The Dragon Griaule (17 page)

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’ She was trembling violently, hugging herself.

He crossed to the sofa, sat beside her, and, after hesitating for a few seconds, draped an arm about her shoulder. Her hair had the smell of fresh oranges. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘I can feel him still, I’ll always feel him.’ She glanced up at Korrogly and then blurted out, ‘Come to bed with me. I know you don’t like me, but it’s warmth I want, not affection. Please, I won’t . . .’

‘I do like you,’ he said.

‘No, you can’t, you . . . no.’

‘I do,’ he said, believing it as he spoke. ‘Tonight I like you, tonight you’re someone it’s possible to care about.’

‘You don’t understand, you can’t see how he’s changed me.’

‘Griaule, you mean?’

‘Please,’ she said, her arms going around his waist. ‘No more questions . . . not now. Please, just keep me warm.’

Three

As Korrogly began his opening statement, half his mind was back in the gemcutter’s apartment with Mirielle, still embraced by her white arms, nourished by the rosy points of her breasts and her long supple legs, finding that beneath her veneer of depravity there existed a woman of virtue and sweetness, replaying in memory the joys of mastery and submission. None of this posed a distraction, but acted rather to inspire him, to urge him on to a more impassioned appeal than that he had originally contrived. Strolling alongside the jury box, stuffed with twelve pasty-faced models of good citizenship culled from an assortment of less worthy souls, he felt like a sea captain striding the deck of his ship, and the courtroom, it struck him, was essentially a cross between church and vessel, the ship of state sailing toward the coast of justice, with white walls for sails and boxy divisions of black wood holding a cargo of witnesses and jurors and the curious, and lording over all, the judge’s bench, an immense teak block carved into the semblance of dragon scales, where sat the oracular figurehead of this magical ship: the Honorable Ernest Wymer, white-haired and florid, an alcoholic old beast with a cruel mouth and tufted brows and a shiny red beak, hunched in the folds of his black-winged gown, ready to pounce upon any lawyerly mouse that should happen to stray into his field of vision. Korrogly was not afraid of Wymer; he, not the judge, was in command this day. He knew the jury’s mind, knew that they wanted to believe Griaule was the guilty party, that this suited the mystical yearning of their hearts, and with all his wiles, he set about consolidating that yearning into intent. There was urgency in his voice, yet it was neither too strident nor too subdued, perfect, a blend of power and fluency;
he felt that this harmony of intent and skill stemmed from his night with Mirielle. He was not in love with her, or perhaps he was . . . but love was not the salient matter. What most inspired him was to have found something unspoiled in her, in himself, and whether that was love or merely a place left untouched by the world, it was sufficient to renew his old enthusiasms.

‘We are all aware,’ he said toward the conclusion of his statement, ‘that Griaule’s power exists. The question remains, is he capable of reaching out from the Carbonales to touch us here in Port Chantay. That is a question we should not need ask. Look there.’ He pointed to the judge’s bench and its carved scales. ‘And there.’ He pointed to crude representations of the dragon carved twining the lintel posts at the back of the hall. ‘His image is everywhere in Port Chantay, and this is emblematic of his propinquity, of the tendrils of his will that have infiltrated our lives. Perhaps he cannot move us with the facility that he does those who dwell in Teocinte, but we are not so far beyond the range of his thoughts that he does not know us. He knows us well. He sees us, he holds us in his mind, and if he requires something of us, do you really believe he is incapable of affecting our lives in a more pronounced fashion? Griaule is, if anything, capable. He is an immortal, unfathomable creature who is as pervasive in our lives as the idea of God. And as with God, we do not have the wisdom to establish the limits of his capacities.’ Korrogly paused, letting his gaze fall on each of their rapt faces in turn, seeing therein a measure of anxiety, understanding how to play upon it; the slants of winter sunlight made them all look wan and sickly, like terminal patients hopeful of a cure. ‘Griaule is here, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. He is watching this proceeding. Perhaps he is even involved in it. Search inside yourselves. Can you feel secure that his eye is not upon you? And this’ – he picked up The Father of Stones from the prosecution table – ‘can you be sure that this is not his eye? The prosecution will tell you that it is only a stone, but I tell you that it is much more.’ He held it up to their faces as he passed along the jury box and was pleased to see them shrink from it. ‘This is Griaule’s instrument, the embodiment of his will, the vehicle by which his will has been effected here
in Port Chantay, miles and miles beyond the range of his usual sphere of influence. If you doubt this, if you doubt that he could have formed it and injected it with the complex values of his wish and need, then I urge you to touch it. It brims with his cold vigor. And just as you now perceive it, so it is perceiving you.’

The prosecution’s case was elementary. A constable testified to the authenticity of Lemos’ confession; several witnesses were called to testify to the fact that they had seen him working at cutting The Father of Stones; the old drunkard related his story of Lemos throwing stones on the beach; others claimed to have seen him breaking into the temple. Korrogly limited his cross-examination to establishing the point that none of the witnesses had known the gemcutter’s mind. No more was needed. The defense would rise or fall on its own merits.

Late in the day, Mirielle was called to the stand. Her testimony, while not as embittered as Korrogly had assumed it would be, was nonetheless of great benefit to Lemos; it was obvious that she was of two minds about her father, that she despised him, and that this attitude warred with the guilt that arose from testifying against him – that she should be in the least guilty implied that Lemos must have been a good parent, that her spite was doubtless a product of Zemaille’s corrupting influence. It was also evident that she was not being entirely forthcoming. She denied knowledge of Zemaille’s great work, and there was – Korrogly was certain – something else that she was keeping from the light. In his cross-examination he touched upon it, establishing the area of vagueness, one having to do with her reasons for entering the temple.

‘I’m not quite clear on this,’ he said to her. ‘Surely you didn’t enter into such a dark society on a whim?’

‘It was years ago,’ she said. ‘Perhaps it was a whim, perhaps I simply wanted to escape my father.’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘your father, who simply wanted to spare you the violent excesses of the temple. Truly, that was overly severe of him.’

Mervale leaped to his feet. ‘If the defense wishes to frame his lectoral remarks in a question, I suggest he do it.’

‘I agree,’ said Judge Wymer, with a cautionary nod to Korrogly.

‘Your pardon.’ Korrogly inclined his head in a respectful bow. ‘The temple,’ he went on musingly, ‘what attracted you to it? Was it Zemaille?’

‘I don’t know . . . yes, I think so.’

‘A physical attraction?’

‘It was more complex than that.’

‘How so?’

Her face worked, she worried her lower lip. ‘I don’t know how to answer that.’

‘Why not? It’s a simple question.’

‘Nothing is simple!’ she said, her voice growing shrill. ‘You couldn’t possibly understand!’

Korrogly wondered if she might be restraining herself from speaking of her father’s alleged abuse – he was not afraid of the topic, yet he did not want to break her down into tears and that seemed a likelihood. He would not have minded rage; but he did not wish to make her in any way an object of sympathy. He could, he knew, always recall her.

Questioning her, even though her adversary, he felt that a strange connection had been forged between them, as if they were partners in a plot, and it was difficult to maintain a professional distance; she looked beautiful in her lacy black dress, and standing beside the witness box, inhaling her scent of heat and oranges, he began to believe that his feelings for her did run deep, that something powerful had been dredged up from beneath the years of disappointment and failure.

The close of Mirielle’s testimony was also the close of the prosecution’s case, and Judge Wymer called for a recess until the morning. Lemos, as he had throughout the proceeding, sat without displaying any emotion – a gray statement of despair – and nothing Korrogly could say had a cheering effect upon him. He had been given a haircut in jail, his sandy forelock trimmed away, his ears left totally exposed, and this, along with his loss of weight and increased pallor, made him look as if he had been the victim of a prolonged and dehumanizing abuse.

‘It’s going well,’ Korrogly told him as they sat at the defense
table afterward. ‘Before today I wasn’t sure how the jury would react to our tactics, I was concerned that we didn’t have sufficient detail. But now I don’t know if we’ll need it. They want to believe you.’

Lemos grunted, traced an imperfection in the wood of the table with his forefinger.

‘Still, it would help a great deal if we could present a reason that would explain why Griaule wanted Zemaille dead,’ Korrogly went on.

‘Mirielle,’ Lemos said, ‘she didn’t seem to be as distant from me today as before. I wonder, could you ask her again to visit me?’

Korrogly felt a rippling of guilt. ‘Yes, I’ll ask her tonight.’

‘Tonight?’ Lemos looked askance at him.

‘Yes,’ said Korrogly, hurrying to cover the slip, ‘I’ll make a special trip to see her. I want you to see her, I’m in favor of anything that’ll wake you up. You’re on trial for your life, man!’

‘I know that.’

‘You don’t much act like you do. I’ll ask Mirielle to see you, but my advice is to forget about her for the time being, concentrate on the trial. Once you’re free, then you can repair the relationship.’

Lemos blinked, gazed out the window at the reddening western sky. ‘All right,’ he said listlessly.

Frustrated, Korrogly began packing up his papers.

‘I know,’ Lemos said.

‘What?’ Korrogly asked, preoccupied.

‘I know about you and Mirielle. I’ve always been able to tell who she was bedding. She looks at them differently.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous! I . . .’

‘I know!’ said Lemos, suddenly energized, turning a bright stare on him. ‘I’m not a fool!’

Korrogly, taken aback, began to wonder if Mirielle’s veiled accusations of parental lust might have had substance. ‘Even if I were . . .’

‘I don’t want you to see her like that!’ Lemos gripped the edge of the table. ‘I want you to stop!’

‘We’ll talk more after you’ve calmed down.’

‘I won’t have it! Ever since she’s been old enough, men like you have taken advantage of her. This time . . .’

Korrogly slammed his case shut. ‘Now listen to me! Do you want to die? Because if you do, alienating your lawyer’s a fine first step. I promise you, if you don’t stop this right now, I’ll start treating your case with the same lack of concern you’ve shown toward it. You don’t seem to care very much about living . . . or maybe that’s just an act. If it is an act, I caution you to be temperate with me.’

Lemos sank back into his chair, looking defeated, and Korrogly felt he had at last penetrated the man’s mask. The gemcutter did care about his fate; his pose of unconcern was a fake, his entire story a lie. Which made Korrogly an accomplice. He could back out of the case, he thought, claiming to have stumbled upon new information; but given Judge Wymer’s hostility toward the defense, it might be that charges would be brought against him in any event. And he could not be sure of the matter; there was nothing sure in this case. He had become so confused by the conflicting flows of evidence that he was unable to trust his own judgments. Lemos’ perverse desire for his daughter – if that, too, was not a fraud – might have enlivened him sufficiently to react to his peril.

After the guard had led Lemos back to his cell, Korrogly walked slowly through the twilight across town toward the Almintra quarter, ignoring the bustle of the evening traffic; his mind was in a turmoil, the greater part of his agitation caused not by the snarls of the case, but by the fact that he had threatened to turn against a client. It was the final tattering of his ideals, the ultimate violation of his contract with the law. How could he have done it, he thought. Was it Mirielle, her influence? No, he could not blame her – blame attached only to himself. The sole course open to him was to defend the gemcutter from this point forward to the best of his abilities, his guilt or innocence notwithstanding. And he would have to break it off with Mirielle; he could not in good faith continue to upset Lemos. It had been a long time since he had felt so at ease with a woman. But he would do it nevertheless, he told himself;
he would not allow this case to become a drain down which the last of his conscience flowed.

When he reached the gemcutter’s apartment, however, his resolve went glimmering. Mirielle was even more ardent than she had been the previous night; it was not until much later that Korrogly thought of Lemos again, and then it was only in passing, produced by a flicker of remorse. Mirielle was lying on her side, one leg flung across his hip, still joined to him; her breasts were small and white, glowing in the misted light from the streetlamps with the milky purity of The Father of Stones; beneath the skin, faint blue veins forked upward to vanish in the hollow of her throat. He traced their path with his tongue, making her breath come fast; he cupped her buttocks with his hands, holding her against him while his hips moved with sinuous insistence. Her nails pricked his back, the rhythm of her own movements quickened, and then she let out the last best part of her feeling in a hoarse cry.

‘God!’ she said. ‘God, you feel so good!’ And without thinking of what he was saying, he told her that he loved her.

A shadow seemed to cross her face. ‘Don’t say that.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Just don’t say it.’

‘I’m afraid it’s true,’ he said. ‘I don’t have much choice.’

‘You don’t know me, you don’t know the things I’ve done.’

‘With Zemaille?’

‘I had sex with other people, with whomever Mardo wanted me to. I did things . . .’ She closed her eyes. ‘It wasn’t so much what I did, it’s that I stood by while Mardo . . .’ She broke off, buried her face in the join of his neck and shoulder. ‘God, I don’t want to tell you any of this.’

‘It doesn’t matter, anyway.’

‘It does,’ she said. ‘You can’t go through what I have and come out a whole person. You may think you love me, but . . .’

‘How do you feel about me?’

‘Don’t expect me to say I love you.’

‘I’m not expecting anything more than the truth.’

‘Oh!’ She laughed. ‘Is that all? If I knew the truth, things would be much easier.’