped anteroom I found a cot, a hygiener, and a sort of portable
steam cleaner. When
was I to use it? What Catechisms governed my life in this place? A fly
buzzed lazy figures of
eight. So ignorant was I of outside, I even wondered if the fly might be an
aide and introduced
myself to it.
Had you never seen insects before?
Only rogue-gened roaches and dead ones: Papa Song’s aircon inflows
insecticide, so if any
enter via the elevator, they die, instantly. The fly hit the window, over
and over. I did not then
know windows open; indeed, I did not know what a window was.
Then I heard off-key singing; a popsong about Phnom Penh Girls. Moments
later a student in
beach shorts, sandals, and silk weighed down by shoulder bags, kickboxed the
door open.
Upon seeing me he groaned, “What in the name of Holy Corpocracy are you
doing here?”
I bared my collar. “Sonmi~451, sir. Papa Song’s server from—”
“Shut up, shut up, I know what you are!” The young man had a froggish
mouth and the hurt
eyes then in vogue. “But you’re not supposed to be here until fifthday! If
those registry dildos
xpect me to cancel a five-star Taiwanese conference just because they can’t
read calendars,
well, sorry, they can suck maggots in an ebola pit. I only came in to pick
up my worksony and
discs. I’m not babysitting any xperimental clone still in uniform when I
could be sinning
myself sticky in Taipei.”
The fly hit the window again; the student picked up a pamphlet and pushed
past me. The whack
made me jump. He inspected the smear with a laugh of triumph. “Let that be
a warning to you!
Nobody double-crosses Boom-Sook Kim! Now. Don’t touch anything, don’t go
anywhere.
Soap’s in the boxfridge—thank Chairman they delivered your feed early. I’
ll be back late on
sixthday If I don’t leave for the aeroport now I’ll miss my flite.” He
went, then reappeared in
the doorway. “You can talk, can’t you?”
I nodded.
“Thank Chairman! Fact—for every moronity there’s ten registry clone-bones
somewhere
committing it as we speak.”
What … were you supposed to do for the next three days?
Xcept watch the rolex hand erode the hours, I had no idea. It was no major
hardship: servers
are genomed for grueling nineteen-hour workdays. I passed idle hours
wondering if Mrs. Rhee
was a grieving widow or a glad one. Would Aide Ahn or Aide Cho be promoted
to Chongmyo
Plaza seer? Already, the dinery seemed impossibly distant. From the
courtyard I heard pins and
needles of sound, from shrubs mobbing the Plinth. Thus I first encountered
birds. An aero
overflew, and many hundreds of swallows poured upstream. For whom did they
sing? Their
Logoman? The Beloved Chairman?
The sky curfewed, and the room darkened for my first nite on the surface. I
felt lonely, but
nothing worse. Windows across the courtyard yellowed-up, showing labs like
Boom-Sook’s,
housing young purebloods; neater offices, occupied by professors; busy
corridors, vacant
ones. I did not see a single fabricant.
At midnite I felt toxed and imbibed a sac of Soap, lay in the cot, and
wished Yoona~939 was
there to make sense of the day’s legion mysteries.
Did your second day outside provide any answers?
Some: but yet more surprises. The first stood across the anteroom from my
cot as I awoke. A
pylonic man, over three meters tall and dressed in an orange zipsuit, was
studying the
bookshelves. His face, neck, and hands were scalded red, burnt black, and
patched pale, but he
did not seem to suffer pain. His collar confirmed he was a fabricant, but I
could not guess his
stemtype: lips genomed out, ears protected by hornvalves, and a voice deeper
than any I heard
before or since. “No stimulin here. You wake when you wake. Especially if
your postgrad is as
lazy as Boom-Sook Kim. Xec postgrads are the worst. They have their asses
wiped for them.
From kindergarten to euthanasium.” With a giant, two-thumbed hand, he
indicated a blue
zipsuit half the size of his. “For you, little sister.” As I changed from
my Papa Song’s uniform
into my new garment, I asked if he had been sent by a seer. “No seers,
either,” said the burnt
giant. “Your postgrad and mine are friends. Boom-Sook called yesterday.
Complained about
your unxpected delivery I wished to visit you pre-curfew. But Genome Surgery
postgrads
work late. Unlike slackers here in Psychogenomics. I’m Wing~027 Let’s find
out why you’re
here.”
Wing~027 sat on Boom-Sook’s desk and switched on the sony ignoring my
protests that my
postgrad had forbidden me to touch it. Wing clicked the screenboard; Yoona~
939 appeared.
Wing trailed his finger along the rows of words. “Let’s pray to the
Immanent Chairman …
Boom-Sook doesn’t make that error again …”
I asked Wing, could he read?
Wing said if a randomly assembled pureblood can read, a well-designed
fabricant should learn
with ease. Soon a Sonmi appeared on the sony: my collar, ~451, circled her
neck. “Here,” said
Wing and read, slowly; In-Dormroom Cerebral Upsizing the Service Fabricant:
A Feasibility
Case Study on Sonmi~4S1 by Boom-Sook Kim. “Why,” Wing muttered, “is a no-
brainer xec
postgrad aiming so high?”
What sort of fabricant was Wing-oij? A militiaman?
No, a disasterman. He boasted he could operate in deadlands so infected or
radioactive that
purebloods perish there like bacteria in bleach; that his brain had only
minor genomic
refinements; and that disastermen’s basic orientation provides a more thoro
education than most
pureblood universities. Finally, he bared his hideously burnt forearm: “
Show me a pureblood
who could stand this! My postgrad’s Ph.D. is tissue flameproofing.”
Wing~027’s xplanation of deadlands appalled me, but the disasterman
anticipated their
approach with relish. The day when all Nea So Copros is deadlanded, he told
me, will be the
day fabricants become the new purebloods. This sounded deviant, and besides,
if these
deadlands were so widespread in the world, I asked, why had I not seen them
from the ford?
Wing~027 asked me how big I believed the world to be. I was unsure but said
I had been
driven all the way from Chongmyo Plaza to this mountain, so I must have seen
most of it,
surely
The giant told me to follow, but I hesitated: Boom-Sook had ordered me not
to leave the room.
Wing~027 warned me, “Sonmi~451, you must create Catechisms of your own,”
and slung me
over his shoulder, carried me along the slitted corridor, around a tite
corner, and up a dusty
spiral staircase, where he fisted open a rusty door. Morning sunlite blinded
, brisk winds
slapped, and airgrit stung my face. The disasterman set me down.
On the roof of the Psychogenomics Faculty I gripped the railing and gasped;
six levels down
was a cactus garden, birds hunting insects in the needles; further down the
mountain, a ford
park, half full; further, a sports track, circummed by a regiment of
students; below that, a
consumer plaza; beyond that, woods, sloping down to the spilled, charred-and
-neon conurb, hirises,
dormblocks, the Han River, finally mountains lining the aeroscored sunrise.
“A big
view,” I remember Wing’s soft, burnt voice. “But held against the whole
world, Sonmi~451,
all you see is a chip of stone.”
My mind fumbled with such enormity and dropped it; how could I understand
such a limitless
world?
Wing replied, I needed intelligence; ascension would provide this. I needed
time; Boom-Sook
Kim’s idleness would give me time. However, I also needed knowledge.
I asked, How is knowledge found?
“You must learn how to read, little sister,” said Wing~027
So Wing-oij, not Hae-Joo Im or Boardman Mephi, mentored you first?
That is not true, strictly. Our second meeting was our final one. The
disasterman returned to
Boom-Sook’s lab an hour before curfew to give me an “unlost” sony
preloaded with every
autodidact module in upstrata corpocracy schooling. He showed me its
operation, then warned
me never to let a pureblood catch me gathering knowledge, for the sight
scares them, and there
is nothing a scared pureblood will not do.
By Boom-Sook’s return from Taiwan on sixthday I had mastered the sony’s
usage and
graduated from virtual elementary school. By sixthmonth I completed xec
secondary school.
You look skeptical, Archivist, but remember what I said about ascendants’
hunger for
information. We are only what we know, and I wished to be much more than I
was, sorely.
I didn’t mean to look skeptical, Sonmi. Your mind, speech, your … self,
show your dedication
to learning. What confuses me is, why did Boom-Sook Kim give you so much
time to study? An
xec heir, surely, was no covert Abolitionist? What about his Ph.D.
xperiments on you?
Boom-Sook Kim’s concerns were not his Ph.D. but drinking, gambling, and his
crossbow.
His father was an xec at Kwangju Ge-nomics lobbying for a boardmanship on
the Juche until
his son made such an influential enemy. With such an upstrata father, study
was a mere
formality
But how was Boom-Sook planning to graduate?
By paying an academic agent to collate his thesis from the agent’s own
sources. A common
practice. The ascension neurochemicals were preformulated for him, with
yields and
conclusions. Boom-Sook himself could not have identified the biomolecular
properties of
toothpaste. In nine months, my xperimental duties never xceeded cleaning his
lab and preparing
his tea. Fresh data might cloud those he had bought and risk xposing him as
a fraud, you see.
So during my postgrad’s long absences, I could study without risk of
discovery.
Wasn’t Boom-Sook Kim’s tutor aware of this outrageous plagiarism?
Professors who value tenure do not muckrake the sons of future Juche
Boardmen.
Did Boom-Sook never even talk to you … interact with you, in any way?
He addressed me like purebloods speak to a cat. It amused him to pose me
questions he fancied
were incomprehensible. “Hey, ~451, is it worth azuring my teeth, d’you
reckon, or is sapphire
just a passing fad this season?” He did not xpect cogent answers: I did not
disabuse his
xpectations. My reply became so habitual, Boom-Sook nicknamed me I-Do-Not-
Know-
Sir~451.
So for nine months nobody observed your skyrocketing sentience?
So I believed. Boom-Sook Kim’s only regular visitors were Min-Sic and Fang.
Fang’s real
name was never used in my hearing. They bragged about their new suzukis and
played poker,
and paid no attention to fabricants outside Huamdonggil comfort hives. Gil-
Su Noon, Boom-
Sook’s neighbor, a downstrata postgrad on scholarship aid, banged on the
wall to complain
about the noise from time to time, but the three xecs banged back louder. I
saw him only once
or twice.
What is “poker”?
A card game where abler liars take money off less able liars. Fang won
thousands of credits
from Boom-Sook and Min-Sic’s Souls during their poker sessions. Other times
, the three
students indulged in drugs, often Soap. On these occasions Boom-Sook told me
to get out:
when toxed, he complained, clones disturbed him. I would go to the faculty
roof, sit in the
water tank’s shade, and watch swifts hunt giant gnats until dark, when I
knew the three
postgrads would be gone. Boom-Sook never bothered to lock his lab, you see.
Why was it that you never met Wing~027 again?
One humid afternoon, three weeks after my arrival at Taemosan, a knock on
the door distracted
Boom-Sook from his facescaper catalog. Unxpected visitors were rare, as I
have said. Boom-
Sook said, “Enter!” and hid his catalog under Practical Genomics. My
postgrad rarely glanced
at his texts, unlike me.
A wiry student poked the door open with his toe. “Boom-Boom,” he called my
postgrad.
Boom-Sook sprang to attention, sat down, then slouched. “Hey, Hae-Joo”—he
faked a casual
manner— “what’s up?”
The visitor was just passing to say hi, he claimed, but he accepted the
offered chair. I learned
Hae-Joo Im was Boom-Sook’s x-classmate but had been head-hunted by Taemosan
’s
Unanimity faculty Boom-Sook told me to prepare tea while they discussed
topics of no
importance. As I served the drink, Hae-Joo Im mentioned, “You’ll know
about your friend
Min-Sic’s appalling afternoon by now?”
Boom-Sook denied Min-Sic was a “friend,” necessarily, then asked why his
afternoon was
appalling. “His specimen, Wing~027, was burnt to bacon.” Min-Sic had
mistaken a minus for a
plus on the label of a bottle of petro-alkali. My own postgrad smirked,
giggled, snorted
“Hysterical!” and laughed. Hae-Joo then did an unusual action; he looked
at me.
Why is that unusual?
Purebloods see us often but look at us rarely Much later, Hae-Joo admitted
he was curious
about my response. Boom-Sook noticed nothing; he speculated about
compensation claims by
the corp sponsoring Min-Sic’s research. In his own, solo research, Boom-
Sook gloated, no
one cared if an xperimental fabricant or two “got dropped” along the path
of scientific
enlitenment.
Did you feel … well, what did you feel? Resentment? Grief?
Fury. I retreated to the anteroom because something about Hae-Joo Im made me
cautious, but I
had never felt such fury Yoona~939 was worth twenty Boom-Sooks, and Wing~027
worth
twenty Min-Sics, by any measure. Because of an xec’s carelessness, my only
friend on Mount
Taemosan was dead, and Boom-Sook viewed this murder as humorous. But fury
forges will.
That day was the first step to my Declarations, to this prison cube, and to
the Litehouse in a
few hours.
What happened to you over summer recess?
Boom-Sook should have deposited me in a holding dormroom, but my postgrad
was so eager
to go hunt fabricant elk on Hokkaido in Eastern Korea that he forgot to do
so, or assumed a
lesser strata drone would do it for him.
So one summer morning, I woke in a wholly deserted building. No echoes from
well-trafficked
corridors, no time bell, no announcements; even aircons were turned off.
From the roof, the
conurb fumed and trafficked as usual, and swarming aeros left vapor streaks
across the sky,
but the campus was empty of students. Its ford parks were semivacant.
Builders were
resurfacing the oval square in the hot sun. I checked the sony’s calendar
and learned today was
the beginning of recess. I bolted the lab’s door and hid myself in the
anteroom.
So you never set foot outside Boom-Sook’s lab in five weeks? Not once?
Not once. I dreaded separation from my sony you see. A security guard tested
the lab door
every ninthnite. Sometimes I heard Gil-Su Noon in the adjacent lab.
Otherwise, nothing. I kept
the blind lowered and the solars off at nite. I had enough Soap to last the
duration.
But that’s fifty days of unbroken solitary confinement!
Fifty glorious days, Archivist. My mind traveled the length, breadth, and
depth of our culture. I
devoured the twelve seminals: Jong Il’s Seven Dialects; Prime Chairman’s
Founding of Nea So
Copros; Admiral Yeng’s History of the Skirmishes; you know the list.
Indices in an uncensored
Commentaries led me to pre-Skirmish thinkers. The library refused many
downloads,
of course, but I succeeded with two Optimists translated from the Late
English, Orwell and
Huxley; and Washington’s Satires on Democracy.
And you were still Boom-Sook’s thesis specimen—putatively—when he
returned for the second
semester?
Yes. My first autumn arrived. I made a secret collection of the flame-
colored leaves that drifted
on the faculty roof. Autumn itself aged, and my leaves lost their colors.
Nites became icy; then
even daylite hours frosted up. Boom-Sook dozed on the heated ondul most
afternoons,
watching 3-D. He had lost a lot of dollars in dubious investments over the
summer, and since
his father was refusing to pay his debts, my postgrad was prone to fits of
temper. My only
defense against these tantrums was to act void.
Did it snow?
Ah, yes, snow. The first snows fell very late last year, not until twelfth-
month. I sensed it
before I woke in the semidark. Snowflakes haloed the New Year fairies
decorating the
courtyard windows: entrancing, Archivist, entrancing. Undergrowth beneath
the neglected
statue in the courtyard drooped under the weight of snow, and the statue
itself assumed a comic
majesty I could watch the snow fall from my previous prison cube, and I miss
it here. Snow is
bruised lilac in half-lite: such pure solace.
You speak like an aesthete sometimes, Sonmi.
Perhaps those deprived of beauty perceive it most instinctively.
So it must be around now that Dr. Mephi enters the story?
Yes, Sextet Eve. It was snowing that nite, too. Boom-Sook, Min-Sic, and Fang
burst in at hour
twenty approx, tox-flushed, ice on their nikes. I was in the anteroom and
barely had time to
hide my sony I remember I was reading Plato’s Republic. Boom-Sook wore a
mortarboard hat,
and Min-Sic hugged a basket of mint-scented orchids as big as himself. He
threw them at me,
saying, “Petals for Spoony, Sponny Sonmi, whatever its name is …”
Fang rifled the cupboard where Boom-Sook kept his soju and tossed three
bottles over his
shoulder, complaining that the brands were all dog piss. Min-Sic caught two,
but a third
smashed on the floor, triggering relapses of laughter. “Clean it up, Cind’
rella!” Boom-Sook
clapped his hands at me, then pacified Fang by saying hed open a bottle of
the best stuff since
Sextet Recess came only once a year.
By the time I had swept up every glass shard, Min-Sic had found a pornslash
disney on 3-D.
They watched it with xpert relish, bickering over its merits and realism,
and drinking the fine
soju. Their drunkenness had a recklessness that nite, especially Fang’s. I
retreated to the
anteroom, from where I heard Gil-Su Noon at the lab door, asking the
revelers to be quieter. I
spied. Min-Sic mocked Gil-Su’s glasses, asking why his family couldn’t
find the dollars to
correct his myopia. Boom-Sook told Gil-Su to crawl up his own cock if he
wanted peace and
quiet when the civilized world was celebrating Sextet. When he had stopped
laughing, Fang
spoke about getting his father to order a tax inspection on the Noon clan.
Gil-Su Noon fumed
in the doorway until the three xecs pelted him away with plums and further
derision.
Fang seems to have been the ringleader.
He was, yes. He chiseled open the fault lines in the others’ personalities.
Doubtless he is
currently practicing law in one of the Twelve Capitals with great success.
That nite he focused
on riling Boom-Sook, by wagging the soju bottle at the kodak of the dead
snow leopard and
asking how dopey the prey were genomed down for the tourists. Boom-Sook’s
pride was
inflamed. The only animals he hunted, he retorted, were those with
viciousness genomed up.
He and his brother had stalked the snow leopard for hours in Kath-mandu
Valley before the
cornered animal leapt for his brother’s throat. Boom-Sook had a single shot
. The bolt entered
the beast’s eye in midair. Hearing this, Fang and Min-Sic faked awe for a
moment, then
collapsed in raucous laughter. Min-Sic thumped the floor, saying, “You are
so full of shit,
Kim!” Fang peered closer at the kodak and remarked that it was poorly
dijied.
Boom-Sook inked a face on a synthetic melon, solemnly wrote “Fang” on its
brow, and
balanced the fruit on a stack of journals by the door. He took his crossbow
from his desk,
walked to the far-end window, and took aim.
Fang protested: “No-no-no-no-no-no-no!” and objected that a melon would
not rip the
marksman’s throat out if he missed. There was no pressure to make a clean
hit. Fang then
beckoned me over to stand by the door.
I saw his intention, but Fang interrupted my appeal, warning that if I did
not obey him, he
would put Min-Sic in charge of my Soap. Min-Sic’s grin wilted. Fang sank
his nails into my
arm, led me over, put the mortarboard hat on my head, and placed the melon
on the hat. “So,
Boom-Sook,” he teased, “reckon you’re such a hot-shit marksman now?”
Boom-Sook’s relationship with Fang was based on rivalry and loathing. He
raised his
crossbow. I asked my postgrad to please stop. Boom-Sook ordered me not to
move a muscle.
The bolt’s steel tip glinted. Dying in one of these boys’ dares would be
futile and stupid, but
fabricants cannot dictate even the terms of their deaths. A twang and an
airwhoosh later, the
cross-bolt crisped into melon pulp. The fruit rolled off the hat. Min-Sic
applauded warmly,
hoping to thaw the situation. I was awash with relief.
However, Fang sniffed, “You hardly need laser guidance to hit a huge great
melon. Anyway,
look”—he held the melon’s remains— “you only just clipped it. Surely a
mango is a worthier
target for a hunter of your stature.”
Boom-Sook held out his crossbow to Fang, daring him to match his own skill:
hit the mango
from fifteen paces.
“Done.” Fang took the crossbow. I protested, despairingly, but Boom-Sook
told me to shut up.
He drew an eye on the mango. Fang counted his paces and loaded the bolt. Min
-Sic warned his
friends that the paperwork on a dead xperimental specimen was hell. They
ignored him. Fang
aimed for a long time. His hand trembled, slitely Suddenly, the mango
exploded and juiced the
walls. My doubt that my ordeal was over was well founded. Fang blew on the
crossbow.
“Melon at thirty paces, mango at fifteen. I’ll raise you a … plum, at ten
.” He noted a plum was
still bigger than a snow leopard’s eye, but added that if Boom-Sook wanted
to admit he was
indeed, as Min-Sic had said, full of shit and decline the challenge, they
would consider the
sorry chapter closed, for a whole ten minutes. Boom-Sook just balanced the
plum on my head,
gravely, and ordered me to hold very, very still. He counted his ten steps,
turned, loaded, and
took aim. I guessed I had a 50 percent chance of being dead in fifteen
seconds. Gil-Su banged
on the door again. Go away, I thought at him, No distractions now …
Boom-Sook’s jaw twitched as he cranked back the bow. The banging on the
door grew more
insistent, just centimeters from my head. Fang blasted obscenities about Gil
-Su’s genitals and
his mother. Boom-Sook’s knuckles whitened on his crossbow.
My head was whipcracked around: pain sank teeth into my ear. I was aware of
the door flying
open behind me, then of xpressions of doom on my tormentors’ faces. Lastly,
I noticed an
older man in the doorway, snow in his beard, out of breath, and thunderously
angry.
Boardman Mephi?
Yes, but let us be thoro: Unanimity Professor, architect of the Mer-ican
Boat-People Solution,
holder of a Nea So Copros Medal for Eminence, monographist on Tu Fu and Li
Po; Juche
Boardman Aloi Mephi. I paid him little notice at that time, however. Liquid
trickled down my
neck and spine. When I dabbed my ear, pain seemed to electrocute the left
side of my body. My
fingers came away shiny and scarlet.
Boom-Sook’s voice wobbled: “Boardman, we—” No help was offered from Fang
or Min-Sic.
The Boardman pressed a crisp silk handkerchief against my ear, and told me
to keep the
pressure steady. He took a handsony from an inner pocket. “Mr. Chang?” he
spoke into it.
“First aid. Hurry, please.” Now I recognized the sleepy passenger who had
accompanied me
from Chongmyo Plaza eight months before.
Next, my rescuer stared at the postgrads: they dared not meet his gaze. “
Well, gentlemen, we
have made a very ominous start to the Year of the Snake.” Min-Sic and Fang
would be notified
by the disciplinary board of major debits, he promised, and dismissed them.
Both bowed and
hurried out. Min-Sic left his cloak steaming on the ondul but did not return
. Boom-Sook
looked inconsolable. Boardman Mephi let the postgrad suffer for some seconds
before asking,
“Are you planning to shoot at me with that thing, too?”
Boom-Sook Kim dropped the crossbow as if it were superheated. The Boardman
looked
around the messy lab, sniffing at the neck of the soju bottle. The octopoid
rapine on 3-D
distracted him. Boom-Sook fumbled with the remo, dropped it, picked it up,
pressed stop,
aimed it the right way, pressed stop. Boardman Mephi spoke, finally He was
now ready to hear
Boom-Sook’s xplanation of why he was using his faculty’s xperimental
fabricant for crossbow
practice.
Yes, I’m curious to hear that, too.
Boom-Sook tried everything: he was inxcusably drunk for Sextet Eve; he had
misprioritized,
ignored stress symptoms, chosen friends unwisely, gotten overzealous while
disciplining his
specimen; it was all Fang’s fault. Then even he realized he had better shut
up and wait for the
ax to fall.
Mr. Chang arrived with a medicube, sprayed my ear, dabbed coag, applied a
patch, and gave
me my first friendly words since Wing~027 Boom-Sook asked if my ear would
heal.
Boardman Mephi’s abrupt answer was that it was none of Boom-Sook’s
business as his
doctorate was terminated. The x-postgrad blanked and whitened as he saw his
future slide
downstrata.
Mr. Chang held my hand and informed me my earlobe was torn off but promised
a medic
would replace it in the morning. I was too afraid of Boom-Sook’s
recriminations to worry
about my ear, but Mr. Chang added we would now leave with Boardman Mephi for
my new
quarters.
That must have been very welcome news.
Yes, xcept for the loss of my sony How could I bring that along? No feasible
plan came to
mind. I just nodded, hoping I could retrieve it during Sextet Recess. The
spiral stairs took up
my attention. descents are more hazardous than ascents. In the lobby, Mr.
Chang produced a
hooded cloak for me and a pair of icenikes. The boardman complimented Mr.
Chang on the
latter’s choice of zebra-skin design. Mr. Chang answered, zebra skin was de
rigueur in Lhasa’s
chicest streets this season.
What reason did the Boardman give for your timely rescue?
None, as yet. He told me I was being transferred to the Unanimity Faculty on
the western lip of
campus and apologized for letting “those three toxed xec tapeworms” play
games with my life.
The weather had prevented a timelier intervention. I forget what well-
oriented, humble reply I
gave.
The campus cloisters were festive with Sextet Eve crowds. Mr. Chang taught
me to shuffle
thru granular ice to gain traction. Snowflakes settled on my eyelashes and
nostrils. Snowball
fights ceasefired as Professor Mephi approached; combatants bowed. The sense
of anonymity
afforded by my hood was delicious. Passing thru cloisters, I heard music.
Not AdV or
popsong but naked, echoing waves of music. “A choir,” Boardman Mephi told
me. “Corpocratic
sapiens can be callous, petty and malign,” he said, “but higher things,
too, thank
Chairman.” We listened for a minute. Looking up, I felt as if I was rushing
upward.
Two enforcers guarding the Unanimity Faculty saluted and took our damp
cloaks. This
building’s interior was as opulent as the Psychogenomics Faculty had been
spartan. Carpeted
corridors were lined with Iljongian mirrors, urns of the Kings of Scilla, 3-
Ds of Unanimity
notables. The elevator had a chandelier; its voice recited corpocratic
Catechisms, but Boardman
Mephi told it to shut up, and to my surprise, it did. Once again, Mr. Chang
held me steady as
the elevator sped, then slowed.
We xited into a spacious, sunken apartment from an upstrata lifestyle AdV A
3-D fire danced
in the central hearth, surrounded by hovering maglev furniture. Glass walls
afforded a dizzying
view of the conurb by nite, obscured by the haze-brite snowfall. Paintings
took up the inner
walls. I asked Mephi if this was his office.
“My office is one story up,” he replied. “These are your quarters.”
Before I could even xpress surprise, Mr. Chang suggested I invite my
distinguished guest to sit
down. I begged Boardman Mephi’s pardon: I had never had a guest before, and
my manners
lacked polish.
The maglev sofa swung under the distinguished man’s weight. His daughter-in
-law, he said,
had redesigned my quarters with me in mind. The Rothko canvases, she hoped,
I would find
meditative.“Molecule-true original originals,” he assured me. “I approved
.Rothko paints how
the blind see.”
A bewildering evening—crossbolts one moment, art history the next …
Certainly. Next, the professor apologized for failing to recognize the xtent
of my ascension on
our first meeting. “I assumed you were yet another semi-ascended xperiment,
doomed to
mental disintegration in a week or two. If memory serves, I even dozed off—
Mr. Chang, did I?
The truth now.” From his post by the elevator, Mr. Chang recalled that his
master had rested
his eyes during the journey. Boardman Mephi smiled at his chauffeur’s tact.
“You’re more than
likely wondering what you did to bring yourself to my attention, Sonmi~451.”
His question was a handshake: Come out, I know you’re in there. Or, I
feared, a trap. Still with
a server’s wariness of acting too pure-blood, I feigned polite
incomprehension. Mephi’s
xpression of complicity told me he understood. Taemosan University he said,
generates 2
million–plus library download requests per semester. The vast majority are
course texts and
related articles; the remainder relate to anything from real estate to stock
prices, sportsfords to
steinways, yoga to caged birds. “The point is, Sonmi, it takes a reader of
truly eclectic habits for
my friends the librarians to bother alerting me.” The professor switched on
his handsony and
read from my own list of download requests. Sixthmonth 18th, Epic of
Gilgamesh;
Seventhmonth 2nd, Ireneo Funes’s Remembrances; Ninthmonth 1st, Gibbon’s
Decline and
Fall. Mephi, bathed in mauve sonyglow, looked proud. “Here we go …
Tenthmonth 11th, a
brazen-as-you-please cross-search for references to that cancer in our
beloved body corpocratic,
Union! Speaking as a Unanimityman, such a—could I call it lust’?—for
creeds of
other worlds alerts us to the presence of an inner émigré. It is idiomatic
in my field that such
émigrés make the finest Unanimity agents. I knew we had to meet.” He then
xplained how he
had identified the sony’s inquisitive owner as Nun Hel-Kwon, a geothermist
from blizzardprone
Onsong … who had died two winters before in a skiing accident. Boardman
Mephi
assigned a gifted graduate the old-fashioned detective’s task of tracing
the thief. E-wave
surveillance located the sony in Boom-Sook Kim’s lab. Imagining Boom-Sook
reading
Wittgenstein defied all credulity however, so Mephi’s trusted student had
implanted a microeye
in every sony in the room during curfew six weeks ago. “Next day we found
our
dissident-manqué was no pureblood but, apparently, science’s first
stabilized ascendant and
sister-server of the notorious Yoona~939. My work, Sonmi~451, can be taxing
and hazardous,
but dull? Never!”
Denial was plainly pointless.
Indeed: Boardman Mephi was no Seer Rhee. In a way, my discovery was a relief
. Many
criminals say the same. I sat and listened to his account of the
interdepartmental squabbles that
broke out when he reported his findings. Old-school corpocrats wanted me
euthanized as a
deviant; psychogenomicists wanted me to undergo cerebral vivisection;
marketing wanted to go
public and claim me as Taemosan University’s own xperimental breakthru.
Obviously, none of them got their way.
No. Unanimity won a stopgap compromise: I could continue studying in my
illusory free will
until a consensus of opinion could be reached. Boom-Sook’s crossbow,
however, forced
Unanimity’s hand.
And what did Boardman Mephi intend to do with you now?
Frame a new compromise between those interests competing fora slice of me,
then enforce it.
Billions of research dollars had been spent in corp labs, unsuccessfully, to
achieve what,
simply, I was, what I am: a stable, ascended fabricant. To keep the ge-
nomicists happy, an
array of vetted scientists would conduct cross-disciplinary tests on me.
Mephi, dipping his
hands into the heart of the 3-D flames, promised these tests would not be
onerous or painful, or
xceed three hours per day, five days out of ten. To win over the Taemosan
Board, research
access would be auctioned: I would raise big dollars for my masters.
Did Sonmi~451’s interests enter this simultaneous equation?
To a degree, yes: Taemosan University would enroll me as a foundation
student. I would also
have a Soul implanted in my collar so I could come and go on campus as I
pleased. Boardman
Mephi even promised to mentor me when he was on campus. He withdrew his hand
from the
fire and inspected his fingers. “All lite, no heat. Youngsters nowadays
wouldn’t know a real
flame if their nikes were set alite.” He told me to call him Professor
instead of Sir.
One thing I can’t work out. If Boom-Sook Kim was such a buffoon, how had he
attained this
holy grail of psychogenomics—stable ascension?
Later, I asked Hae-Joo Im the same question. His xplanation ran: Boom-Sook’
s thesis jockey
sourced his supply of psychogenomics theses from an obscure tech institute
in Baikal. The
original author of my x-postgrad’s work was a production zone immigrant
named Yusouf
Suleiman. Xtremists were killing genomicists in Siberia at that time, and
Suleiman and three of
his professors were blown up by a car bomb. Baikal being Baikal, Suleiman’s
research
languished in obscurity for ten years until it was sold on. The agent
liaised with contacts at
Papa Song Corp to instream Suleiman’s ascension neuro-formula to our Soap.
Yoona~939
was the prime specimen; I was a modified backup. If all that sounds unlikely
, Hae-Joo added, I
should remember that most of science’s holy grails are discovered by
accident, in unxpected
places.
And all the while Boom-Sook Kim was blissfully unaware of the furor his
plagiarized Ph.D.
was causing?
Only an obdurate fool who never squeezed a pipette could remain unaware, but
yes, Boom-
Sook Kim was such a fool. Maybe that, too, was no accident.
How did you find your new regime in the Unanimity Faculty? How was it as a
fab-ricant,
actually attending lectures?
As I was moved on Sextet Eve, I had six quiet days before the new regime
began in earnest. I
walked around the icy campus only once: I am genomed to be comfortable in
hot eateries, and
xposure to the Han Valley winter on Mount Taemosan burned my skin and lungs.
On New
Year’s Day I awoke from curfew to discover two gifts: the battered old sony
Wing~027 had
given me and a star for my collar, my third. I thought of my sisters, my x-
sisters, thruout Nea
So Copros enjoying Starring Ceremonies. I wondered if I would one day depart
for Xultation,
my Investment repaid. How I wished Yoona~939 could attend my first lecture
on secondday
with me. I still miss her.
What was your first lecture?
Swanti’s Biomathematics; however, its real lesson was humiliation. I walked
to the lecture hall
across dirty slush, hooded and unnoticed. But when I took off my cloak in
the corridor, my
Sonmi features provoked surprise, then unease. In the lecture hall, my entry
detonated resentful
silence.
It didn’t last. “Oy!” a boy yelled. “One hot ginseng, two dog-burgers!”
and the entire theater
laughed. I am not genomed to blush, but my pulse rose. I took a seat in the
second row,
occupied by girls. Their leader had emeralded teeth. “This is our row,”
she said. “Go to the
back. You stink of mayo.” I obeyed, meekly A paper dart hit my face. “We
don’t vend burgers
in your dinery fabricant,” someone called, “why’re you taking up space in
our lecture?” I was
about to leave when spidery Dr. Chu’an tripped onto the stage and dropped
her notes. I did my
best to concentrate on the lecture that followed, but after a while, Dr. Chu
’an’s eyes roamed her
audience, saw me; she stopped midsentence. The audience, laughing, realized
why. Dr. Chu’an
forced herself to continue. I forced myself to stay but lacked the courage
to ask questions at the
end. Outside I endured a barrage of aggressive snideries.
Did Professor Mephi know about the students’ unfriendliness?
I think so. At our seminar, the professor asked if my lecture had been
fruitful; I chose the word
informative and asked why pure-bloods despised me so. He replied, “What if
the differences
between social strata stem not from genomics or inherent xcellence or even
dollars, but merely
differences in knowledge? Would this not mean the whole Pyramid is built on
shifting sands?”
I speculated such a suggestion could be seen as a serious de-viancy
Mephi seemed delited. “Try this for deviancy fabricants are mirrors held up
to purebloods’
consciences; what purebloods see reflected there sickens them. So they blame
you for holding
up the mirror.”
I hid my shock by asking when purebloods might blame themselves.
Mephi replied, “History suggests, not until they are made to.”
When, I asked, would that happen?
The professor spun his antique globe and answered merely: “Dr. Chu’an’s
lecture continues
tomorrow.”
It must have taken courage to return.
Not really: an enforcer escorted me, so at least no one flung insults at me.
The enforcer
addressed the second row of girls with courteous malice. “This is our row.
Go to the back.”
The girls melted away, but I felt no triumph. It was the girls’ fear of
Unanimity not their
acceptance of me, that prevailed. Dr. Chu’an was so flustered by the
enforcer that she mumbled
her entire lecture without once looking at her audience. Prejudice is
permafrost.
Did you brave any more lectures?
One, on Lööw’s Fundaments. By request I went unescorted,
preferring insults to xternal
armor. I arrived early, took a side seat, and kept a visor on as the lecture
hall filled. I was
recognized nonetheless. The students regarded me with mistrust, but no paper
missiles were
launched. Two boys in front turned around: they had honest faces and rural
accents. One asked
if I really was some sort of artificial genius.
Genius is not a word to bandy so casually, I suggested.
Hearing a server talk made the pair marvel. “It must be hell,” said the
second, “to have an
intelligent mind trapped in a body genomed for service.”
I had grown as attached to my body as he had to his, I responded.
The lecture proceeded without event, but when I left the hall, a small riot
of questions, miked
walkmans, and flash nikons was waiting for me. Which Papa Song’s had I come
from? Who
had enrolled me at Taemosan? Were there more of me? What were my views on
the
Yoona~939 Atrocity? How many weeks did I have before my ascension
degenerated? Was I
an Abolitionist? What was my favorite color? Did I have a boyfriend?
Media? On a corpocratic campus?
No, but Media had offered rewards for features on the Sonmi of Taemosan. I
hooded and tried
to elbow my way back to the Unanimity Faculty but the crush was so thick, my
visor was
knocked off and I was floored and badly bruised before two plainclothes
enforcers could
xtricate me. Boardman Mephi met me in the Unanimity lobby and escorted me
back to my
quarters, muttering that I was too valuable to xpose myself to the prurient
mob. He rotated his
rainstone ring vigorously: a habit when tense. We agreed, from then on my
lectures should be
dijied to my sony
What about the xperiments you were obliged to undergo?
Ah, yes, a daily reminder of my true status. They depressed my spirits. What
was knowledge
for, I would ask myself, if I could not use it to better my xistence? How
would I fit in on
Xultation nine years and nine stars later with my superior knowledge? Could
am-nesiads erase
the knowledge I had acquired? Did I want that to happen? Would I be happier?
Fourthmonth
arrived, bringing my first anniversary as a specimen freak on Taemosan, but
spring did not
bring me the gladness it brings the world. My curiosity is dying, I told
Professor Mephi one
pleasant day, during a seminar on Thomas Paine. I remember the sounds of a
baseball game
drifting thru his open window. My mentor said we had to identify the source
of this malady,
and urgently. I said something about reading not being knowledge, about
knowledge without
xperience being food without sustenance.
“You need to get out more,” remarked the professor.
Out where? Out to lectures? Out on the campus? Outings?
Next ninthnite, a young Unanimity postgrad named Hae-Joo Im elevatored to my
apartment.
Addressing me as Miss Sonmi, he xplained that Professor Mephi had asked him
to “come and
cheer you up.” Professor Mephi held the power of life and death over his
future, he said, so
here he was. “That was a joke,” he added, edgily then he asked if I
remembered him.
I did. His black hair was crewcut maroon now, and his eyebrows on-offed
where they had
been unadorned; but I recognized Boom-Sook’s x-classmate who had brought
the news of
Wing~027’s death at the hands of Min-Sic. My visitor looked around my
living space,
enviously. “Well, this beats Boom-Sook Kim’s poky nest, doesn’t it? Big
enough to swallow
my family’s entire apartment.”
I agreed, the apartment was very spacious indeed. A silence inflated. Hae-
Joo Im offered to
stay inside the elevator until I wanted him to leave. Once again, I
apologized for my lack of
social grace and invited him in.
He took his nikes off, saying “No, I apologize for my lack of social grace.
I talk too much
when I get nervous, and say stupid things. Here I go again. Can I try out
your maglev chaise
longue?”
Yes, I said and asked why I made him nervous.
I looked like any Sonmi in any old dinery he answered, but when I opened my
mouth I became
a doctor of philosophy The postgrad sat cross-legged on the chaise longue
and swung,
wonder-ingly passing his hand through the magnetic field. He confessed, “A
little voice in my
head is saying, ‘Remember, this girl—woman, I mean—I mean, person—is a
landmark in the
history of science. The first stable ascendee! Ascendant, rather. Watch what
you say, Im! Make
it profound!’ That’s why I’m just, uh, spouting rubbishy nothings.”
I assured him I felt more like a specimen than like a landmark.
Hae-Joo shrugged and told me the professor had said I could use a nite out
downtown, and he
waved a Soulring. “Unanimity xpenses! Sky’s the limit. So what’s your
idea of fun?”
I had no idea of fun.
Well, Hae-Joo probed, what did I do to relax?
I play Go against my sony I said.
“To relax?” he responded, incredulous. “Who wins, you or the sony?”
The sony, I answered, or how would I ever improve?
So winners, Hae-Joo proposed, are the real losers because they learn nothing
? What, then, are
losers? Winners?
I said, If losers can xploit what their adversaries teach them, yes, losers
can become winners in
the long term.
“Sweet Corpocracy”—Hae-Joo Im puffed—“let’s go downtown and spend some
dollars.”
Didn’t he irritate you a little?
Initially, he irritated me a lot, but I reminded myself that he was
Professor Mephi’s prescription
for my malaise. Also, Hae-Joo had paid me the compliment of referring to me
as a “person.” I
asked him what he normally did on ninthnites, when not coerced into looking
after prize
specimens.
He told me with a diplomatic lowered smile how men of Mephi’s stratum never
coerce, only
imply. He might go to a dinery or bar with classmates or, if he lucked out,
go clubbing with a
girl. I was not a classmate and not xactly a girl, so he suggested a galle-
ria, to “sample the fruits
of Nea So Copros.”
Would he not be embarrassed, I asked, to be seen with a Sonmi? I could wear
a hat and
wraparounds.
Hae-Joo Im instead proposed a stick-on wizardly beard and a pair of reindeer
antlers. I
apologized: I had none. The young man smiled, apologized for another stupid
joke, and told me
to wear whatever I felt comfortable in, assuring me that I would blend in
much better
downtown than in a lecture hall. A taxi was downstairs, and he would wait
for me in the lobby.
Were you nervous about leaving Taemosan?
Slitely yes. Hae-Joo distracted me by siteseeing talk. He directed the taxi
via the Memorial to
the Fallen Plutocrats, around Kyong-bokkung Palace, down the Avenue of Nine
Thousand
AdVs. The driver was a pureblood Indian with a sharp nose for fat fares from
xpense
accounts. “An ideal nite for Moon Tower, sir,” he happened to mention. “
Very clear.” Hae-Joo
agreed on the spot. The helter-way ascended the gigantic pyramid, high, high
, high above the
canopies, above everything xcept the corp monoliths. Have you been up Moon
Tower by nite,
Archivist?
No, not even by day. We citizens leave the Tower for the tourists, mostly.
You should go. From the 234th story, the conurb was a carpet of xenon and
neon and motion
and carbdiox and canopies. But for the glass dome, Hae-Joo told me, the wind
at this altitude
would fling us into orbit, like satellites. He indicated various humpbacks
and landmarks: some
I had heard of or seen on 3-D, some not. Chongmyo Plaza was hidden behind a
monolith, but
its dayblue stadium was visible. SeedCorp was the lunar sponsor that nite.
The immense lunar
projector on far-off Fuji beamed AdV after AdV onto the moon’s face:
tomatoes big as babies,
creamy cauliflower cubes, holeless lotus roots. Speech bubbles ballooned
from SeedCorp’s
logoman’s juicy mouth, guaranteeing that his products were 100 percent
genomically modified.
Descending, the elderly taxi driver spoke of his boyhood in a distant conurb
called Mumbai,
now deadlanded, when the moon was always naked. Hae-Joo said an AdVless moon
would
freak him out.
Which galleria did you go to?
Wangshimni Orchard: what an encyclopedia of consumables! For hours, I
pointed at items for
Hae-Joo to identify: bronze masks, instant bird’s nest soup, fabricant toys
, golden suzukis, air
filters, acidproof skeins, oraculars of the Beloved Chairman and statuettes
of the Immanent
Chairman, jewel-powder perfumes, pearlsilk scarves, realtime maps, deadland
artifacts,
programmable violins. A pharmacy: packets of pills for cancer, aids,
alzheimers, lead-tox; for
corpulence, anorexia, baldness, hairiness, exuberance, glumness, dewdrugs,
drugs for
overindulgence in dewdrugs. Hour twenty-one chimed, yet we had not advanced
beyond a
single precinct. How the consumers seethed to buy, buy, buy! Purebloods, it
seemed, were a
sponge of demand that sucked goods and services from every vendor, dinery
bar, shop, and
nook.
Hae-Joo led me to a stylish café platform where he bought a styro of
starbuck for himself and
an aqua for me. He xplained that under the Enrichment Statutes, consumers
have to spend a
fixed quota of dollars each month, depending on their strata. Hoarding is an
anti-corpocratic
crime. I knew this already but did not interrupt. He said his mum feels
intimidated by modern
gallerias, so Hae-Joo usually works through the quota.
I asked him to tell me how it feels to be in a family.
The postgrad smiled and frowned at the same time. “A necessary drag,” he
confided. “Mum’s
hobby is collecting minor ailments and drugs to cure them. Dad works at the
Ministry of
Statistics and sleeps in front of 3-D with his head in a bucket.” Both
parents were random
conceptions, he confessed, who sold a second child quota to get Hae-Joo
genomed properly
This let him aim for his cherished career: to be a Unanimityman had been his
ambition since the
disneys of his boyhood. Kicking down doors for money looked like a fine life.
His parents must love him very much to make such a sacrifice, I noted. Hae-
Joo replied that
their pension will come out of his salary Then he asked, had it not been a
seismic shock to be
uprooted from Papa Song’s and transplanted into Boom-Sook’s lab? Didn’t I
miss the world I
had been genomed for? I answered, fab-ricants are oriented not to miss
things.
He probed: Had I not ascended above my orientation?
I said I would have to think about it.
Did you xperience any negative reactions from consumers in the galleria? As
a Sonmi outside
Papa Song’s, I mean.
No. Many other fabricants were there: porters, domestics, and cleaners, so I
did not stand out
so much. Then, when Hae-Joo went to the hygiener, a ruby-freckled woman with
a teenage
complexion but telltale older eyes apologized for disturbing me. “Look, I’
m a media fashion
scout,” she said, “call me Lily. I’ve been spying on you!” And she
giggled. “But that’s what a
woman of your flair, your prescience, my dear, must xpect.”
I was very confused.
She said I was the first consumer she’d seen to facescape fully like a well
-known service
fabricant. Lesser strata, she confided, may call my fashion statement brave,
or even antistrata,
but she called it genius. She asked if I would like to model for “an
abhorrently chic 3-D
magazine.” I’d be paid stratospherically, she assured me: my boyfriend’s
friends would crawl
with jealousy. And for us women, she added, jealousy in our men is as good
as dollars in the
Soul.
I declined, thanking her and adding that fabricants do not have boyfriends.
The mediawoman
pretended to laugh at my imagined joke and xamined every contour on my face.
She begged to
know which facescaper had done me. “A craftsman like this, I have got to
meet. Such a
miniaturist!”
After my wombtank and orientation, I said, my life had been spent behind a
counter at Papa
Song’s, and so I had never met my facescaper.
Now the fashion editor’s laugh was droll but vexed.
So she couldn’t believe you weren’t a pureblood?
She gave me her card and urged me to reconsider, warning that opportunities
like her do not
happen ten days a week.
When the taxi dropped me at Unanimity Hae-Joo Im asked me to use his given
name from then
on. “Mr. Im” made him feel like he was in a seminar. Lastly, he asked if I
might be free next
ninthday I did not want him to spend his valuable time on a professorial
obligation, I said, but
Hae-Joo insisted he had enjoyed my company I said, well, then, I accept.
So the xcursion helped dislodge your … sense of ennui?
In a way, yes. It helped me understand how one’s environment is a key to
one’s identity but
that my environment, Papa Song’s, was a lost key. I found myself wishing to
revisit my xdinery
under Chongmyo Plaza. I could not fully xplain why, but an impulse can be
both
vaguely understood and strong.
It could hardly be wise for an ascended server to visit a dinery?
I do not claim it was wise, only necessary Hae-Joo also worried that it
might “unearth buried
things.” I responded that I had buried too much of myself, so the postgrad
agreed to
accompany me, on condition that I went disguised as a consumer. The
following ninthnite he
showed me how to upswirl my hair and apply cosmetics. A silk neck scarf hid
my collar, and
in the elevator down to the taxi he fitted dark ambers on my face.
On a busy fourthmonth evening, Chongmyo Plaza was not the litter-swarming
wind tunnel I
remembered from my release: it was a kaleidoscope of AdVs, consumers, xecs,
and popsongs.
Beloved Chairman’s monumental statue surveyed his swarming peoples with an
xpression
wise and benign. From the Plaza’s southeast rim, Papa Song’s arches drew
into focus. Hae-
Joo held my hand and reminded me we could turn back at any time. As we got
in line for the
elevator, he slipped a Soulring onto my finger.
In case you got separated?
For good luck, I thought: Hae-Joo had a superstitious streak. As the
elevator descended, I grew
very nervous. Suddenly, the doors were opening and hungry consumers riptided
me into the
dinery As I was jostled, I was stunned at how misleading my memories of the
place had been.
In what ways?
That spacious dome was so poky Its glorious reds and yellows, so stark and
vulgar. The
wholesome air I remembered: now its greasy stench gagged me. After the
silence on
Taemosan, the dinery noise was like never-ending gunfire. Papa Song stood on
His Plinth,
greeting us. I tried to swallow, but my throat was dry: surely my Logoman
would condemn his
prodigal daughter.
No. He winked at us, tugged himself skyward by his own nike-straps, sneezed,
oopsied, and
plummeted down to His Plinth. Children screamed with laughter. I realized,
Papa Song was
just a trick of lites. How had an inane hologram once inspired such awe in
me?
Hae-Joo went to find a table while I circummed the Hub. My sisters smiled
under sugary
toplites. How unflaggingly they worked! Here were Yoonas, here was Ma-Leu-Da
~108, her
collar now boasting eleven stars. At my old counter on west was a fresh-
faced Sonmi. Here
was Kyelim~889, Yoona’s replacement. I got in line at her teller, my
nervousness growing
acute as my turn approached. “Hi! Kyelim~889 at your service! Mouthwatering
, magical, Papa
Song’s! Yes, madam? Your pleasure today?”
I asked her if she knew me.
Kyelim~889 smiled xtra to dilute her confusion.
I asked if she remembered Sonmi~451, a server who worked beside her, who
disappeared one
morning.
A blank smile: the verb remember is outside servers’ lexicons. “Hi! Kyelim
~889 at your
service! Mouthwatering, magical, Papa Song’s! Your pleasure today?”
I asked, Are you happy, Kyelim~889?
Enthusiasm lit her smile as she nodded. Happy is a word in the Second
Catechism: “Proviso I
obey the Catechisms, Papa Song loves me; proviso Papa Song loves me, I am
happy.”
A cruel compulsion brushed me. I asked the Kyelim, didn’t she want to live
how purebloods
live? Sit at dinery tables instead of wiping them?
Kyelim~889 wanted so badly to please, telling me, “Servers eat Soap!”
Yes, I persisted, but didn’t she want to see Outside?
She said, Servers don’t go Outside until Twelvestarred.
A consumer girl with zinc-ringlets and plectrum nails jabbed me. “If you’
ve got to taunt dumb
fabricants, do it on firstday mornings. I need to get to the gallerias this
side of curfew, okay?”
Hastily, I ordered rosejuice and sharkgums from Kyelim~889. I wished Hae-Joo
was still with
me. I was jumpy in case the Soulring malfunctioned and xposed me. The device
worked, but
my questions had marked me as a troublemaker. “Democratize your own
fabricants!” A man
glowered as I pushed by with my tray “Abolitionist.” Other purebloods in
the line glanced at
me, worried, as if I carried a disease.
Hae-Joo had found a free table in my old quarter. How many tens of thousands
of times had I
wiped this surface? Hae-Joo asked, gently, if I had discovered anything
valuable.
I whispered, “We are just slaves here for twelve years.”
The Unanimity postgrad just scratched his ear and checked no one was
eavesdropping: but his
xpression told me he agreed. He sipped his rosejuice. We watched AdV for ten
minutes, not
speaking: a Juche Boardman was shown opening a newer, safer, nuclear reactor
, grinning as if
his strata depended on it. Kyelim~889 cleared the table next to us; she had
already forgotten
me. My IQ may be higher, but she looked more content than I felt.
So your visit to Papa Song’s was an … anticlimax? Did you find the “key”
to your ascended
self?
Perhaps it was anticlimactic, yes. If there was a key, it was only that no
key xisted. In Papa
Song’s I had been a slave; at Taemosan I was a more privileged slave. One
more thing
occurred, however, as we headed back to the elevator. I recognized Mrs. Rhee
, working at her
sony I spoke her name out loud.
The immaculately dewdrugged woman smiled up with puzzled, luscious,
remodeled lips. “I
was Mrs. Rhee, but I’m Mrs. Ahn now. My late husband drowned in a sea-
fishing accident
last year.”
I said that was just awful.
Mrs. Ahn dabbed her eye with her sleeve and asked if I had known her late
husband well.
Lying is harder than purebloods make it look, and Mrs. Ahn repeated her
question.
“My wife was a qualities standardizer for the Corp before our marriage,”
Hae-Joo xplained
hastily, putting his hand on my shoulder and adding that Chongmyo Plaza was
in her area and
that Seer Rhee had been an xemplary corp man. Mrs. Ahn’s suspicions were
aroused,
however, and she asked xactly when that might have been. Now I knew what to
say. “When
his chief aide was a consumer named Cho.”
Her smile changed its hue. “Ah, yes, Aide Cho. Sent north, somewhere, I
believe, to learn
about team spirit.”
Hae-Joo took my arm, saying, “Well, All for Papa Song, Papa Song for All.’
The gallerias
beckon, darling. Mrs. Ahn is obviously a woman with no time to fritter.”
Later, back in my quiet apartment, Hae-Joo paid me this compliment. “If I
had ascended from
server to prodigy in twelve straight months, my current address wouldn’t be
a guest quarter in
the Unanimity Faculty: I would be in a psych ward somewhere, seriously.
These … xistential
qualms you suffer, they just mean you’re truly human.”
I asked how I might remedy them.
“You don’t remedy them. You live thru them.”
We played Go until curfew. Hae-Joo won the first game. I, the second.
How many of these xcursions took place?
Every ninthnite until Corpocracy Day. Familiarity bred esteem for Hae-Joo,
and soon I shared
Boardman Mephi’s high opinion of him. The professor never probed about our
outings during
our seminars; his protégé probably filed reports, but Mephi wished me to
have at least the
illusion of a private life. Board business demanded more of his time, and I
saw him less
regularly. The morning tests continued: a procession of courteous but
unmemorable scientists.
Hae-Joo had a Unanimityman’s fondness for campus intrigue. I learned how
Taemosan was no
united organism but a hillock of warring tribes and interest groups, much
like the Juche itself.
The Unanimity Faculty maintained a despised dominance. “Secrets are magic
bullets,” Hae-Joo
was fond of saying. But this dominance also xplains why trainee enforcers
have few friends
outside the faculty Girls looking for husbands, Hae-Joo admitted, were
attracted to his future
status, but males of his own age eschewed getting drunk in his company.
Archivist, my appointment in the Litehouse is approaching. Can we segue to
my final nite on
campus?
Please do.
A keen passion of Hae-Joo’s was disneys, and one perq of Professor
Mephi’s mentorship was access to forbidden items in the security
archives.
You mean Union samizdat from the Production Zones?
No. I mean a zone even more forbidden, the past, before the Skirmishes.
Disneys were called
“movies” in those days. Hae-Joo said the ancients had an artistry that 3-D
and Corpocracy had
long ob-solesced. As the only disneys I had ever seen were Boom-Sook’s
pornsplatters, I was
obliged to believe him. On sixthmonth’s final ninthnite, Hae-Joo arrived
with a key to a
disneyarium on campus, xplaining that a pretty Media student was currying
favor with him. He
spoke in a theatrical whisper. “I’ve got a disc of seriously one of the
greatest movies ever made
by any director, from any age.”
Namely?
A picaresque entitled The Ghastly Ordeal of Timothy Cavendish, made before
the foundation of
Nea So Copros, in a long-deadlanded province of the European democracy. Have
you ever
seen film dating from the early twenty-first century, Archivist?
Sweet Corpocracy, no! An eighth-stratum archivist wouldn’t get such
security clearance in his
wildest dreams! I’d be fired for even applying, and I’m shocked that even
a Unanimity
postgrad has access to such deviational material.
Is that so? Well, the Juche’s stance on historical discourse is riddled
with inconsistencies. On
the one hand, if historical discourse were permitted, the downstrata could
access a bank of
human xperience that would rival, and sometimes contradict, that taught by
Media. On the other
hand, corpocracy funds your Ministry of Archivism, dedicated to preserving a
historical record
for future ages.
Yes, but our xistence is kept from the downstrata.
Xcept from those condemned to the Litehouse.
Be that as it may, future ages will still be corpocratic ones. Corpocracy
isn’t just another
political system that will come and go—corpocracy is the natural order, in
harmony with
human nature. But we’re digressing. Why had Hae-Joo Im chosen to show you
this Ghastly
Ordeal?
Perhaps Professor Mephi had instructed him. Perhaps Hae-Joo Im had no reason
xcept a
fondness for the disney Whatever the reason, I was engrossed. The past is a
world both
indescribably different from and yet subtly similar to Nea So Copros. People
sagged and
uglified as they aged in those days: no dewdrugs. Elderly pure-bloods waited
to die in prisons
for the senile: no fixed-term life spans, no euthanasium. Dollars circulated
as little sheets of
paper and the only fabricants were sickly livestock. However, corpocracy was
emerging and
social strata was demarked, based on dollars and, curiously, the quantity of
melanin in one’s
skin.
I can tell how fascinated you were …
Certainly: the vacant disneyarium was a haunting frame for those lost, rainy
landscapes. Giants
strode the screen, lit by sunlite captured thru a lens when your grandfather
’s grandfather,
Archivist, was kicking in his natural womb. Time is the speed at which the
past decays, but
disneys enable a brief resurrection. Those since fallen buildings, those
long-eroded faces: Your
present, not we, is the true illusion, they seem to say. For fifty minutes,
for the first time since
my ascension, I forgot myself, utterly, ineluctably
Only fifty minutes?
Hae-Joo’s handsony purred at a key scene, when the film’s eponymous book
thief suffered
some sort of seizure; his face, contorted above a plate of peas, froze. A
panicky voice buzzed
from Hae-Joo’s handsony; “It’s Xi-Li! I’m right outside! Let me in! A
crisis!” Hae-Joo
pressed the remo-key; a wedge of light slid over the empty seats as the
disneyarium door
opened. A student ran over, his face shiny with sweat, and saluted Hae-Joo.
He delivered news
that would unravel my life, again. Specifically, forty or fifty enforcers
had stormed the
Unanimity Faculty arrested Professor Mephi, and were searching for us. Their
orders were to
capture Hae-Joo for interrogation and kill me on sight. Campus xits were
manned by armed
enforcers.
Do you remember your thoughts on hearing that?
No. I think, I did not think. My companion now xuded a grim authority that I
realized had
always been there. He glanced at his rolex and asked if Mr. Chang had been
captured. Xi-Li,
the messenger, reported that Mr. Chang was waiting in the basement ford park
. The man I had
known as Postgrad Hae-Joo Im, backdropped by a dead actor, playing a
character scripted over
a century ago, turned to me. “Sonmi~451, I am not xactly who I said I am.”
On behalf of my ministry, thank you for agreeing to this final interview.
Please remember, this
isn’t an interrogation, or a trial. Your version of the truth is the only
one that matters.
TRUTH IS SINGULAR. ITS “VERSIONS” ARE MISTRUTHS.
… Good. Ordinarily, I begin by asking prisoners to recall their earliest
memories to provide a
context for corpocratic historians of the future. Fabricants have no
earliest memories,
Archivist. One twenty-four-hour cycle in Papa Song’s is indistinguishable
from any other.
Then why not describe this “cycle”?
If you wish. A server is woken at hour four-thirty by stimulin in the
airflow, then yellow-up in
our dormroom. After a minute in the hy-giener and steamer, we put on fresh
uniforms before
filing into the restaurant. Our seer and aides gather us around Papa’s
Plinth for Matins, we
recite the Six Catechisms, then our beloved Logoman appears and delivers his
Sermon. At hour
five we man our tellers around the Hub, ready for the elevator to bring the
new day’s first
consumers. For the following nineteen hours we greet diners, input orders,
tray food, vend
drinks, upstock condiments, wipe tables, and bin garbage. Vespers follows
cleaning, then we
imbibe one Soapsac in the dormroom. That is the blueprint of every unvarying
day
You have no rests?
Only purebloods are entitled to “rests,” Archivist. For fabricants, “
rests” would be an act of
time theft. Until curfew at hour zero, every minute must be devoted to the
service and
enrichment of Papa Song.
Do servers—unascended servers, I mean—never wonder about life outside your
dome, or did
you believe your dinery was the whole cosmos? Oh, our intelligence is not so
crude that we
cannot conceive of an outside. Remember, at Matins, Papa Song shows us
pictures of Xultation
and Hawaii, and AdV instreams images of a cosmology beyond our servery
Moreover, we
know both diners and the food we serve comes from a place not in the dome.
But it is true, we
rarely wonder about life on the surface. Additionally, Soap contains
amnesiads designed to
deaden curiosity
What about your sense of time? Of the future?
Papa Song announces the passing hours to the diners, so I noticed the time
of day, dimly, yes.
Also we were aware of passing years by annual stars added to our collars,
and by the Star
Sermon on New Year’s Matins. We had only one long-term future: Xultation.
Could you describe this annual “Star Sermon” ceremony?
After Matins on First Day, Seer Rhee would pin a star on every server’s
collar. The elevator
then took those lucky Twelvestarred sisters for conveyance to Papa Song’s
Ark. For the xiters,
it is a momentous occasion: for the remainder, one of acute envy. Later, we
saw smiling
Sonmis, Yoonas, Ma-Leu-Das, and Hwa-Soons on 3-D as they embarked for Hawaii
, arrived
at Xultation, and finally were transformed into consumers with Soulrings.
Our x-sisters praised
Papa Song’s kindnesses and xhorted us to repay our Investment diligently We
marveled at their
boutiques, malls, dineries; jade seas, rose skies, wildflowers; lace,
cottages, butterflies; though
we could not name these marvels.
I’d like to ask about the infamous Yoona~939.
I knew Yoona~939 better than any fabricant: some purebloods know more of her
neurochemical history than me, but perhaps these individuals will be named
later. On my
awakening at Papa Song’s, Seer Rhee assigned me to Yoona~939’s teller. He
believed it was
aesthetically pleasing to alternate stemtypes around the Hub. Yoona~939 was
tenstarred that
year. She seemed aloof and sullen, so I regretted not being partnered with
another Sonmi.
However, by my first tenthday I had come to learn her aloofness was in fact
watchfulness. Her
sullenness hid a subtle dignity She decifered the orders of drunk customers,
and warned me of
Seer Rhee’s ill-tempered inspections. In no small part it is thanks to
Yoona~939 that I have
survived as long as I have.
This “subtle dignity” you mention—was it a result of her ascension?
Postgrad Boom-Sook’s research notes were so sparse I cannot be certain when
Yoona~939’s
ascension was triggered, xactly However, I believe that ascension merely
frees what Soap
represses, including the xpression of an innate personality possessed by all
fabricants.
Popular wisdom has it that fabricants don’t have personalities.
This fallacy is propagated for the comfort of purebloods.
“Comfort”? How do you mean?
To enslave an individual troubles your consciences, Archivist, but to
enslave a clone is no more
troubling than owning the latest six-wheeler ford, ethically. Because you
cannot discern our
differences, you believe we have none. But make no mistake: even same-stem
fabricants
cultured in the same wombtank are as singular as snow-flakes.
Then I stand corrected. When did Yoona~939’s deviances—perhaps I should
say singularities
—first become apparent to you?
Ah, questions of when are difficult to answer in a world without calendars
or real windows,
twelve floors underground. Perhaps around month six of my first year, I
became aware of
Yoona~939’s irregular speech.
Irregular?
Firstly, she spoke more: during offpeak moments at our teller; as we cleaned
the consumers’
hygieners; even as we imbibed Soap in the dormroom. It amused us, even the
stiff Ma-Leu-
Das. Secondly, Yoona’s speech grew more complex as the year aged.
Orientation teaches us
the lexicon we need for our work, but Soap erases xtra words we acquire
later. So to our ears,
Yoona’s sentences were filled with noises devoid of meaning. She sounded,
in a word,
pureblood. Thirdly, Yoona took pleasure in humor: she hummed Papa’s Psalm
in absurd
variations; in our dormroom, when aides were absent, she mimicked pureblood
habits like
yawning, sneezing, or burping. Humor is the ovum of dissent, and the Juche
should fear it.
In my xperience, fabricants have difficulties threading together an original
sentence of five
words. How could Yoona~939—or you, for that matter—acquire verbal
dexterity in such a
hermetic world, even with a rising IQ?
An ascending fabricant absorbs language, thirstily, in spite of am-nesiads.
During my
ascension, I was often shocked to hear new words fly from my own mouth,
gleaned from
consumers, Seer Rhee, AdV, and Papa Song himself. A dinery is not a hermetic
world: every
prison has jailers and walls. Jailers are ducts and walls conduct.
A more metaphysical question … were you happy, back in those days?
Before my ascension, you mean? If, by happiness, you mean the absence of
adversity I and all
fabricants are the happiest stratum in corpocracy as genomicists insist.
However, if happiness
means the conquest of adversity or a sense of purpose, or the xercise of one
’s will to power,
then of all Nea So Copros’s slaves we surely are the most miserable. I
endured drudgery but
enjoy it no more than yourself.
Slaves, you say? Even infant consumers know, the very word slave is
abolished throughout
Nea So Copros!
Corpocracy is built on slavery, whether or not the word is sanctioned.
Archivist, I do not wish
to offend you, but is your youth dewdrugged or genuine? I am puzzled. Why
has my case been
assigned to an apparently inxperienced corpocrat?
No offense taken, Sonmi. I am an xpedience—and yes, an undewdrugged xpedi-
ence, I am still
in my twenties. The xecs at the Ministry of Unanimity insisted that you, as
a heretic, had
nothing to offer corpocracy’s archives but sedition and blasphemy
Genomicists, for whom you
are a holy grail, as you know, pulled levers on the Juche to have Rule 54.
iii—the right to
archivism—enforced against Unanimity’s wishes, but they hadn’t reckoned
on senior
archivists watching your trial and judging your case too hazardous to risk
their reputations—
and pensions—on. Now, I’m only eighth-stratum at my uninfluential ministry
, but when I
petitioned to orison your testimony, approval was granted before I had the
chance to come to
my senses. My friends told me I was crazy.
So you are gambling your career on this interview?
… That is the truth of the matter, yes.
Your frankness is refreshing after so much duplicity
A duplicitous archivist wouldn’t be much use to future historians, in my
view. Could you tell
me a little more about Seer Rhee? His journal weighed heavily against you at
your trial. What
manner of seer was he?
Poor Seer Rhee was corp man, to the bone, but long past the age when seers
are promoted to
power. Like many of this dying corpocracy’s purebloods, he clung to the
belief that hard work
and a blemishless record were enough to achieve status, so he curfewed many
nights in the
dinery office to impress the corp hierarchy In sum: a whipman to his
fabricants; a sycofant to
his upstrata, and courteous to his cuckolds.
His cuckolds?
Yes. Seer Rhee should be understood in the context of his wife. Mrs. Rhee
had sold her child
quota early in their marriage, made shrewd investments, and used her husband
as a dollarudder.
According to his aides’ gossip, she spent most of our seer’s salary on
facescaping.
Certainly, her seventy-plus years could pass for thirty Mrs. Rhee visited
the dinery from time
to time to inspect the latest male aides, gossip added. Any who spurned her
advances could
xpect a posting to bleakest Manchuria. But why she never used her apparent
corp influence to
advance Seer Rhee’s career is a mystery I will not now live to see solved.
Yoona~939’s notoriety must have threatened the seer’s “blemishless record
” severely,
wouldn’t you agree?
Certainly. A dinery server behaving like a pureblood attracts trouble;
trouble attracts blame;
blame demands a scapegoat. When Seer Rhee noticed Yoona’s deviations from
Catechism, he
bypassed destarring and requested a corp medic to xamine her for
reorientation. This tactical
mistake xplains the seer’s lackluster career. Yoona~939 performed as
genomed, and the
visiting medic gave her a clean bill. Seer Rhee was thenceforth unable to
discipline Yoona
without implying criticism of a senior corp medic.
When did Yoona~939 first attempt to make you complicit in her crimes?
I suppose the first time was when she xplained a newfound word, secret, one
slow hour at the
teller. The idea of knowing information no one else, not even Papa Song,
knew was beyond
my grasp, so as we lay in our cots my teller-sister promised to show me what
she could not
xplain.
When I next woke it was not to the glare of yellow-up but to Yoona, shaking
me, in the neardark.
Our sisters lay dorming, immobile but for minute spasms. Yoona ordered me,
like a seer,
to follow her. I protested, I was afraid. She told me not to be, she wished
to show me the
meaning of secret, and led me into the dome. Its unfamiliar silence fritened
me further: its
beloved reds and yellows were eerie grays and browns in the curfew lite.
Seer Rhee’s office
door leaked thin lite. Yoona pushed it open.
Our seer lay slumped on his desk. Drool glued his chin to his sony, his
eyelids remmed, and a
gurgle was trapped in his throat. Every tenthnite, Yoona told me, he would
imbibe Soap and
sleep thru to yellow-up. As you know, Soap affects purebloods more
powerfully than us, and
my sister kicked his unresponding body to prove the point. Yoona found my
horror at this
blasphemy merely amusing. “Do what you like to him,” I remember her
telling me. “He has
lived with fabricants for so long he is very nearly one of us.” Then she
told me she would
show me a greater secret still. Yoona xtracted Rhee’s keys from his pocket
and led me to the
dome’s north quarter. Between the elevator and the northeast hygiener, she
told me to xamine
the wall. I saw nothing. “Look again,” Yoona urged, “look properly.”
This time I saw a speck,
a tiny crack. Yoona inserted a key, and a rectangle in the dome wall swung
inward. The dusty
darkness gave no clue. Yoona took my hand; I hesitated. If wandering around
the dinery
during curfew was not a destarrable offense, entering unknown doorways
surely was. But my
sister’s will was stronger than mine. She pulled me through, shut the door
behind us, and
whispered, “Now, dear sister Sonmi, you are inside a secret.”
A white blade sliced the black: a miraculous moving knife that gave form to
the stuffy nothing.
I discerned a narrow storeroom, crammed with stacked seats, plastic plants,
coats, fans, hats, a
burnt-out sun, many umbrellas; Yoona’s face, my hands. My heart beat fast.
What is that
knife? I asked. “Only lite, from a flashlite,” answered Yoona. I asked, Is
lite alive? Yoona
answered, “Perhaps lite is life, sister.” A consumer had left the
flashlite on a seat in our quarter,
she xplained, but instead of giving it to our aide, Yoona had hidden it here
. This confession
shocked me most of all, in a way
How so?
Catechism Three teaches that for servers to keep anything denies Papa Song’
s love for us and
cheats His Investment. I wondered, did Yoona~939 still observe any Catechism
? But
misgivings, though grave, were soon lost in the treasures Yoona showed me
there: a box of
unpaired earrings, beads, tiaras. The xquisite sensation of dressing in
pureblood clothes
overcame my fear of being discovered. Greatest of all, however, was a book,
a picture book.
Not many of those around these days.
Indeed not. Yoona mistook it for a broken sony which showed the world
outside. You must
imagine our awe as we looked at the grimy server serving three ugly sisters;
seven stunted
fabricants carrying bizarre cutlery behind a shining girl; a house built of
candy. Castles,
mirrors, dragons. Remember, I was ignorant of these words as a server, as I
was the majority
of words I employ in this Testimony. Yoona told me AdV and 3-D show only a
dull portion of
the world beyond the elevator: its full xtent encompassed wonders even
beyond Xultation. So
many strangenesses in one curfew toxed my head. My sister said we must get
back to our cots
before yellow-up but promised to take me back inside her secret, next time.
How many “next times” were there?
Ten, or fifteen, approx. In time, it was only during these visits to her
secret room that
Yoona~939 became her animated self. Leafing through her book of outside, she
voiced doubts
that shook even my own love of Papa Song and faith in corpocracy to the core.
What shapes did these doubts take?
Questions: How could Papa Song stand on His Plinth in Chongmyo Plaza Servery
and stroll
Xultation’s beaches with our Souled sisters simultaneously? Why were
fabricants born into
debt but purebloods not? Who decided Papa Song’s Investment took twelve
years to repay?
Why not eleven? Six? One?
How did you respond to such blasphemous hubris?
I begged Yoona to stop, or at least to fake normalcy in the dinery I was a
well-orientated server
in those days, you see, not the evildoer, the threat to civilization, I am
now. Moreover, I was
scared of being destarred for failing to judas Yoona to Seer Rhee. I prayed
to Papa Song to
heal my friend, but her deviances became more blatant, not less. Yoona
watched AdV openly
as she wiped tables. Our sisters sensed her crimes and avoided her. One nite
, Yoona told me
that she wanted to xit the dinery and never come back. She told me I should
xit too: that
purebloods force fabricants to work in domes so they can enjoy the beautiful
places her book
showed, her “broken sony” without sharing them. In response, I recited
Catechism Six, I told
her I could never commit such a wicked deviance against Papa Song and His
Investment.
Yoona~939 reacted angrily. Yes, Archivist, an angry fabricant. She called me
a fool and
coward, she said I was no better than those other clones.
Two un-Souled fabricants, fleeing their corp, unaided? Unanimity would round
you up in five
minutes.
But how could Yoona know that? Her “broken sony” promised a world of lost
forests, folded
mountains, and labyrinthine hiding places. To mistake a book of fairy tales
for Nea So Copros
may seem laughable to you, a pureblood, but perpetual encagement endows any
mirage of
salvation with credibility Ascension creates a hunger sharp enough to
consume the subject’s
sanity in time. In consumers, this state is termed chronic depression. Yoona
had sunk to this
same condition by my first winter, when diners brushed snow off their nikes
and we had to
mop the floors regularly. By then she had ceased communicating with me, so
her isolation was
total.
Are you saying mental illness triggered the Yoona~939 Atrocity?
I am, emphatically. Mental illness triggered by xperimental error.
Would you describe the events of that New Year’s Eve from your vantage
point?
I was wiping tables on my quarter’s raised rim, so I had a clear view of
the east. Ma-Leu-
Da~108 and Yoona~939 were manning our busy teller. A children’s party was
in progress.
Balloons, streamers, and hats obscured the area around the elevator.
Popsongs and noise of
five hundred–plus diners reverbed round the dome. Papa Song was
boomeranging 3-D fireeclairs
over the children’s heads: they passed thru their fingers and fluttered
back to land on our
Logo-man’s snaky tongue. I saw Yoona~939 leave our teller, the precise
moment you
understand, and I knew something terrible was going to happen.
She hadn’t told you of her escape plan?
As I said, she had ceased to acknowledge my xistence. But I do not believe
she had a plan: I
believe she merely “snapped,” in pureblood terms. My sister proceeded,
unhurriedly, out of our
quarter, toward the elevator. She was timing her approach. The aides were
too busy to notice
her: Seer Rhee was in his office. Few diners noticed, or looked up from
their sonys or AdV,
and why should they? When Yoona scooped up a boy in a sailor suit and headed
for the
elevator, the purebloods who saw merely assumed she was a fabricant maid
ordered by her
mistress to take her charge home.
Media reported that Yoona~939 stole the child to employ as a pureblood
shield on the surface.
Media reported the “atrocity” xactly as Unanimity directed. Yoona carried
the boy into the
elevator because somehow she had learned of that basic precaution corps take
function without a Soul onboard. The risk of being noticed aboard an
elevator full of
consumers was too high, so Yoona believed her best hope lay in borrowing a
child and using
his Soul to make an otherwise-empty elevator convey her to freedom.
You sound very sure of your thesis.
If my xperiences do not give me the right to be sure, whose do? The events
that followed, I
need not recount.
Nonetheless, please describe the Yoona~939 Atrocity, as you saw it.
Very well. The child’s mother saw her son in Yoona’s arms as the elevator
doors closed. She
screamed: “A clone’s taken my boy!” A chain reaction of hysteria began.
Trays were flung,
shakes spilled, sonys dropped. Some diners believed the earthquake
cushioning had
malfunctioned and dived under the tables. An off-duty enforcer unholstered
his colt, waded
into the heart of the turmoil, and bellowed for order. He fired a sonicshot,
ill-advisedly in a
sealed space, causing many to believe terrorists were firing on consumers. I
remember seeing
Seer Rhee emerge from his office, slip on a spilled drink, and vanish under
a swell of
customers now stampeding for the elevator. Many were injured in this crush.
Aide Cho was
yelling into his handsony I could not hear what. Rumors ricocheted around
the dome: a Yoona
had kidnapped a boy, no, a baby no, a pureblood had kidnapped a Yoona; an
enforcer had shot
a boy no, a fabricant had hit the seer whose nose was bleeding. All the
while, Papa Song
surfed noodle waves on His Plinth. Then someone shouted that the elevator
was descending,
and silence seized the dinery as quickly as panic had less than a minute
before. The enforcer
shouted for space, crouched, and aimed at the doors. The crush of consumers
cleared in an
instant. The elevator reached the dinery, and its doors opened.
The boy was quivering, balled into one corner. His sailor suit was no longer
white. Perhaps my
last memory in the Litehouse will be Yoona~939’s body, turned into a pulp
of bullet holes.
That image is burned into every pureblood memory, too, Sonmi. When I got
home that nite my
dormmates were glued to the sony Half of Nea So Copros’s New Year
Festivities were
canceled, the other half was decidedly muted. Media alternated footage from
the in-dinery
nikon with the Chongmyo Plaza public order nikon, showing the passing
enforcer neutralize
Yoona~939. We couldn’t believe what we were seeing. We were sure a Union
terrorist had
facescaped herself to look like a server, for twisted propaganda purposes.
When Unanimity
confirmed the fabricant was a genuine Yoona … we … I …
You felt the corpocratic world order had changed, irrevocably You vowed
never to trust any
fabricant. You knew that Abolitionism was as dangerous and insidious a dogma
as Unionism.
You supported the resultant Homeland Laws dictated by the Beloved Chairman,
wholeheartedly.
All of those, yes. What happened down in your dinery, meanwhile?
Unanimity arrived in force to blip every diner’s Soul and to nikon
eyewitnesses’ accounts as
the dome was evacuated. We cleaned the dinery and imbibed Soap without
Vespers. The
following yellow-up, my sisters’ memories of Yoona~939’s killing remained
largely intact.
That Matins, instead of the customary Starring Ceremony, Papa Song delivered
His Anti-
Union Sermon.
I still find it incredible that a Logoman told his fabricants about Union.
Such was the shock, the panic. Doubtless the Sermon’s primary goal was to
show Media that
the Papa Song Corp had a damage control strategy in place. Papa Song’s
upstrata lexicon that
Matins supports this theory. It was quite a performance.
Would you recount what you remember for my orison?
Our Logoman’s head filled half the dome, so we seemed to stand inside his
mind. His
clownish xpression was heavy with grief and rage, and his clown’s voice
rang with despair.
The Hwa-Soons trembled, the aides looked awed, and Seer Rhee was pasty and
sick. Papa
Song told us a gas called evil xists in the world; purebloods called
terrorists breathe in this evil,
and this gas makes them hate all that is free, orderly, good, and
corpocratic; a group of
terrorists called Union had caused yesterday’s atrocity by infecting one of
our own sisters,
Yoona~939 of the Chongmyo Plaza Dinery, with evil; instead of judasing Union
, Yoona~939
had let the evil take her into temptation and deviance; and were it not for
the dedication of
Unanimity with whom Papa Song Corp has always fully cooperated, a consumer’
s innocent
son would now be dead. The boy had survived, but diners’ trust in our
beloved corp had been
wounded, grievously. The challenge before us, Papa Song concluded, was to
work harder than
ever to earn back that trust.
Therefore: we must be vigilant against evil, every minute of every day. This
new Catechism
was more important than all others. If we obeyed, our Papa would love us
forever. If we failed
to obey, Papa would zerostar us year after year and we would never get to
Xultation. Did we
understand?
My sisters’ understanding would have been hazy at best; our Logoman had
used many words
we did not know. Nevertheless, cries of “Yes, Papa Song!” echoed around
the Plinth.
“I cannot hear you!” our Logoman xhorted us.
“Yes, Papa Song!” every server in every dinery in corpocracy shouted, “
Yes, Papa Song!”
As I said, quite a performance.
You said in your trial that Yoona~939 couldn’t have been a Union member. Do
you still
maintain that position?
Yes. How and when could Union recruit her? Why would a Union-man risk the
xposure? Of
what worth was a genomed server to a terrorist ring?
I’m puzzled. If amnesiads in Soap “nullify” memory, how come you can
recall the events of
that time with such precision and clarity?
Because my own ascension had already begun. Even to a thoroughbred imbecile
like Boom-
Sook, the degradation of Yoona~939’s neurochemical stability was obvious,
so another guinea
pig was being prepared. The amnesiads in my Soapsac were reduced,
accordingly, and
ascension catalysts instreamed.
So … after the Sermon, New Year’s Day was business as usual?
Business, yes; usual, no. The Starring Ceremony was perfunctory. Two
Twelvestarreds were
escorted into the elevator by Aide Ahn. These were replaced by two Kyelims.
Yoona~939 was
replaced by a new Yoona. Seer Rhee inserted our new stars into our collars
in grave silence;
applause was deemed inappropriate. Soon after, Media streamed in, flashing
nikons and
besieging the office. Our seer could get them out only by first letting them
nikon the new
Yoona lying in the elevator with a ~939 sticker on her collar, covered in
tomato sauce. Later,
Unanimity medics xamined each of us in turn. I was fritened of incriminating
myself, but only
my birthmark provoked any passing comment.
Your birthmark? I didn’t know fabricants have birthmarks.
We do not, so mine always caused me embarrassment in the steamer.
Ma-Leu-Da~108 called it “Sonmi~451’s stain.”
Would you show it to my orison, just as a curio?
If you wish. Here, between my collarbone and shoulder blade.
Xtraordinary It looks like a comet, don’t you think?
Hae-Joo Im made xactly the same remark, curiously
Huh, well, coincidences happen. Did Seer Rhee retain his position?
Yes, but it brought the unlucky man little solace. He reminded his corp xecs
how he had
“smelled deviance” on Yoona~939 months before, thus passing blame to the
medic who
xamined her. Chongmyo Plaza profits soon returned to average levels:
purebloods have short
memories where their stomachs are concerned. Kyelim~689 and Kyelim~889 were
a further
attraction: as a newly created stemtype, they drew queues of fabricant
spotters.
And it was around this time that you grew aware of your own ascension?
Correct. You wish me to describe the xperience? It mirrored Yoona~939’s, I
now recognize.
Firstly, a voice spoke in my head. It alarmed me greatly, until I learned
that no one else could
hear this voice, known to purebloods as “sentience.” Secondly, my language
evolved: for
xample, if I meant to say good, my mouth substituted a finer-tuned word such
as favorable,
pleasing, or correct. In a climate when purebloods thruout the Twelve Cities
were reporting
fabricant deviations at the rate of thousands a week, this was a dangerous
development, and I
sought to curtail it. Thirdly, my curiosity about all things grew acute: the
“hunger” Yoona~939
had spoken of. I eavesdropped diners’ sonys, AdV, Boardmen’s speeches,
anything, to learn.
I, too, yearned to see where the elevator led. Nor did the fact that two
fabricants, working side
by side on the same teller in the same dinery both xperienced these radical
mental changes
evade me. Lastly my sense of alienation grew. Amongst my sisters I alone
understood our
xistence’s futility and drudgery. I even woke during curfew, but never
entered the secret room,
or even dared move until yellow-up. Yoona’s doubts about Papa Song haunted
me. Ah, I
envied my uncritical, unthinking sisters. But most of all, I was afraid.
How long did you have to endure that state?
Some months. Until the ninthnite of the last week of fourth-month,
specifically. I woke during
curfew to a faint sound of breaking glass. My sisters were all dorming: only
Seer Rhee was in
the dome at such an hour. Time passed. Curiosity defeated my fear, finally,
and I opened the
dormroom door. Across the dome, our seer’s office was open. Rhee lay in
lamplite, face flat
against the floor, his chair upended. I crossed the dinery. Blood leaked
from his eyes and
nostrils, and a used Soapsac was crumpled on the desk. Seer did not have the
color of the
living.
Rhee was dead? An overdose?
Whatever the official verdict, the office stunk of Soap soporifix. A server
usually imbibes three
milligrams: Rhee appeared to have taken a quarter-liter sac, so suicide
seems a reasonable
conclusion. I faced a grand quandary. If I sonyd for a medic, perhaps I
could save my seer’s
life, but how to xplain my intervention? Healthy fabricants, as you know,
never wake during
curfew. Bleak as the life of an ascending fabricant was, the prospect of
reorientation was
bleaker.
You said you envied your unthinking, untroubled sisters.
That is not quite the same as wishing to be one. I returned to my
cot.
That decision didn’t cause you any guilt, later?
Not much: Rhee’s decision was his own. But I had a foreboding that the nite
’s events were not
yet over, and sure enough, when yellow-up came, my sisters stayed in their
cots. The air
carried no scent of stimulin, and no aide had reported for work. I discerned
the sound of a sony
being used. Wondering if Seer Rhee had somehow recovered, I left the
dormroom and looked
into the dome.
A man in a dark suit sat there. He had tubed himself a coffee and watched me
watching him
across the dinery He spoke, finally. “Good morning, Sonmi~451. I hope you’
re feeling better
today than Seer Rhee.”
He sounds like an enforcer.
The man introduced himself as Chang, a chauffeur. I apologized: I did not
know the word. A
chauffeur, the soft-spoken visitor xplained, drives fords for xecs and
Boardmen but sometimes
serves as a messenger, too. He, Mr. Chang, had a message for me, Sonmi~451,
from his own
seer. This message was in fact a choice. I could leave the dinery now and
repay my Investment
outside, or else stay where I was, wait for Unanimity and their DNA sniffers
to come and
investigate the death of Seer Rhee, and be xposed as a Union spy.
Not much of a choice.
No. I had no possessions to pack or farewells to make. In the elevator, Mr.
Chang pressed a
panel. As the doors closed on my old life, my only life, I could not begin
to imagine what
waited above me.
My torso squashed my suddenly feeble legs: I was supported by Mr. Chang, who
said every
inside fabricant xperiences the same nausea, the first time. Yoona~939 must
have dropped the
boy as she underwent the same mechanical ascension in that same elevator. To
dam the
unpleasantness, I found myself recalling scenes from Yoona’s broken sony:
the cobweb
streams, gnarled towers, the unnamed wonders. As the elevator slowed, my
torso seemed to
rise, dis-orientingly Mr. Chang announced, “Ground level,” and the doors
opened on outside.
I almost envy you. Please, describe xactly what you saw.
Chongmyo Plaza, predawn. Cold! I had never known cold. How vast it seemed,
yet the plaza
cannot be more than five hundred meters across. Around the feet of the
Beloved Chairman,
consumers hurried; walkway sweepers droned; taxis buzzed riders; inching
fords fumed;
crawling trashtrucks churned; thruways, eight lanes wide, lined by sunpoles;
ducts rumbling
underfoot; neonized logos blaring; sirens, engines, circuitry, new lite of
new intensities at new
angles.
It must have been overwhelming.
Even the smells were new, after the dinery’s scented airflow. Kim-chi,
fordfumes, sewage. A
running consumer missed me by a centimeter, shouted, “Watch where you’re
standin’, you
democratin’ clone!” and was gone. My hair stirred in the breath of a giant
, invisible fan, and
Mr. Chang xplained how the streets funnel the morning wind to high speeds.
He steered me
across the walkway to a mirrored ford. Three young men admiring the vehicle
disappeared as
we approached, and the rear door hissed open. The chauffeur ushered me
inside and closed the
door. I crouched. A bearded passenger slouched in the roomy interior,
working on his sony He
xuded authority Mr. Chang sat in front, and the ford edged into the traffic:
I saw Papa Song’s
golden arches recede into a hundred other corp logos, and a new city of
symbols slid by, most
entirely new. When the ford braked, I lost my balance, and the bearded man
mumbled that no
one would object if I sat down. I apologized for not knowing the right
Catechism here and
intoned, “My collar is Sonmi~451,” as taught in Orientation. The passenger
just rubbed his red
eyes and asked Mr. Chang for a weather report. I do not recall what the
chauffeur said, only
that the fordjams were bad, and the bearded man looking at his rolex and
cursing the slowness.
Didn’t you ask where you were being taken?
Why ask a question whose answer would demand ten more questions? Remember,
Archivist, I
had never seen an xterior, nor xperienced conveyance: yet there I was,
thruwaying Nea So
Copros’s second biggest conurb. I was less a cross-zone tourist, more a
time traveler from a
past century
The ford cleared the urban canopy near Moon Tower, and I saw my first dawn
over the
Kangwon-Do Mountains. I cannot describe what I felt. The Immanent Chairman’
s one true
sun, its molten lite, petro-clouds, His dome of sky. To my further
astonishment, the bearded
passenger was dozing. Why did the entire conurb not grind to a halt and give
praise in the face
of such ineluctable beauty?
What else caught your eye?
Oh, the greenness of green: back under the canopy, our ford slowed by a dew
garden between
squattened buildings. Feathery, fronded, moss drenched, green. In the dinery
the sole samples
of green were chlorophyll squares and diners’ clothes, so I assumed it was
a precious, rare
substance. Therefore, the dew garden and its rainbows sleeving along the
fordway astounded
me. East, dormblocks lined the thruway each adorned by the corpocratic flag,
until the
waysides fell away and we passed over a wide, winding, ordure-brown strip
empty of fords. I
summoned up courage to ask Mr. Chang what it might be. The passenger
answered: “Han
River. Songsu Bridge.”
I could only ask, what were these things?
“Water, a thruway of water.” Tiredness and disappointment flattened his
voice. “Oh, notch up
another wasted early morning, Chang.” I was confused by the difference
between water in the
dinery and the river’s sludge. Mr. Chang indicated the low peak ahead. “
Mount Taemosan,
Sonmi. Your new home.”
So you were taken to the University straight from Papa Song’s?
To reduce xperimental contamination, yes. The road upzigged thru woodland.
Trees, their
incremental gymnastics and noisy silence, yes, and their greenness, still
mesmerize me. Soon
we arrived on the plateau campus. Cuboid buildings clustered: young
purebloods paced narrow
walkways where litter drifted and lichen yeasted. The ford coasted to a halt
under a rainstained,
sun-cracked overhang. Mr. Chang led me into a lobby leaving the bearded
passenger to
doze in the ford. Mount Taemosan’s high air tasted clean, but the lobby was
grimed and unlit.
We paused at the foot of a double-helix staircase. This is an old-style
elevator, Mr. Chang
xplained. “The university xercises students’ bodies as well as their minds
.” So I battled gravity
for the first time, step by step, grasping the handrail. Two students
descended the down-helix,
laughing at my clumsiness. One commented, “That specimen won’t be making a
bid for
freedom anytime soon.” Mr. Chang warned me not to look over my shoulder; I
did so,
foolishly, and vertigo tipped me over. Had my guide not caught me, I would
have fallen.
It took several minutes to ascend to the sixth floor, the topmost. Here, a
slitted corridor ended at
a door, slitely ajar, name-plated BOOM-SOOK KIM. Mr. Chang knocked, but no
answer
came.
“Wait in here for Mr. Kim,” the chauffeur told me. “Obey him as a seer.”
I entered and turned
to ask Mr. Chang what work I should do, but the chauffeur had gone. I was
quite alone for the
first time in my life.
What did you think of your new quarters?
Dirty Our dinery you see, was always spotless: the Catechisms preach
cleanliness. Boom-Sook
Kim’s lab was, in contrast, a long gallery, rancid with pureblood male odor
. Bins overflowed; a
crossbow target hung by the door; the walls were lined with lab benches,
buried desks,
obsolete sonys, and sagging bookshelves. A framed kodak of a smiling boy and
a dead,
bloodied snow leopard hung over the only desk to show evidence of use. A
filthy window
overlooked a neglected courtyard where a mottled figure stood on a Plinth. I
wondered if he
was my new Logoman, but he never stirred.
In a cramped anteroom I found a cot, a hygiener, and a sort of portable
steam cleaner. When
was I to use it? What Catechisms governed my life in this place? A fly
buzzed lazy figures of
eight. So ignorant was I of outside, I even wondered if the fly might be an
aide and introduced
myself to it.
Had you never seen insects before?
Only rogue-gened roaches and dead ones: Papa Song’s aircon inflows
insecticide, so if any
enter via the elevator, they die, instantly. The fly hit the window, over
and over. I did not then
know windows open; indeed, I did not know what a window was.
Then I heard off-key singing; a popsong about Phnom Penh Girls. Moments
later a student in
beach shorts, sandals, and silk weighed down by shoulder bags, kickboxed the
door open.
Upon seeing me he groaned, “What in the name of Holy Corpocracy are you
doing here?”
I bared my collar. “Sonmi~451, sir. Papa Song’s server from—”
“Shut up, shut up, I know what you are!” The young man had a froggish
mouth and the hurt
eyes then in vogue. “But you’re not supposed to be here until fifthday! If
those registry dildos
xpect me to cancel a five-star Taiwanese conference just because they can’t
read calendars,
well, sorry, they can suck maggots in an ebola pit. I only came in to pick
up my worksony and
discs. I’m not babysitting any xperimental clone still in uniform when I
could be sinning
myself sticky in Taipei.”
The fly hit the window again; the student picked up a pamphlet and pushed
past me. The whack
made me jump. He inspected the smear with a laugh of triumph. “Let that be
a warning to you!
Nobody double-crosses Boom-Sook Kim! Now. Don’t touch anything, don’t go
anywhere.
Soap’s in the boxfridge—thank Chairman they delivered your feed early. I’
ll be back late on
sixthday If I don’t leave for the aeroport now I’ll miss my flite.” He
went, then reappeared in
the doorway. “You can talk, can’t you?”
I nodded.
“Thank Chairman! Fact—for every moronity there’s ten registry clone-bones
somewhere
committing it as we speak.”
What … were you supposed to do for the next three days?
Xcept watch the rolex hand erode the hours, I had no idea. It was no major
hardship: servers
are genomed for grueling nineteen-hour workdays. I passed idle hours
wondering if Mrs. Rhee
was a grieving widow or a glad one. Would Aide Ahn or Aide Cho be promoted
to Chongmyo
Plaza seer? Already, the dinery seemed impossibly distant. From the
courtyard I heard pins and
needles of sound, from shrubs mobbing the Plinth. Thus I first encountered
birds. An aero
overflew, and many hundreds of swallows poured upstream. For whom did they
sing? Their
Logoman? The Beloved Chairman?
The sky curfewed, and the room darkened for my first nite on the surface. I
felt lonely, but
nothing worse. Windows across the courtyard yellowed-up, showing labs like
Boom-Sook’s,
housing young purebloods; neater offices, occupied by professors; busy
corridors, vacant
ones. I did not see a single fabricant.
At midnite I felt toxed and imbibed a sac of Soap, lay in the cot, and
wished Yoona~939 was
there to make sense of the day’s legion mysteries.
Did your second day outside provide any answers?
Some: but yet more surprises. The first stood across the anteroom from my
cot as I awoke. A
pylonic man, over three meters tall and dressed in an orange zipsuit, was
studying the
bookshelves. His face, neck, and hands were scalded red, burnt black, and
patched pale, but he
did not seem to suffer pain. His collar confirmed he was a fabricant, but I
could not guess his
stemtype: lips genomed out, ears protected by hornvalves, and a voice deeper
than any I heard
before or since. “No stimulin here. You wake when you wake. Especially if
your postgrad is as
lazy as Boom-Sook Kim. Xec postgrads are the worst. They have their asses
wiped for them.
From kindergarten to euthanasium.” With a giant, two-thumbed hand, he
indicated a blue
zipsuit half the size of his. “For you, little sister.” As I changed from
my Papa Song’s uniform
into my new garment, I asked if he had been sent by a seer. “No seers,
either,” said the burnt
giant. “Your postgrad and mine are friends. Boom-Sook called yesterday.
Complained about
your unxpected delivery I wished to visit you pre-curfew. But Genome Surgery
postgrads
work late. Unlike slackers here in Psychogenomics. I’m Wing~027 Let’s find
out why you’re
here.”
Wing~027 sat on Boom-Sook’s desk and switched on the sony ignoring my
protests that my
postgrad had forbidden me to touch it. Wing clicked the screenboard; Yoona~
939 appeared.
Wing trailed his finger along the rows of words. “Let’s pray to the
Immanent Chairman …
Boom-Sook doesn’t make that error again …”
I asked Wing, could he read?
Wing said if a randomly assembled pureblood can read, a well-designed
fabricant should learn
with ease. Soon a Sonmi appeared on the sony: my collar, ~451, circled her
neck. “Here,” said
Wing and read, slowly; In-Dormroom Cerebral Upsizing the Service Fabricant:
A Feasibility
Case Study on Sonmi~4S1 by Boom-Sook Kim. “Why,” Wing muttered, “is a no-
brainer xec
postgrad aiming so high?”
What sort of fabricant was Wing-oij? A militiaman?
No, a disasterman. He boasted he could operate in deadlands so infected or
radioactive that
purebloods perish there like bacteria in bleach; that his brain had only
minor genomic
refinements; and that disastermen’s basic orientation provides a more thoro
education than most
pureblood universities. Finally, he bared his hideously burnt forearm: “
Show me a pureblood
who could stand this! My postgrad’s Ph.D. is tissue flameproofing.”
Wing~027’s xplanation of deadlands appalled me, but the disasterman
anticipated their
approach with relish. The day when all Nea So Copros is deadlanded, he told
me, will be the
day fabricants become the new purebloods. This sounded deviant, and besides,
if these
deadlands were so widespread in the world, I asked, why had I not seen them
from the ford?
Wing~027 asked me how big I believed the world to be. I was unsure but said
I had been
driven all the way from Chongmyo Plaza to this mountain, so I must have seen
most of it,
surely
The giant told me to follow, but I hesitated: Boom-Sook had ordered me not
to leave the room.
Wing~027 warned me, “Sonmi~451, you must create Catechisms of your own,”
and slung me
over his shoulder, carried me along the slitted corridor, around a tite
corner, and up a dusty
spiral staircase, where he fisted open a rusty door. Morning sunlite blinded
, brisk winds
slapped, and airgrit stung my face. The disasterman set me down.
On the roof of the Psychogenomics Faculty I gripped the railing and gasped;
six levels down
was a cactus garden, birds hunting insects in the needles; further down the
mountain, a ford
park, half full; further, a sports track, circummed by a regiment of
students; below that, a
consumer plaza; beyond that, woods, sloping down to the spilled, charred-and
-neon conurb, hirises,
dormblocks, the Han River, finally mountains lining the aeroscored sunrise.
“A big
view,” I remember Wing’s soft, burnt voice. “But held against the whole
world, Sonmi~451,
all you see is a chip of stone.”
My mind fumbled with such enormity and dropped it; how could I understand
such a limitless
world?
Wing replied, I needed intelligence; ascension would provide this. I needed
time; Boom-Sook
Kim’s idleness would give me time. However, I also needed knowledge.
I asked, How is knowledge found?
“You must learn how to read, little sister,” said Wing~027
So Wing-oij, not Hae-Joo Im or Boardman Mephi, mentored you first?
That is not true, strictly. Our second meeting was our final one. The
disasterman returned to
Boom-Sook’s lab an hour before curfew to give me an “unlost” sony
preloaded with every
autodidact module in upstrata corpocracy schooling. He showed me its
operation, then warned
me never to let a pureblood catch me gathering knowledge, for the sight
scares them, and there
is nothing a scared pureblood will not do.
By Boom-Sook’s return from Taiwan on sixthday I had mastered the sony’s
usage and
graduated from virtual elementary school. By sixthmonth I completed xec
secondary school.
You look skeptical, Archivist, but remember what I said about ascendants’
hunger for
information. We are only what we know, and I wished to be much more than I
was, sorely.
I didn’t mean to look skeptical, Sonmi. Your mind, speech, your … self,
show your dedication
to learning. What confuses me is, why did Boom-Sook Kim give you so much
time to study? An
xec heir, surely, was no covert Abolitionist? What about his Ph.D.
xperiments on you?
Boom-Sook Kim’s concerns were not his Ph.D. but drinking, gambling, and his
crossbow.
His father was an xec at Kwangju Ge-nomics lobbying for a boardmanship on
the Juche until
his son made such an influential enemy. With such an upstrata father, study
was a mere
formality
But how was Boom-Sook planning to graduate?
By paying an academic agent to collate his thesis from the agent’s own
sources. A common
practice. The ascension neurochemicals were preformulated for him, with
yields and
conclusions. Boom-Sook himself could not have identified the biomolecular
properties of
toothpaste. In nine months, my xperimental duties never xceeded cleaning his
lab and preparing
his tea. Fresh data might cloud those he had bought and risk xposing him as
a fraud, you see.
So during my postgrad’s long absences, I could study without risk of
discovery.
Wasn’t Boom-Sook Kim’s tutor aware of this outrageous plagiarism?
Professors who value tenure do not muckrake the sons of future Juche
Boardmen.
Did Boom-Sook never even talk to you … interact with you, in any way?
He addressed me like purebloods speak to a cat. It amused him to pose me
questions he fancied
were incomprehensible. “Hey, ~451, is it worth azuring my teeth, d’you
reckon, or is sapphire
just a passing fad this season?” He did not xpect cogent answers: I did not
disabuse his
xpectations. My reply became so habitual, Boom-Sook nicknamed me I-Do-Not-
Know-
Sir~451.
So for nine months nobody observed your skyrocketing sentience?
So I believed. Boom-Sook Kim’s only regular visitors were Min-Sic and Fang.
Fang’s real
name was never used in my hearing. They bragged about their new suzukis and
played poker,
and paid no attention to fabricants outside Huamdonggil comfort hives. Gil-
Su Noon, Boom-
Sook’s neighbor, a downstrata postgrad on scholarship aid, banged on the
wall to complain
about the noise from time to time, but the three xecs banged back louder. I
saw him only once
or twice.
What is “poker”?
A card game where abler liars take money off less able liars. Fang won
thousands of credits
from Boom-Sook and Min-Sic’s Souls during their poker sessions. Other times
, the three
students indulged in drugs, often Soap. On these occasions Boom-Sook told me
to get out:
when toxed, he complained, clones disturbed him. I would go to the faculty
roof, sit in the
water tank’s shade, and watch swifts hunt giant gnats until dark, when I
knew the three
postgrads would be gone. Boom-Sook never bothered to lock his lab, you see.
Why was it that you never met Wing~027 again?
One humid afternoon, three weeks after my arrival at Taemosan, a knock on
the door distracted
Boom-Sook from his facescaper catalog. Unxpected visitors were rare, as I
have said. Boom-
Sook said, “Enter!” and hid his catalog under Practical Genomics. My
postgrad rarely glanced
at his texts, unlike me.
A wiry student poked the door open with his toe. “Boom-Boom,” he called my
postgrad.
Boom-Sook sprang to attention, sat down, then slouched. “Hey, Hae-Joo”—he
faked a casual
manner— “what’s up?”
The visitor was just passing to say hi, he claimed, but he accepted the
offered chair. I learned
Hae-Joo Im was Boom-Sook’s x-classmate but had been head-hunted by Taemosan
’s
Unanimity faculty Boom-Sook told me to prepare tea while they discussed
topics of no
importance. As I served the drink, Hae-Joo Im mentioned, “You’ll know
about your friend
Min-Sic’s appalling afternoon by now?”
Boom-Sook denied Min-Sic was a “friend,” necessarily, then asked why his
afternoon was
appalling. “His specimen, Wing~027, was burnt to bacon.” Min-Sic had
mistaken a minus for a
plus on the label of a bottle of petro-alkali. My own postgrad smirked,
giggled, snorted
“Hysterical!” and laughed. Hae-Joo then did an unusual action; he looked
at me.
Why is that unusual?
Purebloods see us often but look at us rarely Much later, Hae-Joo admitted
he was curious
about my response. Boom-Sook noticed nothing; he speculated about
compensation claims by
the corp sponsoring Min-Sic’s research. In his own, solo research, Boom-
Sook gloated, no
one cared if an xperimental fabricant or two “got dropped” along the path
of scientific
enlitenment.
Did you feel … well, what did you feel? Resentment? Grief?
Fury. I retreated to the anteroom because something about Hae-Joo Im made me
cautious, but I
had never felt such fury Yoona~939 was worth twenty Boom-Sooks, and Wing~027
worth
twenty Min-Sics, by any measure. Because of an xec’s carelessness, my only
friend on Mount
Taemosan was dead, and Boom-Sook viewed this murder as humorous. But fury
forges will.
That day was the first step to my Declarations, to this prison cube, and to
the Litehouse in a
few hours.
What happened to you over summer recess?
Boom-Sook should have deposited me in a holding dormroom, but my postgrad
was so eager
to go hunt fabricant elk on Hokkaido in Eastern Korea that he forgot to do
so, or assumed a
lesser strata drone would do it for him.
So one summer morning, I woke in a wholly deserted building. No echoes from
well-trafficked
corridors, no time bell, no announcements; even aircons were turned off.
From the roof, the
conurb fumed and trafficked as usual, and swarming aeros left vapor streaks
across the sky,
but the campus was empty of students. Its ford parks were semivacant.
Builders were
resurfacing the oval square in the hot sun. I checked the sony’s calendar
and learned today was
the beginning of recess. I bolted the lab’s door and hid myself in the
anteroom.
So you never set foot outside Boom-Sook’s lab in five weeks? Not once?
Not once. I dreaded separation from my sony you see. A security guard tested
the lab door
every ninthnite. Sometimes I heard Gil-Su Noon in the adjacent lab.
Otherwise, nothing. I kept
the blind lowered and the solars off at nite. I had enough Soap to last the
duration.
But that’s fifty days of unbroken solitary confinement!
Fifty glorious days, Archivist. My mind traveled the length, breadth, and
depth of our culture. I
devoured the twelve seminals: Jong Il’s Seven Dialects; Prime Chairman’s
Founding of Nea So
Copros; Admiral Yeng’s History of the Skirmishes; you know the list.
Indices in an uncensored
Commentaries led me to pre-Skirmish thinkers. The library refused many
downloads,
of course, but I succeeded with two Optimists translated from the Late
English, Orwell and
Huxley; and Washington’s Satires on Democracy.
And you were still Boom-Sook’s thesis specimen—putatively—when he
returned for the second
semester?
Yes. My first autumn arrived. I made a secret collection of the flame-
colored leaves that drifted
on the faculty roof. Autumn itself aged, and my leaves lost their colors.
Nites became icy; then
even daylite hours frosted up. Boom-Sook dozed on the heated ondul most
afternoons,
watching 3-D. He had lost a lot of dollars in dubious investments over the
summer, and since
his father was refusing to pay his debts, my postgrad was prone to fits of
temper. My only
defense against these tantrums was to act void.
Did it snow?
Ah, yes, snow. The first snows fell very late last year, not until twelfth-
month. I sensed it
before I woke in the semidark. Snowflakes haloed the New Year fairies
decorating the
courtyard windows: entrancing, Archivist, entrancing. Undergrowth beneath
the neglected
statue in the courtyard drooped under the weight of snow, and the statue
itself assumed a comic
majesty I could watch the snow fall from my previous prison cube, and I miss
it here. Snow is
bruised lilac in half-lite: such pure solace.
You speak like an aesthete sometimes, Sonmi.
Perhaps those deprived of beauty perceive it most instinctively.
So it must be around now that Dr. Mephi enters the story?
Yes, Sextet Eve. It was snowing that nite, too. Boom-Sook, Min-Sic, and Fang
burst in at hour
twenty approx, tox-flushed, ice on their nikes. I was in the anteroom and
barely had time to
hide my sony I remember I was reading Plato’s Republic. Boom-Sook wore a
mortarboard hat,
and Min-Sic hugged a basket of mint-scented orchids as big as himself. He
threw them at me,
saying, “Petals for Spoony, Sponny Sonmi, whatever its name is …”
Fang rifled the cupboard where Boom-Sook kept his soju and tossed three
bottles over his
shoulder, complaining that the brands were all dog piss. Min-Sic caught two,
but a third
smashed on the floor, triggering relapses of laughter. “Clean it up, Cind’
rella!” Boom-Sook
clapped his hands at me, then pacified Fang by saying hed open a bottle of
the best stuff since
Sextet Recess came only once a year.
By the time I had swept up every glass shard, Min-Sic had found a pornslash
disney on 3-D.
They watched it with xpert relish, bickering over its merits and realism,
and drinking the fine
soju. Their drunkenness had a recklessness that nite, especially Fang’s. I
retreated to the
anteroom, from where I heard Gil-Su Noon at the lab door, asking the
revelers to be quieter. I
spied. Min-Sic mocked Gil-Su’s glasses, asking why his family couldn’t
find the dollars to
correct his myopia. Boom-Sook told Gil-Su to crawl up his own cock if he
wanted peace and
quiet when the civilized world was celebrating Sextet. When he had stopped
laughing, Fang
spoke about getting his father to order a tax inspection on the Noon clan.
Gil-Su Noon fumed
in the doorway until the three xecs pelted him away with plums and further
derision.
Fang seems to have been the ringleader.
He was, yes. He chiseled open the fault lines in the others’ personalities.
Doubtless he is
currently practicing law in one of the Twelve Capitals with great success.
That nite he focused
on riling Boom-Sook, by wagging the soju bottle at the kodak of the dead
snow leopard and
asking how dopey the prey were genomed down for the tourists. Boom-Sook’s
pride was
inflamed. The only animals he hunted, he retorted, were those with
viciousness genomed up.
He and his brother had stalked the snow leopard for hours in Kath-mandu
Valley before the
cornered animal leapt for his brother’s throat. Boom-Sook had a single shot
. The bolt entered
the beast’s eye in midair. Hearing this, Fang and Min-Sic faked awe for a
moment, then
collapsed in raucous laughter. Min-Sic thumped the floor, saying, “You are
so full of shit,
Kim!” Fang peered closer at the kodak and remarked that it was poorly
dijied.
Boom-Sook inked a face on a synthetic melon, solemnly wrote “Fang” on its
brow, and
balanced the fruit on a stack of journals by the door. He took his crossbow
from his desk,
walked to the far-end window, and took aim.
Fang protested: “No-no-no-no-no-no-no!” and objected that a melon would
not rip the
marksman’s throat out if he missed. There was no pressure to make a clean
hit. Fang then
beckoned me over to stand by the door.
I saw his intention, but Fang interrupted my appeal, warning that if I did
not obey him, he
would put Min-Sic in charge of my Soap. Min-Sic’s grin wilted. Fang sank
his nails into my
arm, led me over, put the mortarboard hat on my head, and placed the melon
on the hat. “So,
Boom-Sook,” he teased, “reckon you’re such a hot-shit marksman now?”
Boom-Sook’s relationship with Fang was based on rivalry and loathing. He
raised his
crossbow. I asked my postgrad to please stop. Boom-Sook ordered me not to
move a muscle.
The bolt’s steel tip glinted. Dying in one of these boys’ dares would be
futile and stupid, but
fabricants cannot dictate even the terms of their deaths. A twang and an
airwhoosh later, the
cross-bolt crisped into melon pulp. The fruit rolled off the hat. Min-Sic
applauded warmly,
hoping to thaw the situation. I was awash with relief.
However, Fang sniffed, “You hardly need laser guidance to hit a huge great
melon. Anyway,
look”—he held the melon’s remains— “you only just clipped it. Surely a
mango is a worthier
target for a hunter of your stature.”
Boom-Sook held out his crossbow to Fang, daring him to match his own skill:
hit the mango
from fifteen paces.
“Done.” Fang took the crossbow. I protested, despairingly, but Boom-Sook
told me to shut up.
He drew an eye on the mango. Fang counted his paces and loaded the bolt. Min
-Sic warned his
friends that the paperwork on a dead xperimental specimen was hell. They
ignored him. Fang
aimed for a long time. His hand trembled, slitely Suddenly, the mango
exploded and juiced the
walls. My doubt that my ordeal was over was well founded. Fang blew on the
crossbow.
“Melon at thirty paces, mango at fifteen. I’ll raise you a … plum, at ten
.” He noted a plum was
still bigger than a snow leopard’s eye, but added that if Boom-Sook wanted
to admit he was
indeed, as Min-Sic had said, full of shit and decline the challenge, they
would consider the
sorry chapter closed, for a whole ten minutes. Boom-Sook just balanced the
plum on my head,
gravely, and ordered me to hold very, very still. He counted his ten steps,
turned, loaded, and
took aim. I guessed I had a 50 percent chance of being dead in fifteen
seconds. Gil-Su banged
on the door again. Go away, I thought at him, No distractions now …
Boom-Sook’s jaw twitched as he cranked back the bow. The banging on the
door grew more
insistent, just centimeters from my head. Fang blasted obscenities about Gil
-Su’s genitals and
his mother. Boom-Sook’s knuckles whitened on his crossbow.
My head was whipcracked around: pain sank teeth into my ear. I was aware of
the door flying
open behind me, then of xpressions of doom on my tormentors’ faces. Lastly,
I noticed an
older man in the doorway, snow in his beard, out of breath, and thunderously
angry.
Boardman Mephi?
Yes, but let us be thoro: Unanimity Professor, architect of the Mer-ican
Boat-People Solution,
holder of a Nea So Copros Medal for Eminence, monographist on Tu Fu and Li
Po; Juche
Boardman Aloi Mephi. I paid him little notice at that time, however. Liquid
trickled down my
neck and spine. When I dabbed my ear, pain seemed to electrocute the left
side of my body. My
fingers came away shiny and scarlet.
Boom-Sook’s voice wobbled: “Boardman, we—” No help was offered from Fang
or Min-Sic.
The Boardman pressed a crisp silk handkerchief against my ear, and told me
to keep the
pressure steady. He took a handsony from an inner pocket. “Mr. Chang?” he
spoke into it.
“First aid. Hurry, please.” Now I recognized the sleepy passenger who had
accompanied me
from Chongmyo Plaza eight months before.
Next, my rescuer stared at the postgrads: they dared not meet his gaze. “
Well, gentlemen, we
have made a very ominous start to the Year of the Snake.” Min-Sic and Fang
would be notified
by the disciplinary board of major debits, he promised, and dismissed them.
Both bowed and
hurried out. Min-Sic left his cloak steaming on the ondul but did not return
. Boom-Sook
looked inconsolable. Boardman Mephi let the postgrad suffer for some seconds
before asking,
“Are you planning to shoot at me with that thing, too?”
Boom-Sook Kim dropped the crossbow as if it were superheated. The Boardman
looked
around the messy lab, sniffing at the neck of the soju bottle. The octopoid
rapine on 3-D
distracted him. Boom-Sook fumbled with the remo, dropped it, picked it up,
pressed stop,
aimed it the right way, pressed stop. Boardman Mephi spoke, finally He was
now ready to hear
Boom-Sook’s xplanation of why he was using his faculty’s xperimental
fabricant for crossbow
practice.
Yes, I’m curious to hear that, too.
Boom-Sook tried everything: he was inxcusably drunk for Sextet Eve; he had
misprioritized,
ignored stress symptoms, chosen friends unwisely, gotten overzealous while
disciplining his
specimen; it was all Fang’s fault. Then even he realized he had better shut
up and wait for the
ax to fall.
Mr. Chang arrived with a medicube, sprayed my ear, dabbed coag, applied a
patch, and gave
me my first friendly words since Wing~027 Boom-Sook asked if my ear would
heal.
Boardman Mephi’s abrupt answer was that it was none of Boom-Sook’s
business as his
doctorate was terminated. The x-postgrad blanked and whitened as he saw his
future slide
downstrata.
Mr. Chang held my hand and informed me my earlobe was torn off but promised
a medic
would replace it in the morning. I was too afraid of Boom-Sook’s
recriminations to worry
about my ear, but Mr. Chang added we would now leave with Boardman Mephi for
my new
quarters.
That must have been very welcome news.
Yes, xcept for the loss of my sony How could I bring that along? No feasible
plan came to
mind. I just nodded, hoping I could retrieve it during Sextet Recess. The
spiral stairs took up
my attention. descents are more hazardous than ascents. In the lobby, Mr.
Chang produced a
hooded cloak for me and a pair of icenikes. The boardman complimented Mr.
Chang on the
latter’s choice of zebra-skin design. Mr. Chang answered, zebra skin was de
rigueur in Lhasa’s
chicest streets this season.
What reason did the Boardman give for your timely rescue?
None, as yet. He told me I was being transferred to the Unanimity Faculty on
the western lip of
campus and apologized for letting “those three toxed xec tapeworms” play
games with my life.
The weather had prevented a timelier intervention. I forget what well-
oriented, humble reply I
gave.
The campus cloisters were festive with Sextet Eve crowds. Mr. Chang taught
me to shuffle
thru granular ice to gain traction. Snowflakes settled on my eyelashes and
nostrils. Snowball
fights ceasefired as Professor Mephi approached; combatants bowed. The sense
of anonymity
afforded by my hood was delicious. Passing thru cloisters, I heard music.
Not AdV or
popsong but naked, echoing waves of music. “A choir,” Boardman Mephi told
me. “Corpocratic
sapiens can be callous, petty and malign,” he said, “but higher things,
too, thank
Chairman.” We listened for a minute. Looking up, I felt as if I was rushing
upward.
Two enforcers guarding the Unanimity Faculty saluted and took our damp
cloaks. This
building’s interior was as opulent as the Psychogenomics Faculty had been
spartan. Carpeted
corridors were lined with Iljongian mirrors, urns of the Kings of Scilla, 3-
Ds of Unanimity
notables. The elevator had a chandelier; its voice recited corpocratic
Catechisms, but Boardman
Mephi told it to shut up, and to my surprise, it did. Once again, Mr. Chang
held me steady as
the elevator sped, then slowed.
We xited into a spacious, sunken apartment from an upstrata lifestyle AdV A
3-D fire danced
in the central hearth, surrounded by hovering maglev furniture. Glass walls
afforded a dizzying
view of the conurb by nite, obscured by the haze-brite snowfall. Paintings
took up the inner
walls. I asked Mephi if this was his office.
“My office is one story up,” he replied. “These are your quarters.”
Before I could even xpress surprise, Mr. Chang suggested I invite my
distinguished guest to sit
down. I begged Boardman Mephi’s pardon: I had never had a guest before, and
my manners
lacked polish.
The maglev sofa swung under the distinguished man’s weight. His daughter-in
-law, he said,
had redesigned my quarters with me in mind. The Rothko canvases, she hoped,
I would find
meditative.“Molecule-true original originals,” he assured me. “I approved
.Rothko paints how
the blind see.”
A bewildering evening—crossbolts one moment, art history the next …
Certainly. Next, the professor apologized for failing to recognize the xtent
of my ascension on
our first meeting. “I assumed you were yet another semi-ascended xperiment,
doomed to
mental disintegration in a week or two. If memory serves, I even dozed off—
Mr. Chang, did I?
The truth now.” From his post by the elevator, Mr. Chang recalled that his
master had rested
his eyes during the journey. Boardman Mephi smiled at his chauffeur’s tact.
“You’re more than
likely wondering what you did to bring yourself to my attention, Sonmi~451.”
His question was a handshake: Come out, I know you’re in there. Or, I
feared, a trap. Still with
a server’s wariness of acting too pure-blood, I feigned polite
incomprehension. Mephi’s
xpression of complicity told me he understood. Taemosan University he said,
generates 2
million–plus library download requests per semester. The vast majority are
course texts and
related articles; the remainder relate to anything from real estate to stock
prices, sportsfords to
steinways, yoga to caged birds. “The point is, Sonmi, it takes a reader of
truly eclectic habits for
my friends the librarians to bother alerting me.” The professor switched on
his handsony and
read from my own list of download requests. Sixthmonth 18th, Epic of
Gilgamesh;
Seventhmonth 2nd, Ireneo Funes’s Remembrances; Ninthmonth 1st, Gibbon’s
Decline and
Fall. Mephi, bathed in mauve sonyglow, looked proud. “Here we go …
Tenthmonth 11th, a
brazen-as-you-please cross-search for references to that cancer in our
beloved body corpocratic,
Union! Speaking as a Unanimityman, such a—could I call it lust’?—for
creeds of
other worlds alerts us to the presence of an inner émigré. It is idiomatic
in my field that such
émigrés make the finest Unanimity agents. I knew we had to meet.” He then
xplained how he
had identified the sony’s inquisitive owner as Nun Hel-Kwon, a geothermist
from blizzardprone
Onsong … who had died two winters before in a skiing accident. Boardman
Mephi
assigned a gifted graduate the old-fashioned detective’s task of tracing
the thief. E-wave
surveillance located the sony in Boom-Sook Kim’s lab. Imagining Boom-Sook
reading
Wittgenstein defied all credulity however, so Mephi’s trusted student had
implanted a microeye
in every sony in the room during curfew six weeks ago. “Next day we found
our
dissident-manqué was no pureblood but, apparently, science’s first
stabilized ascendant and
sister-server of the notorious Yoona~939. My work, Sonmi~451, can be taxing
and hazardous,
but dull? Never!”
Denial was plainly pointless.
Indeed: Boardman Mephi was no Seer Rhee. In a way, my discovery was a relief
. Many
criminals say the same. I sat and listened to his account of the
interdepartmental squabbles that
broke out when he reported his findings. Old-school corpocrats wanted me
euthanized as a
deviant; psychogenomicists wanted me to undergo cerebral vivisection;
marketing wanted to go
public and claim me as Taemosan University’s own xperimental breakthru.
Obviously, none of them got their way.
No. Unanimity won a stopgap compromise: I could continue studying in my
illusory free will
until a consensus of opinion could be reached. Boom-Sook’s crossbow,
however, forced
Unanimity’s hand.
And what did Boardman Mephi intend to do with you now?
Frame a new compromise between those interests competing fora slice of me,
then enforce it.
Billions of research dollars had been spent in corp labs, unsuccessfully, to
achieve what,
simply, I was, what I am: a stable, ascended fabricant. To keep the ge-
nomicists happy, an
array of vetted scientists would conduct cross-disciplinary tests on me.
Mephi, dipping his
hands into the heart of the 3-D flames, promised these tests would not be
onerous or painful, or
xceed three hours per day, five days out of ten. To win over the Taemosan
Board, research
access would be auctioned: I would raise big dollars for my masters.
Did Sonmi~451’s interests enter this simultaneous equation?
To a degree, yes: Taemosan University would enroll me as a foundation
student. I would also
have a Soul implanted in my collar so I could come and go on campus as I
pleased. Boardman
Mephi even promised to mentor me when he was on campus. He withdrew his hand
from the
fire and inspected his fingers. “All lite, no heat. Youngsters nowadays
wouldn’t know a real
flame if their nikes were set alite.” He told me to call him Professor
instead of Sir.
One thing I can’t work out. If Boom-Sook Kim was such a buffoon, how had he
attained this
holy grail of psychogenomics—stable ascension?
Later, I asked Hae-Joo Im the same question. His xplanation ran: Boom-Sook’
s thesis jockey
sourced his supply of psychogenomics theses from an obscure tech institute
in Baikal. The
original author of my x-postgrad’s work was a production zone immigrant
named Yusouf
Suleiman. Xtremists were killing genomicists in Siberia at that time, and
Suleiman and three of
his professors were blown up by a car bomb. Baikal being Baikal, Suleiman’s
research
languished in obscurity for ten years until it was sold on. The agent
liaised with contacts at
Papa Song Corp to instream Suleiman’s ascension neuro-formula to our Soap.
Yoona~939
was the prime specimen; I was a modified backup. If all that sounds unlikely
, Hae-Joo added, I
should remember that most of science’s holy grails are discovered by
accident, in unxpected
places.
And all the while Boom-Sook Kim was blissfully unaware of the furor his
plagiarized Ph.D.
was causing?
Only an obdurate fool who never squeezed a pipette could remain unaware, but
yes, Boom-
Sook Kim was such a fool. Maybe that, too, was no accident.
How did you find your new regime in the Unanimity Faculty? How was it as a
fab-ricant,
actually attending lectures?
As I was moved on Sextet Eve, I had six quiet days before the new regime
began in earnest. I
walked around the icy campus only once: I am genomed to be comfortable in
hot eateries, and
xposure to the Han Valley winter on Mount Taemosan burned my skin and lungs.
On New
Year’s Day I awoke from curfew to discover two gifts: the battered old sony
Wing~027 had
given me and a star for my collar, my third. I thought of my sisters, my x-
sisters, thruout Nea
So Copros enjoying Starring Ceremonies. I wondered if I would one day depart
for Xultation,
my Investment repaid. How I wished Yoona~939 could attend my first lecture
on secondday
with me. I still miss her.
What was your first lecture?
Swanti’s Biomathematics; however, its real lesson was humiliation. I walked
to the lecture hall
across dirty slush, hooded and unnoticed. But when I took off my cloak in
the corridor, my
Sonmi features provoked surprise, then unease. In the lecture hall, my entry
detonated resentful
silence.
It didn’t last. “Oy!” a boy yelled. “One hot ginseng, two dog-burgers!”
and the entire theater
laughed. I am not genomed to blush, but my pulse rose. I took a seat in the
second row,
occupied by girls. Their leader had emeralded teeth. “This is our row,”
she said. “Go to the
back. You stink of mayo.” I obeyed, meekly A paper dart hit my face. “We
don’t vend burgers
in your dinery fabricant,” someone called, “why’re you taking up space in
our lecture?” I was
about to leave when spidery Dr. Chu’an tripped onto the stage and dropped
her notes. I did my
best to concentrate on the lecture that followed, but after a while, Dr. Chu
’an’s eyes roamed her
audience, saw me; she stopped midsentence. The audience, laughing, realized
why. Dr. Chu’an
forced herself to continue. I forced myself to stay but lacked the courage
to ask questions at the
end. Outside I endured a barrage of aggressive snideries.
Did Professor Mephi know about the students’ unfriendliness?
I think so. At our seminar, the professor asked if my lecture had been
fruitful; I chose the word
informative and asked why pure-bloods despised me so. He replied, “What if
the differences
between social strata stem not from genomics or inherent xcellence or even
dollars, but merely
differences in knowledge? Would this not mean the whole Pyramid is built on
shifting sands?”
I speculated such a suggestion could be seen as a serious de-viancy
Mephi seemed delited. “Try this for deviancy fabricants are mirrors held up
to purebloods’
consciences; what purebloods see reflected there sickens them. So they blame
you for holding
up the mirror.”
I hid my shock by asking when purebloods might blame themselves.
Mephi replied, “History suggests, not until they are made to.”
When, I asked, would that happen?
The professor spun his antique globe and answered merely: “Dr. Chu’an’s
lecture continues
tomorrow.”
It must have taken courage to return.
Not really: an enforcer escorted me, so at least no one flung insults at me.
The enforcer
addressed the second row of girls with courteous malice. “This is our row.
Go to the back.”
The girls melted away, but I felt no triumph. It was the girls’ fear of
Unanimity not their
acceptance of me, that prevailed. Dr. Chu’an was so flustered by the
enforcer that she mumbled
her entire lecture without once looking at her audience. Prejudice is
permafrost.
Did you brave any more lectures?
One, on Lööw’s Fundaments. By request I went unescorted,
preferring insults to xternal
armor. I arrived early, took a side seat, and kept a visor on as the lecture
hall filled. I was
recognized nonetheless. The students regarded me with mistrust, but no paper
missiles were
launched. Two boys in front turned around: they had honest faces and rural
accents. One asked
if I really was some sort of artificial genius.
Genius is not a word to bandy so casually, I suggested.
Hearing a server talk made the pair marvel. “It must be hell,” said the
second, “to have an
intelligent mind trapped in a body genomed for service.”
I had grown as attached to my body as he had to his, I responded.
The lecture proceeded without event, but when I left the hall, a small riot
of questions, miked
walkmans, and flash nikons was waiting for me. Which Papa Song’s had I come
from? Who
had enrolled me at Taemosan? Were there more of me? What were my views on
the
Yoona~939 Atrocity? How many weeks did I have before my ascension
degenerated? Was I
an Abolitionist? What was my favorite color? Did I have a boyfriend?
Media? On a corpocratic campus?
No, but Media had offered rewards for features on the Sonmi of Taemosan. I
hooded and tried
to elbow my way back to the Unanimity Faculty but the crush was so thick, my
visor was
knocked off and I was floored and badly bruised before two plainclothes
enforcers could
xtricate me. Boardman Mephi met me in the Unanimity lobby and escorted me
back to my
quarters, muttering that I was too valuable to xpose myself to the prurient
mob. He rotated his
rainstone ring vigorously: a habit when tense. We agreed, from then on my
lectures should be
dijied to my sony
What about the xperiments you were obliged to undergo?
Ah, yes, a daily reminder of my true status. They depressed my spirits. What
was knowledge
for, I would ask myself, if I could not use it to better my xistence? How
would I fit in on
Xultation nine years and nine stars later with my superior knowledge? Could
am-nesiads erase
the knowledge I had acquired? Did I want that to happen? Would I be happier?
Fourthmonth
arrived, bringing my first anniversary as a specimen freak on Taemosan, but
spring did not
bring me the gladness it brings the world. My curiosity is dying, I told
Professor Mephi one
pleasant day, during a seminar on Thomas Paine. I remember the sounds of a
baseball game
drifting thru his open window. My mentor said we had to identify the source
of this malady,
and urgently. I said something about reading not being knowledge, about
knowledge without
xperience being food without sustenance.
“You need to get out more,” remarked the professor.
Out where? Out to lectures? Out on the campus? Outings?
Next ninthnite, a young Unanimity postgrad named Hae-Joo Im elevatored to my
apartment.
Addressing me as Miss Sonmi, he xplained that Professor Mephi had asked him
to “come and
cheer you up.” Professor Mephi held the power of life and death over his
future, he said, so
here he was. “That was a joke,” he added, edgily then he asked if I
remembered him.
I did. His black hair was crewcut maroon now, and his eyebrows on-offed
where they had
been unadorned; but I recognized Boom-Sook’s x-classmate who had brought
the news of
Wing~027’s death at the hands of Min-Sic. My visitor looked around my
living space,
enviously. “Well, this beats Boom-Sook Kim’s poky nest, doesn’t it? Big
enough to swallow
my family’s entire apartment.”
I agreed, the apartment was very spacious indeed. A silence inflated. Hae-
Joo Im offered to
stay inside the elevator until I wanted him to leave. Once again, I
apologized for my lack of
social grace and invited him in.
He took his nikes off, saying “No, I apologize for my lack of social grace.
I talk too much
when I get nervous, and say stupid things. Here I go again. Can I try out
your maglev chaise
longue?”
Yes, I said and asked why I made him nervous.
I looked like any Sonmi in any old dinery he answered, but when I opened my
mouth I became
a doctor of philosophy The postgrad sat cross-legged on the chaise longue
and swung,
wonder-ingly passing his hand through the magnetic field. He confessed, “A
little voice in my
head is saying, ‘Remember, this girl—woman, I mean—I mean, person—is a
landmark in the
history of science. The first stable ascendee! Ascendant, rather. Watch what
you say, Im! Make
it profound!’ That’s why I’m just, uh, spouting rubbishy nothings.”
I assured him I felt more like a specimen than like a landmark.
Hae-Joo shrugged and told me the professor had said I could use a nite out
downtown, and he
waved a Soulring. “Unanimity xpenses! Sky’s the limit. So what’s your
idea of fun?”
I had no idea of fun.
Well, Hae-Joo probed, what did I do to relax?
I play Go against my sony I said.
“To relax?” he responded, incredulous. “Who wins, you or the sony?”
The sony, I answered, or how would I ever improve?
So winners, Hae-Joo proposed, are the real losers because they learn nothing
? What, then, are
losers? Winners?
I said, If losers can xploit what their adversaries teach them, yes, losers
can become winners in
the long term.
“Sweet Corpocracy”—Hae-Joo Im puffed—“let’s go downtown and spend some
dollars.”
Didn’t he irritate you a little?
Initially, he irritated me a lot, but I reminded myself that he was
Professor Mephi’s prescription
for my malaise. Also, Hae-Joo had paid me the compliment of referring to me
as a “person.” I
asked him what he normally did on ninthnites, when not coerced into looking
after prize
specimens.
He told me with a diplomatic lowered smile how men of Mephi’s stratum never
coerce, only
imply. He might go to a dinery or bar with classmates or, if he lucked out,
go clubbing with a
girl. I was not a classmate and not xactly a girl, so he suggested a galle-
ria, to “sample the fruits
of Nea So Copros.”
Would he not be embarrassed, I asked, to be seen with a Sonmi? I could wear
a hat and
wraparounds.
Hae-Joo Im instead proposed a stick-on wizardly beard and a pair of reindeer
antlers. I
apologized: I had none. The young man smiled, apologized for another stupid
joke, and told me
to wear whatever I felt comfortable in, assuring me that I would blend in
much better
downtown than in a lecture hall. A taxi was downstairs, and he would wait
for me in the lobby.
Were you nervous about leaving Taemosan?
Slitely yes. Hae-Joo distracted me by siteseeing talk. He directed the taxi
via the Memorial to
the Fallen Plutocrats, around Kyong-bokkung Palace, down the Avenue of Nine
Thousand
AdVs. The driver was a pureblood Indian with a sharp nose for fat fares from
xpense
accounts. “An ideal nite for Moon Tower, sir,” he happened to mention. “
Very clear.” Hae-Joo
agreed on the spot. The helter-way ascended the gigantic pyramid, high, high
, high above the
canopies, above everything xcept the corp monoliths. Have you been up Moon
Tower by nite,
Archivist?
No, not even by day. We citizens leave the Tower for the tourists, mostly.
You should go. From the 234th story, the conurb was a carpet of xenon and
neon and motion
and carbdiox and canopies. But for the glass dome, Hae-Joo told me, the wind
at this altitude
would fling us into orbit, like satellites. He indicated various humpbacks
and landmarks: some
I had heard of or seen on 3-D, some not. Chongmyo Plaza was hidden behind a
monolith, but
its dayblue stadium was visible. SeedCorp was the lunar sponsor that nite.
The immense lunar
projector on far-off Fuji beamed AdV after AdV onto the moon’s face:
tomatoes big as babies,
creamy cauliflower cubes, holeless lotus roots. Speech bubbles ballooned
from SeedCorp’s
logoman’s juicy mouth, guaranteeing that his products were 100 percent
genomically modified.
Descending, the elderly taxi driver spoke of his boyhood in a distant conurb
called Mumbai,
now deadlanded, when the moon was always naked. Hae-Joo said an AdVless moon
would
freak him out.
Which galleria did you go to?
Wangshimni Orchard: what an encyclopedia of consumables! For hours, I
pointed at items for
Hae-Joo to identify: bronze masks, instant bird’s nest soup, fabricant toys
, golden suzukis, air
filters, acidproof skeins, oraculars of the Beloved Chairman and statuettes
of the Immanent
Chairman, jewel-powder perfumes, pearlsilk scarves, realtime maps, deadland
artifacts,
programmable violins. A pharmacy: packets of pills for cancer, aids,
alzheimers, lead-tox; for
corpulence, anorexia, baldness, hairiness, exuberance, glumness, dewdrugs,
drugs for
overindulgence in dewdrugs. Hour twenty-one chimed, yet we had not advanced
beyond a
single precinct. How the consumers seethed to buy, buy, buy! Purebloods, it
seemed, were a
sponge of demand that sucked goods and services from every vendor, dinery
bar, shop, and
nook.
Hae-Joo led me to a stylish café platform where he bought a styro of
starbuck for himself and
an aqua for me. He xplained that under the Enrichment Statutes, consumers
have to spend a
fixed quota of dollars each month, depending on their strata. Hoarding is an
anti-corpocratic
crime. I knew this already but did not interrupt. He said his mum feels
intimidated by modern
gallerias, so Hae-Joo usually works through the quota.
I asked him to tell me how it feels to be in a family.
The postgrad smiled and frowned at the same time. “A necessary drag,” he
confided. “Mum’s
hobby is collecting minor ailments and drugs to cure them. Dad works at the
Ministry of
Statistics and sleeps in front of 3-D with his head in a bucket.” Both
parents were random
conceptions, he confessed, who sold a second child quota to get Hae-Joo
genomed properly
This let him aim for his cherished career: to be a Unanimityman had been his
ambition since the
disneys of his boyhood. Kicking down doors for money looked like a fine life.
His parents must love him very much to make such a sacrifice, I noted. Hae-
Joo replied that
their pension will come out of his salary Then he asked, had it not been a
seismic shock to be
uprooted from Papa Song’s and transplanted into Boom-Sook’s lab? Didn’t I
miss the world I
had been genomed for? I answered, fab-ricants are oriented not to miss
things.
He probed: Had I not ascended above my orientation?
I said I would have to think about it.
Did you xperience any negative reactions from consumers in the galleria? As
a Sonmi outside
Papa Song’s, I mean.
No. Many other fabricants were there: porters, domestics, and cleaners, so I
did not stand out
so much. Then, when Hae-Joo went to the hygiener, a ruby-freckled woman with
a teenage
complexion but telltale older eyes apologized for disturbing me. “Look, I’
m a media fashion
scout,” she said, “call me Lily. I’ve been spying on you!” And she
giggled. “But that’s what a
woman of your flair, your prescience, my dear, must xpect.”
I was very confused.
She said I was the first consumer she’d seen to facescape fully like a well
-known service
fabricant. Lesser strata, she confided, may call my fashion statement brave,
or even antistrata,
but she called it genius. She asked if I would like to model for “an
abhorrently chic 3-D
magazine.” I’d be paid stratospherically, she assured me: my boyfriend’s
friends would crawl
with jealousy. And for us women, she added, jealousy in our men is as good
as dollars in the
Soul.
I declined, thanking her and adding that fabricants do not have boyfriends.
The mediawoman
pretended to laugh at my imagined joke and xamined every contour on my face.
She begged to
know which facescaper had done me. “A craftsman like this, I have got to
meet. Such a
miniaturist!”
After my wombtank and orientation, I said, my life had been spent behind a
counter at Papa
Song’s, and so I had never met my facescaper.
Now the fashion editor’s laugh was droll but vexed.
So she couldn’t believe you weren’t a pureblood?
She gave me her card and urged me to reconsider, warning that opportunities
like her do not
happen ten days a week.
When the taxi dropped me at Unanimity Hae-Joo Im asked me to use his given
name from then
on. “Mr. Im” made him feel like he was in a seminar. Lastly, he asked if I
might be free next
ninthday I did not want him to spend his valuable time on a professorial
obligation, I said, but
Hae-Joo insisted he had enjoyed my company I said, well, then, I accept.
So the xcursion helped dislodge your … sense of ennui?
In a way, yes. It helped me understand how one’s environment is a key to
one’s identity but
that my environment, Papa Song’s, was a lost key. I found myself wishing to
revisit my xdinery
under Chongmyo Plaza. I could not fully xplain why, but an impulse can be
both
vaguely understood and strong.
It could hardly be wise for an ascended server to visit a dinery?
I do not claim it was wise, only necessary Hae-Joo also worried that it
might “unearth buried
things.” I responded that I had buried too much of myself, so the postgrad
agreed to
accompany me, on condition that I went disguised as a consumer. The
following ninthnite he
showed me how to upswirl my hair and apply cosmetics. A silk neck scarf hid
my collar, and
in the elevator down to the taxi he fitted dark ambers on my face.
On a busy fourthmonth evening, Chongmyo Plaza was not the litter-swarming
wind tunnel I
remembered from my release: it was a kaleidoscope of AdVs, consumers, xecs,
and popsongs.
Beloved Chairman’s monumental statue surveyed his swarming peoples with an
xpression
wise and benign. From the Plaza’s southeast rim, Papa Song’s arches drew
into focus. Hae-
Joo held my hand and reminded me we could turn back at any time. As we got
in line for the
elevator, he slipped a Soulring onto my finger.
In case you got separated?
For good luck, I thought: Hae-Joo had a superstitious streak. As the
elevator descended, I grew
very nervous. Suddenly, the doors were opening and hungry consumers riptided
me into the
dinery As I was jostled, I was stunned at how misleading my memories of the
place had been.
In what ways?
That spacious dome was so poky Its glorious reds and yellows, so stark and
vulgar. The
wholesome air I remembered: now its greasy stench gagged me. After the
silence on
Taemosan, the dinery noise was like never-ending gunfire. Papa Song stood on
His Plinth,
greeting us. I tried to swallow, but my throat was dry: surely my Logoman
would condemn his
prodigal daughter.
No. He winked at us, tugged himself skyward by his own nike-straps, sneezed,
oopsied, and
plummeted down to His Plinth. Children screamed with laughter. I realized,
Papa Song was
just a trick of lites. How had an inane hologram once inspired such awe in
me?
Hae-Joo went to find a table while I circummed the Hub. My sisters smiled
under sugary
toplites. How unflaggingly they worked! Here were Yoonas, here was Ma-Leu-Da
~108, her
collar now boasting eleven stars. At my old counter on west was a fresh-
faced Sonmi. Here
was Kyelim~889, Yoona’s replacement. I got in line at her teller, my
nervousness growing
acute as my turn approached. “Hi! Kyelim~889 at your service! Mouthwatering
, magical, Papa
Song’s! Yes, madam? Your pleasure today?”
I asked her if she knew me.
Kyelim~889 smiled xtra to dilute her confusion.
I asked if she remembered Sonmi~451, a server who worked beside her, who
disappeared one
morning.
A blank smile: the verb remember is outside servers’ lexicons. “Hi! Kyelim
~889 at your
service! Mouthwatering, magical, Papa Song’s! Your pleasure today?”
I asked, Are you happy, Kyelim~889?
Enthusiasm lit her smile as she nodded. Happy is a word in the Second
Catechism: “Proviso I
obey the Catechisms, Papa Song loves me; proviso Papa Song loves me, I am
happy.”
A cruel compulsion brushed me. I asked the Kyelim, didn’t she want to live
how purebloods
live? Sit at dinery tables instead of wiping them?
Kyelim~889 wanted so badly to please, telling me, “Servers eat Soap!”
Yes, I persisted, but didn’t she want to see Outside?
She said, Servers don’t go Outside until Twelvestarred.
A consumer girl with zinc-ringlets and plectrum nails jabbed me. “If you’
ve got to taunt dumb
fabricants, do it on firstday mornings. I need to get to the gallerias this
side of curfew, okay?”
Hastily, I ordered rosejuice and sharkgums from Kyelim~889. I wished Hae-Joo
was still with
me. I was jumpy in case the Soulring malfunctioned and xposed me. The device
worked, but
my questions had marked me as a troublemaker. “Democratize your own
fabricants!” A man
glowered as I pushed by with my tray “Abolitionist.” Other purebloods in
the line glanced at
me, worried, as if I carried a disease.
Hae-Joo had found a free table in my old quarter. How many tens of thousands
of times had I
wiped this surface? Hae-Joo asked, gently, if I had discovered anything
valuable.
I whispered, “We are just slaves here for twelve years.”
The Unanimity postgrad just scratched his ear and checked no one was
eavesdropping: but his
xpression told me he agreed. He sipped his rosejuice. We watched AdV for ten
minutes, not
speaking: a Juche Boardman was shown opening a newer, safer, nuclear reactor
, grinning as if
his strata depended on it. Kyelim~889 cleared the table next to us; she had
already forgotten
me. My IQ may be higher, but she looked more content than I felt.
So your visit to Papa Song’s was an … anticlimax? Did you find the “key”
to your ascended
self?
Perhaps it was anticlimactic, yes. If there was a key, it was only that no
key xisted. In Papa
Song’s I had been a slave; at Taemosan I was a more privileged slave. One
more thing
occurred, however, as we headed back to the elevator. I recognized Mrs. Rhee
, working at her
sony I spoke her name out loud.
The immaculately dewdrugged woman smiled up with puzzled, luscious,
remodeled lips. “I
was Mrs. Rhee, but I’m Mrs. Ahn now. My late husband drowned in a sea-
fishing accident
last year.”
I said that was just awful.
Mrs. Ahn dabbed her eye with her sleeve and asked if I had known her late
husband well.
Lying is harder than purebloods make it look, and Mrs. Ahn repeated her
question.
“My wife was a qualities standardizer for the Corp before our marriage,”
Hae-Joo xplained
hastily, putting his hand on my shoulder and adding that Chongmyo Plaza was
in her area and
that Seer Rhee had been an xemplary corp man. Mrs. Ahn’s suspicions were
aroused,
however, and she asked xactly when that might have been. Now I knew what to
say. “When
his chief aide was a consumer named Cho.”
Her smile changed its hue. “Ah, yes, Aide Cho. Sent north, somewhere, I
believe, to learn
about team spirit.”
Hae-Joo took my arm, saying, “Well, All for Papa Song, Papa Song for All.’
The gallerias
beckon, darling. Mrs. Ahn is obviously a woman with no time to fritter.”
Later, back in my quiet apartment, Hae-Joo paid me this compliment. “If I
had ascended from
server to prodigy in twelve straight months, my current address wouldn’t be
a guest quarter in
the Unanimity Faculty: I would be in a psych ward somewhere, seriously.
These … xistential
qualms you suffer, they just mean you’re truly human.”
I asked how I might remedy them.
“You don’t remedy them. You live thru them.”
We played Go until curfew. Hae-Joo won the first game. I, the second.
How many of these xcursions took place?
Every ninthnite until Corpocracy Day. Familiarity bred esteem for Hae-Joo,
and soon I shared
Boardman Mephi’s high opinion of him. The professor never probed about our
outings during
our seminars; his protégé probably filed reports, but Mephi wished me to
have at least the
illusion of a private life. Board business demanded more of his time, and I
saw him less
regularly. The morning tests continued: a procession of courteous but
unmemorable scientists.
Hae-Joo had a Unanimityman’s fondness for campus intrigue. I learned how
Taemosan was no
united organism but a hillock of warring tribes and interest groups, much
like the Juche itself.
The Unanimity Faculty maintained a despised dominance. “Secrets are magic
bullets,” Hae-Joo
was fond of saying. But this dominance also xplains why trainee enforcers
have few friends
outside the faculty Girls looking for husbands, Hae-Joo admitted, were
attracted to his future
status, but males of his own age eschewed getting drunk in his company.
Archivist, my appointment in the Litehouse is approaching. Can we segue to
my final nite on
campus?
Please do.
A keen passion of Hae-Joo’s was disneys, and one perq of Professor
Mephi’s mentorship was access to forbidden items in the security
archives.
You mean Union samizdat from the Production Zones?
No. I mean a zone even more forbidden, the past, before the Skirmishes.
Disneys were called
“movies” in those days. Hae-Joo said the ancients had an artistry that 3-D
and Corpocracy had
long ob-solesced. As the only disneys I had ever seen were Boom-Sook’s
pornsplatters, I was
obliged to believe him. On sixthmonth’s final ninthnite, Hae-Joo arrived
with a key to a
disneyarium on campus, xplaining that a pretty Media student was currying
favor with him. He
spoke in a theatrical whisper. “I’ve got a disc of seriously one of the
greatest movies ever made
by any director, from any age.”
Namely?
A picaresque entitled The Ghastly Ordeal of Timothy Cavendish, made before
the foundation of
Nea So Copros, in a long-deadlanded province of the European democracy. Have
you ever
seen film dating from the early twenty-first century, Archivist?
Sweet Corpocracy, no! An eighth-stratum archivist wouldn’t get such
security clearance in his
wildest dreams! I’d be fired for even applying, and I’m shocked that even
a Unanimity
postgrad has access to such deviational material.
Is that so? Well, the Juche’s stance on historical discourse is riddled
with inconsistencies. On
the one hand, if historical discourse were permitted, the downstrata could
access a bank of
human xperience that would rival, and sometimes contradict, that taught by
Media. On the other
hand, corpocracy funds your Ministry of Archivism, dedicated to preserving a
historical record
for future ages.
Yes, but our xistence is kept from the downstrata.
Xcept from those condemned to the Litehouse.
Be that as it may, future ages will still be corpocratic ones. Corpocracy
isn’t just another
political system that will come and go—corpocracy is the natural order, in
harmony with
human nature. But we’re digressing. Why had Hae-Joo Im chosen to show you
this Ghastly
Ordeal?
Perhaps Professor Mephi had instructed him. Perhaps Hae-Joo Im had no reason
xcept a
fondness for the disney Whatever the reason, I was engrossed. The past is a
world both
indescribably different from and yet subtly similar to Nea So Copros. People
sagged and
uglified as they aged in those days: no dewdrugs. Elderly pure-bloods waited
to die in prisons
for the senile: no fixed-term life spans, no euthanasium. Dollars circulated
as little sheets of
paper and the only fabricants were sickly livestock. However, corpocracy was
emerging and
social strata was demarked, based on dollars and, curiously, the quantity of
melanin in one’s
skin.
I can tell how fascinated you were …
Certainly: the vacant disneyarium was a haunting frame for those lost, rainy
landscapes. Giants
strode the screen, lit by sunlite captured thru a lens when your grandfather
’s grandfather,
Archivist, was kicking in his natural womb. Time is the speed at which the
past decays, but
disneys enable a brief resurrection. Those since fallen buildings, those
long-eroded faces: Your
present, not we, is the true illusion, they seem to say. For fifty minutes,
for the first time since
my ascension, I forgot myself, utterly, ineluctably
Only fifty minutes?
Hae-Joo’s handsony purred at a key scene, when the film’s eponymous book
thief suffered
some sort of seizure; his face, contorted above a plate of peas, froze. A
panicky voice buzzed
from Hae-Joo’s handsony; “It’s Xi-Li! I’m right outside! Let me in! A
crisis!” Hae-Joo
pressed the remo-key; a wedge of light slid over the empty seats as the
disneyarium door
opened. A student ran over, his face shiny with sweat, and saluted Hae-Joo.
He delivered news
that would unravel my life, again. Specifically, forty or fifty enforcers
had stormed the
Unanimity Faculty arrested Professor Mephi, and were searching for us. Their
orders were to
capture Hae-Joo for interrogation and kill me on sight. Campus xits were
manned by armed
enforcers.
Do you remember your thoughts on hearing that?
No. I think, I did not think. My companion now xuded a grim authority that I
realized had
always been there. He glanced at his rolex and asked if Mr. Chang had been
captured. Xi-Li,
the messenger, reported that Mr. Chang was waiting in the basement ford park
. The man I had
known as Postgrad Hae-Joo Im, backdropped by a dead actor, playing a
character scripted over
a century ago, turned to me. “Sonmi~451, I am not xactly who I said I am.”
T*1
14 楼
Thanks,
Does this mean before I apply H1, I have to talk with my current university,
and get their permit?
When the new university apply H1 for me, Will they need some support
documents from my current university?
【在 s**u 的大作中提到】
: Once your H1B visa get approved, your J1 become invalid.
Does this mean before I apply H1, I have to talk with my current university,
and get their permit?
When the new university apply H1 for me, Will they need some support
documents from my current university?
【在 s**u 的大作中提到】
: Once your H1B visa get approved, your J1 become invalid.
r*y
15 楼
H1你可以指定开始时间啊没到时间就不行到了时间当然可以 而且你j1 waiver不能
transfer了
【在 T****1 的大作中提到】
: J1明年3月到期，已申请waiver,现在有一个H1机会，可以给办加急，15天那种。
: 请教大侠，
: 如果H1批下来了，我可以马上以H1身份工作吗，还是必须到明年3月J1结束后才能换成
: H1？
: 总不能同时拥有J1和H1两个身份吧？
transfer了
【在 T****1 的大作中提到】
: J1明年3月到期，已申请waiver,现在有一个H1机会，可以给办加急，15天那种。
: 请教大侠，
: 如果H1批下来了，我可以马上以H1身份工作吗，还是必须到明年3月J1结束后才能换成
: H1？
: 总不能同时拥有J1和H1两个身份吧？
s*d
16 楼
难道H-1B不能指定生效日期吗？在生效日起开始前即使H-1B approve了，应该还可以用
J1工作吧？
请问shmu版主是这样吗？
【在 s**u 的大作中提到】
: Once your H1B visa get approved, your J1 become invalid.
J1工作吧？
请问shmu版主是这样吗？
【在 s**u 的大作中提到】
: Once your H1B visa get approved, your J1 become invalid.
r*y
17 楼
看我回帖，visa跟h1-b没关系，visa是你入美国的凭证而已，不到规定的日期当然还是
j1
【在 s******d 的大作中提到】
: 难道H-1B不能指定生效日期吗？在生效日起开始前即使H-1B approve了，应该还可以用
: J1工作吧？
: 请问shmu版主是这样吗？
j1
【在 s******d 的大作中提到】
: 难道H-1B不能指定生效日期吗？在生效日起开始前即使H-1B approve了，应该还可以用
: J1工作吧？
: 请问shmu版主是这样吗？
T*1
18 楼
请问我的J1明年3月才到期(DS2019表上的时间），申请H1时可以指定为今年八月吗？
如果我的H1在8月就approved了，我的J1就随之失效了吗？谢谢
【在 r******y 的大作中提到】
: H1你可以指定开始时间啊没到时间就不行到了时间当然可以 而且你j1 waiver不能
: transfer了
如果我的H1在8月就approved了，我的J1就随之失效了吗？谢谢
【在 r******y 的大作中提到】
: H1你可以指定开始时间啊没到时间就不行到了时间当然可以 而且你j1 waiver不能
: transfer了
s*u
19 楼
Yes.
【在 s******d 的大作中提到】
: 难道H-1B不能指定生效日期吗？在生效日起开始前即使H-1B approve了，应该还可以用
: J1工作吧？
: 请问shmu版主是这样吗？
【在 s******d 的大作中提到】
: 难道H-1B不能指定生效日期吗？在生效日起开始前即使H-1B approve了，应该还可以用
: J1工作吧？
: 请问shmu版主是这样吗？
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