Orbit 12 - [Anthology]

by Edited by Damon Knight

  “The well often runs dry at this time of year, but I’ll see to it on my way out.”

  “You’re off already, are you? You never told me what you’ve been up to. Well, I suppose there’s nothing to keep you here.” He went over and sat in his battered leather chair, heavily carved with mythical beasts and lizards. “Yes, I saw Albrizzi as a student You’ve been working this morning, eh? What were you working at? More play-acting with the players, I suppose. Why don’t you join the pantomimi, as approved by Hadrus and Seneca and Lucian, and become a proper tragic actor, eh?”

  I moved towards the door, saying, “There’s no taste for tragedy in this age, Father.”

  “You should become a tragic actor. As long as there’s tragedy in life, tragedy is needed on the stage. You see, the housekeeper doesn’t always come when you ring—it’s the way with housekeepers. Actors should hold a mirror up to nature, and not just indulge triviality. I don’t know what the world’s coming to . . .”

  Taking proper leave of him, I quitted the chamber and walked along the corridor. From its panels came an aroma of something like resin which took me so far back to those years when I depended on the good humour of others that I quickened my pace.

  As I crossed the court, Beppolo emerged from the empty stable, hurrying round-shouldered to see me out of the gate, his right hand already thrusting itself forward, inch by shaking inch, cupping itself in a receiving attitude.

  “Your illustrious father is cheerful this morning, sir! As well he might be, sir, according to his prosperous station. He tells me he has found out who Philip of Macedon is, to his great benefit!”

  “Where’s the housekeeper?”

  ‘‘Why, sir, is she not in the house? No? Then perhaps she has gone out There’s not much for her to do. If she’s not in the house, then she has gone out.”

  “And I suppose that if she has not gone out, then she is in the house?”

  “You could very likely be right, sir.”

  “Tell her I shall be back tomorrow, expecting to see the house cleaned and a proper meal set before my father. Understand?”

  “Every word, sir, as I stand here wearing my old patched breeches.” He bowed low and dragged the gate open. I tossed him a sequin. I heard the gate squeal closed again; its lock turned wearily as I made down the street.

  “‘Even in their ashes live our wonted fires...’” I quoted to myself.

  The bells of St. Marco’s were chiming one of the afternoon. A pack of ragged children were teasing a thecodont against a wall. The little yellow-and-red creature barked at them like a gruff dog—a habit it had no doubt learned from the local mongrels, for several of the smaller kinds of dinosaur, wandering in from the wilderness, had come to an alliance with the canine inhabitants of Malacia. Pigeons were waddling in the street, getting almost underfoot, fluttering up at the last moment; I kicked at them and headed past Truna’s for the next taverno.

  The Cellar of the Small Goldsmiths was built into an old ruined triumphal arch. I sat outside it and was served wine and meat, speaking to no one, although there was a cheerful meeting of fellows at the table next to mine. Finally, as I was leaving, and they were singing and bellowing, one of them leaned back to pluck my sleeve.

  “You must have a solemn philosophy, cavalier, to keep so straight a face with your wine!”

  Looking down at him, I said, “There you are correct, sir. Henceforth, I mean to pursue pleasure as a serious business.”

  They called to me to join them, but I would not. As I walked down the street, their voices faded, although there were other taverns, other voices. At one was a woman, singing as sweetly as a bird, with dark-red lips and a black skin. I turned in the direction of Caylus’ chambers.

  Under the archway of his house, an old hag in black stood in the shadows selling paper charms—little birds, shields, flowers, pterodactyls, boats, animals. The little tissues fluttered in a slight draught blowing under the archway. Behind her, she had lit a smouldering charcoal enchanters fire; wisps of smoke rose from a tibia and a sprinkle of chicken bones. On impulse, I bought a paper shield and then mounted the wide stair.

  No answer came to my call at his door. I pushed it open, vexed that he might not be here after what he had said. Company I needed, and Caylus’ easy laughter.

  In his chambers all lay quiet. Something told me that the room in which I stood had but recently been vacated—some vibrance in the air, some disturbance in the golden motes floating between window and rug. Sunlight created its grid pattern on a limited area of floor by his couch. In the air, a faint scent was discernible, faint but luxurious, so that I stood there in a pleasant reverie, as still as the room itself.

  Once I said his name aloud. I remained where I was in the middle of the gold-flecked room, the door still open behind me, the cries of the street coming to me only distantly. I looked about me, bewitched by the flavours and the room’s sense of rest. Caylus’ few books, his many engravings, his altar, his table with a flask and two empty glasses on it, his fernery, his phonograph, his water clock, and his couch, covered by a rumpled silken spread. On top of the spread lay an amber object no bigger than a sparrow’s wing.

  Even before reaching the article, I recognised what it was. The tortoise shell glowed in slatted light, its two little horns thrusting upward like the tender retractile eyestalks of a snail. It was a plectrum of rare design, and I let it rest in my hand.

  Caylus’ time had been better occupied than mine! Pulling up a chair to the table, I set the plectrum in the middle of the table and sat down. Sprawling there, taking up his quill and ink, I composed an ironic quatrain to greet him on his return, whether alone or no. I tucked it under the plectrum.

  Then I left the room. Strolling slowly downstairs, I passed the old hag and so into the afternoon street, heading toward my tailor.

  Dear Caylus! Those discordant Age hath laid

  Aside lack games harmonious as hers—

  As, mute while she a wilder Music stirs,

  Her mandoline in shadow lies unplayed.

  <>

  * * * *

  THE YOUNG SOLDIER’S HOROSCOPE

  Within the shade of a ruinous triumphal arch sat an astrologer. I sometimes passed his way when going to the theatre, if I was seeking to avoid my creditors.

  We had astrologers enough in the city; the reason why I liked and noticed this one was his plumpness. Considering his trade, he was a cheerful-looking man. He sat in a creaking chair upon a little rough platform on which a rug of Oriental design had been flung, his books beside him, and gazed out across the rooftops to the trees beyond, with an expression suggesting he was on good terms with his own mysterious universe.

  One day in the eighth month, as I passed that way, a girl with golden hair was consulting the astrologer. Near the top of the arch, a ragged hole fringed by ferns let in shafts of sunlight, which chanced to gleam on the girl’s hair as she stood below; or perhaps it was that she had stationed herself in that position deliberately. I saw how the sunbeams lent her an aura of additional gold about her head and how a posy of flowers had been bound in with the ribbon which confined her tresses. Only then did I recognise her as La Singla, enchanting star of our company.

  She thanked the astrologer with pretty and well-rehearsed gestures and, as she turned away, I crept up and caught her about the waist, kissing her velvet cheeks.

  “Oh, Prian, I pray—Do not kiss me in the public view! My husband is jealous enough already!”

  “But your husband trusts me!”

  “My husband does not trust me, and that’s the whole trouble! You know him for what he is—an old fox who smells mischief even when there’s none about. He says I’m too pretty, but I don’t believe that.”

  Ah ha, thought I to myself, there’s a little mystery here! La Singla was married to Lemperer, manager of our company, and I well knew that both he and she consulted an astrologer who lived almost opposite their house, which we called our theatre. Why was she speaking with the
plump astrologer? Did her first words not give me a clue: “My husband does not trust me?” Crafty and watchful though Lemperer was, he must recently have had fresh reason not to trust his pretty wife. So—perhaps she had a lover. I wondered which of the actors it might be.

  “Well, now, my pretty Singla, it is common knowledge that your beauty is unrivalled, particularly at night by limelight, so it is natural that Lemperer should want reassurance. If you’ll come down a side way with me, and give me a kiss, then I’ll testify to him of your entire faithfulness and set his mind at rest”

  “Nonsense!”

  “That way, we shall all do each other a kindness!”

  She looked up at me with her somewhat blank stare, so that I could notice—as had I not done scores of times before—that her eyebrows were a little too heavy and a crop of fine golden hair lay along her upper lip. Far from deterring my ambitions, these details merely spurred me on.

  “You are coming with us to theombres chinoises at noon? You will say a good word to him then, on my behalf?”

  I nodded and led her down an alley which led to a side canal. There stood a house where horses were kept for towing barges. Taking her arm, I pulled her just inside the stable door and there exacted payment, plus a slight extra levy in the form of a hand down the front of her bodice, which I thought she could well afford, her exchequer being in such good condition; besides, the transaction was not our first. We were old customers, each of the other. Yet she drew away and made me walk on, although I knew the smell of hay and leather would never deter her from such dealings. So there very likely was another lover!

  Over the bridge we went, she with her dainty feet twinkling, keeping her thoughts to herself, I with an eye on the world, thinking how well it looked and how reasonably everyone was occupied, whether walking or working or merely spitting down off the parapet of the bridge, as two blackamoors were doing, to the amusement of a nearby baby. A travelling man playing a little phonograph for kopettos leaned against a tree and doffed his hat ironically to La Singla.

  “You have admirers everywhere, I see,” I remarked.

  “He always comes to watch my performances. He is penniless, yet once he declared his love for me!”

  “As every man must who cannot control his tongue.”

  “That rogue could not control his fortune. He hasn’t a bean left and is reduced to playing phonografo in the street, yet his illustrious parents lie in a marble tomb topped by an azure dome on the banks of the Savoiardi Lagoon!”

  “If I had to choose between the two occupations, his preference would be mine. His illustrious parents have a mouldy job by comparison!”

  “Dear Prian, you forget that I know by heart the comedies from which you resurrect your old jokes.”

  “Am I likely to believe that, when I’ve heard you dry up so often on stage?”

  The Lemperer house stood in a fashionable street containing many prosperous houses, as well as several decayed ones. There were always people hanging about in its outer court, waiting to see Lemperer, hoping to secure his favours—not to mention beggars and poor entertainers who competed for favours from those who hoped for Lemperer’s. In his fashion, he was a man with influence.

  Yet his household was like a disordered warehouse. Hardly a room or hall that was not filled with some property he had acquired or some costume he was thinking of acquiring. So kind was his heart that many rooms were occupied by impoverished relations or actors; yet so irritable was his spleen, that these dependents were always changing, arriving with laughter or leaving with tears and threats, so that there was a perpetual coming and going, and one long hoo-ha in the house.

  At the centre of it all was Lemperer, wizened, fussy, deft, light-footed, articulate, angular, amusing, never entirely dressed, prancing round in his satin slippers and waistcoat, his peruke on the tilt, words, words, words pouring from his narrow lips. A figure of fun a good deal funnier than many of the figures of fun he played. A dangerous figure of fun.

  He was making a spectacle of himself as La Singla and I entered, prancing round a tall man in an ankle-length cloak and his follower, a lizard-man who held on a leash two fine panthers from the Orient.

  “Go away, I tell you—apply at the menagerie in the square, where they are eager to take anything with fur on its body, however mangy! Just get those cats out of here, fast! They’ll stink the house out and eat all my actors, too, by the way they’re licking their chops.”

  In fact, the beasts were yawning, from boredom or illness. The man in the long cloak answered in a melancholy voice, “Sire, I have supplied theatres from Rome to Tolkhorm in the North, and sometimes with beasts less fine, less docile, less fragrant, than these two elegant pussies, and I can assure you that animals do adorn whatsoever entertainment you put on. I guarantee you that from the bottom of my convictions.”

  “You may guarantee me from the bottom of your boots, you mountebank, and it will make no difference to me. My entertainments entertain without the necessity for animals widdling against the scenery, let me tell you!” As he pranced about, one of the panthers moved forward by perhaps the length of a whisker, and immediately Lemperer went sprawling backwards and landed in an armchair, exactly as in the scene inThe Year-Long Feast.

  “The monster’s going to eat me! Help, help! Oh, the brute went for me, you set him on me! Help! Get out, you swindler, before I have you thrown out! Do you think we all want a dose of rabies? Where’s my wife?”

  But La Singla was already running to him, throwing out her arms and shrieking. She shrieked considerably more than the average human being, and somewhat musically. The man in the long cloak turned, beckoned impatiently to his assistant, and stalked out. The panthers trotted off with relief.

  Several of the players were standing about, laughing in an idle way. I clapped my friend Portinari on the shoulder and made to move, saying, “I must go upstairs and prepare myself for Albrizzi”—that being the name of the character I was currently getting up.

  “No, no, spare yourself, my friend—it’s all been changed. Albrizzi is postponed! We are to do The Visionaries next! Word has just come summoning us to play The Visionaries next week at Vamonal.”

  I clutched my forehead. “Are we players or serfs! Lemperer swore to us we would never do The Visionaries ever again. We were almost pelted off the stage last time!”

  “You know the taste of audiences in Vamonal. A visiting Duke of Ragusa is to be present and he has specially requested the piece.”

  “Then I know his taste as well. The thing’s at least a century out of fashion. And my part of Phalante the Bankrupt is so small. How did Lemperer come to consent to such a degrading idea?”

  Lemperer came up panting, still wearing La Singla about his neck, in time to hear what I said.

  “Prian, Prian, my dear fellow, you know how funny you are as Phalante, the old apothecary. Juggling your wooden spoons and shouting, ‘Why, this table silver alone is part of the fabled treasure of Troy and worth an entire ransom—half a ransom...’ And Melissa thinks you a conqueror of the world and falls in love with you! Oh, come now, admit it’s droll and nobody could take the part but you!”

  “Nobody is fool enough,” I said. “Let’s at least drop that business with the spoons!”

  “In Vamonal, they won’t know how foolish you are, I promise! There—my promise as a genius of the theatre! They’ll all be Melissas and truly believe you a conqueror!”

  So he cajoled us, and so we gathered ourselves together and went into the courtyard to rehearse, with poor simple Gilles holding the prompt book. Standing about, we went through our lines as well as we could.

  It was a comedy of illusion, with all the characters mad or deluded and believing themselves to be other than they were. The old father with his three daughters had to see them married off between four competing suitors—a simple piece that had to be taken at a fast pace for its jokes to work at all.

  At twelve noon, when the bell of the nearby church was chiming, Lemperer
cried enough and released us. He buried his head in his hands.

  “That I should live to see men of straw mouthing like men of wood! Pity the poor Duke of Ragusa who will have to sit through your terrible bout of arthritis, my dear friends! All right, come back early tomorrow and we will try it again. Meanwhile, I shall scour the city for a man who can hire me two panthers to bring a little life to the proceedings!”

  * * * *

  For all Lemperer’s reproaches, we were a cheerful crowd who pushed in to see theombres chinoises. On our way to the shadow theatre, we refreshed ourselves with wine at Nicol’s tavern before going into the little shady garden, where performances were held in a large Oriental tent, covered with carpets and tapestries to make the darkness inside more intense.

  These shadow plays were coming into fashion so much that we feared it might affect our business, though it was hard to imagine that audiences would prefer the shades of puppets to real live actors, once the novelty was over. Now here was the Great Charino’s Ombres Chinoises, newly set up, and offering the public The Saga of Karagog, preceded by The Broken Bridge—and charging high admission prices.