Aurorarama (43 page)

“Shh …” said Mougrabin, coming back to her.

He took her in his arms, and softly rocking her, stroked her lustrous wavy hair with his mutilated hand. “It is over now. Now you must go and prepare yourself.”

Stella left the room, looking at Gabriel with a sorrowful expression. He nodded, so slightly that she may not have noticed. He struggled to understand why she had deemed it necessary to go through this ordeal. But that was typical of radicals, he thought, this ability to convince themselves of the necessity of anything, provided it would turn their beliefs into action, their dreams into realities. Not to mention the influence of that damned Russian freak, who now came back to Gabriel with eyes that were, this time, unmistakably tearful, including the glass one.

“It is a small love, the one that cannot be shared,” said Mougrabin, squeezing his arm. “Sharing this one with you was … exceedingly painful. But it was also an honour.”

He squeezed Gabriel’s arm harder, and spoke in a low hissing voice.

“Freedom is not always a feast, Mr. d’Allier. It wants weeping and gnashing of teeth. It wants sacrifices. It wants blood.
I am
ready to make those sacrifices.”

He released his grip and opened a drawer, pulling out the wax roll Stella had so dearly bought.

“I would be still more honoured if you would come with us on the mission,” he said, now matter-of-factly. “And Stella would be happy, I am sure, for you to see what a brave and
loyal
young woman she is.”

Gabriel shrugged his shoulders. He felt empty. His love had been mutilated beyond recognition, a revolting shambles of rotting body parts like those of a
tupilaaq
hastily knocked together. He watched Mougrabin easing his maimed body into a vest and a jacket, and knew he could never touch Stella again. But he also realized—watching the anarchist distributing about himself small fulminate phials, poisoned pins on a pincushion, phosphoric cords, and what-not—that, after all, it was more interesting to be Mougrabin’s girlfriend than his.

If Gabriel had feared that the bombers would not be ready at such short notice, he was soon reassured. Mougrabin had been briefed extensively by Schwarz senior, who had previously studied, with the help of his daughter, every official building in the city and planned the destruction of each in both the most efficient and spectacular way. Blowing things up in New Venice was easy enough, since for all its pretention it was rather crudely built, but it was Schwarz’s theory that each building had its own personality and its own way to be blown up that would respect its features while producing maximum damage. He called this
Anarchitecture
.

Since it had been decided that killing or dismembering people was to be avoided, Hardenberg had insisted that the Treschler machine be preferred over bombs, as it crumbled the building in on itself, with little steel or stone flying about. This had required a slight modification of the blueprints from the anarchitects, since it was now the acoustic qualities of the building and the vibratory characteristics of its material that had to be taken into account. But on the whole that was less troublesome for everyone than fiddling around with mercury fulminate.

The N.A.N.A. was the target of choice for reasons even beyond its symbolic value. First, it was impressive enough. A long redbrick building, with a central gate topped by a dungeon, it evoked a British castle or college, and it looked so defiantly colonial that it was, in a sense, asking for trouble. Then too, as a late addition to the city, it was a bit off the beaten path, on an esplanade of its own (though it shared it in wintertime with the Jake Frost Palace, which had just been closed to the public), and except for its braggart’s frown it was rather defenceless. On top of that, it appeared that an Inuk informer working for the anarchists, going by the name of Oosik, had described the place to them inside and out, so that all of its tickle spots were well known to Mougrabin.

The most difficult part was simply getting there without being noticed, but at this early hour, and with everybody on holiday for the victory parade, this problem solved itself, as long as one stood in the shadows of the surrounding buildings and did not attempt to cross the esplanade in the moonlight.

The terrorist love triangle, by crouching and running and ducking for cover, soon reached the back of the building and, from there, a rear entrance that was used for deliveries. Deftly avoiding any jingling, Mougrabin thoughtfully selected a key from a key ring, and three trials were enough to let him in with Stella. Gabriel, wondering vaguely why he had agreed to come along, but too heartbroken to really care (maybe, inglorious as it was, he just wanted to see more of Stella), remained behind on the lookout. He stood in the dark, shivering with cold and sadness, at the northeastern corner of the building, from which he could see the Jack Frost Palace faintly gleaming under the moon, thinking how it would soon begin to melt, a soft and slow ruin, and he could not help imagining that all the city would dissolve with it, imperceptibly, until it left not a single trace, as if it had never been there at all. That felt better, somehow, than thinking about Mougrabin having taken Stella down to a cold, obscure kingdom from which he, Gabriel, would never ever be able to bring her back.

Meanwhile, Mougrabin had lit a phosphoric cord and, as surely as if he were in their own house, discovered with Stella a staircase that led down to the basement. There, he quickly strapped the Resonator to one of the pillars that held the vault aloft, while, equally nimbly, Stella fitted below it the muffled pavilion of the phonograph, before cranking it to play the roll.

The sounds came out too low to be heard directly, but they were echoed by the amplifier, diffusing them through the walls like the beating of a gigantic heart, so gigantic it had the power the break the ribcage that surrounded it. Mougrabin and Stella could hear the distant thuds as if someone were digging a tunnel below them. The sound waves circuited through the whole
building, gaining power as they did. A faint vibration could already be felt along the pillars. It was working. It would take some time but no stone would be left upon another. Mougrabin and Stella stood embraced for a while under that strengthening heartbeat and then, as a little dust fell from the ceiling, decided it was time to go.

The sun was beginning to rise as they emerged. Gabriel still stood against the wall, and he could feel it almost pulsating. He did not recognize his own song. It was not his anymore, but, then, that was what happened to songs.

“Everything went okay?” he asked without conviction.

“Fine,” said Stella, who looked even smaller in her thick, black, fur-lined jacket. She took off her crocheted hat and shook her corkscrew curls out in a moment of pure terrorist eroticism. Gabriel closed his eyes.

Mougrabin looked at the ashen dawn. They had taken too long.

“We should get away,” he said. He looked determined, and calmer than Gabriel had ever seen him.

But as they reached the corner of the building, Wynne suddenly sprang out in front them, his unsheathed cane in his hand.

“Here you are!” he said.

But he had sprung a little too soon. They were still a few yards away from him and had time to turn and run for their lives.

“The palace!” shouted Mougrabin.

They had the whole building to run alongside, and a good two hundred yards of esplanade to cross. But Wynne was an athlete and he would soon catch up.

“Let’s separate!” bellowed Mougrabin, running quite quickly in spite of his slight limp.

They moved apart from one another, so as to disorient Wynne. Who would he really want to catch? Stella, the girl that he thought he had stolen from Gabriel and who had stolen
the roll from him? Or that d’Allier for whom there would be, he had promised, no third chance of escape? Stella was the one he had been following tonight, but d’Allier was the closest. He would be the chosen one.

A blast threw Wynne off balance. A little phial had exploded not far from him, and a few glass splinters had peppered him. He started again, his rage increased, veering toward Mougrabin, but quickly changed his mind, as he reckoned this one was
dangerous
. D’Allier was better game, and almost in his reach. A promise is a promise. He would pay for the others.

Gabriel, meanwhile, had regained the yards he had lost but, blame it on his lifestyle, was not much of a sprinter. His body shook in exhaustion and fear. He entered the esplanade, dazzled by the dawning sun, already losing his breath, with Wynne pumping his legs like pistons just a few paces behind.

The Jack Frost Palace loomed, blindingly, in front of him, a mere hundred yards away. It was his last chance. Mougrabin and Stella had disappeared. Maybe he was saving them by sacrificing himself. Maybe he was just unlucky. He was gasping, a side stitch stabbing him, by the time he reached the security barriers that protected the public from the crumbling castle. He tried to jump over them but stumbled, then regained his balance and darted toward the gate, while Wynne now swiftly escaladed the clanging rails behind him.

The place was like a maze, full of open courts and inner gates, but hesitation was not an option, though any dead end would be fatal. He panicked as Wynne’s shadow almost reached him.

“Stop! Stop right now!” cried the policeman.

Gabriel was perhaps not, as he had dreamed he was, one of those men who turn around, knife in hand, to face the enemy. Especially without a knife. But he was stubborn enough to keep on running, turning left or right as soon as he could, although his lungs were about to burst and his legs were giving in. He
went through another gate, but this time there was no exit, just a circling wall, its crenels about ten feet high. He was trapped. Wynne was coming closer, with the strides of an ogre. Gabriel nervously searched his pocket, looking for some weapon, and all he found was the polar kangaroo amulet. He clutched it and closed his eyes.

“Kiggertarpok,” he thought, “please …”

As Wynne entered the court, he saw Gabriel leaping over the wall.

Gabriel felt as if he had been lifted by a crane and tossed through the freezing air. He willed himself to land on a parapet, and did it almost neatly, balancing himself with whirling arms. As he turned away to look down, he saw Wynne hurl his top hat onto the snowy ground. And he saw that outside the castle, on each side of the gate, Mougrabin and Stella had regrouped and, knives in hand, were silently waiting for the policeman to come out.

In front of Gabriel, the city spread its whiteness, its frozen canals gleaming like fire under the ascending sun. By and by, little black figures streamed from all directions, gathering for the victory parade.

T
he lightly yellowish edition of the
Arctic Illustrated News
of March 1, 1908 AB (After Backward) has always been a prized treasure among newspaper collectors, and is the only item in Brentford Orsini’s collection: not only has it been deemed extremely rare, but it is also one of the
most fascinating documents of that very special moment in the history of New Venice.

In five dense columns of purplish prose, its front page rhapsodized over this particular day when the Council of Seven had decreed a military parade to celebrate the “homecoming heroes” of the “glorious victory against the Inuit Independentists” during the battle of Prince Patrick Island. Not only had the rebels been crushed by a swift assault of the Sea Lions that took no prisoners, but the hangar and mooring mast of the unknown black airship had been destroyed, as well as a strange machine with antennas, which, according to military experts, was, the reporter wrote, a “secret death ray still in a phase of experimentation, but powerful enough to have wiped the city off the map.” As to the dirigible itself, now cut off from its secret rear base, it had entirely vanished from the skies.

It was the first time since the foundation of New Venice that armed troops had been allowed to march through its streets, as a way to celebrate their bravery and, also, to dispel any doubts as to “the harmonious relationship that existed between the City and its loyal defenders.” This exceptional measure, perhaps not quite faithful to the principles of the Seven Sleepers, had been, the newspaper insisted, “fully justified by the equally exceptional extent of the threat the city had been under.”

The Council of Seven had nevertheless demanded strengthened security measures for the parade itself, in the event that “misguided members of the native minorities” wrongly interpret this military presence as a provocation directed toward them, and, God forbid, a disguised form of martial law. It would be a shame if these local independentists “put at risk by some irresponsible behaviour during the parade the majority of their famously peace-loving community.”