Viriconium (55 page)

“Give these to her next,” he ordered. “What flowers are in season? Never mind. Remember, no more ‘not yet possible’! No more coyness! Come and tell me her answer.” He thought for a moment. “The next time you come we will have a sitting for my portrait.” But it was plain that he had lost interest. Ashlyme left the tower carrying a parcel which proved to contain nothing but two freshly killed young rabbits, each with a green paper ribbon tied carefully round its neck. These the fat woman refused to touch, and though the dwarf claimed later that they were a traditional wedding gift in the Mingulay peninsula, Ashlyme had his doubts.

Soon he was back and forth between them once or twice a week.

This was not an onerous duty at first; and though he was conscious that it made him look a fool to play the dwarf’s romantic proxy, it suited him well enough in that it enabled him to resume his visits to Audsley King on a regular basis. Recklessly he began using the Gabelline Stairs again to get in and out of the Low City, reasoning that while he was abroad on the dwarf’s business he would not be arrested by the dwarf’s police. He began the portrait of Audsley King all over again, watching her helplessly as every day another layer of flesh melted away, deepening the bluish hollows underneath her cheekbones. Her face was constantly refining itself, seeking the exact expression of the underlying bone structure to be found in death. She did not seem to be interested in the picture. She stared listlessly at what he had done and urged him to “seek out the forms of things.” To entertain her in the long cold hours while he was painting, he told her lies about Paulinus Rack and invented scandalous love affairs for the Marchioness “L”; Livio Fognet he bankrupted. He lied without mercy, and she was eager to believe anything.

For the first time, he sensed, her courage had faltered, and she was sustained in her determination to remain in the Low City only by her ready self-contempt, her appalling strength of will. This disappointed him obscurely where, before the kidnap attempt, it would have given him heart.

Outside the studio the Low City deteriorated daily, its meaningless commerce and periods of stunned lethargy mimicking the dull decline of Audsley King’s spirit. Shredded political posters flapped from the iron railings. Rain blew across the muddy grass. The horse chestnut flowers guttered like grey wax candles. The plague cut off first Moon Street, then Uranium Square, making peninsulas then archipelagos out of them—finally it engulfed each little island while its unsuspecting inhabitants were asleep. In the sodden churchyards and empty squares the police of the Barley brothers stood about in small groups, jeering at the police of the Grand Cairo. Poets droned from the abandoned estaminets.

Audsley King seems to observe all this from a dream,
Ashlyme wrote, beginning a new page in his journal.
Her expression is terrible: hungry, despairing,hopeful, all at once.

He could not release himself from a sense of guilt. A self-portrait painted at about this time, “Kneeling with raised arms,” shows him, his eyes squeezed closed, apparently crawling and groping his way about his own studio, a whitish empty space. He seems to have come up against some sort of invisible barrier, against which he is pressing one side of his face so that it is distorted and whitened into a mask of frustration and despair. (This obstacle was probably the full-length mirror he had brought with him to the city some years before, as a student. In spite of its size and weight he always took it with him when he moved from studio to studio.) The original oil of the painting has been lost, but a watercolour study shows it to have been one of his most powerful pieces. He disliked it markedly, and wrote,
I have drawn a rather unpleasant thing today after
seeing the Grand Cairo. It is because of the outrage he has done my freedom.

The dwarf’s relations with the Barley brothers now underwent a further deterioration. It was not made clear what plots and counterplots were involved. But Ashlyme noted:
He has let himself go. His boots are dirty and he
reeks of hair oil. I return home late at night to find him waiting for me. If the
Barley brothers are mentioned he flies into a rage, denouncing them for their
latest betrayal and shouting, “They were down in the gutters until I dragged
them out!” and “What thanks have I ever got for that?” Raving like this seems
to tire him out, and then he spends most of his time slumped in a chair rememberingthe good times he has had in some brothel or other on the Rue des
Horlogers.

Beneath his obliquity and his vile temper he is a child. Though they have
done him no harm as far as I can see, he goes in such hatred of his masters that
he has even made up a sort of embroidered mythological slander to account for
them. The details of the myth vary from day to day, but its basis is always
much the same.

The Barley brothers, he claims, are all that remain of a race of magicians
or demiurges driven out of Viriconium hundreds or thousands of years ago in
a war with “giant beetles.” Finding themselves exiled in the inhospitable
sumps and deserts to the north, these creatures first built cities of stone cubes
“with gaps between them through which the wind rumbles,” then set about
projecting themselves backwards in time to a remoter, happier period of the
world. By now most of them have achieved this aim, and their cities are
derelict, inhabited only by mirages, simulacra, or ordinary human beings
trying to mimic their culture. The Barley brothers were left behind as a punishment for some moral flaw in their natures, and in their attempts to follow
where they are not wanted they have somehow become stuck in our city.

This story shows the complexity and force of the dwarf’s feelings. All he has
he owes to the Barleys, though he wishes he did not. When he tells it his eyes are
glazed and inturned, as if the events were still there in front of him but can
only be discerned by a great effort. He makes broad yet hesitant gestures. He is
very clever at details, especially architectural ones, and he dwells with considerableingenuity on the sin of the Barley brothers which has kept them from
following their peers into the past. If he did not fully believe his own tale to beginwith, he has now left himself no choice.

One night the dwarf spoke of a city built by this race in the North (or perhaps in the sky, although he did not explain how this was possible):

“The people in their black overcoats seemed to drift along a few inches above the pavements. Now and then the wind pulled shadows over them so that the scene trembled like water. Their faces were white with conspiracy. Their eyes were wide open, passive; they had abandoned themselves to the wind between the blocks which pushed them gently along. Now and then there was a laugh, quickly stifled. We had them weighed up. Each one would do anything for you if he believed he had been let into some secret unknown to the rest. In the evenings a new wind howled and screamed in off the waste, bringing with it enormous lizards and insects. Handfuls of ash and ice were thrown down the streets like glass marbles. On Sundays the wet streets were carpeted with dead locusts. The Barley brothers have invented many towns, but this was the worst. I found them in the gutters there, and they soon dragged me down with them!”

He was silent for five minutes. Then he asked to see the knife he had given Ashlyme before the kidnap attempt. He always asked to see it: perhaps it was in his eyes the reaffirmation of a bond.

“I got that knife up there in the North,” he said, “and I had to do some quick work to keep it. Quick work! Do you know what we mean when we say that? Quick work is when you have to move your feet or go to the wall!” And he danced round the studio, showing his stained teeth and making clumsy passes with the knife until he was out of breath. “Oh, yes, there was blood on this knife from the moment I had it. I’ve lived in some queer spots, I can tell you. That knife and I have been in some queer spots!” His eyes took on a distant, romantic look, and he rubbed his thumb up and down the curiously flawed blade before handing it back.

“That knife will serve you well one day,” he said portentously. “I can tell you that.”

Ashlyme was impressed by his powers of invention.
In the end, though
, he recorded,
I listen without believing. He tires, mumbles, allows his head to
fall on his chest, snores. Suddenly he wakes up with a start and goes home biting his nails, afraid that he has contracted a syphilis in the Rue des Horlogers,
and forgets everything he has said. By tomorrow he will have invented somethingelse to place the Barleys in a bad light.

Each night before leaving he gave Ashlyme some new gift for the fortune-teller. He would not hear of abandoning his suit. The longer she resisted him, the more inappropriate his presents became: a hank of hair, signet rings with obscene designs, a rusty flint picked up in some desert long ago. She accepted them expressionlessly, repeating, “What your friend suggests is not yet possible. My responsibilities are here.” He lost his temper with Ashlyme. He had reason to believe, he said, that his expensive flowers had been given to Audsley King instead of Fat Mam Etteilla; some of his gifts had been found in a dustbin; his letters were not being delivered. He brushed aside all Ashlyme’s explanations. “Bring her to me or it’ll be the worse for you,” he said.

Unnerved, Ashlyme put this to the Fat Mam the next time he was in the Rue Serpolet. She looked at him sharply, then said,

“Very well.”

That morning, Audsley King had suffered a small haemorrhage and was resting with open mouth and bluish lips on the studio
fauteuil,
turning over restively now and again to murmur in some language Ashlyme didn’t know. So as not to wake her, they were standing in the passage just the other side of the curtain, talking in low voices.

Ashlyme was surprised. “Do you mean to go and see him in his own house?”

“Yes,” said the fortune-teller. “Why not?” Suddenly she blushed, and smoothed her hair with one big, chapped hand. “A strong man will always have his own way in the end,” she said complacently.

Ashlyme stared at her.

The meeting took place one evening a week later, in the dwarf’s salle.

He had worked feverishly to prepare it for the occasion. All week, the teams of carpenters and interior decorators had gone to and fro, working to his precise instructions.

The floor had been stained black and polished. His collection of paintings had been taken down carefully and stored. The walls were covered with white linen dustcloth up to a height of about twenty feet. This had been stretched tight and pinned to make a background for a profusion of objects made from straw, hair, and metal, and also many tools such as pliers, hammers, pincers, and chisels, which hung from coppered nails or braided silk cords or specially made brackets of the dwarf’s own devising. There were old sheaves of corn, full of dust and shrivelled mice; samplers woven out of the hair of girls; two or three mantraps black with rust; and a monkey made of twisted jute fibres on a soft wire armature. All these things had been decked with loose spirals of yellow and green ribbon. A greyish light fell on them. Above them lurked the smoky umber void of the original room, a space the colour of time and decay.

The furniture had been dressed similarly. Draped with white cloth, wound about with coloured ribbon, the armchairs, armoires, and cupboards took on the air of huge, vaguely threatening parcels.

It wasn’t clear how many people the dwarf was expecting. A long trestle table in the centre of the room was loaded with food, mostly game birds still in their feathers, glazed pies, custards, and large joints of meat decorated with paper frills. Crudely plaited “corn dollies,” such as a child may make from raffia or straw on a wet afternoon in the midland levels, had been placed among the baskets of fruit, the bottles of genever, and the thick white plates. In the middle of the table was a full-sized sheep’s head, stripped and varnished, with oranges for eyes. On each side of this stood a vase of late hawthorn blossom, filling the room with the thick, soporific scent of the may.

Fat Mam Etteilla eyed these preparations nervously. She had given nothing away as she swept through the Haadenbosk, looking neither right nor left. But the queer environs of Montrouge had puzzled her, and the attentions of the dwarf’s police, though friendly, had weakened her resolve. She stared up into the vault of the old room and toyed with the floral trimmings of her hat. She is already wishing she hadn’t come, thought Ashlyme, and in an effort to make her feel more at home he said cheerfully,

“Well, he’s put on quite a show for you. Look at all this food! Do you think anyone would mind if I had one of these plums?”

When the dwarf arrived he took Ashlyme aside and said in a low voice, “I’ve dreamed the name of a street two nights in succession, Ashlyme. A street in the North.” He slopped some genever into a glass and drank it off. “What do you think of that? It’s made me damnably nervous, I don’t mind telling you.”

He noticed the fortune-teller. Immediately he was all charm. “My dear woman!” he cried, smiling up at her with all his blackened teeth. “Are you well? Are you
fully recovered
from those appalling events in the Rue Serpolet?” He looked slyly over his shoulder at Ashlyme, who turned away and pretended to be interested in something else. “You must tell us as soon as you feel in the slightest bit tired!” The fat woman, holding her hat with both hands in front of her, blushed modestly at the shiny floor and allowed herself to be ushered past the curious collection on the walls.