I moved to the teak cabinet behind his desk. And there it was: the only telephone on the grounds. Its stand was fancy, golden, engraved with minute fretwork. The jade handset was so heavy that my elbow sank a little as I picked it up.
I heard a pigeon-cooing in the earpiece. The line was working.
I dialled zero for the operator. Nothing happened. After a moment, the crackling line scratched out. I tried again and got the same response. It had to be zero. Zero for the operator. Or had they changed it to 100? I dialled that instead.
‘Hello. Operator. How may I help you?’
I had assumed she would be Turkish.
‘Hello? Did you need me to assist you?’
I must have reached the international operator.
‘I need to place a call to London.’ It came out in a flurry.
‘Can you speak up, please? I can’t hear you very well.’
‘No, I can’t, I’m sorry.’ But I whispered it more plainly: ‘I need—to place—a call—to London.’
‘Do you know the number, madam?’
‘Only the name and the address.’
‘I’ll need to take those down.’
‘It’s Yail.’ I spelled it out, and she spoke it back to me using the phonetic alphabet. ‘His first name’s Victor. He’s a doctor, if that helps you find it.’ And I told her the address. ‘Please hurry.’
‘I have the number for you now. It should only take a moment to connect.’
A trilling noise, a trilling noise, a trilling noise. And then—
‘Hello, you have reached the answering machine of Dr Yail and Dr Fleishmann, Harley Street Practice.’ A man’s voice, but not Victor’s, very strained. ‘Office hours are 10 a.m. to 7 p.m., Monday to Thursday. If you are calling outside these hours and wish to make an appointment, please leave your name and the number where we might contact you. Listen for the tone and speak as clearly as you can. Thank you.’
‘Yes, this is an urgent message for Dr Yail,’ I said. ‘It’s very important, that I speak to—’
A long beep in my ear.
‘Hello? Is someone there?’
Just a fuzz of static.
I started again: ‘This is an urgent message, please, for Dr Yail. I have some very sad news about his son.’ I paused, tweaking the language in my head. ‘I’m afraid I have to let him know that Jonathan is dead. It happened early yesterday.’ It sounded so cold, so final. ‘I’m sorry I’ve had to leave it in a message like this. I really wish I didn’t have to be the one to tell you—I really am so sorry . . . It’s Elspeth Conroy—Dr Yail knows who I am. You know who I am, Victor. It’s terrible, having to say all this to a machine. I suppose it must be early where you are. It’s early here. The sun has only just come up . . . Victor, I really am sorry. I just had to let you know. Poor Amanda must be going mad with worry. But there was nothing we could do. He drowned himself—it was the dreams. They made his life such hell, but he . . . He didn’t suffer . . . It’s difficult to say exactly where I am. How well do you know Istanbul? If you can get a ferry out to Heybeliada, it’s—’ Another long beep. ‘Victor, are you there?’
But the line had cut off. I pressed the hook and pressed the hook, trying to get it back. There was nothing, just the dial tone. I hung up the receiver, thinking I would have to call again, but when? The provost hardly left his room. My only chance was gone.
I needed to get out.
The door seemed very distant now. I could not run. My chest was tight. I turned the handle, checked the hallway. Bright out there. All clear. But, coming out, I struggled with the lock. The brass key—so smooth before—would not go in. I fumbled with it, and I realised: the silver key, the silver. When I finally had it locked, I rushed away. Then someone stepped up to the landing. I grabbed at the dado rail to stop myself. My boots squealed on the floor. I almost knocked a picture off the wall: it swung around and settled.
Gülcan had the provost’s breakfast on a tray: orange juice, a rack of toast, and two boiled eggs. When she saw me, her arms flinched. The juice wobbled in the glass.
We did not speak. Her eyes were like a rabbit’s, darting, blinking. I put my palms together, mouthing ‘Please’. And, after a moment, she exhaled and nodded gravely. I carried on along the hall, straight past her, down the stairs, with the feeling in my gut that I had swallowed turpentine and chased it with a flame.
Breakfast was the third meal in a row that I had missed, and it prompted MacKinney to come knocking at the studio. She woke me from the darkest trenches of my sleep: dreams the like of which you only get from sheer exhaustion, that drag your fears out from the roots and shake their dirt off in your conscience. A butcher’s shop, a bloody floor, a mop and bucket—things that I was very glad to get away from. ‘Knell, it’s almost lunchtime. Are you in there?’ My window was still shuttered and the blinds still stapled back. Tape clung to the door in strips. ‘I’m coming in.’ She pushed inside.
I was on my couch under a pile of blankets. The tiredness had been too much—I had not lit the stove when I got back, just shivered into sleep.
Mac looked at me: ‘You have a bed, you know. I recommend you try it.’ Then at the mess: ‘Crikey. You’ve been painting.’
‘I’m as shocked as you are.’ I sat up, squinting at the room. The mural was propped up on the wall, covered by linens. ‘It’s not finished yet, though.’
She was already filling up a jug with water. ‘We thought you’d been ignoring us, but I suppose you’ve had your head in all of this. It didn’t even occur to me that, well, you know what I mean.’ There were no clean cups for her to pour the water into, so she passed me the whole jug. I glugged from the spout, soaking my chin and the front of my shirt. ‘So, what was it—a lightning bolt?’ she said. ‘Or total accident?’
‘I’m not sure. A bit of both.’
‘Well, if you’ve really got your muse back, don’t keep her to yourself. We’re all in need of her company.’ She searched the ceiling. ‘Where is she? Can I borrow her for just an afternoon. I swear I’ll bring her back.’
‘What happened to Oh, thank you, sir. I’ll have it done in no time, sir!’
She folded her arms, peering down. ‘I don’t remember sounding quite that sycophantic.’ And, nudging my feet aside, she lowered herself onto the couch next to me. ‘Anyway, from the looks of things, I don’t have to worry about being the first one out of here. How long until we see your name up on the bulletin board?’
I shrugged. ‘I need one more night of painting, maybe two.’
‘That soon? Wow. This is serious.’ She lifted her brow. ‘I suppose you’d better make an appointment with the prov, then. Give him a head start on your paperwork.’
‘It might not be that simple.’
‘Course it is. Just go straight up and ask him.’ Patting my calves, she turned to me and smiled. I could see the oily smears of fingers on her glasses. It seemed pointless to tell her about my stolen phone call in the provost’s study. The less she knew of my behaviour, the less she was incriminated by association. ‘I always thought you’d be the first of us to crack it, you know,’ she said. ‘Pettifer’s going to be wrecked, poor sod, and we might even see a tear from Q when you go. I’m sure he won’t cry in front of you, though. Retain a bit of dignity. As for me—’ She gripped my leg. ‘They’ll have to cut me off you with a hacksaw.’ We laughed together. In that moment, I felt glad and desolate at once. Then an idea came to her. I could see it brightening her eyes. ‘Will you do me a favour when you’re back in the motherland?’ she said.
‘Of course,’ I told her. ‘Anything.’
‘If you could get a letter to my kids for me, I’d be so grateful.’
‘Don’t let me leave without it.’
‘You might find that they’ve moved, so best to put your return address on the envelope, just in case, eh?’
‘Done. I’ll walk it to them, if I have to.’
She took my hand and kissed it. ‘You’re a great friend, Knell—you know that?
I always knew you’d find a way out of here.’ The crusted white paint on my fingernails drew her attention. ‘Look how bony you’re getting, though. You’d better have a decent lunch today.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Long trip home, you know. Important to stay healthy.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Just promise me you’ll eat. A bowl of rice, a bit of fruit—that’s all I’m asking.’
‘If I’m hungry, Mac, I’ll eat. Don’t worry.’
I went to start the shower running in the bathroom. My painting shirt was curiously ripe. I stripped off and put a gown on while the water heated up. When I came back into the studio, Mac had lit the stove and was standing at my workbench with one of Jonathan’s comics. ‘Are these yours?’ she said. ‘They’re incredibly dark.’
‘Fullerton drew them.’
‘You’re kidding.’ She sat down with the comic, putting her feet up. ‘I thought you said he was a musician.’
‘That’s just what we assumed.’
‘I don’t remember giving it much thought.’
‘All right, I assumed.’
She nodded distractedly. ‘Well, his dialogue needs work,’ she said, ‘but you’ve got to admire the drama of it all—and the drawings are something else. You know for certain that he did them?’
‘I got them from his lodging.’
‘Doesn’t mean they’re his, per se.’
‘I know. But trust me.’
‘Uh-huh,’ she said, so immersed in Issue 1 she did not seem to care that I was dodging her. ‘Go on, have your shower. I’m at the part with the old woman in the mink. It’s just started to get frightening.’
Later, washed and more awake, I explained it all to her. About my connection to the boy and Quickman’s translations, what they signified. She did not seem surprised. Using the muller, I showed her Jo Nathaniel’s name in print, and let her see the rows of dots up close. She gave a little gasp of fascination. I talked vaguely—mentioning no names—about my issues with the mural commission, and how seeing all these tiny circles on the page had helped me find a new approach. ‘No lightning bolts,’ I said, ‘more like a very slow earthquake.’
She listened closely, engaged and sympathetic, as though heeding the advice of a director in her ear. But she responded only in the past tense: ‘That sort of thing used to happen to me all the time,’ she said. ‘The number of dead-ends I used to wriggle out of that way,’ she said. ‘You wouldn’t believe how fast I used to work,’ she said. I told her I would wait for her in London, that she would always be welcome in my home, that I would go and watch her plays wherever they were staged—all the platitudes you give to friends when, privately, you fear that what exists between you in that moment will abate in separation.
Not only were the residents confounded by the sight of Ardak doling out great dollops of moussaka at the serving pass, but his slowness left them queuing all the way back to the mess hall door. And, waiting in line, I could hear them gossiping in broken English about what must have happened to Gülcan. Mac got talking with Lindo in Spanish, and I did not know where to put my eyes. Q and Tif were at our table, napkins tucked into their collars; great ugly mounds of food lay in front of them, and they were not quite tucking in with their customary enthusiasm.
When I reached the pass, I held out my plate to Ardak, and he grabbed it from me, huffing. He slopped out such a loaded spoonful of brown sludge that it dripped over the sides. As I took the plate from him, he held on to it, and scowled.
‘What was all that about?’ Mac asked, as we headed away. ‘Did you forget to say please?’
I tried to keep quiet, but Pettifer was already adding up the twos of Gülcan’s absence when we got to the table. He moved aside to let Mac sit, saying, ‘Yes, but it has to be more than that, Q, or they’d have put the old man on the pass instead, wouldn’t they? I think they’ve given her the boot, and Ender’s up there pleading her case.’
‘It amazes me,’ Mac said, ‘the speed at which you construct these fairy tales of yours. The poor girl’s probably got a stomach bug. She probably thought it best not to contaminate our food.’
‘I hope you’re right.’ He ran his spoon through the mush on his plate. ‘I can’t bear much more of this gruel.’
‘Lindo says he heard somebody vomiting earlier,’ Mac said. ‘I hope she’s OK.’
Tif stayed silent for a moment. ‘Morning sickness, maybe.’
‘Christ, Tif, put a sock in it,’ Quickman said.
‘Well, I don’t see why we’re taking Lindo’s word on things ahead of mine.’
‘I can’t help it if he speaks more sense,’ Mac said.
‘You don’t have to quote him, though. As if he’s the Spanish bloody oracle.’
And I lost my patience with them all. ‘Could everyone, for once, just try saying nothing? How about that?’ I had been allowing them to speculate as long as it deflected from the truth of Gülcan’s absence. But I could not stand to hear aspersions being cast on the woman. She had done nothing wrong except for carrying up the provost’s breakfast a fraction too soon, and I could not resent her if she decided to confess. ‘You’re making my head spin, the lot of you.’ I pushed my plate away.
‘You promised me you’d eat,’ Mac said.
‘Sorry. It’s completely inedible.’
‘There’s plenty of bread and yoghurt over there. Even Ardak can’t mess that up.’
‘I’ll have something at dinner.’
‘I knew you’d find an excuse.’
‘Is everything all right?’ Q asked.
‘Perfect,’ I said, and smiled. In truth, the instant I saw Gülcan missing from the serving pass, my pulse had started thrumming. I was expecting the provost to come down at any moment, to command the attention of the mess hall with a clap of his hands. Eat up, everyone, he was going to say. Knell has some important information . . .
But all that happened was Mac leaned into Tif’s ear and said, ‘Knell’s getting out.’
‘Huh?’
‘She’s painting again. I just came from her studio. In a few days, she’ll be off.’
‘Mac, don’t,’ I said.
‘Come on, I’m proud of you.’ And, glancing at Q, she said, ‘There’s a canvas at her place the size of a billboard. I haven’t seen what’s on it yet, but if we ask her nicely, we might get a little preview.’
‘Are you serious?’ Q said.
‘It’s true that I’ve been painting again,’ I said. ‘I don’t know about the preview.’
‘That’s wonderful!’
‘We’ll see. I’m not quite done.’
‘You will let us see it when you are, though, right?’ Mac said.
‘Possibly. Probably. I haven’t decided.’
Pettifer stood up from the table, rattling dishes. ‘Excuse me. I’m not having any more of this slop. I’m going to see what else there is.’ He carried off his plate towards the kitchen, walking as fast as I had ever seen him manage. The back of his shirt was striped with sweat. The balding crown of his head was pink and sore-looking.
‘What’s bitten him?’ Mac asked.
‘You could’ve been a little gentler with his ego,’ Quickman said. ‘He’s only just got used to the thought of you leaving. Now you’re staying put—although, I’m still not a hundred per cent certain why that is yet—and suddenly it’s Knell who’s off. Tough on the system, all this being glad for other people.’
Mac laughed softly. ‘I told you: I’m not satisfied with the play yet. A thousand plot holes to work out. You know how it is.’
‘Ah, yes, I remember. Plot holes. The council fixes those, eventually.’
She grinned.
‘Well, spare a thought for Tif and me, when you get home.’ Quickman brought his pipe out of his pocket. ‘Because the only way we’re getting out of here is if somebody comes back to collect our ashes. Which, I can assure you, is not halfway as romantic an ending as it sounds.’
The mushrooms were n
ot dry enough to powder. A full day next to the boiler had left them white and shrunken, but I needed them to desiccate. Still, when darkness came, I unhooked two of the driest garlands and stripped them clean. I had to try, at least, to make one batch of paint. And there was a sample on my wall, still gleaming blue, that I knew had been made in the earliest stage of my experiments with the pigment, when I had used much damper fruitheads. Those first few nights, spent keenly testing out the possibilities of the stuff, toying with mixtures of emulsions and pastes, had yielded one daub of shining paint that I hoped I could now replicate. The hardest part was deciphering my handwriting in the margins of the little canvas square: some of the 7s looked like 1s, some of the 9s looked like 8s. But I was thankful to my father for instilling such a methodical streak in me that I could always bank on the lees of my work to be accounted for. Never bin your scraps, he used to say, if I stood watching him repair a table leg or fit a new U-bend in the kitchen. One day that bit of junk you threw away will be the only thing that does the job.
Ground up in the mortar, the damp mushrooms formed a viscid blue cement. I was light-handed with the oil, following the measurements on the sample, and after some persuasion with the muller, it became more pliable, until I had a paint as thick as clotted cream. I had the instinct to thin it out with turps, but held off, knowing one mistake would spoil the entire batch.
The radiance of the paint was a good start. And the tone seemed rich enough for what I needed. It did not take so naturally to the brush head, falling off in tiny clumps—I had to hold my free hand underneath to catch them—but once I put the first stroke on the canvas, it cooperated. The smooth opacity of the stuff gave off the most resplendent sheen. If anything, the moister pigment helped me realise a better outcome than I ever could have planned.
The Ecliptic Page 34
