‘I can’t believe it happens here.’ I indicated the peaceful view. ‘What is there to fight over?’
Mytrie pointed deliberately at the troopship. ‘This is a beautiful place, Sandro,’ he said. ‘But those ships are filled with boys coming back from the war. They’ve been cooped up on board for several weeks. They let off steam.’
‘In this place?’
‘Yes – in this place. There’s an area close to the harbour – clubs, prostitutes, bars. The authorities try to clean it up from time to time, but not much changes. The same thing happens on other islands too, where there are places for the troops to go. It’s a feature of everywhere they land.’
‘Then couldn’t it be stopped? Doesn’t it invade the neutrality?’
‘Would you know how to change things? They have a right to land here. The treaty ports go back centuries.’
Our second course was served then, and for a while Mytrie and I returned to silence while we ate. I was again thinking of Jacj, of course, who had once been on one of those ships, heading to or from the war. I had been trying to put Jacj somewhere in my mind where I did not have to think. Now there was the ship, that ship, the one I could still see, sailing slowly without a visible flag, to a berth in a harbour in a civilized city in a beautiful, undesecrated island, where there was an excess of pleasures provided for the young men crammed beneath the decks. I knew Jacj had travelled at least as far as an island called Winho, although I still had only the vaguest idea of where that might be. Jacj would therefore know everything about life on a troopship. Perhaps he was even on the ship I could see? I had despaired of ever seeing Jacj again – the interview with the woman general in Glaund had made me lose hope, and one of my most painful moments before I fled to these islands was the realization I would be abandoning Jacj to his fate. I had accepted that Jacj was dead, or missing, or lost in some other way. He would now be more than fifty years old – I could not imagine that. So much time had passed. I knew that the returning ships carried only the recent recruits, young soldiers, boys. It was unimaginable what might have happened to him, so I tried not to imagine any more.
‘Tell me what you know about the ones who manage to escape from the ships,’ I said eventually. Mytrie had left half his food uneaten.
‘The deserters?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not a problem here.’
‘But elsewhere?’
‘Every island in the southern hemisphere, or any of the ones which have R&R facilities, receives its share of deserters. All wars leak young people who want no more of it. Some of them are here – the ships are allowed into the port, and once they’re ashore some inevitably abscond.’
‘But not a problem, you said.’
‘This is a big country with a liberal government. We don’t encourage it, but we are constitutionally against war.’
‘I’ve heard about the havenic laws. I know you have them here.’ I was thinking briefly of my own arrival in Muriseay, with a longer than usual examination of my papers by the official in the Shelterate building.
‘Yes, but we are one of the main havenic islands. Many of the soldiers who escape from the ships try to hide, but on Muriseay it’s not necessary. Most of the ordinary people who live here will give them a spare bed, or even a job. Eventually they assimilate. Few of them cause trouble here, and after a few years they usually apply for citizenship.’
I started telling him about Jacj, the loss of him, the background dread that I lived with every day. Denn listened sympathetically.
‘In the Guildhall there is a register of people who have applied for citizenship,’ he said. ‘Anyone can consult it. Are you sure your brother’s here on Muriseay?’
‘No – he could be anywhere. I would have no idea how to start looking.’
‘I suppose you have to start somewhere. This is as good a place as any. The records are probably complete. At least, there’s a staff in the building who maintain the database. I don’t know about other islands.’
Other islands. Sitting there in the warm sunshine, looking out across the sea, I was distracted by the sight of other islands. Of course there were other islands. Islands always filled the sea views. There were too many to count: five or six of them were in clear sight from where we were sitting, distinct and separate, with boats around them, signs of habitation, but each of them was surrounded by smaller islets and rocky outcrops, reefs, crags. I knew already that most of those would be counted as islands too. Some were inhabited, but surely not all of them? And named? Beyond them were more shapes, but it was unclear from my seat if what I could see was higher land on the islands, or if they were parts of other islands behind or further away.
Beyond even these was the distant view that I had often experienced while sailing on the ships, the sense of enclosure created by the wealth of islands.
Islands in large numbers are like cumulus clouds: they are separate from each other but the ones further away, towards the horizon, tend to create the impression of continual banks. It was unusual to see a view of the horizon as open sea. When the weather was clear, sailing across the Midway Sea sometimes felt as if the ship was crossing an immense lake, where the shores were far away but ever-present. These distant shores were an illusion – as the ships sailed onwards the land far ahead separated into individual islands, a continuum of the Archipelago, the feature of the ocean. It was exactly the same here, from this moderately elevated restaurant terrace, a sense that there was another country, perhaps a new continent, lying towards the horizon. The islands clustered.
It soon became apparent to me that Mytrie had little interest in the subject of deserters. He had his own preoccupations, and because they were similar to mine we soon drifted back to talking about them, comparing notes: he composed, played, reviewed for a newspaper and a couple of magazines, carried out session work, travelled around, tutored. The music we wrote could not be less alike, but our daily lives were more or less interchangeable.
He told me because he had been able to visit Glaund a couple of times he had more experience than most musicians of witnessing the effects of our war – I noticed he did not call it ‘the’ war, but the war I was in, the one my country was in, my war. Again, it was not prime among his interests. Some of the many still-unrepaired buildings and streets in Glaund City had made an impression on him. He told me he had later composed a galop extraordinaire in an attempt to illustrate the repair work that was going on in Glaund City. Like everyone else in the islands he followed the news when it was reported, which in Muriseay usually meant stories about the behaviour of the troops on R&R visits. Sometimes there was coverage of important victories or retreats in the southern continent. But it remained my war, our war, not his.
We drove back to the city. I was already thinking ahead to the next day, because I was intending to book a passage, but I was so attracted to the way of life on Muriseay that I was pondering a change of plan, a possible longer stay.
When we arrived back in Muriseay City we walked around on foot for a while, looking at the cathedral, a large park, a brief visit to an art gallery. He showed me where the Guildhall was located, but we did not go in. He did not take me to the port area. I am not an enthusiastic tourist, and we soon repaired to a large, noisy coffee bar in one of the main streets of the city.
At last I asked him what he knew of my former plagiarist, And Ante. When I said the name Mytrie looked blank.
I said, ‘You played a session on one of his recordings. Maybe two or three years ago?’
Mytrie shrugged his shoulders. ‘Perhaps I did.’
‘You don’t remember?’
‘Do you remember every session you’ve played in?’
‘I suppose not. But I wondered if you recalled this man Ante. It would have been a small group. Ante would have played guitar – you were the pianist on every track.’
Mytrie looked unconvinced. But I had seen his name on the label – he had been more than an anonymous session player that time, more of a guest ar
tist sitting in for the recording.
‘Was it rock music?’ he said.
‘It was described as jazz, but I’m not familiar with that.’
‘Not your kind of thing, then?’
‘I’m not familiar with it, that’s all.’
We talked about the record I had heard, and I began to wish I had brought it with me. In fact, it was one of the many things I had stored away in my loft at the apartment. I then mentioned that Ante came from the island of Temmil, and I asked Mytrie if he had travelled there for the recording, or if the session had taken place here, in Muriseay.
‘It would be here. I have never recorded on any of the other islands. You say he’s from Temmil?’
‘That’s where he lives. I don’t know if he was born there.’
‘And he’s been re-recording some of your music?’
‘Not recently – but he was for a long time. Several long-playing records.’
‘The fact he’s from Temmil is not a good sign.’ Mytrie was looking sceptical. ‘It’s the sort of place many people want to live in and a sort of colony has grown up, half-talented artists, people with lofty ideas who make big claims for themselves, but who really aren’t much good. They self-publish their poetry, put on exhibitions of each other’s paintings. Many business people retire to Temmil. A lot of the biggest houses are owned by exiles from your country, or Faiandland. They have money, so they can afford to pay to have books published, records released, exhibitions put on. None of them actually produces good work, and they’ll never amount to anything.’
I was remembering my short visit to Temmil and what an attractive, harmonious place it had felt like. It had stimulated me, made me wish to be there, to stay. I did not like what Mytrie was saying, or even why.
‘When I was touring, we featured a soloist from Temmil, a young pianist called Cea Weller. Do you know her work?’
‘Weller? Yes, of course.’
‘So it can’t be all bad there.’
‘I’m only repeating what I’ve heard from people here in Muriseay. Friends, people I respect.’
‘That sort of thing makes me nervous,’ I said. ‘It can’t be true of everyone on Temmil.’
‘I shouldn’t have said anything, Sandro. You’re right. I was only trying to reassure you about what this Ante person did to you. He was stealing from you. It’s exactly the sort of second-rate behaviour that people here associate with Temmil. Someone like Ante comes along, takes a shortcut. He pinches what’s yours, pretends it’s his. He thinks no one will notice, and most people don’t. You do, of course, but he thinks you won’t find out, and doesn’t care how you will react if you do. He’s younger than you, so you say you start feeling forgiving about him, but that doesn’t change what he did.’
‘I have forgiven him – but I still want to meet him.’
‘You’re probably not the only one he plagiarizes, Sandro. But he’s picked on you for a reason. Admiration, perhaps – have you considered that?’
‘When I first found out about it I tried to think of everything. Mostly I wondered why it was me. It didn’t feel like admiration to me.’
39
I spent much of the next day searching the microfilm archive in the cool and air-conditioned records section of the Guildhall. As Mytrie had said, there appeared to be a comprehensive record of every young soldier who had managed to get away from the armed forces and settle on Muriseay. I began with those records. The database was huge, at first forbiddingly so until I learned how to select. It was, for instance, divided into two main sections, one for the Faiandland Alliance, the other for Glaund and her allies – I saw no point in opening the Faiandland records.
I searched on names, of course, including ‘Suskind’, acknowledging the mistake people often made. Then I filtered birth dates, then dates of recruitment, then with a feeling of desperation I tried a picture search. There was a warning attached to the archive notes that many of the people who became fugitives supplied false names and dates to the authorities, even after they had been granted havenic asylum. I turned up no record for anyone who might by any stretch of hope be my brother.
After a break for lunch I started looking through more of the databases. There were similar records for other islands, but the notes gave a clear warning that these were known to be incomplete, could not be properly checked or updated, and should be used only for a coarse-grain search. I opened the archive for every island I had ever heard of, starting with Winho, the one island I was certain Jacj had been to. Next was Temmil, since I knew that was a place artists and musicians fled to. Then I ran through the database of every island I had already visited, however briefly, or knew I was likely to visit on my next travels – nothing. (I discovered that no records existed for the three islands which lay offshore from my home: Dianme, Chlam and Herrin. They were anyway so close to the mainland of Glaund that no one was likely to have sought refuge there.) Finally, I tried the databases of the islands whose names I had only vaguely heard about. There were thousands more. It was hopeless.
I abandoned the search, thanked the Guildhall staff who maintained the archive, then walked down to the harbour office to investigate what sailings might be available.
It turned out to be a day of immersion in a mass of data. After the Guildhall records I had hoped for a simple choice, but instead was presented with a dizzying array of travel options: packages, conducted tours, cultural visits, open-ended journeys, express routes, museums and sights, shipping lines, car rental options, as well as an apparently endless choice of accommodation standards, on board and in transit hotels, at an overwhelming range of prices.
The only destination I had in mind was Temmil, but before I landed there I wanted to make my way indirectly, explore more of the Archipelago. As it turned out, Temmil was one of the islands I could not find in the dozens of catalogues and brochures. The only thing I could establish about Temmil was that a couple of the people I spoke to in the harbour office thought it was in ‘another part’ of the Archipelago, or ‘on the other side’ of the world. As usual, it was impossible to find any reliable maps or charts of the islands. Even the few brochure maps I came across were vague and stylized, the alleged sea-routes shown in broad swoops of generalized lines. Few of the smaller islands were identified or located, and the drawings of the island sizes or shapes were approximate.
I went across the street to a tourist agency which had an office close to the harbour, told them what I wanted, and with remarkable efficiency I was offered a pan-Archipelago open ticket, a package tour, unrestricted as to routes, cabin and hotel accommodation that was claimed to be of higher-than-average standard while not being in the luxury bracket, no time limits on departures or arrivals, the freedom to change, cancel or extend routes as I pleased. It sounded so close to what I had been imagining that I agreed to it with feelings of relief and gratitude, passed over a substantial sum of money, and in return was handed a vast plastic wallet containing all the brochures, street maps and optional vouchers they assured me I would need.
A ship called the Serquian was due to depart on an easterly five-island cruise at mid-morning the next day, and I was guaranteed a single cabin, all meals and ‘entertainments’ on board included, plus the option to break my journey in any one of several tourist attractions en route.
I had travelled in the islands long enough to sense that there was something I was not being told, that there was going to be a snag of some kind, but the helpful young woman at the desk in the agency assured me this was one of their most popular packages, which combined comfort and security while travelling, as well as the freedom to explore many islands, and choose my next destinations freely and easily.
I returned to my hotel to pack.
40
I was awake early the next morning, ate a solid breakfast in the hotel restaurant, then hired a taxi and was driven down with all my baggage to the harbour. I was heavily laden. As well as two weighty suitcases containing all my clothes and the personal possessions I
had thought to bring, I had my violin in its protective case and a holdall in which I carried everything I would need easy access to while travelling. This included my travel documents and maps, spectacles, a couple of books, pens, notebooks, a portable CD player, several discs, the stave, barrier cream for my face and arms … much more. I could hoist the violin case across my back, freeing both arms, but the two suitcases and holdall were a problem to carry around in the heat.
When the taxi pulled up on the harbour approach I could see a large ship tied up at the quay, painted cleanly in pale blue and white. Her name, the Serquian, was visible on the prow. A long thin stream of pale smoke was rising from her single funnel and drifting away across the harbour.
I paid off the taxi driver then approached the Shelterate building, knowing that I would not be allowed to board until I had gone through their system one more time. I paid a few coins for a wheeled metal trolley from a rack set along the dockside, and loaded it with my luggage. Other intending passengers were also there.
As I stacked my luggage I was aware I was being watched – the group of casually dressed young people lounged around under their canopy, watching me, watching the other people as we made our slow way towards the building.
One of them, I noticed with surprise, was the young woman who had approached me when I landed on Ristor, who had tried to sell me a new stave. Gone were the thick clothes – in the heat of Muriseay she was wearing a pair of denim shorts and a white T-shirt. The knife dangled on a silver chain attached to her wrist. As soon as I saw her I gave a smile of recognition, but she looked away quickly.
The young man seated on the bench next to her must have seen this, because he stood up at once, as if to approach me. He was tall and painfully thin, with lank hair, dark over his eyes. He was wearing jeans and a dirty open-fronted shirt. With one of those knives dangling from his belt on a long silver chain.
I pushed my trolley in through the entrance. There were other passengers waiting for their papers to be checked, but with three officials on duty I did not have long to wait. I was soon called forward.
The Gradual Page 16
