I pinned the Purple Star on my lapel, grabbed my medical bag and rushed to the Palace with a wailing Bianca in my wake. I was still praying that things were not as final as I’d been told and that Desert had been mistaken in her amateur diagnosis. Loss of consciousness, catatonia, lethargy – anything would be better than being brought before the Governor’s corpse. It might seem inappropriate now, but I’d been worrying more about myself than my patient at that moment. I dreaded to imagine what would become of me should another Governor take over the Colony and begin appointing our successors.
Despite all my efforts along the way, I couldn’t get anything more from Bianca apart from fresh tears. I couldn’t resist it again so I reminded her that she’d wasted five hours before summoning his physician and if that were to prove critical to the outcome of events then I would kill her with my own hands. She’d wiped her eyes and blubbered that Montenegro had already made the same threat and it had devastated her since the silver-tongued Priest had never spoken to her like that before! Montenegro on everyone’s lips, always Montenegro.
7
Letter of Judith Swarnlake
(page 3)
Colonist’s File No.: 00058993
Place of Birth: Liverpool, United Kingdom
Position: Governor’s Wife, Governor’s Palace Chief of Staff
Administrative Level: B1
Adopted Name: Regina Bera (Lady)
… Death. I had never considered death as an escape mechanism. I never thought that Bera would be capable of such a foul, malicious exit from his position and his responsibilities. The Colony is bereft of a Governor and I’m left without a husband, a profession and a livelihood.
I’d sensed that he was dead before I opened my eyes in the morning, because I couldn’t feel my skin. I arose and tiptoed to the door of his room. I entered without knocking, something I’d never done before because we always had to have been invited to go in. I saw him lying on the bed. He was wearing the ceremonial outfit, was completely motionless and had a smile stamped on his face. Unbelievable though it might be, he was indeed dead.
Twenty years of insults, humiliations and violence I’d spent by his side, which had served to consistently remind me that I was indeed the Governor’s wife. It’s written somewhere that such a hellish existence is the lot of a Governor’s wife. Bera had treated me in the same manner that he had the Colony: he’d caressed me, whipped me and drawn pleasure from his control over me. I’d feared him, hated him, needed him and I’d never envisioned myself free of him. Seeing him lying dead staggered me, because I’d no idea what I was to do with my ill-omened, wretched freedom.
Like a mad thing, I’d rushed downstairs to the servants’ quarters and knocked on Bianca’s door. Thankfully, she wasn’t asleep. She’d been leafing through a copy of The Times that the Correspondence Ship had brought – she has a ridiculous passion for newspapers. She was born in the Colony and has never left it, so she avidly explores the unseen civilised world, which she has heard of only through our tales, by studying the articles and commentaries that the papers print about a world the rest of us would all rather forget. I asked her to go immediately and summon Priest Montenegro and to rush straight back without dallying and on no account speak to anyone else. Bianca, for whom obedience is second nature, as is indifference and lack of perception, surprised me by screwing up her colourless eyes and asking, “Is he dead?” She, like so many of us, had probably dreamt of this moment, but dreaded its arrival.
The kitchen staff were busy preparing the Governor’s meal as they always did at that time. The clanging of pots and the clatter of china being carried between kitchen and dining room were fuelling an incipient migraine. I overheard the cook giving instructions on exactly how long the eggs should boil. “No more than one hundred and twenty seconds, the Governor is most particular about them, so be alert.”
Shaking like a leaf, I returned to my room and locked it. I collapsed against the door, trying to marshal my strength while keeping a distance from the body.
Presently, from the stairs, I heard footsteps, the rustling of robes and cursing muttered through clenched teeth, announcing the arrival of Montenegro. I stepped out and stood in his way. “The Governor is dead,” I said. Our eyes met and clashed. Before he had time to collect his thoughts, I grabbed his hand and shoved it between my legs. I wasn’t about to allow him to see the body without being reminded of my existence. He pushed me, I grabbed him by the hair and he responded by wrapping his hand around my throat. We could have easily killed each other at that moment if we’d been assured of privacy.
Without Bera, the essence of our supposed affair would evaporate, leaving only the poison exposed at its core. My husband’s absolute power had been a powerful aphrodisiac, obviously our liaison’s only raison d’être since his death had signalled the demise of our desire. Apart from that it belonged to him, since he had cultivated it on purpose. Bera had manifested his dominance through my dalliances rather than my devotion and I’m sure it would have disturbed him had I remained faithful. Anyone who has difficulty sensing the claw beneath the velvet glove would never understand why he had decorated my lover with the Purple Star. It was thus that he had manipulated us, thus that he had punished us and thus that he had governed us.
Unrecognisable due to his fear, Montenegro could only think of saving his skin. He distanced himself from me as if mere proximity would make us look like accomplices, even though there was no one else in the room. He shouted that I must’ve been out of my mind to have called him first. What imbecile would choose her lover to stand alone with the corpse. What would people think? He demanded that I send Bianca for the doctor immediately. It really hadn’t struck me that I should’ve sought a physician since it’d been so obvious that my husband was dead. Montenegro had insisted that we summon all the Star Bearers, plus Siccouane. He shouted at Bianca to hurry since every moment of delay would further incriminate us. I was forced to agree with him, although the thought of filling the room with Purple Stars nauseated me.
It was obvious that I had been delaying to somehow put off my punishment, to try and conceive of any way to reduce its severity, but, in truth, I couldn’t escape it. The Seventy-Five were sure to order me to leave the Colony. The Governor’s widow doesn’t retire gracefully with a pension, she gets fired. Bera had explained that to me so that I wouldn’t dream of his death. I would have to surrender all the keys of the Palace, all my clothes, my jewellery, my stockings, my combs, all the multitude of things that defined my existence. Everything had been bought with the Consortium’s money and belonged to it, because it never gave, it only lent. My only possession was my body, and quite naked at that, and I used to make it available to Montenegro at nights to give myself the illusion of ownership. Along with me, the other Purple Stars bearers would also lose their privileges, and that, at least, brought me some satisfaction. I wasn’t alone in this nightmare.
Siccouane had been the first arrival and had tiptoed into the room as if he was walking in a minefield. Siccouane knew he was expendable because even though he had no Star, the fate of the Personal Secretary was irrevocably linked with that of the Governor. He didn’t ask us anything, perhaps because he wouldn’t believe anything we said anyway. He removed his hat and began muttering to himself that at ten to ten the previous night, as he had been leaving the Palace, he had seen the Governor sitting on his veranda in his pyjamas, idly fingering the key at his neck. At ten to ten the Governor had been alive and getting ready for bed. In front of us the ceremonial uniform was buttoned to perfection, there was no crease in his trousers, his patent leather boots shone and the peacock-feathered cap adorned his head. These gave his death an incongruous formality and raised questions that no one had yet dared voice.
Since Siccouane had seen him on the veranda at night, I’d not been the last one to see Bera alive, and that came as no surprise. Our bedrooms were distant from each other, we met at his invitation only; sometimes weeks would go by without me seeing him, especiall
y since we used separate staircases and different passageways of the Palace and generally spent a good deal of time in our rooms. We’d shared a roof but not a life. He’d been distant, inscrutable, unpredictable, both as a ruler and as a husband. In the twenty years of our marriage, I’d never understood his moods, known what he had been thinking or could guess what his next move or utterance would be. Every cell of his body had been dedicated to the Seventy-Five. Nothing of his had ever belonged to me, there’d been nothing that he’d done on my account, no bit of himself had ever been offered to me. I couldn’t guess why he’d married me, just as I couldn’t now guess why he’d died. Had he been ill? I hadn’t noticed any sign of it.
Next to join us was Judge Bateau, gown covered in dust, eyes glazed from alcohol and hands that shook. Captain Drake was with him as the two had met on the way here. Bateau stared at the corpse and clenched his fists. “That’s all we needed! That’s all we needed!” he repeated, as if scolding the deceased for surprising us like that. He pointed at the ceremonial uniform and asked who’d dressed him up. I explained that that was just as I’d found him at dawn. The suit had just been tailored for him to wear at the anniversary reception in two weeks. Perhaps he’d removed it from its cellophane wrapping to try it on. The wardrobe doors were shut, however, and the whole room was in impeccable order: there were no clothes flung about or shoes on the floor. His pyjamas were folded away in the drawer, his slippers on their rack and the bed made and unruffled. And there was that ghastly smile on his hateful mouth, frozen and mocking. Bera rarely smiled, if he’d ever smiled at all. If someone had asked me what I’d found most odd about the death scene, it wouldn’t have been the clothes or the undisturbed bed he was lying on, or even the fact of his death, but that smile.
Captain Drake was moving up and down the room, totally at a loss, stomping about with his gangly limbs and twirling his handlebar moustache. Without his master’s prompts he was notorious for not being able to think for himself. Searching for guidance, he looked at each of us in turn, decided that we were unworthy so turned inwards for inspiration. His face went puce from the effort but still he found nothing to say. He seemed to be preparing to salute the corpse, due to the uniform one presumes, but he changed his mind, brought his heels together and abandoned the effort. He couldn’t tear his eyes off the dead body, as if hoping to find the last orders printed there.
In truth, none of us knew what we should do. Bera had been the first Governor of the Colony, the only one it had known to date and the first one it would bury. We weren’t aware of any appropriate procedures, how to announce the death, for example, or what consequences we should prepare for, or how succession is arranged, or what we should be doing in the meantime. The only certainty, unfortunately, was that with the arrival of a replacement, we would be handing in our Stars and the keys to our villas and looking on as our successors were appointed. It was imperative for the names of the “favoured” to change to protect the Governor from his court and the likelihood that the gradual corruption of power would lead them to undermine his work or even have designs on his life. Being totally dependent on the Governor and sharing his fate ensured their deep devotion to his person and his success. The Seventy-Five leave nothing to chance. For the same reason his wife is not protected. I would be buried with him just like a Pharaoh’s consort.
Captain Drake asked in a funereal tone of voice whether we’re supposed to hand in our Stars on our own initiative. Judge Bateau covered his with his hand.
“I’m not handing anything in. I’ve paid a very high price for this Star. My beloved Clara died in childbirth to satisfy the Governor’s wishes for the child to be born here. The Consortium owes me and has not yet paid in full. They’ll have to drag my dead body from my villa.”
Secretary Siccouane was standing very still, small and wizened as he was, wrapped in his threadbare redingote, which he surely must sleep in, and waiting patiently for the exclamations of shock and horror to subside before venturing with his ratty squeak. “We must think of a way to defend our interests in the face of the imminent change, which may well not be so favourable for us.”
The words of that treacherous little secretary immediately put us on our guard. He’d used the plural to imply that we were partners in this, although no one in the room trusted him – with the possible exception of the deceased; yet another reason for us not to trust him. In any case, we couldn’t envision gaining the favour of the new Governor if we didn’t know who he’d be. Presumably he’d be sent from the Consortium’s head office, and that meant Paris.
Siccouane innocently studied his fingertips, as if he were seeing them for the first time. “We can at least plan a few constructive moves since we’re here at the moment and the new Governor is not even on his way to the Colony. At least we have a time advantage. Let’s capitalise on that head start.”
“Your baseness is an insult to the deceased,” Captain Drake interjected angrily.
“And your hypocrisy is an insult to my intelligence, Captain. Or should I call you ‘former Captain’?” countered the Secretary sibilantly.
“Of course I’m worried about my future, Siccouane …”
“Well then, can we stop posturing and see what we can do to improve our destiny!”
All this time, we could hear the servants briskly coming and going, airing the rooms, dragging furniture, snapping open sheets, puffing up pillows. The noise intruded on our consciousness and sowed the seeds of panic, as if they might barge into the room and demand our Stars.
Bateau suggested that I announce to the staff that the Governor was indisposed, so as to gain some time until we could agree on our next move. I refused to go out of the room and leave them alone with the dead body – I didn’t trust them and wouldn’t budge before I’d heard a definitive diagnosis from Dr Fabrizio’s lips. Siccouane went and locked the door so that no one could mistakenly blunder in. Outside this door the Governor was still alive and as long as everyone believed that, I was still Queen of the Castle; Siccouane was still Secretary; Bateau the Presiding Judge; Drake, Captain of the Guards; and Montenegro, High Priest of the Metropolis. We could continue living the dream for a few moments longer.
It wasn’t long before Dr Fabrizio joined us. To cover up his alarm, he pretended to have been slighted because he’d been the last one to be informed. He declared that it had been weeks since he had last been alone with the Governor, as if anyone was blaming him for his death. He wore his stethoscope and pretended to examine the body. Even if he’d been blind he would’ve known at once that Bera was dead, but Fabrizio continued his pantomime while trying to decide what stance he should take. He asked me some exasperating questions, increasing everyone’s discomfort, about Bera’s recent bowel movements, his dietary habits, the quality of his sleep, his disposition. Montenegro interrupted the ridiculous interrogation and asked to learn the time of death. Fabrizio snapped that it must’ve been between midnight and four in the morning. He also offered eagerly that at that time he’d been asleep and hadn’t left his villa the whole night, nor had he gone to the Infirmary in the morning. Instead, he’d been on his veranda reading the Amateur Gardener, July edition, when Bianca had come for him. Markella, his housekeeper, could confirm every word. We advised him that rather than give us his explanations, he could look forward to boring the Seventy-Five with them.
“What was the exact cause of death, Fabrizio?” Bateau was anxious to find out.
“What do you expect me to answer with mere palpations? We need a coroner’s investigation.”
“Maybe, but there isn’t a single one in the Colony,” Siccouane observed.
“Do you suspect murder?” asked Drake.
Dr Fabrizio, with the air of discovering something that had crossed no one’s mind before, said that the body’s clothes raised a few question marks. If death had been due to natural causes he would’ve been wearing pyjamas, and he would’ve been found in a sleeping position. Instead, Bera had his hands crossed over his chest as if arrange
d in a coffin, and was wearing the proper ceremonial uniform for his funeral. Whoever killed him had a macabre sense of humour.
Captain Drake drew his gun and shouted that nobody would leave the room until this had been cleared up. But the room contained only those who fervently wished the Governor alive and had nothing to gain from his demise – quite the opposite; they were all facing ruin. We were forced to spell it out to him since his thick skull takes some penetrating.
Drake seemed confused. He scratched his perspiring face and wondered whether the Governor had died at the hands of the Suez Mamelukes. Priest Montenegro couldn’t stop himself any longer and burst out laughing. He added sarcastically, “Good Lord, you’ll be blaming the cyclists next!”
“It’s far more likely that my rivals at the Infirmary killed him to make me look bad,” Fabrizio said guiltily, feeling a failure as the Governor’s medical shield. “I’ve seen the way they look at my Purple Star.”
Siccouane repeated that by far our most important preoccupation at this moment is to try and make the best of this bleak situation and the murderer – if one exists – will be found by the Parisian High Command. Anyone irritating the Seventy-Five will be swatted wherever he might try to hide, and killing precious Bera, flesh of their flesh, would definitely merit that.
“We’ll be accused of failing to protect him, Fabrizio,” Bateau worried.
What Lot's Wife Saw Page 6
