The Ecliptic

by Benjamin Wood

  ‘Everything I told you about the doctor and the trip to France—that was true. I did go back to Arras. The bar fight part was true, except it happened in Paris not Dunkirk. I hit a poet in the mouth. The rest was just a story. I don’t know if he had a sister but I didn’t go to Giverny with him or anywhere else. I got arrested that day and my friend came to get me. He lives in Paris with his wife. He’s a playwright now, quite a famous one, actually—doing lots of script work for the films. And this ring, I promise you, it genuinely belongs to him. I need you to know I’m telling you the truth.’

  ‘What does it matter?’ I said. ‘You’re here now. And you care for me. That’s all.’

  He slipped it back on his finger, twisted it round. ‘I don’t even know if there are Judas trees in Giverny. That isn’t the place I saw them. Ellie, keep listening to me, please. You’re not even—all right, let’s do this later. You rest a bit. You rest, and I’ll see if I can get us something that’s worth eating. How would you like some—’

  Fried eggs and beans. The only time Jim ever cooked me anything. The sight of it was sickening. And how long had I slept? The kitchen beads were taped against the frame. Just embers in the hearth. He made me eat again. Some of the beans and most of the eggs. And then we carried on. The ring belonged to his playwright friend—he had told me this before—and his wife who lived in Paris—yes, I knew all this, I said.

  ‘We served together. He was my sergeant. I’d seen him just a few times since the war, but we wrote to each other a lot. Anyway, that day he came to bail me out the station—well, I could tell how concerned he was about me, you know? I was in an awful state. Worse than in the Army. It was him and his wife who helped me get sober. To begin with, at least.’

  Jim made the tea too strong. I could not drink it.

  ‘Listen, Ellie, listen.’

  I still felt a bit light-headed.

  ‘So I was in a bad way, I’d given up on painting—he could see that I was struggling just to get out of bed in the morning. I was always the one who used to keep his spirits up, you know—I’d draw him pictures to cheer him up when we got stationed anywhere new. Just sketches of the fellas in the regiment. And he knew how much it meant to me, to be painting well. We used to talk about it all the time in our letters.’

  He was telling the truth. His eyes were bright and clear. Nothing evasive, nothing shifting. Finally, Jim Culvers was telling me the truth.

  ‘Anyway. One day, his wife goes out to meet someone, and we’re alone. And he tells me all about this time when he was younger, how he’d been through a similar thing to what was happening to me now—drinking a lot, and hardly writing. Even though his plays were being put on every year, he said he’d felt this despair inside, eating away at him. Something just wasn’t right. He’d tried to kill himself a few times, he said, and I was—well, I didn’t know what to think. Got your attention now, though, I see.’

  I was staring at him—at his mouth.

  ‘Well, he’d clearly managed to get himself straightened out, so I asked him how he’d done it. And he starts talking very fast about everything he’d been through, hitting rock bottom, all of that. I don’t know if he was worried about his wife coming back and hearing, or what, but he really did talk quickly. And, next thing, he’s telling me all about this place he knows in Turkey. Some island off the coast of Istanbul. There was a set-up there, he said, a kind of sanatorium. A place only for artists—not a colony, not a resort or anything like that. A refuge. He claimed it turned his life around, this place, just being there. Gave him back his sense of purpose. Completely cleared his mind.’

  It sounded like a perfect spot to disappear.

  ‘So I just looked at him, you know—same way you’re looking at me now—and my heart was thumping in my chest. I knew I had to get there, wherever it was. No matter what, I needed to get there. I asked him how to find it, and he said, “It’s not that simple. There are rules you have to follow.” I said, “I’ll do anything. Just tell me how to get there.” So he did. He told me everything. And I want you to hear this now, Ellie, and really listen, really listen, because I won’t have a chance to repeat it.’

  Waiting at the phone box on a street somewhere in Luss. Expecting it to ring. Jim said I should stay in bed, but I could not sleep a moment longer. The food had strengthened me a bit. I could stand up straight without faltering. We were half under the streetlamp. No cars on the road. Grey smoke shuffling in the darkness, a line of cottages turned in for the night. Already Jim had dialled a number and spoken to his contact. ‘All right,’ he had said, ‘we’ll stand by,’ and he had read aloud the number of the phone box. ‘Doesn’t matter when. However long it takes. If we don’t hear in a few hours, we’ll have to—all right, thank you.’ That seemed like forever ago.

  We sat on the kerb, throwing stones, like two kids playing in the lane. ‘You don’t have to worry about anything,’ Jim said. ‘It’s going to be difficult at first, but, trust me, it gets easier. My first season there, I hardly painted anything. I just tried to get used to the surroundings. That’s OK, by the way—you can’t be afraid of losing time. Just let your mind absorb things, let it settle. And, eventually, you’ll work yourself out. My advice is, go up to the mansion roof a lot. That’s where you’ll see things clearest. All the Judas trees come out on the islands in the spring—it’s like nothing else on earth. You can see them from across the water. And when you see them, think of me, remember this moment, OK? Because the main thing out there is not to get lonely. There’ll be people who you’ll get along with, and people who you won’t, but it’s important not to get lonely. It happened to a few people I—’ Phone was ringing. ‘This is it,’ Jim said. He patted the dirt from his hands. Swinging the rusted door open, stepping in. He looked at me, smiling. Picked up the receiver. ‘Yes?’ A nod, a nod, another. ‘Thank you, sir, yes. I’m keeping well. The work is flowing. Things are selling, too, which helps.’ Pause. Nod. ‘I’ve no doubt that it did, sir, yes.’ A genteel laugh I had never heard him give before. An odd formality to it all. ‘Of course, of course. Well, I won’t keep you. I’ll pass on the good news. And thank you so much again for—no, but I really do appreciate it.’ That laugh again. ‘I will, sir, yes. Hoşçakal.’

  Corridors Surpassing

  The boat was nine heaves out of the bay and getting smaller. From the escarpment, we could just make out Ender straining at the oars, his back hunched like a dune against the drizzle, the grey sea swaying all around him. With each stroke, the bow seemed to move only a fraction. If we had been near enough, we might have heard the old man complain about his aching bones to Ardak in the stern. The two of them had spent all afternoon preparing the boy’s body: wrapping it, weighting it, hauling it down the forest slope on their shoulders. But whatever thoughts were shared between them in that boat, whatever they felt about performing this dire duty on our behalf, nobody could tell from so far away. We could only gauge it from the respectful indolence of the old man’s rowing motions, and the straightforwardness with which Ardak went about the job of lowering the boy into the water.

  It happened like this:

  Twenty more heaves and Ender let the boat drift, pulling the oars in from the rowlocks. Ardak came forwards, his feet straddling the thwarts. He took one end of the body and the old man took the other. The boat teetered and swung. They seemed to give themselves a count of three, and then they hove the body sideways, scraping it along the boards and resting it a moment on the gunwale. The body was wedged against the frame of the boat—a limp shape bundled in black plastic and a cheap Turkish rug, all strung up like a boxing glove. Ardak had to lean his weight backwards to prevent them from capsizing. They had a short consultation, hands on hips, and then they tried again, pushing the body overboard. It was so loaded with cinderblocks that it sunk fast, and the boat wobbled suddenly underneath them, causing the old man to stumble; Ardak grabbed his sleeve to keep him from lurching into the water. They steadied themselves and sat down on the thwarts again. For a
moment, they just waited there, drifting on the Marmara for no reason.

  Then the provost began to eulogise. ‘I have no words of inspiration for you today,’ he called out over the breeze. ‘I had hoped that I could compose a few lines that might capture the significance of the life that we have lost, but I have failed to do so, and I feel some shame about that. Yesterday, we had a great young talent in our midst, and today we’ve buried him. Nothing I say can match the depth of our sorrow. That such a tragedy should happen on my watch as provost is a regret I will take to my own grave.’ He paused here, rucking the ground with his cane.

  Every last guest at Portmantle was standing on the south-eastern bluff with their eyes towards the sea. The provost had angled himself to address the whole crowd, but we knew his speech was meant only for the four of us. There was a reverential distance in his tone, a suggestion of apology. ‘Nothing good can be salvaged from a day as dark as this,’ he went on, ‘but there is—it only strikes me now, in fact—there is a lesson to be taken from it.’

  He was sermonising from a mound of shingly soil and wore a long black overcoat that shimmied in the wind. The short-termers were huddled in a crescent alongside him, but we stood further back: MacKinney with her arm around me, Quickman squatting to ruffle the fur on Nazar’s chest, and Pettifer hovering over them with an umbrella like some awkward hand-servant. My toes skimmed the frill of weeds on the escarpment’s edge, and I focused on the sea washing below, until it became so metronomic I could sense each breaking wave without having to listen.

  ‘Because, at times like these, it is artists like you whom we consult for solace—’ Wash. ‘The poets and writers in our libraries—’ Wash. ‘The paintings on our walls, the music.’ Wash. ‘Death is something only art can qualify. And that is all—’ Wash. ‘—the encouragement I can take from this unhappy mess.’ Wash. ‘Because surely all great art is made for people left behind. For those—’ Wash. ‘—who suffer death and cannot fathom it. And so what else is there to say, except—’ Wash. ‘To Fullerton! May he rest in peace and live on through his work.’

  ‘To Fullerton!’ everyone called.

  ‘To the boy,’ I said.

  Wash.

  I tried to imagine what it would be like to jump, to fall, to be devoured by the sea. It did not give me much relief to think of it, or bring me any deeper sense of understanding.

  MacKinney tugged at my shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s move back from the edge, eh? The wind’s picking up.’ I was tucked inside her wing. We were flanked by pines and scrub, but still a fair breeze swirled about our ankles, moving tiny pebbles underfoot. I stepped back. ‘That’s better. That’s it.’

  The short-termers were dispersing and heading for the trees. Out on the water, Ender had already turned the boat for home. He rowed with the same tired action as before, yet he seemed to glide much faster. ‘What are we supposed to do now?’ I said.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Gülcan’s made a special supper,’ said Pettifer. ‘Everyone’s going back up to the house.’

  ‘I don’t see what’s so special about any of this,’ Quickman said.

  ‘It’s out of the ordinary, that’s all I meant.’

  ‘I’ll say.’

  ‘They’re holding a wake,’ Mac cut in. ‘The provost’s idea.’

  Quickman scruffed the dog’s head. ‘What the hell’s the point of that?’

  ‘Well, they’ve got to do something for the lad, haven’t they?’

  ‘They didn’t do anything for him before. No reason to start now.’ Quickman seemed to say this to the dog. She had not left his heels all afternoon, and, in turn, he had been patting and cajoling her when she made the slightest plea. ‘They didn’t even know him. What are they going to do, stand around making up anecdotes?’

  ‘Knell knew him better than anyone. And if she wants to go—’

  ‘I don’t. Q’s right,’ I said. ‘It’s a sham. The provost couldn’t care less.’

  I could still feel the boy’s wet body in my arms, a phantom ache. The day had passed with agonising slowness and I just wanted to see it out. I had spent most of the morning by the fire in the day room, watching the fight of the flames, hoping that if I stared for long enough into the blurry heat it might tranquillise me, blank my memory. But I could not stop myself from thinking of the duct tape on the boy’s mouth—the very stuff that I had given him—or the leather belt around his neck, the simple weave of it. He had won it from Tif in their backgammon game. Such small details plagued me. They lured me into a trail of senseless speculations on what might have been: if the four of us had only done x, if I had just said y to the boy, if the provost had done z. I was searching for logic where none existed.

  At the provost’s instruction, the boy had been carried out of his lodging on a hammock made of bedsheets, Ender and Ardak providing the muscle. Quickman had stayed with me in the day room, surveying every movement from the window, until they had taken the body too deep into the woods for us to see. Q had gone to the couch, where the dog was lying, and towelled her belly until her hind legs kicked. There was a homely dampness in the air. ‘It’ll be all right, you know,’ he had said. ‘In a few days, we’re going to feel better.’ After a while, Gülcan had brought in cups of hot salep and pastries left over from breakfast; I had drunk two cups and eaten as much as I could stomach, but Quickman had fed his own share to the dog.

  I had told him, ‘Someone’s got to let his family know. I don’t care what the provost says.’

  ‘And how are we supposed to do that exactly?’

  ‘By getting out of here.’

  ‘Don’t talk silly.’

  ‘I’ll write a letter, sneak it in the outgoing post somehow.’

  ‘You don’t even know if he has a family. You don’t even know his real name.’

  ‘So what are you saying, Q? Forget about him?’

  I had thought, of all people, Quickman would try to reassure me.

  ‘There’s a bigger picture, you know,’ was his response. ‘Think about what you’re suggesting.’ He had brought the pipe out of his pocket, slotting it into his teeth. ‘You have to remember that he did this to himself. He made his choice. That might sound very cold-hearted, but, I’m sorry, that’s just how I see it. The provost has a point.’

  ‘So you’re caving in now, too. Terrific.’

  ‘Think about it, Knell. He’s one boy. One out of God knows how many. You’re really going to let him run this place into the ground? That isn’t what he wanted.’

  My mind would not be changed as easily as Quickman’s, but I could not blame him for his second thoughts. He was the one who had found the boy in the bathtub, after all, and he had earned the right to view things however he wished. It was the provost whom I could not forgive. There had been an eerie calmness about his behaviour that morning, in the height of our emergency. Both he and Ardak had followed me out of the mansion, running back to the boy’s lodging; Ardak had sprinted ahead of me, but the provost had lagged behind, barely jogging, his old doctor’s bag gripped under one arm. In the bathroom, he had genuflected at the sight of Fullerton on the tiles. He had removed a stethoscope from the bag and placed the metal cup against the boy’s chest, allowing an empty moment to go by.

  ‘Anything?’ Q had asked, though he must have known the answer.

  The provost had shaken his head. He had checked Fullerton’s distended eyes with a torch and closed the boy’s lids in the thoughtless way you might shut the clasps on a briefcase. ‘I’m afraid he’s gone,’ he had said. ‘We’ll have to bury him right away’ He had turned to give Ardak some instructions in Turkish. ‘Adamı denize atabilir misin?’

  ‘Karanlık olmadan atmalıyız’ Ardak had replied, shrugging. ‘Ben botu hazırlarım’

  ‘What are you going to do with him?’ Quickman had said.

  ‘Well, we can’t keep him on the grounds, that’s for certain. It’s much too risky’ The provost had stuffed the instruments back inside his doctor’s bag. ‘A
rdak thinks we ought to put him out to sea. I’ll have to check with the trustees, but I think that’s probably safest.’

  ‘You can’t just dump him in the Marmara.’

  The provost had stood up, towering over me. ‘Knell, we have to be pragmatic about this.’ He had rolled his good eye downwards. ‘It wouldn’t be the first funeral we’ve held here—people get sick, and we can’t always treat them if they refuse to go to hospital. There’s a procedure.’ He had spoken to Ardak again. ‘Yaşlı adamdan yardım al’ Then he had dusted off his hands and said to us, ‘I have to make some calls. Excuse me.’

  Are you going to talk to his sponsor?’ My voice had sounded so puny. ‘His family needs to be told.’

  The provost had inhaled deeply. ‘I’m not sure that’s in anyone’s best interest.’

  ‘Of course it is.’

  ‘You can’t honestly be suggesting that we go on as normal,’ Quickman had said.

  The provost had slung his bag over his shoulder. ‘I know you two were friends of his. But what do you think would happen if I told his sponsor? The news is bound to leak—we can’t control what sponsors say or do—and we’d have a thousand people banging on these gates, asking all kinds of questions. We’d be shut down before the season’s out. I’m sorry, I won’t put the refuge in jeopardy like that, for anyone.’

  Quickman had looked bewildered, even sickened, and I had thought he would share my anger towards the provost forever. ‘So what do you propose we do, sir?’ he had asked.

  ‘Follow procedure. That’s all there is to it.’

  Ardak had called from the doorway: ‘Bunin için ekstra ödeme gerekir beyefendi.’

  The provost had nodded back at him emphatically. Then, shuffling towards us with an air of appeasement, he had said, ‘Nobody wants it to happen this way. But it’s one of the eventualities we all have to prepare for. You understood the risks when you both came here.’