The Secret Book of Paradys Page 7

  Satanus est.

  I walked away into the city, and found a notary. By his reluctant candlelight I set my affairs in as much order as I could, and allocated such possessions as might be of any worth. I had never thought I should do such a thing, or that there would be any margin to do it. For I would be assassinated on the street, or perish in some stupor. Nor was there left me a Philippe, unreliable, impassioned, to take the residue of my writing to the printers, if he ever would have taken it. Would it concern me, in hell or in the grave, to recollect my unpublished works? Who would remember me in a year or two? But in two centuries, who would remember anyone, and in a hundred hundred years, all the paper would have transposed to paste, and dust. All the words, all the concertos, all the shrieking and the shouts, lost in the void of life. Oh, let it go.

  The business with the gunsmith did not take long. The barber’s took longer.

  It did occur to me that perhaps I might also seek a priest, and make to him my confession. But in the end, I had visualised it so thoroughly I seemed to have done it. And I did not want to go over all my sins again. Instead, I composed an ambiguous letter to Russe. I did not call on him. I wanted no one with me when I died but Death himself. He should surely be sufficient.

  Having paid my landlady, and told her only that I was going away, I went to bed.

  At first I woke several times, choking and panic-stricken. Then I slept deeply. I knew I would wake at the four o’clock bell, and so I did, with a mild surge, as if cast up by a wave upon a beach.

  Because I was to die in public, last night my vanity had determined it had better be as beautifully as possible. And so, last night, the barber’s shop, with its hirable bath, and then my hair washed and curled and freshly laved in “Martian” henna. From the launderers’ came the shirt with all its ruffles starched, the linen and muslin immaculate (Philippe’s coat), and so on. Even to the boots my vanity went, and had them polished up again with a rubric molasses to bring out their red.

  I had put on the ring. He would have to take it from my hand himself.

  The gunsmith’s man had been told he must make his own way over to the duelling place, with the case of pistols. But he knew where to go. As Scarabin had said, it was the preferred venue for those who wished to kill each other. The Senate winked at such illegal fights. Who could say what went on, at sunrise, in the thick woods below the planet-searching dome of the Observatory, which saw only space and stars?

  The sky looked nowhere near light when I went down the stairs and out into the City. All Paradys seemed to lie dumbfounded under a high black lid. Not a window awake. The street lamps glimmered, drunk to their dregs; many were out. There was a tingle of frost on the air.

  Two or three times I paused to drink from a small brandy-flask, a worthless metal thing from which, for a while once, I had never been parted. I was glad of it now. All natural feeling was gone, yet the world seemed far too real, and so insistent. It rubbed its bony sides against me. To die had no glamour left, because the practicalities of its arrangement had revolted me. Yet I wanted it more than ever, with a kind of hunger, and a desperate dread of its complications.

  It appeared to me I wandered more than walked, but I had left plenty of time to get there. I even went along a little way by the river, but no slender ominous boat came drifting from the mist.

  Then, as I began to climb up into that gorge of masonry, up towards the Observatory hill with the woods lying dark upon its lap, a kind of quickening came again, just as on the stairway of Philippe’s house. A terrifying brilliancy, a sumptuous fear. Not the reality I had just stumbled through, but the true reality, dramatically plunging its beak and talons in my vitals, and bearing me up on its wings.

  The vault of the night had swung higher, and eastward some rogues had set fire to the sky. I came to the railings and got over them, and walked up the mound of frosty turf, and into the trees.

  In the hollow, where it is done, they were waiting. A group of three men there, and there another group of two, where the folding table had been set up and the cases of guns put out. The surgeon sat nearby on a camp-stool, recognisable from his bag beside him, his arms crossed, indifferent. Up on the other slope of the hollow, a couple of carriages stood under the trees. They would have come in by the lane that ran past the Observatory, and would go out again by the same route. I wondered if I should be packed into one of them, or simply left lying, as sometimes happened.

  Seeing me arrive, the gunsmith’s man was now checking Scarabin’s pistols, as one of Scarabin’s seconds investigated mine. His pistols had not been hired for the occasion. They looked very white, disembodied, in the twilight. He, too, in the white coat, seemed to float between earth and open sky.

  I had forgotten I would urgently want to see him, to look at him. I was drawn, pulled over the grass towards him. But suddenly the gunsmith’s man got in my way. I tried to put the obstacle aside.

  “No, monsieur, wait a moment. There’s some irregularity here.”

  I halted.

  “Oh,” I said, “What?” I thought he was going to say I must have a friend with me, one at least, but I would rejoin it was a formality and dismiss it.

  “The bullet in this fellow’s gun – there is only the one, and in the one pistol only.”

  I looked at him. “Well?”

  “Well, it is –”

  I said, “Silver?” He nodded.

  I put my head down, shuddering, as if I had received a blow, and the gunsmith’s man caught at my arm. “Monsieur, you have every right to object –”

  “Yes, yes.” I dislodged him. I moved on, towards the being in its white coat. If he was an icon, yet the black boots were planted on the ground. Framed in the priest’s cowl of black hair, her face, unfamiliar and the same, its cruel changed lips compressed. And the eyes, waiting for me.

  Overhead, above the trees, the sky had bled out to nacre.

  “Are you ready to begin?” he said.

  “Why is there silver in your gun?”

  “An eccentricity. Humour me.”

  “I can object to it, the man says.”

  “But you will not,” Scarabin said. “Or are you going to dare to prolong this?”

  “Where did you get it, the silver? Since you mean it for me, I have an interest.”

  “Don’t concern yourself,” he said. “You will be penetrated only by the very best.”

  One of the men chuckled, slimily.

  “Some heirloom,” I said. “Holy silver from some priestly cross.”

  He stood and gazed back at me, arrogantly, disdainfully.

  I said, “There was another before me. What about that one? Or do you think he will be no trouble? Did you always do this service for her?”

  The men, his seconds (although I guessed he did not know them particularly, more of the Baron’s tribe, perhaps), were faint outlines at his back. Did they realise what we spoke of, and think we were mad?

  I said to Scarabin, “I’m sorry now I acquiesced to pistols. That’s too removed. I’m sure you were trained to the use of a sword, but I never was, or I would clamour now for two honed blades. I should like to cut that look off your bloody face.”

  “Such a pity,” he said.

  I stepped up to him and slapped him hard across the left cheek. His skin was so fair, the blood at once came up like thunder beneath it.

  “There,” I said. I nearly laughed aloud. The contact with his flesh had energised me. “I am ready to begin, when you are.”

  “Oh, come then,” he said, mockingly.

  We walked to the table. His hand settled on the nearer of the white pistols.

  “I shall require only this,” he said. “You may take both your weapons, if you wish.”

  “One will suffice.”

  A man came between us and spoke the litany.

  “Gentlemen, your witnesses have been given to understand this meeting is by mutual agreement, and that both of you have made your arrangements suitably. It is understood that the affa
ir can be settled only by a death. Then, gentlemen.”

  I tasted frost in my mouth, but already the wind of dawning was combing over the sky. Birds sang. A rook’s rasping bleat trailed like a flag as it passaged down into the City – I saw only the eyes of the man who must kill me.

  “ … Paces to the count of ten. And on the count of ten, to turn and fire at will.”

  The speaker stepped away.

  We stood, Scarabin and I, under heaven. Then turned, as instructed, to begin our walk.

  “One,” said the man who counted, “two … three …”

  The cord that bound us drew tighter as we moved further from each other. It tautened, ready to recoil, and plunge us home, breast to breast, eye to eye.

  “… Six … seven …”

  But here is the day, and soon it will be gone. Here am I, but where, tomorrow?

  He is making sure, with his silver. Antonina is the quarrel between us, lying at ease in her white coffin now, a white dead hound coiled at her feet. He would take the ring off my finger, but the electric coldness of his touch I should not feel.

  “Ten.”

  I turned again, in a noiseless spinning roar of lights, and brought up the pistol, sighting along it, not seeing. Just the shining blur of him against the maze of dusk and morning. I moved my arm, letting the pistol tilt, to miss him, and fired directly. In the same second, he also fired at me.

  I heard the shot. I heard a tearing sound.

  There was an impact. It threw me over and the earth slammed against my shoulders.

  This then, was this death? No, he had not hit me. No.

  Into the white shield of sky, the elongated dark silhouettes of men came stooping. I lay under water and looked up at them. They wavered and were folded away.

  The pain was a spike driven into my arm. There was a rawness in my chest. Ah then, he had hit me. The left arm. I should be able to continue to write. Someone held me, as I lay along the ground, my head was supported. Russe? No, Russe was not with me –

  I opened my eyes and the surgeon leaned forward. He peered at me. How insignificant and human were his eyes. “There is nothing I can do,” he said to me. “You are a dead man. You comprehend me?” Then, he raised his glance a short way and said to someone, “You have your satisfaction, monsieur. You will forgive my haste. Good day.”

  He rose up once more into the sky and was gone. They were all gone. There, across the grass, a solitary figure stood, in dark livery, and on a leash, a black dog rippled in and out of existence, a phantom thing, and beside it, another. Their black eyes stared at me. They scented blood.

  Who was it held me, then, my head on his thigh, the blood staining his white coat?

  “Is it you?”

  Not a word came out of me, I thought, but he seemed to hear.

  “I’m above your City laws,” he said, “and so not afraid to stay.”

  “To be sure of me. Where – am I hit?”

  “In the heart. An astonishment you still live.”

  I lay above the agony. I could not see him, only the red hair and the red blood, soaking across the skirt of his coat.

  “Take the ring,” I said.

  “Not yet.”

  “When?”

  “Presently.”

  The tears ran out of my eyes and I did not feel them, or the grief. All my days reduced to Presently.

  “Go now,” he said to me. His beautiful voice, it gleamed, like darkness. “You can hardly remain.”

  “I haven’t any last words,” I said. “They must invent them for me. Someone must. Dying is like the final moments of the carnal act, I suspected so. The intimation, the galvanic tremor that foreshadows it, then the unavoidable giving way, the surge, the sinking. Yes, I was right. Did I die before, to know it?”

  But I had ceased speaking long ago. My lips were fractionally parted on the words I had not whispered. My eyes were wide. And then his cold hand came gently to my face, and closed my eyelids down, carefully, as a mother might brush a leaf from the face of a sleeping child. And I was dead.

  The bird was tapping on the inside of the shell. I heard the sharp beak, its noise grated on me. Tap, tap, tap.

  Be quiet. Let me think.

  I was moving now, it was not unpleasant, there in the dark, to be moving. It was the boat, surely, for it was a wooden thing. Hush then, you need only lie still, and let the rocking lull you back asleep.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  The bird kept tapping at the shell. It sensed daylight. It wanted to get out.

  But I did not want the light, only the peaceful dark.

  Then the boat jolted, Charon making an error with his oar, or the Styx was choppy today. Well, I might open my eyes, might look to see what this country was like, after all. My eyes would not open yet. Well, there was no hurry. They were shadowy, the riverbanks of Hades, not much to gaze at.

  My thoughts, unable to lift my eyelids or operate any part of my body, swam up and down within me. Some sensation had returned, for I felt the wooden planks, and the touch of my own linen against my skin, and my own hair.

  Then abruptly the boat fell down. It fell and hit the bottom with a smack, rolling me about, making me move my hands and feet and head as I could not myself.

  Thereafter, cessation. And then a reverberating thud against the black air above me.

  It was the sound of a spadeful of soil flung in on to my coffin. I had not reached the shadowlands: I was still alive; and alive they were burying me.

  I tried to shout. I had no voice. I was not afraid. I lay in the dark, and listened to the earth thudding in to cover me up.

  This was a foolish thing. I had only to depart. He had told me, someone I had known, he had said to me, Go now. It was so close, the Shadow, the River, so near in all its vastnesses. Anything was possible, there. How had I lost my way?

  Tap, tap, went the bird. More earth slammed down. Tap, tap.

  When the burial was complete, and the last vague shakings and thumpings of my world had ceased, the vagrant thought in me composed itself. Though the bird continued to irritate me by random flinty pecks, the sheer comfort of this state allowed awareness to be reabsorbed. I abandoned the sensations of my outer skin, and sinking inward again, I glimpsed the threshold I had lost, quite suddenly, so accessible and near – and in that instant the bird’s beak ripped through the shell like a knife.

  I screamed aloud and my eyes flew open. My hands flew up, and took hold of the flimsy botched coffin, and broke it. It shattered around me and the earth poured in, and like a fish leaping from some depth of water, I drove myself upward. I exploded from the pit in a fountain of blackness, soil and stones and splintered wood. Almost asphyxiated, I kneeled in the broken grave, retching and coughing and choking for air: all the horrors of birth.

  The moon rose later, as I was lying there. Next I heard bells telling the hour. Where was I? Some ruinous cemetery, with a little church. A coffin of plywood, and the diggers anxious to be off and drink the money from the job. A pauper’s makeshift grave; the only reason I had got out of it.

  What city was this? Was it Paradys, or some other place? Did Paradys exist? It had been a dream, maybe.

  The moon was so cold, staring in my face. It made something glitter, too, lying near me. It had come up with me from the earth, a silver nugget of some sort. I took it in my hand. It was blunted and tarnished, but surely it had been pure?

  To leave the vicinity I had to claw my way through brambles, clamber over fallen tomb-stones – a deserted corner. When I came to the church, the door was firmly locked.

  As I stood there, I thought I saw a white greyhound rush across the cemetery. What was it chasing? I turned to see.

  Then I heard ordinary voices, and some light began to come, weaving through the thorn trees. Two men appeared, gallants going home from some feast, by way of death’s garden. They were drunk. They saw me, and exclaimed. The one with the lantern came up to me, leaned over me by the church wall, holding the light high.

  �
��Now what has been happening to you, eh?”

  My voice would trouble me. I spoke very low.

  “As you see, something unpleasant.”

  “Well if your sort will frequent such spots. Why are you dressed like that? Some brute made you, did he? The rotten scoundrel. What else did he do?

  He put his hand on my neck, his fingers into my hair. He leaned hard on me. Did I remember these things? Oh yes, long ago.

  “What’s your price?”

  They put the lantern on the ground among the weeds. The first one had me the first, urgently. Then his companion took his turn, and time. When they were done, they left me a handsome sum of money, and as they were buttoning their breeches, the first said to me, “You were lucky, in meeting us. But another night, better be more careful, sweetheart. Go on home now, and put your dress on.” The other said, “If she wants to dress herself as a man, I’ve no objection to it.” And he grinned at me before they careered away through the briars under the moon.

  I met an old rag-picker, an old bent woman, as I was leaving the cemetery. She stared at me, as the moon had done. “Oh, lady,” she said, “oh lady you are in a fix.”

  “I shall be better soon.”

  “I thought it was a man,” she said, “a boy. But there’s grave-dirt in your hair.”

  “Do you know,” I said, “is there a monument near here – a monument of plague?”

  “Oh, not far. Don’t you know where you are, girlie? Been looking for someone, I suppose, trying to dig him out again. Well, it’s a sad world.”

  “Where is this place?”

  “How should I know? Some place without a name. What’s my name? What’s yours?”

  “I – forget – my name –”

  “There now. And so it is with that place. All those nameless bones. The headstones weather and wear, if there are any headstones put for them.”

  “Young men killed in duels are buried there.”

  “Yes,” she snapped, “and old ones, too, that ought to know better.”

  She raised her threadbare body an inch or so, and held my hand as she pointed away towards the Obelisk Gardens. There were no rings on my fingers. She could only be jealous of my youth.