“That was Drake’s responsibility. I don’t carry arms or command guards.”
“Yes, but as his doctor you should’ve kept a far more careful watch over his health.”
“You mean his wife should’ve, and kept me informed. Not summoned me as an afterthought.”
“His wife rarely saw him,” I complained. “The only one who was with him day and night was Secretary Siccouane. He should’ve seen the warning signs.”
We’d been talking very quietly, almost whispering, for all the time we’d been heaping blame on one another. Imprisoned in the dead man’s room, we were incapable of even one constructive plan, or of predicting what tomorrow would bring, or of walking out of that room and facing a Colony without Bera. One hour had gone by, full of suspicion, dark implications and accusations. Siccouane, who’d kept his ear stuck to the door, had heard enough to report that the staff were beginning to wonder why the Governor had not appeared with his breakfast getting cold in the dining room. Time was beginning to encroach on us and we had to come to some decision soon and start acting on it.
We found it difficult to agree on the best way to announce the tragic event. We considered confidentially informing the higher-ranking executives of the saltworks, the port, the mines and perhaps the Bank manager who issues the payment cheques. We rejected that idea because we weren’t in a position to support the news with detailed directives or guidelines, nor did we have the means of enforcement. High-ranking executives are resentful and hungry for power and lesser ones angry and rebellious. The announcement of the Governor’s death would explode like a bomb and blow the Colony sky high. Drake, who can see Suez Mamelukes pursuing him even in his sleep, warned that hordes of the desert beetles might just be waiting for such a confusion to invade and butcher us all. So, there were the six of us, with the privilege and the curse of knowing that the Governor was dead and with no idea of how to handle the knowledge.
Meanwhile, Dr Fabrizio was worried that the body would begin to smell, as the temperature in the room was over forty degrees. Human decomposition is forbidden in the Colony because it poisons the salt and the deceased must be immediately cremated. Despite that fact, no one in the room was in a hurry to bid Bera farewell and spread the word of his demise. Drake suggested that to keep the smell from betraying us while we conferred, we should bring up ice from the kitchens and cover him. The servants would definitely suspect that something was amiss if they saw us lugging ice into the room so we agreed to clear the upper floors and kitchens. I ventured out the door and ordered all the staff to gather in the basement and wait for my further instructions there. The servants abandoned the half-made beds, dropped the brooms and dustpans, left the pans unscoured and the laundry unrinsed. The corridors emptied and silence reigned, without, however, improving the rate of generation of fresh ideas.
Drake and Siccouane went down to the kitchens, filled two large bowls with ice and returned with them. We stripped the body and covered it completely in ice. We tried to establish a cause of death but no conjecture had evidence to support it. Bera had been as strong as an ox, had never taken a painkiller in his life and the only disease he had ever suffered from had been arrogance. We checked the locks of the door and windows but found no sign of them being forced. We studied the body carefully, inch by inch, but it bore no signs of a struggle, no bruises, no scratches, no strangulation marks, no discolouration, no traces of any substance on the tongue and no distended veins. His death remained a mystery.
It was, by now, past midday and our despair was increasing with each disproved conjecture, each unsubstantiated argument and each futile disagreement. We spread towels over the floor to absorb the water that had been leaking from the bed and the round trip to the kitchen for ice became a routine. Siccouane and Bateau searched through the book of regulations to find what should be done following a Governor’s death, but found that this eventuality had not been foreseen.
“Inconceivable,” remarked the Judge. “The Seventy-Five, who have foreseen everything, couldn’t have failed to allow for this. For goodness’ sake, the Governor cannot be immortal.”
And yet, no matter how carefully the articles were read and irrespective of the degree of latitude with which they were interpreted, they failed to shed any light on the subject, as if the Seventy-Five had considered Bera’s death unimaginable.
The management of the Colony’s affairs is terribly simple, just because it’s so totally centralised and all the decision-making is in the hands of the Governor. He’s the sole link between the isolated Colony and the invisible, distant Headquarters. He receives directives from Paris, via the Green Box, which he shares with no one nor explains to anyone. The Correspondence Ship arrives on a Thursday and sails back on the Friday, so that means that the Governor has twenty-four hours in which to study the directives and to compose his report, which he seals in the Box and sends to Paris. In this way, the Seventy-Five are kept abreast of events in the Colony and they use this information to adjust their policy. The Green Box is armoured and impervious to theft, it is only opened by the key that hung around Bera’s neck on a chain too short to remove at night. The rest of us remain unaware of the Consortium’s plans and instructions and so obey the Governor’s commands to the letter. However, the possibility that the latter is not in a position to exercise his responsibilities is nowhere to be found in the regulations.
Judge Bateau admitted that the situation we faced was unique and untenable. He proposed that we write a letter to the Seventy-Five, in which we would describe the Governor’s death and would request instructions from Paris. We would entrust the letter to Captain Cortez, who knows our positions and is a trustworthy individual, and he’d deliver it to the Seventy-Five. The ship was due to sail at midnight, so we had a few hours in which to compose the letter.
Siccouane protested that the report was not the issue, but the time factor, that was what complicated matters. If the ship sailed with our letter tonight it would reach Paris on the 9th of September, in three whole weeks. The New Governor would need at least another three weeks to reach us, making a total of six. In short, according to the most optimistic scenario, the New Governor would take over his duties in, at least, one month and a half. Meanwhile, the Colony would remain in limbo.
Dr Fabrizio intervened sternly. “Until a New Governor arrives, we’re the only ones who know that Bera is dead and so it must remain, otherwise disturbances could break out. As long as Bianca keeps her mouth shut, that is.”
I vouched for Bianca’s discretion – she’s really quite simple to manage, Bateau’s daughter; all I have to do is threaten to forbid her to read The Times if she talks, and she’ll obey in a panic.
But it was no simple matter altogether to leave the Colony ungoverned for a month and a half, since for anything to continue working, from the saltworks to the port, from the transportation to supply, the Governor’s signature is needed. Fabrizio pointed to our Purple Stars and suggested that we take over the reins temporarily since we’d been his trusted aides. We should form a ruling committee to deal with all day-to-day affairs so that normality is maintained.
Montenegro, who knew how much the colonists hated the five Stars and those who wore them, thought that we would have grave difficulties in imposing our rule. It wasn’t certain we’d last a day without Bera.
“But if we don’t fill the breach, the Colony will be reduced to anarchy,” Fabrizio argued.
Bateau was beside himself. “It is beyond imagination that the Seventy-Five haven’t allowed for such an eventuality, there must be an article, a hidden paragraph that covers a Governor’s incapacity!” He tore through the book with such vigour that he nearly ripped the pages out, but it remained silent on the issue. He threw it on the floor and collapsed in a breathless heap. He cursed his blindness that, throughout all the years on the bench, this inexplicable oversight had never struck him and so he’d never asked Bera, while he was alive, what should be done if he died.
Captain Drake considered the
idea of a temporary ruling committee risky because it would lead to multiple violations of the regulation’s articles. He reminded us that none of us had any jurisdiction over the saltworks, the mines and the port. Besides that, if we were to conceal the death of the Governor, yet issued orders as if they had originated from him, then we’d look as guilty as if we’d murdered him in order to rule in his place. “Don’t forget that for whatever we do, we’ll be held to account by the New Governor. I therefore propose that we stick to our duties only and take no initiatives, just to be on the safe side.”
“We might well earn the wrath of the New Governor if we show indecisiveness and fear of taking responsibility,” Montenegro smiled sarcastically.
“If we remain inactive, we’ll be accused of accepting the paralysis of the Colony, whereas, in fact, we are officials, in positions of authority, and charged with protecting the interests of the Consortium. On the other hand, if we act on our own initiative, we’ll be accused of both violating the regulations and of conspiring or acting for personal gain,” frowned Bateau.
We were gradually realising what an invidious situation we were facing. We seemed completely trapped. Whatever we did – and for anything we did not do – we would stand accused. How we wished that the body would shrug off death and arise and reassume the mantle of government. It had just struck us that the hell we had endured in his service was actually sweet and pleasant when compared to the horrifying chaos that his absence had introduced us to.
Fabrizio, who’d been tossing handfuls of ice on the bed, discerned signs of decomposition on the corpse and begged us, panic-struck, to burn it at once. We’d delayed long enough. Drake leapt up, blocking our approach and furiously forbade anyone from touching the slightest thing. If we destroyed forensic evidence that an inquest would need, we’d surely be in the deepest trouble since the suspicions would fall squarely on our shoulders. Montenegro tried to explain to him that if we didn’t burn the corpse we’d start corrupting the salt, much worse for the Seventy-Five. In the Colony salt is much more valuable than humans.
“Humans, yes, but the Governor, NO!” Drake shouted.
“Gentlemen, Lady,” interceded Dr Fabrizio, “can’t you see how imperative it is to form a ruling committee, to take decisions and act with legality?”
“And who bestows this committee with legality?” asked Bateau, his eyebrow cocked.
“Necessity, force majeure, the critical situation! Come on, Bateau. You’re a judge, you can legalise a committee!” begged Fabrizio.
Bateau declared that his authority ends where that of the Governor begins and that he, more than anyone, should know the limits.
“No matter what we do we’re doomed since, with the arrival of the New Governor, it is most likely that we’ll all lose our positions,” Fabrizio burst out.
What he’d meant was that we had but a month and a half to realise our fantasy of governing the Colony.
Drake guffawed. The Seventy-Five are merciless when someone breaks the rules, they get an allergic reaction to the word “initiative” and the Guardhouse’s cells are full of people who just happened to walk on the wrong side of the street. We’re sadly deluded if we think that they’d smile upon anyone exceeding their authority.
“I can see it now. Whatever happens, I’ll be interrogated, I’ll be accused and I’ll be deported … and what’s worse, I am totally blameless!” Montenegro wailed.
Siccouane drew a circle with his finger on the wet floor, then tapped the centre with his nail, lifted his head and observed with glazed eyes, “We are trapped.”
He looked in despair at the motionless Bera, who was floating in a pool of ice and water, maintaining, in spite of everything, his death smile.
8
Paris was wrapped in the darkness of night, its lights glimmering tremulously, the buildings mirrored in the waters of the port. It gave the impression that there were two cities, twins, that were eyeing each other, trying to recognise their own features in their doppelganger. The upper city was carved in relief and motionless, while the lower, essentially two-dimensional, was silently animated by ripples as dependent on the former as an adoring younger sibling. The scandalous similarity of life with its reflection, of the original with its image, of the land with the aquatic version, caused Phileas Book disquiet. From where he was sitting he could only see the upper city and that, he decided, was worse, since for a complete picture he had to use his imagination to recreate the sister that was just below his line of sight. The man’s bald head restricted his view. He settled more comfortably on the couch, taking care not to shift his feet and reveal the marks his muddy shoes would leave.
Silence reigned in the offices of the Seventy-Five as the carpets absorbed even the sounds of footsteps. Everything in its interior was designed with calculated extravagance, cavernous rooms, soaring ceilings, grandiose chandeliers, just so that visitors would feel diminished, insignificant, vulnerable and unprotected, quite like how the Consortium viewed humanity. The lounge that he’d been led to was relatively empty but awash with light, offering no hiding places and giving Book the impression that he was totally exposed. He was nervously conscious of every footfall of his mud-laden shoes on the thick carpet, which featured a pattern of joined arms. He pretended to peruse the port buildings through the window to conceal the fact that he was actually studying the man with the hairless head sitting opposite him.
The man seemed to be part of the decoration, as his skull was the colour of the walls and his suit that of the furniture. He kept his eyelids lowered as if he was under hypnosis. He delayed getting to the subject, allowing Book time to fully absorb his surroundings and, less reassuringly, his surroundings time to fully absorb Book. That inflated cheque that the messenger with the violet tie had brought in lieu of an invitation, to lure Book here, was folded deep in his trouser pocket and had begun to bite his thigh. He did not like the Consortium, he didn’t share its principles nor admire its methods. Despite this, there he was, on the seat of the couch he’d been instructed to occupy, sitting opposite this silent man.
“Tea, Mr Book?” the man asked, breaking his silence.
Simultaneously, some minion dexterously placed a tray on the table. It’d been carefully arranged with a teapot next to some flowered cups, the milk jug diagonally opposite the sugar bowl and a dainty plate with thin slices of lemon on it opposite a receptacle containing engraved spoons. Now he’ll wipe the lip of the sugar bowl, thought Book just as the minion shook his napkin and made a speck that was sparkling on the porcelain rim disappear. Book’s imagination went into top gear and aged the minion’s face, which began to wrinkle and to sprout liverish spots. His neck developed hanging folds and Aunt Mildred’s insipid lipstick added a dash of colour to ridged lips.
Book went back to wondering how deeply the Seventy-Five had explored his personal file. The wispy steam that escaped the curved spout of the teapot laced the atmosphere with a delicate aroma of mint, which irritated his nose and invaded his memory like a plough that upturns earth that has been lying quiescent in the dark. He really should have refused this peculiar commission. He was betraying the old South by drinking tea in the Seventy-Five’s lounge. The bald man filled the teacups.
“You come from the former South, Mr Book. People like you are often harshly unfair on themselves and, as a result, on everyone else. We cannot be blamed for surviving the Overflow, it’s not our fault that we’re alive.”
Book’s mind peeled away the years. He was ten years old, facing a stern teacher who was pointing to a map with his cane. Clouds of chalk dust, like talcum powder, blocked his senses but then he became aware of the walls of the old classroom gently enclosing him as he alighted in the second row of desks. His sweaty hands materialised in front of him, gripping Mélanie’s two thick braids.
“The Dead Sea is a salty lake on the borders between Israel and Jordan, where, forty centuries ago, the Kingdoms of Sodom and Gomorrah prospered.” The teacher repeated his name in a menacing tone, Book’s
fingers released Mélanie’s hair, the teacher’s cane smacked into the blackboard. “I’m waiting, Book! Is there life at the bottom of the Dead Sea?” Book tentatively shook his head, despite his lack of preparation, but, surely, “Dead” implied absence of life. The stick smacked onto the board again and Book was ordered to read out loud from the geography book.
Gustave, eternally occupying the desk next to his, straightened his horrendously thick glasses and placed his palm on his chest. “Oooh, I’m enjoying this, Phileas, let’s see what your just desserts taste like.” Book made a mental note to physically deal with his neighbour during the break, although his ire rarely lasted that long. There were three girls’ faces pressed against the window, with hair the colour of his own, frantically signalling that their class had been dismissed and they’d be waiting for him in the yard.
He stuck his head between the pages. “The Dead Sea is seventy-seven kilometres long and sixteen wide, its median salinity is over ten times higher than an ocean’s, thus not allowing the diffusion of oxygen in its waters and, so, no fish live in them. However, there are a number of micro-organisms that thrive in these anaerobic conditions, like cyanobacteria and flavobacteria.”
That schoolbook must have had us in mind, thought Book, accepting a cup from the man’s hairless fingers. We are the bacteria. He breathed in the oxygen-starved air of the lounge.
“You lost relatives in the Overflow, did you not, Mr Book?”
He’d lost something even more valuable – his faith. The Overflow had hit when he was fifteen, so, in a way, he’d neither been young nor old, more like ageless. At fifteen one hasn’t developed an adult sense of the stages of life and divided as one is between the lost youth and the anticipation of adulthood, one borders on non-existence. The momentous events that crushed him had banished him forever to some aged hinterland where the delicate clover of faith does not flourish.
The worst thing was that he had just managed to discern the first signs of a promising future. He’d smelt its own aura from a distance, like that desert traveller who senses rather than sees the oasis he’s approaching. Life had begun to be exciting, lit up by the weird light of his transformation to maturity. Down had appeared on his upper lip, his shoulders were getting wider, his voice was growing deeper, last year’s shoes were cramping his toes. In place of pigtails, Mélanie had adopted a short cut, Gustave was wearing contact lenses and Book’s three sisters had grown old enough to get to school by themselves, which had relieved him of the tedium of escort duty.
What Lot's Wife Saw Page 7
