That final pedagogic task uncovered nothing unusual. A few years later, when his demonstrations were done, his body was released. It rests now in a lovely cemetery, as close to those Downs as we could arrange.
I sat alone in the kitchen, in a world in which beautiful, elegantly wrought secrets lie hidden less than an inch from sight. I sat in my pajamas drinking tea among those bones, and I told William in his absence that I was sorry he was at best a bystander. I told him I was sorry he’d never been able to find his young confidante, for vindication, to know again that someone other than he had seen the full design uncovered, released.
I’m sad as I approach my own death, but I am tired of so missing whom I miss. I am tired of secrets.
The skeleton will not appear again, in that museum or anywhere. The only person other than me in whom William ever confided will never speak of it. But for this document, which it is an immense relief to write, the story would end with me.
All the arrangements are taken care of. I’m touched at the thought of friends coming to a service for me. I would tell them not to bother, but I know they will and that it will be for them.
It is not a pleasant thing to break a promise to the dead, but I must urgently draw attention to the updated instructions about my funeral and remains, the version of the document I changed after William’s death. Glasgow Medical School will now receive a larger monetary bequest than they expected, in lieu of the cadaver previously promised. My plot, in the same cemetery as William’s, was paid for long ago, but I will not be using it. Instead, I ask that my ashes be scattered on William’s grave.
Perhaps mice will run over us, William and me, with designs beneath their fur. How glad William would have been to know with certainty that a few of his theories were correct! That in the darkest parts of the sea the bones of great fish and whales are scrawled on. That the sky is full of birds taking their designs heavenward.
I should warn whoever grants my last request that the ashes from cremation are coarser than those from any fireplace or cigarettes. No need for alarm at the sight of that distinctive bone grit on the grass where my William lies. A little coastal wind and I shall dissipate. One rainfall, and I will, you have my word, sink toward him, out of sight.
To Maria
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m indebted to all who helped me with these stories, especially Jamie Allinson, Mark Bould, Nadia Bouzidi, Mic Cheetham, Meehan Crist, Rupa DasGupta, Andrea Gibbons, RL Goldberg, Maria Dahvana Headley, Chris John, Simon Kavanagh, John McDonald, Jemima Miéville, Karen Mirza, Susie Nicklin, Helen Oyeyemi, Anne Perry, Sue Powell, Maggie Powers, Max Schaefer, Richard Seymour, Jared Shurin, Julien Thuan, and Rosie Warren.
My sincere thanks to those editors who worked on various of these pieces: Ben Eastham and Jacques Testard; Justin McGuirk; Richard Lea; Jordan Bass; David Leavitt; Yuka Igarashi; Omar Kholeif, and all at F.A.C.T. Liverpool. I’m deeply grateful to Nick Blake, Rob Cox, Julie Crisp, Jessica Cuthbert-Smith, Sam Eades, and all at Pan Macmillan; and Keith Clayton, Penelope Haynes, David Moench, Tricia Narwani, Scott Shannon, Annette Szlachta-McGinn, Mark Tavani, Betsy Wilson, and all at Random House Del Rey. Several of the stories in this collection were written during a fellowship at the MacDowell Colony, then as a residency fellow of the Lannan Foundation. I am profoundly grateful to both organizations for their generous support.
BY CHINA MIÉVILLE
King Rat
Perdido Street Station
The Scar
Iron Council
Looking for Jake: Stories
Un Lun Dun
The City & The City
Kraken
Embassytown
Railsea
Three Moments of an Explosion: Stories
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
China Mieville is the award-winning author of several books, including The City & The City and Embassytown. He lives and works in London.
Three Moments of an Explosion Page 38
