Kitabı oku: «Imajica», sayfa 10

2

The roads were as empty as she’d predicted, and it took only fifteen minutes to get back to Gentle’s studio. He wasn’t exactly coherent. On the way, the exchanges between them were full of gaps and discontinuities, as though his mind were running ahead of his tongue, or behind it. Drink wasn’t the culprit. Jude had seen Gentle drunk on all forms of alcohol: it made him roaring, randy and sanctimonious by turns. Never like this, with his head back against the seat, his eyes closed, talking from the bottom of a pit. One moment he was thanking her for looking after him, the next he was telling her not to mistake the paint on his hands for shit. It wasn’t shit, he kept saying, it was burnt umber, and Prussian blue, and cadmium yellow, but somehow when you mixed colours together, any colours, they always came out looking like shit eventually. This monologue dwindled into silence, from which, a minute or two later, a new subject emerged.

‘I can’t look at him, you know, the way he is …’

‘Who?’ Jude said.

Taylor. I can’t look at him when he’s so sick. You know how much I hate sickness.’

She’d forgotten. It amounted to a paranoia with him, fuelled perhaps by the fact that though he treated his body with scant regard for its health he not only never sickened but hardly aged. Doubtless the collapse, when it came, would be calamitous: excess, frenzy and the passage of years taking their toll in one fell swoop. Until that time he wanted no reminders of his physical frailty.

Taylor’s going to die, isn’t he?’ he said.

‘Clem thinks very soon.’

Gentle gave a heavy sigh. ‘I should spend some time with him. We were good friends once.’

There were rumours about you two.’

‘He spread them, not me.’

‘Just rumours, were they?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think you’ve probably tried every experience that swam by at least once.’

‘He’s not my type …’ Gentle said, not opening his eyes.

‘You should see him again,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to face up to falling apart sooner or later. It happens to us all.’

‘Not to me it won’t. When I start to decay, I’m going to kill myself. I swear.’ He made fists of his painted hands, and raised them to his face, drawing the knuckles down over his cheeks. ‘I won’t let it happen,’ he said.

‘Good luck,’ she replied.

They drove the rest of the way without any further exchange between them, his passive presence on the passenger seat beside her making her uneasy. She kept thinking of Taylor’s story and expecting him to start talking, unleashing a stream of lunacies. It wasn’t until she announced that they’d arrived at the studio that she realized he’d fallen asleep. She stared at him awhile: at the smooth dome of his forehead, and the delicate configuration of his lips. It was still in her to dote on him, no question of that. But what lay that way? Disappointment and frustrated rage. Despite Clem’s words of encouragement she was almost certain it was a lost cause.

She shook him awake, and asked him if she could use his bathroom before going on her way. The punch was heavy in her bladder. He was hesitant, which surprised her. The suspicion dawned that he’d already moved a female companion into the studio, some seasonal bird to be stuffed for Christmas and dumped by New Year. Curiosity made her press to be allowed in. Reluctant as he was, he could scarcely say no, of course, and she traipsed up the stairs after him, wondering as she went what the conquest was going to look like, only to find that the studio was empty. His sole companion was the painting that had so filthied his hands. He seemed genuinely upset that she’d set eyes on it, and ushered her to the bathroom more discomfited than if her first suspicions had been correct, and one of his conquests had indeed been disporting herself on the threadbare couch. Poor Gentle. He was getting stranger by the day.

She relieved herself, and emerged from the toilet to find the painting covered with a stained sheet, and him looking furtive and fidgety, clearly eager to have her out of the place. She saw no reason not to be plain with him, and said:

‘Working on something new?’

‘Nothing much,’ he said.

‘I’d like to see.’

‘It’s not finished.’

‘It doesn’t matter to me if it’s a fake,’ she said. ‘I know what you and Klein get up to.’

‘It’s not a fake,’ he said, a fierceness in his voice and face she’d not seen so far tonight. ‘It’s mine.’

‘An original Zacharias?’ she remarked. ‘This I have to see.’

She reached for the sheet before he could stop her, and flipped it up over the top of the canvas. She’d only had a glimpse of the picture as she’d entered, and from some distance. Up close, it was clear he’d worked on the canvas with no little ferocity. There were places where it had been punctured, as though he’d stabbed it with his palette knife or brush; other places where the paint was laid on with glutinous abandon, then thumbed and fingered to drive it before his will. All this to achieve the likeness of what? Two people, it seemed, standing face to face against a brutal sky, their flesh white, but shot through with jabs of livid colour. ‘Who are they?’ she said.

‘They? he said, sounding almost surprised that she’d read the image thus, then covering his response with a shrug. ‘Nobody,’ he said, ‘just an experiment,’ and pulled the sheet back down over the painting.

‘Is it a commission?’

‘I’d prefer not to discuss it,’ he said.

His discomfort was oddly charming. He was like a child who’d been caught about some secret ritual. ‘You’re full of surprises,’ she said, smiling.

‘Nah, not me.’

Though the painting was out of sight he continued to look ill at ease, and she realized there was going to be no further discussion on the picture or its import.

‘I’ll be off then,’ she said.

‘Thanks for the lift,’ he replied, escorting her to the door.

‘Do you still want to have that drink?’ she said.

‘You’re not going back to New York?’

‘Not immediately. I’ll call you in a couple of days. Don’t forget Taylor.’

‘What are you, my conscience?’ he said, with too small a trace of humour to soften the weight of the reply. ‘I won’t forget.’

‘You leave marks on people, Gentle. That’s a responsibility you can’t just shrug off.’

‘I’ll try to be invisible from now on,’ he replied.

He didn’t take her to the front door, but let her head down the stairs alone, closing the studio door before she’d taken more than half a dozen steps. As she went, she wondered what misbegotten instinct had made her suggest drinks. Well, it was easily slipped out of, even assuming he remembered the suggestion had been made, which she doubted.

Once out in the street she looked up at the building to see if she could spot him through the window. She had to cross the road to do so, but from the opposite pavement she could see him standing in front of the painting, which he had once again unveiled. He was staring at it, with his head slightly cocked. She couldn’t be certain, but it looked as though his lips were moving; as though he were talking to the image on the canvas. What was he saying, she wondered. Was he coaxing some image forth from the chaos of paint? And if so, in which of his many tongues was he speaking?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
1

She had seen two people where he’d painted one. Not a he, a she or an it, but they. She’d looked at the image and seen past his conscious intention to a buried purpose, one he’d hidden even from himself. Now he went back to the canvas and looked at it again, with borrowed eyes, and there they were, the two she’d seen. In his passion to capture some impression of Pie’oh’pah, he had painted the assassin stepping from shadow (or back into it), a stream of darkness running down the middle of his face and torso. It divided the figure from top to bottom, and its outer edges, ragged and lush, described the reciprocative forms of profiles, etched in white from the halves of what he’d intended to be a single face. They stared at each other like lovers, eyes looking forward in the Egyptian manner, the backs of their heads folded into shadow. The question was: who were these two? What had he been trying to express setting these faces thus, nose to nose?

He interrogated the painting for several minutes after she’d gone, preparing as he did so to attack the canvas again. But when it came to doing so, he lacked the strength. His hands were trembling, his palms clammy; his eyes could only focus upon the image indifferently well. He retreated from the picture, afraid to touch it in this weakened state for fear he undo what little he’d already achieved. A painting could escape so quickly. A few inept strokes and a likeness (to a face, to another painter’s work) could flee the canvas and never be recaptured. Better to leave it alone tonight. To rest, and hope he was strong tomorrow.

He dreamed of sickness. Of lying in his bed, naked beneath a thin white sheet, shivering so hard his teeth chattered. Snow fell from the ceiling intermittently, and didn’t melt when it touched his flesh, because he was colder than the snow. There were visitors in his sickroom, and he tried to tell them how cold he was, but he had no power in his voice, and the words came out as gasps, as though he were struggling for his last breath. He began to fear that this dream condition was fatal; that snow and breathlessness would bury him. He had to act. Rise up from the hard bed and prove these mourners premature.

With painful slowness, he moved his hands to the edge of the mattress in the hope of pulling himself upright, but the sheets were slick with his final sweat, and he couldn’t get a firm hold. Fear turned to panic, despair bringing on a new round of gasps, more desperate than the last. He struggled to make his situation plain, but the door of his sickroom stood wide now and all the mourners had disappeared through it. He could hear them in another room, talking and laughing. There was a patch of sun on the threshold, he saw. Next door it was summer. Here, there was only the heart-stopping cold, taking a firmer grip on him by the moment. He gave up attempting Lazarus, and instead let his palms lie flat on the sheets, and his eyes flutter closed. The sound of voices from the next room softened to a murmur. The noise of his heart dwindled. New sounds rose to replace it, however. A wind was gusting outside, and branches thrashed at the windows. Somebody’s voice rose in prayer, another simply sobbed. What grief was this? Not his passing, surely. He was too minor to earn such lamentation. He opened his eyes again. The bed had gone, so had the snow. Lightning threw into silhouette a man who stood watching the storm.

‘Can you make me forget?’ Gentle heard himself saying. ‘Do you have the trick of that?’

‘Of course,’ came the soft reply. ‘But you don’t want it.’

‘No, what I want’s death, but I’m too afraid of that tonight. That’s the real sickness: fear of death. But I can live with forgetfulness, give me that.’

‘For how long?’

‘Until the end of the world.’

Another lightning flash burned out the figure in front of him, and then the whole scene. Gone; forgotten. Gentle blinked the after-image of window and silhouette out of his eyes, and in doing so passed between sleep and waking.

The room was cold, but not as icy as his deathbed. He sat upright, staring first at his unclean hands, then at the window. It was still night, but he could hear the sound of vehicles on the Edgware Road, their murmur reassuring. Already - distracted by sound and sight - the nightmare was fading. He was happy to lose it.

He shrugged off the bedclothes and went to the kitchen to find himself something to drink. There was a carton of milk in the refrigerator. He downed its contents - though the milk was ready to turn - aware that his churned system would probably reject it in short order. Quenched, he wiped his mouth and chin and went through to look at the painting again, but the intensity of the dream from which he’d just woken made a mockery of his efforts. He would not conjure the assassin by this crude magic. He could paint a dozen canvases, a hundred, and still not capture the ambiguities of Pie’oh’pah. He belched, bringing the taste of bad milk back up into his mouth. What was he to do? Lock himself away, and let this sickness in him - put there by the sight of the assassin - consume him? Or bathe, sweeten himself, and go out to find some faces to put between him and the memory? Both vain endeavours. Which left a third, distressing route. To find Pie’oh’pah in the flesh: to face him, question him, have his fill of him, until every ambiguity was scoured away.

He went on staring at the painting while he turned this option over. What would it take to find the assassin? An interrogation of Estabrook, for one. That wouldn’t be too onerous a duty. Then a search of the city, to find the place Estabrook had claimed he couldn’t recall. Again, no great hardship. Better than sour milk and sourer dreams.

Knowing that in the light of morning he might lose his present clarity of mind, and it was best to close off at least one route of retreat, he went to the paints, and squeezed on to his palm a fat worm of cadmium yellow, and worked it into the still wet canvas. It obliterated the lovers immediately, but he wasn’t satisfied until he’d covered the canvas from edge to edge. The colour fought for its brilliance, but it soon deteriorated, tainted by the darkness it was trying to obscure. By the time he’d finished, it was as if his attempt to capture Pie’oh’pah had never been made.

Satisfied, he stood back and belched again. The nausea had gone from him. He felt strangely buoyant. Maybe sour milk suited him.

2

Pie’oh’pah sat on the step of his trailer, and stared up at the night sky. In their beds behind him, his adopted wife and children slept. In the heavens above him, the stars were burning behind a blanket of sodium-tinted cloud. He had seldom felt more alone in his long life than now. Since returning from New York he had been in a state of constant anticipation. Something was going to happen to him and his world, but he didn’t know what. His ignorance pained him, not simply because he was helpless in the face of this imminent event, but because his inability to grasp its nature was testament to how his skills had deteriorated. The days when he could read futurities off the air had gone. He was more and more a prisoner of the here and now. That here, the body he occupied, was also less than its former glory. It was so long since he’d corresponded the way he had with Gentle, taking the will of another as the gospel of his flesh, that he’d almost lost the trick of it. But Gentle’s desire had been potent enough to remind him, and his body still reverberated with echoes of their time together. Though it had ended badly he didn’t regret snatching those minutes. Another such encounter might never come.

He wandered from his trailer towards the perimeter of the encampment. The first light of dawn was beginning to eat at the murk. One of the camp mongrels, back from a night of adventuring, squeezed between two sheets of corrugated iron and came wagging to his side. He stroked the dog’s snout, and tickled behind its battle-ravaged ears, wishing he could find his way back to his home and master so easily.

3

It was the oft-stated belief of Esmond Bloom Godolphin, the late father of Oscar and Charles, that a man could never have too many bolt-holes, and of E.B.G.’s countless saws this was the only one Oscar had been significantly influenced by. He had not less than four places of occupation in London. The house in Primrose Hill was his chief residence, but there was also a pied à terre in Maida Vale, a smallish flat in Notting Hill, and the location he was presently occupying: a windowless warehouse concealed in a maze of derelict and near-derelict properties near the river.

It was not a place he was particularly happy to frequent, especially not on the day after Christmas, but over the years it had proved a secure haven for Dowd’s two associates, the voiders, and it now served as a Chapel of Rest for Dowd himself. His naked corpse lay beneath a shroud on the cold concrete, with aromatic herbs, picked and dried on the slopes of the Jokalaylau, smouldering in bowls at his head and feet, after the rituals proscribed in that region. The voiders had shown little interest in the arrival of their leader’s body. They were functionaries - incapable of anything but the most rudimentary thought processes. They had no physical appetites: no desire, no hunger or thirst, no ambition. They simply sat out the days and nights in the darkness of the warehouse and waited for Dowd to instruct them. Oscar was less than comfortable in their company, but could not bring himself to leave until this business was finished. He’d brought a book to read: a cricket almanac that he found soothing to peruse. Every now and then he’d get up and refuel the bowls. Otherwise there was little to do but wait.

It had already been a day and a half since he’d made such a show of taking Dowd’s life: a performance of which he was justly proud. But the casualty that lay before him was a real loss. Dowd had been passed down the line of Godolphin for two centuries, bound to them until the end of time or Joshua’s line, whichever came first. And he had been a fine manservant. Who else could mix a whisky and soda so well? Who else knew to dry and powder between Oscar’s toes with especial care, because he was prone to fungal infections there? Dowd was irreplaceable, and it had pained Oscar considerably to take the brutal measures circumstance had demanded. But he’d done so knowing that while there was a slim possibility that he would lose his servant forever, an entity such as Dowd could survive a disembowelling as long as the rituals of Resurrection were readily and precisely followed. Oscar was not in ignorance of those rituals. He’d spent many lazy Yzordderrexian evenings on the roof of Peccable’s house, watching the tail of the Comet disappear behind the towers of the Autarch’s palace, talking about the theory and practice of Imajical feits, writs, pneumas, uredos and the rest. He knew the oils to pour into Dowd’s carcass, and what blossoms to burn around the body. He even had in his treasure room a phonetic version of the ritual, set down by Peccable himself, in case Dowd was ever harmed. He had no idea how long the process would take, but he knew better than to peer beneath the sheet to see if the bread of life was rising. He could only bide his time, and hope he’d done all that was necessary.

At four minutes past four, he had proof of his precision. A choking breath was drawn beneath the sheet, and a second later Dowd sat up. The motion was so sudden, and - after such a time - so unexpected, Oscar panicked, his chair tipping over as he rose, the almanac flying from his hand. He’d seen much in his time that the people of the Fifth would call miraculous, but not in a dismal room like this, with the commonplace world grinding on its way outside the door. Composing himself, he searched for a word of welcome, but his mouth was so dry he could have blotted a letter with his tongue. He simply stared, gaping and amazed. Dowd had pulled the sheet off his face and was studying the hand with which he’d done so, his face as empty as the eyes of the voiders sitting against the opposite wall.

I’ve made a terrible error, Oscar thought. I’ve brought back the body, but the soul’s gone out of him; oh Christ, what now?

Dowd stared on, blankly. Then, like a puppet into which a hand had been inserted, bringing the illusion of life and independent purpose to senseless stuff, he raised his head, and his face filled with expression. It was all anger. He narrowed his eyes, and bared his teeth as he spoke.

‘You did me a great wrong,’ he said. ‘A terrible wrong.’

Oscar worked up some spittle, thick as mud. ‘I did what I deemed necessary,’ he replied, determined not to be cowed by the creature. It had been bound by Joshua never to do a Godolphin harm, much as it might presently wish to.

‘What have I ever done to you that you humiliate me that way?’ Dowd said.

‘I had to prove my allegiance to the Tabula Rasa. You understand why.’

‘And must I continue to be humiliated?’ he said. ‘Can I not at least have something to wear?’

‘Your suit’s stained.’

‘It’s better than nothing,’ Dowd replied.

The garments lay on the floor a few feet from where Dowd sat, but he made no move to pick them up. Aware that Dowd was testing the limits of his master’s remorse, but willing to play the game for a while at least, Oscar picked up the clothes and lay them within Dowd’s reach.

‘I knew a knife wasn’t going to kill you,’ he said.

‘It’s more than I did,’ Dowd replied. ‘But that’s not the point. I would have entered the game with you if that’s what you’d wanted. Happily; slavishly. Entered and died for you.’ His tone was that of a man deeply and inconsolably affronted. ‘Instead you conspire against me. You make me suffer like a common criminal.’

‘I couldn’t afford for it to look like a charade. If they’d suspected it was stage-managed - ‘

‘Oh I see,’ Dowd replied. Unwittingly Oscar had caused even greater offence with this justification. ‘You didn’t trust my actorly instincts. I’ve played every lead Quexos wrote. Comedy, tragedy, farce. And you didn’t trust me to carry off a petty little death-scene!’

‘All right, I was mistaken.’

‘I thought the knife stung badly enough. But this

‘Please, accept my apologies. It was crude and hurtful. What can I do to heal the harm, eh? Name it, Dowdy. I feel I’ve violated the trust between us and I have to make good. Whatever you want, just name it.’

Dowd shook his head. ‘It’s not as easy as that.’

‘I know. But it’s a start. Name it.’

Dowd considered the offer for a full minute, staring not at Oscar but the blank wall. Finally, he said:

‘I’ll start with the assassin, Pie’oh’pah.’

‘What do you want with a mystif?’

‘I want to torment it. I want to humiliate it. And finally, I want to kill it.’

‘Why?’

‘You offered me whatever I wanted. Name it, you said. I’ve named it.’

‘Then you have carte blanche to do whatever you wish,’ Oscar said. ‘Is that all?’

‘For now,’ Dowd said. ‘I’m sure something more will occur. Death’s put some strange ideas in my head. But I’ll name them, as time goes by.’