What Lot's Wife Saw

by Ioanna Bourazopoulou

  “Oh, I have great faith in Dr Fabrizio – he can’t even diagnose flu properly. Which is precisely why they posted him to the Infirmary. What real doctor would accept to run that masquerade?” He looked with disgust at his gown. “You could ask, what real judge would agree to sit on my bench? Court? How ridiculous! First they execute Suez Mamelukes and after the fact, they get me to fill out their charge sheets.”

  He grabbed me by the lapels of my redingote and shoved his face so near mine that I could almost make out the different types of alcohol that had contributed to his state.

  “Another thing you should know, Siccouane, is that leprosy didn’t just appear out of nowhere; they planted it to seal our borders, to give the guards the right to shoot on sight because the Mamelukes have wised up and they are running a contraband salt trade. The Seventy-Five are losing their grip, I’m telling you, it won’t be long before the Consortium collapses and that will mean the end of the monopoly. That would really please me because the salt belongs to everyone, just like misery. Three whole continents went into mourning so that that damned violet pus could burst from the earth and make all civilisation go crazy – way beyond anything that opium ever managed.”

  I started counting in my head – one, two, three – don’t listen to him, Siccouane – four, five, six – won’t anyone shut him up?

  “… I’m telling you, Siccouane, I’m going to die of melancholy. I can no longer remember the colour of grass. The only thing that lives in this dead earth is the salt underground. I stick my ear to the floor all night and listen to its rasp as it eats away at the foundations and makes its way towards the surface. Soon, it’ll eat through the floorboards and consume us in our beds. If it’s truly compatible with our DNA, if it shares anything whatsoever with us, then it must definitely be a man-eater.”

  He covered his face with his hands, cursing at himself. “Stupid idiot, fool.” I admit that for a moment I felt sorry for him. He seemed so tortured, so alone, perhaps even more than I am.

  “… They’ve even snatched my child, the gangsters – my little girl. What did she ever do to them, the comfort of my twilight years? All day she irons Regina’s underwear so I get to see her only on her days off and even then, with her eye constantly on the clock. What father can take that kind of thing?”

  Then it dawned on me that he was dangling a hook cleverly hidden by the wriggling bait. I redoubled my efforts to measure my words because this Judge is danger incarnate. His crocodile tears about Bianca, his daughter, his profitable investment, had given him away. I reminded him that we were on duty and he ought to get a grip of himself so that he could verify the authenticity of the Green Box by palpating the special indentations on its sides. In the state he was in, I very much doubted that he could find the indentations – if he could find the Box at all.

  The Judge had been offended. He gave me a sharp poke in the ribs as he slurred, “I really don’t think you have the right to speak to me in that tone,” and he thrust his chest out so that I could better see the Purple Star, proof positive of the Governor’s favour, a mark of distinction that I, a mere Secretary, lack. I suppressed my emotions. Bera had handed out five of these Purple Stars, to the other authors of the letters which you will read, elevating them to a kind of “courtier”, and it has gone to their heads. He had obviously been trying to create a core of an aristocratic class in the newly founded Colony which would inspire others, but had only managed to corrupt the recipients themselves. Wearers of the Stars are entitled to a villa in Hesperides, household staff, a box at the Opera and a seat at the Governor’s table, subject to invitation, of course. I find it extraordinary that Lady Regina, his wife, was included in the select five, as there is no imaginable reason why she deserved the decoration. To honour the other four or to demean her? It’s difficult to decipher the Governor’s machinations. Twenty years I’ve served him, twenty years he’s left me speechless.

  We heard the hoarse siren of the ship and the creaking sound of the ship’s cables stretching. The tow-boatmen were signalling to the winch operators by waving their phosphorescent oars in the air to indicate adjustments necessary. The oars are long and pointed like poles and they are used to propel the boat by jabbing them into the surface and pushing, much like a gondolier. The boats have no keel, they are flat-bottomed like a raft because of the water’s density. As one gets closer to the saltworks, where the underground salt-bearing stream pours into the sea, the water becomes even more dense, like jelly.

  After the delay of berthing, the ship’s gangway was lowered. Captain Cortez had disembarked first to scrutinise our faces and satisfy himself that we were present as the regulations demand. We shook hands. Cortez is an experienced captain of the Consortium and he’s always entrusted with one of the Correspondence Ships. His hollow cheeks and his glass right eye terrify you, but mind you’re not fooled by that false eye – it sees more than the real one. He introduced us to Lieutenant Richmond, a slim lad that seemed feverish. Cortez added that the youth would be the fourth member of our procession because the First Mate had been laid low with diarrhoea. A virus had invaded the ship and all the men were on their backs. Richmond had not yet attained the rank the regulations stipulated for this procedure, but Cortez had growled that he had no other officers on their legs and that carrying is hardly a demanding task. He would prefer to exhaust the young Lieutenant, who was looking obviously sick, and protect his First Mate for the return journey. We had no choice but to accept the substitution.

  So, we climbed on board and went to the Captain’s cabin. Using the key that only the Private Secretary of the Governor possesses, I unlocked the strongroom, entered the combination and pulled open the heavy door. The Green Box lay undisturbed, exactly where it had been placed in Paris. We lifted it together and lowered it carefully to the quay. Using rope and allowing us each a metre slack, Cortez tied us together around the Box to ensure that we wouldn’t get lost in the fog and jeopardise the delivery. Cortez and Bateau had been tied in front and Richmond and I in the rear. The Lieutenant threw up twice along the way. One of these times, he’d soiled Cortez’s shoes, for which he’d received a sudden punch on the nose. I consoled him, sotto voce, telling him to wash his face and get a drink of water once we reach the Palace, but that under no circumstances could we interrupt the procession. The Lieutenant further ingratiated himself with us by suffering a bout of violent hiccups that threw us all off our stride. Walking as carefully as we could along the phosphorescent line but bumping constantly into each other and the Box, we managed to reach the Palace. We entered the Governor’s office and placed the Box so that its indentations slotted firmly into its special stand. The Judge and I signed the certificate of authenticity and I locked the office door. We waited in the anteroom for further instructions.

  Bianca showed up about ten minutes later, sent by Lady Regina. She instructed us all to leave because the Governor was resting and would have no need for our services, a pronouncement that had especially pleased Bateau as it would expedite his reunification with his bottle. Cortez, after handing Bianca a stack of European newspapers for the Governor, had immediately left for his ship. Richmond appeared reluctant to follow the Captain and so accepted with gratitude Bateau’s invitation to accompany him to a tavern.

  I’d remained alone in the anteroom, burning from the need to see the Governor. In a scant two weeks we’d be celebrating the Colony’s twentieth anniversary and the famous tenor Regoleone was to perform at the Opera. He’d be coming out specifically for this occasion from Vienna. We’d been expecting him any day at the Colony but as yet no arrangements had been made for his reception and lodgings. The Governor had insisted on delaying the necessary signatures, had given me no detailed instructions as yet and this constant postponing had caused a series of problems. So, I made it clear that I had to see Bera, if only for five minutes. Bianca had been unmoved and insisted drearily that I depart. But I’m the Governor’s private secretary and I wasn’t going to be denied by a mere maid, so I ma
de the mistake of raising my voice. Bianca burst into tears. Bianca cries with the slightest provocation, she’s in a constant state of fright and it hadn’t really been the tone of my voice, but that was how Lady Regina had chosen to see it. She had just appeared on the landing and she motioned her maid away.

  “Do you find it difficult to obey such a simple order, Honoured Secretary?”

  Her use of my honorific was meant to demean me – I have realised that she only speaks like that when she can’t stand someone. I removed my hat and apologised for raising the tone of my voice, but it was imperative for me to see the Governor.

  “My husband is resting. I am just relaying his wishes. Will you leave or shall I have you thrown out?”

  I obeyed with great annoyance. The Lady had no right to treat me like that, it’s not in our contracts, and it’s certainly beyond my comprehension why the Governor allows his coddled court to treat me as if I were their lackey. I was making my way across the gardens, it must have been ten to ten, when I looked up to see Governor Bera sitting in the wicker armchair on his balcony, idly staring. He was wearing his pyjamas and playing absent-mindedly with the key that hung from his neck. I bid him goodnight from afar but I didn’t get any response.

  6

  Letter of Arduino Tiberio

  Flagrante

  (page 2)

  Colonist’s File No.: 09156577

  Place of Birth: Rome, Italy

  Position: Surgeon General, Head of Infirmary

  Administrative Level: B1

  Adopted Name: Niccolo Fabrizio

  … And I hadn’t even been informed about all that had happened at the Palace on the night of Thursday, 20th of August. It came as no surprise since, in spite of my being the Governor’s personal physician, Desert rarely keeps me in the picture about his health, preferring instead to divulge all to Priest Montenegro, her confessor – her confessor, my foot! In fact, the whole Colony is buzzing about her carrying on with a man of the cloth, and perhaps Bera has displayed an admirable tolerance, but I, as a devout Christian and decent human being, am appalled and object.

  I hope I’m not infringing on any of the Consortium’s rights by calling the Governor’s wife “Desert” instead of Lady Regina since everybody, including Bera, calls her that because she is hot and barren like the desert, so I don’t feel the need to stick to formalities in this letter. I bet the others will, however, two-faced hypocrites that they are. My only consolation is that you, in your infinite wisdom, will be able to tell apart the sheep from those just wearing fleece and the honest from the deceitful. I submit, with confidence, to your judgement.

  Confidentially, I’d suggest that you be very wary of any material that originates from Priest Montenegro, as he’s a mountebank. He was the one who’d suggested that we should write our letters in separate rooms and he’d insisted that we mustn’t read anyone else’s letter so that he could, with immunity, libel us in his own. All his high-minded talk about professional confidentiality was just deceitful posturing. His appearance and behaviour throughout all these years speak for themselves. He ladles French perfume on himself, paints his eyes, tends to his goatee like a dandy and scandalises the ladies. I’m not only talking about the Governor’s wife, who chose him as a lover just because everyone else wants him, but about the women of the Colony who are after him just because the Governor’s wife chose him. A vicious circle, Your Excellencies. He spreads through the Colony like an infection, leaving aside his associations with the shadier elements of the southern quarter. No self-respecting resident of Hesperides should ever lurk down there. The Consortium had purposefully set up the class system so if they’d wanted anyone from Hesperides to consort with salt miners, or even worse, cyclists, there wouldn’t have been any separation by quarters and any hierarchy of privileges – right? And to cap it all, who’s ever heard of a Christian Priest with a Moslem servant! He walks in the streets hand-in-hand with his enormous Negro and at night he forces him to sleep under his bed since he wakes up screaming from nightmares and needs Ali’s comforting hug, otherwise the whole of Hesperides would be kept awake. Troubled sleep betrays a guilty conscience, that’s what I believe.

  I return to the tragic events that followed that foggy Thursday, the 20th of August, which are the reason behind this letter. As I’ve mentioned, I’ve no view of the harbour from my villa’s veranda and so I couldn’t have seen the Correspondence Ship enter the bay. How could I have, in any case, with such heavy fog? The Captain of the Guards had already imposed a curfew due to the stiff easterly, so I’d found myself confined to my villa, with no possibility of communication, a fact that, as it turned out, some others took advantage of.

  By Friday morning the weather had cleared. I woke up with a massive headache and decided not to go to work. I sent my servant to the Infirmary with instructions to the doctors to call in extra staff for the Respiratory Clinic, to have plenty of serum at hand and to be ready for the influx. An easterly fills the Infirmary, both with patients with breathing difficulties and with drugged colonists shot by Drake’s men who shoot darts at anything that moves in the fog. I asked Markella, my housekeeper, to prepare some tea and to move my armchair to the veranda and bring me a few magazines.

  As I was leafing through the Amateur Gardener, July edition – as you know, magazines come to the Colony with substantial delay – Markella informed me that a visitor had shown up at the door. I don’t ever see patients at home so I asked her to turn the visitor away but she protested hesitantly, saying that it was Bianca, Desert’s maid, claiming that she carried a very important message from her mistress.

  Bianca Bateau is Judge Bateau’s daughter and the only child to ever have been born in the Colony. Here, women never conceive and men do not fertilise. The Colony stubbornly refuses to repopulate itself despite very generous incentives offered by the Consortium to that end. It’s more my physician’s suspicions rather than documented medical opinion that it is the pill we are given daily to protect us from salt fumes that has a contraceptive effect, and so it’s futile for the Seventy-Five to hope for native colonists. Bateau had been lucky enough to arrive with his wife in her third month of pregnancy (although he leaves nothing to chance, did he leave this?) and so the sole native colonist was brought into this world. The Governor publically rewarded him to excess, bestowing the Purple Star on him and promoting him to Presiding High Court Judge, a position totally unmerited by his drunken opportunism. Despite my well-founded fears about the environmental dangers to the infant’s integrity and health, Bianca developed more or less normally. Her only defect is her unique eyes, which have completely colourless, white irises. Her vision is unaffected however, so that the only repercussion is the disconcerting effect she has on others who are taken aback by her empty corneas and confused by their inability to tell where she’s looking.

  When I handed her to Priest Montenegro to be baptised, he had gazed deeply into her cloudy irises and whispered, “Whiteout,” with a smile – it’d been Montenegro’s idea, submitted to Desert, passed to the Governor, then in turn to the father, and nauseatingly embraced by Bateau to have her called Bianca for her whiteout fog irises. He is that contemptible.

  Bianca had appeared on my veranda, shaking like a leaf, bewildered and panicky. I really didn’t pay much attention as that was her normal condition. She was a girl who had had no friends of her own age when she’d been growing up and so had had to endure the society of adults who looked upon her as a curious insect due to those colourless eyes. Small wonder that she lacks confidence now. I cannot imagine that her present position as Desert’s maid has done much to bolster her self-esteem either.

  “Doctor Fabrizio …” she stuttered breathlessly. “My Lady wishes you to come at once to the Palace.”

  I answered that I would come as soon as I felt better. If the Lady was suffering from migraines, then she should take a pill and let it melt slowly under her tongue, just as I’d shown her the previous time.

  “Governor Bera has been immobil
e since dawn … he’s probably dead.”

  I sprang from my chair, suddenly overwhelmed with dread. I couldn’t believe my ears: the Governor lying motionless since dawn and his personal physician hearing of it from the lips of some foolish maid at midday, it was insane! Please note that apart from other considerations, I’m the only one who can rightfully pronounce the Governor dead. Not only was I not summoned to my patient’s bedside but I was being informed by incompetent sources of his demise as if I were an irrelevant colonist. I grabbed Bianca’s arm to prise more information out of her but all I got through the inevitable tears was that Desert had sent her to fetch Montenegro at the crack of dawn. So the Lady had not only deemed it proper to certify her husband’s state herself, but to call for a priest before a doctor. My fury welled up and I only managed to bottle it up and not throttle Bianca because Markella was in the kitchen and I’d enough presence of mind to know that I mustn’t be overheard. This earth-shattering news should not be disseminated lightly throughout the Colony. So I took her aside and insisted, quietly, that she tell me all the details.

  She swore that all she knew was what the Lady had passed on to her and that was that the Governor had died in his sleep. She whimpered that it had taken her ages to unearth Priest Montenegro as he’d spent the night in the cyclist’s quarter, confined by the fog. She’d found his manservant at the villa and he’d managed to locate his master and bring him to the Palace. Next Bianca had gone in search of her father, who’d also been impossible to find since he’d spent the night in a cellar knocking it back with a young Lieutenant. Then she’d been sent to Siccouane’s home as he was the Governor’s Private Secretary, and so she’d had to wake him up too. Finally it’d been my turn. In short, Bianca had spent the last five hours criss-crossing the Colony, trawling for all the incompetent, useless drones that the Governor had seen fit to patronise, except for the one person that could’ve been of any use – his doctor. I slapped her hard, which I confess, I now regret. Bianca was nothing but an innocent messenger and it was unfair to take it out on her. The main reason why Bateau accepted, nay, sought, his daughter’s taking the position of maid in the Palace was that he’d be apprised of all that was going on there. The slap her father would have given her had she not informed him before me would’ve been much worse than mine.