Aurorarama (4 page)

“That will not be necessary, sir. We will fully trust you in that respect. As I suggested, we are just warning you for your own good. We have also been very surprised to learn that you have lectured to the Anarchist Circle in Blithedale. And this twice.”

“I am sure you know that it is because I was invited to do so, on innocent topics such as literature and music,” Gabriel answered, all the more impatiently as he thought that a good half of those anarchists were probably undercover policemen. “I do not see why these ‘fellow-citizens’ should not be ‘enlightened’ on these matters, as we can agree that, in the end, education brings more good than bad.”

Wynne smiled a decent imitation of a real smile.

“Oh, we certainly agree. We would not want you to feel defensive, Mr. d’Allier. All these facts I have alluded to are not presently
seriously
held against you. We would just like to make you aware that, taken all together, they may, at some point that is not under your control, combine to endanger your position as a professor. Given the present economical difficulties some of our citizens go through, it really would be a shame if a man of your standing should happen to find himself in a delicate situation. Unpleasant as is the prospect, I am nevertheless relieved that we have had the occasion to discuss this before it is too late, as we have nothing but your interest at heart. But that is not exactly the main reason for your presence among us. I know you like books and I happen to have one I want to show you, and this one, believe me, should satisfy your sense of style.”

Wynne unlocked his drawer, flourished a thin volume, bound in black leather, and handed it to Gabriel, who did his best to pretend that he was seeing
A Blast on the Barren Land
for the first time in his life.

“I suppose that a learned man such as you has already heard about or even read this book,” said Wynne, before propping up his square jaw with his fists.

Not only had Gabriel done that, he had also proofread and rephrased some minute parts of it. But he decided that this piece of information was to be kept locked in the safe of his cranium, for that was what a skullbox, or sulkbox, as he liked to call his own, was meant for, after all.

“I am sorry to disappoint both you and myself on that point.”

“I would not believe it, if I hadn’t your word of honour for it,” said Wynne.

“Consider you have it for all it is worth.” (“Under the present circumstances, you bastard son of a sick circus seal and a bearded woman”), added Gabriel to himself. He had been raised at St. Ignatius High School, and about all he had inherited from the Jesuits, besides his hatred of all forms of self-righteous domination, was the point and practice of “mental reservation.”

Wynne, though he still made his best effort to remain courteous, was now exuding impatience.

“We have it that you are very well acquainted with the Duke Brentford Orsini, the current Gardener-General of the Greenhouses & Glass Gardens.”

“I am indeed. And proudly so.”

“This honours you both, certainly. But the little problem that we have on our hands is that we strongly suspect that this libel, which could be easily be construed as defamatory, is the work of none other than the duke himself. Do you honestly think—as you, I presume, know very well both the style and
ideas of your friend—that he could possibly be the author we are looking for?”

“Well. It is obvious that the book is written precisely to disguise any recognizable style, and does so rather efficiently. As to Mr. Orsini himself, privy to his thoughts as I am, I have always known him for an obedient, law-abiding citizen.”

“May you be right, Mr. d’Allier, may you be right,” said Wynne, in a tone that was now perceptibly threatening.

“There are many kinds of laws,” interrupted DeBrutus, as if he sensed his colleague’s subtle shortening of temper and sought to maintain a standard of decency throughout the proceedings. “Some are written, some are of a more implicit nature. One can be a ‘law-abiding citizen’ and still, consciously or not, be at odds with the most sacred principles that make common life possible. Mister Wynne’s concern is that your friend does not make such a mistake, and for the time being, as your lawyer, my own concern is that Mr. Orsini does not make you his accomplice, when your own situation is not, if you’ll permit me, exactly the safest as regards the law.”

“Thank you, Mr. DeBrutus,” said Wynne, who had regained some composure. “I could not have expressed it myself more accurately. Let us hope that, in order to avoid any misunderstanding, I am now able to make a clear summary of the current situation.”

He leaned on the desk, staring straight into Gabriel’s eyes.

“Mr. d’Allier, I will not hide from you that were you to gather, by hearsay or sudden recollection, some information about the authorship of that book and let us know about it, we would greatly appreciate your effort, both as a service to the general public and as a token of your own goodwill in the circumstances that surround you. On the other hand, we would not regard as very favourable to your own affairs any attempt to inform your friend about our inquiries, for were our suspicions
unfortunately to be confirmed, that could be interpreted as a kind of obstruction, which, as Mr. DeBrutus could confirm, qualifies as a breach of the law. We would deeply regret it if things were to come to that point, for both you and Mr. Orsini, who are two highly valued members of our community, but you will easily understand that it is on the interest of that community that we must all set our sights. I hope you will forgive me if you feel that I have a been a little too straightforward with these explanations.”

“Not at all,” said Gabriel, trying to control the trembling in his voice. “They are quite fascinating actually, and certainly confirm the high regard in which the population holds you. Now, if you will excuse me, there is no company, good as it is, from which one must not eventually be parted.”

“Let me see you to the door” said DeBrutus, and rose from his seat, while Wynne, standing up as well, bowed to Gabriel and bade him farewell.

It was a long walk before DeBrutus, who had vainly tried to strike up a conversation, followed a moody Gabriel through the marble reception hall and the gilded revolving door that opened on the Nicolo Zeno Embankment. Gabriel inhaled what remained of the daylight as if it were a bottle of Letheon.

“Shall I say
au revoir
, Mr. d’Allier?” asked the Angel of the Law with a smile that Gabriel saw himself punching to a pulp in some kinetoscope of his mind.

“I hope it’s
adieu,”
he answered, dashing down the stairs without, this time, taking the offered hand.

T
he first thing Brentford noticed about the delegation is that they had a watch hung around their necks: one wore the case and one the face while the others shared the works. Whether that was for ornamental purposes or meant as a comment, he could not tell.

The group consisted of four Inuit from the local Inughuit people. As far as Brentford could make out, their names were Uitayok (older than the others, and who seemed to be the riumasa, “the one who thinks”); Ajuakangilak (a clever-looking man with searching eyes, who, judging by his belt and amulets, may have been the angakoq, or shaman); Tuluk (tall for an Inuk, some sort of métis, no doubt, deemed useful when dealing
with the Whites), and Tiblit (a long-haired fellow of rather uncouth appearance whose insistent smile could easily get on one’s nerves). They lived at—or had been relocated to—Flagler Fjord, and were among those families who had not deemed it a good idea to live in New Venice, though they probably had some relatives among the Inuit workers and servants of the city. All now sat at a round table, watching each other with all sorts of forced smiles.

Brentford had come to New Venice at an early age and had almost always lived with Inuit around, had known a lot of them, befriended some (even, briefly, loved one), had some inklings of their culture, and had collected their art, for which he showed a connoisseur’s appreciation. However, he had to admit that relationships with them were often a bit of a riddle and could be frustrating at times. When they were with the
qallunaat
, their word for Whites, unless some sort of personal friendship and trust had developed, Inuit often defended themselves with a blend of comic humility and unfathomable irony verging on contempt, which could make one uncomfortable. Brentford was used to it and had learned to live with it, but he could see that for Mason these meetings were still a source of uneasiness. The captain-general, not of an outgoing nature himself, seemed to subscribe to the classical military axiom about the “natives,” according to which “they couldn’t be trusted,” and as a result, he had firmly settled on the curt side of courtesy. Today’s palaver did not promise to inspire a more amenable attitude in him, as the situation quickly proved delicate.

Uitayok, who spoke a singular but almost intelligible missionary English, and who, when in trouble, was helped by the slightly more proficient Tuluk, put the matter with more succinctness than Brentford and Mason had feared. It was obvious these Inuit and their families were genuinely worried and in urgent need of a solution. Their problem was this: since self-sufficiency had become one of the goals of the Frobisher
Fortress, hunting parties had become the norm for patrols, and the use of noisy aerosleds and rifles had scared or depleted the game in a way that was starting to deprive the Inuit of their main source of food.

Brentford had already considered this possibility and foreseen it as a drawback to his plan. But he had not thought that the Subtle Army, for once unworthy of its self-bestowed nickname, would show so little understanding or restraint. Mason, on the other hand, assuming he could perfectly grasp what the problem was, had his own agenda: it did actually bring extra food to the fort, it was a welcome distraction for his bored men, and, not unimportantly, it was a show of strength that would remind the “Eskimos” of their real position in the food chain, in more senses than one.

There was, however, something else to be considered. These past few weeks the city “natives” had been rather “restless.” Pro-Nunavut slogans, in both the Inuktitut and roman alphabets, had been painted on monuments at a more frequent rate than usual, and revolting
tupilaat
, made of various animal remains glued together in crude miniature human forms, had been found all over the city, probably intended less as spells than as warnings that trouble was brewing.

There was usually little connection between the urban Inuit independentists and their wilderness cousins, but a recent picture, mysteriously sent to the newspapers, of forty or so fur-clad Inuit defiantly posing with rifles in a barren polar landscape, had made the authorities wonder if this was not changing. In other words, though Uitayok was certainly not implying anything of the sort, it was maybe not the best idea to strengthen those ties by bothering the North Wasteland Inuit.

If their numbers were few and, in theory, not much of a match for the Subtle Army, they had a better knowledge of the theatre of operations, and one of Mason’s missions was to
avoid that kind of conflict at all cost. Then, too, he had to take into account the presence of the mysterious black airship that, as he had himself remarked, might sooner or later be connected, if it wasn’t already, to his other concerns. If Eskimos were to be equipped, by some channel or other, with an allied air force, it might not do any harm to take into account what they had to say.

“I understand your worries,” Mason said, articulating carefully as if he were talking to children. “I propose we come to an agreement to limit,”—raising his voice, for while he was talking, Tiblit murmured something into Tuluk’s ear, so that Tuluk was lagging behind on the translation—“to limit the quantity of food we take. If our hunt exceeds this limit, the surplus will be returned to you.”

Uitayok seemed to ponder this, but Brentford could guess what he would answer.

“This is very kind of you. But it happens that one likes to hunt for oneself, even if one is a bad hunter,” he said, showing maybe more pride than he intended.

“Of course,” said Mason. “So, I shall see that a decent limit is not exceeded.”

Brentford doubted very much that Mason could control his men as well as he said, when they were patrolling in the wild. From hunters they would turn into poachers, and that was all.

“Why not collaborate?” he allowed himself to say. “It would be more convenient if our friends could set the limit themselves by offering their surplus or even by hunting for the Fortress. In exchange they could benefit from the surplus of the Greenhouse that is being built.”

Brentford, who could not himself stomach even the sight of a plate of spinach, was well aware that Inuit would not be overexcited at the idea of eating their greens. But he hoped that they would know a fair deal when it came to them, waving a
white flag. Mason was casting him a somewhat darkened look, but he could not admit that he wanted to allow his men to have some sport at the expense of the Inuit.