The Ecliptic

by Benjamin Wood

  I worked it in the same way as the other paints, in sweeping, fluid gestures, and, although it sputtered out towards the end of every brush load, there was an easy slide to it across the nap in the first motions—I could sculpt it, add textures and inflections as I dragged and shoved the bristles.

  The two circles I had left to dry the night before were still vibrant, slightly shivering on the canvas. The final, thickest circle overlaid them in the middle section, creating an effect that I had never seen before in ordinary paint: an ache that I could see and feel at once, as though it were not solely in the fabric of the thing itself but somehow part of me. I had made a simple thing so resonant with sadness, so pure in its substance, that looking at it made me grieve. Tears rushed from my eyes and I could not wipe them fast enough: they putted on the workbench, oozed along my neck. I felt ready to collapse with tiredness and relief. The picture showed glimmering blue circles in a void, growing in intensity as the eye passed left to right. An abstraction of a complicated truth. A way to comprehend it. The Ecliptic, I would call it. The only painting I refused to sacrifice. The one real thing I ever brought into the world.

  Ender was sent to get me. He must have been watching for some sign that I was up and moving, because no sooner had I got the kindling lit and fuming in the stove, he came thumping on the door. I was in my dressing gown and halfway to the shower. He did not even wait for me to let him in. The door ripped open and he stood at the threshold with the bright afternoon behind his back, snatching a hang-down strip of tape from the frame above him, as though it were a party streamer. When he saw that I was barely dressed, he did not apologise, just turned his head away, covered his eyes. ‘The provoss asks for you to speak with him,’ he said. ‘He has told me to make certain you will come. So you will come now, yes?’

  ‘In a moment,’ I said resolutely. ‘Let me put something on.’ I took a bundle of clean clothing to the bathroom and got dressed, washing at the sink, taking more time about it than I would usually have done. The creases of my eyes were streaked with hard white paint. My fringe was greased and gungy. After I had washed myself, a sediment of dirt clung all around the basin.

  Ender was still on the threshold when I emerged. He gave me a dismayed look and tucked his pocket watch inside his waistcoat. ‘You are too late now for lunch,’ he said. ‘But there is salep and ayran and fruit, if you want it.’

  I shook my head.

  He gestured to the covered canvas leaning on my wall. ‘You are working?’ he said, lifting an eyebrow.

  I replied, ‘I was. How cold is it out there?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Do I need a coat or not?’

  ‘No. There is sunshine, lots of sunshine.’

  I put it on anyway. Ender huffed.

  ‘Let’s get this over with,’ I said.

  The old man led me along the curving path instead of cutting straight across the grass as normal. He walked just a stride ahead of me and kept craning his head back, as if to check that I was still in grasping distance. From behind, his silver hair looked impossibly dense. Sprigs of it splayed out from the pleats of his long ears and almost twinkled in the sunlight. He had a lurching gait that seemed to pain him. As we went up the portico steps, he stopped to hold the door for me. And then, all at once, I was leading him instead, through the hall and up the stairs. I passed Crozier and Gluck on the landing. They both said quiet hellos to me, raising their coffee cups. It was the first time I had ever been glad of the sight of them. I smiled and wished them both good afternoon, and Gluck was so surprised that his response got caught up in his throat. ‘Yy—er, ya,’ he said. ‘You too.’ The old man was still in my wake, his nostrils wheezing. We went up another flight, over soft carpet (I wondered how many guests before me had made this same walk of condemnation) and clipped along the corridor together until we reached the provost’s study. ‘You wait,’ he said, rapping the wood three times.

  The door drew back abruptly and we were met by Ardak. He flicked a nod at the old man but did not acknowledge me. They exchanged a few words in Turkish, then Ardak brushed past us and went off down the hall. Inside, the provost was preparing a drink for himself at the hostess trolley by the fireplace. ‘Have a seat there, won’t you, Knell,’ he said, motioning to the settees. ‘I’m making what I like to call an Afternoon Refresher. Can I get you one? It’s just lemonade, a dash of grenadine, crushed ice, and pomegranate seeds. If you can get fresh mint, that makes it better, but I don’t have any.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ I said.

  ‘You’re missing out.’

  The old man shut the door and loomed there like a warden. As I sat down, I noticed Gülcan in an armchair near the provost’s desk—she had been partly obscured by his gaunt frame at the hostess trolley, but I could see her now, reclining deep into the cushions with her head back and her fingers worrying her hair. She did not look at me. Nazar was the only one who did, in fact; lazing in a hot-bright shank of sunshine underneath the window, she rolled her pupils round to meet mine, perked up her snout, and then came stepping over. I petted her head and she settled at my feet.

  Drink in hand, the provost lowered himself onto the settee opposite. He stirred the ice with a straw. ‘I am troubled, Knell,’ he said. ‘I never thought that I would need to sit you down for a conversation quite like this, but here we are. It’s hugely disappointing.’ He took a liberal swig of juice and gave a little noise of satisfaction. ‘Do I presume, from your lack of an expression, that you understand where this is headed?’

  ‘It’s never wise to presume anything,’ I said. ‘I heard you wanted to speak to me, that’s all.’

  The provost pursed his lips and nodded, though I was not sure at what. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Then let’s discuss the facts. Onus probandi—’ He leaned to put his drink down on the strange glass table between us. And, just when I expected he would lean straight back, he reached into his breast pocket and removed two keys—one brass, one silver—and snapped them on the tabletop. ‘Ender discovered these amongst your things last night at dinnertime. I apologise for the intrusion on your privacy, but these were special circumstances.’

  Nazar put her chin on my toes and whined. My heart was skittering; I could not quell it. I decided it was best to say nothing at all.

  ‘Obviously, I don’t need to tell you where they were missing from, or whose doors they belong to—’

  Staying silent was the best strategy. Until the thing was proven beyond doubt.

  ‘Add to this the information I received from Gülcan yesterday,’ he went on. ‘You mustn’t blame her—she’s been so twisted up about this whole matter she’s been quite unwell. In the end, it’s her own livelihood at stake, so you can understand why she would come to me. And then—’ The provost paused to slip a coaster underneath his sweating glass. ‘Then there is the matter of my telephone, which I found slightly off the hook last night and could not for the life of me think why—I mean, I have to be very precise about such things, as you know, with my eyes being the way they are, and if the receiver isn’t put back firmly, no calls can get through, which rather puts us all at risk. Anyway, you know about all this—’ He reclined again, crossing his legs.

  I tried my best to look dispassionate. ‘I didn’t even know you had a telephone,’ I said.

  ‘Knell, please. You have been in this room a number of times. You have seen it. You have heard it. I have spoken of it. Let’s not make this conversation any more uncomfortable than it has to be.’ He looked down at Nazar, twitching his brow. She did not stir. ‘I have contacted the telephone company. They’re sending me a log of all my outgoing calls. It takes a bit of time, of course, but I should have them by tomorrow. And if I see that you have made connection with anybody using this phone line, and given any details about your whereabouts to anyone—well, that would be a serious breach, a serious breach.’

  ‘A serious breach of what?’ I said.

  He glowered at me. ‘Of the fundamental purpose of this place. Of
the honour code. Of the privacy of every artist under this roof and all the others gone before. It will not be taken lightly by the trustees, I assure you.’

  I was feeling the same cold helplessness that had come over me at art school, when I was asked to justify the ‘profane’ content of my Deputation mural by the board of governors. I had not conceded my position then, so why now? ‘I think we’ll just have to wait and see what those phone records show. Because I promise you I haven’t spoken to a soul.’ Technically this was true: I had only talked to a machine.

  ‘Oh dear, I really hoped you wouldn’t take this line with me,’ the provost said. He spread an arm over the back of the settee. ‘Whether the records show anything or not, you have still broken into my study, which is a clear contravention of the rules. So, as far as I can see, you have two choices. One: that you stay with us, work here, carry on as normal. Try to come to terms with what has happened to your friend and find that sense of purpose you’ve been searching for. Everything as it used to be.’

  He lingered here to give me time to understand the gravity of my circumstance. I did not trust a single word that passed his lips.

  ‘If that isn’t acceptable, then I will have no option but to impose much stricter measures.’

  Again, he stopped, as though anticipating a reaction. But I simply folded my arms.

  ‘That means you’ll be escorted off the grounds without documentation,’ he said, ‘without support to secure your route home, or any acknowledgement from this office whatsoever. Any work you’ve made here will remain in our possession and you will forfeit any protection you might have otherwise received. In short, you’ll be entirely disowned. And, who knows? Perhaps the police will see to it that you’re arrested for trespassing on private property. We have some very useful friends in the local force. I understand they can be quite unforgiving on such matters in these parts. Am I being clear enough for you?’ He pitched forward for his glass and sipped at it.

  I managed to still my heart enough to say, ‘And what if I’ve already finished my work. What then?’

  ‘Last I heard, you weren’t producing much.’ The provost shot a look beyond me—to Ender, I assumed, for clarification.

  ‘Last you heard.’ I glared at him. ‘As it happens, I finished my mural last night. I’m done. I was actually going to arrange an appointment with you today to see about getting out of here.’

  At this, he sniffed. It almost seemed to amuse him. He took another sip of his Afternoon Refresher. ‘Well, I’m very pleased about that, Knell, but the choices stay the same. I cannot let you leave knowing you pose a threat to this establishment.’

  ‘I’m just supposed to stay here till you throw me in the sea, is that it?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ He swirled the ice round in his glass. ‘My hope is that you’ll come to see the value of what’s here eventually. You have three good friends in residence whom you’ve disrespected in your haste to use my telephone. What will happen to them and their work if you insist on blabbering to outsiders? You are jeopardising more than just yourself.’ And, dredging the last of his juice until the grenadine bled against the tip of his nose, he said, ‘In any case, people usually find ways to occupy themselves—ask Ender. He writes a letter to his sister in Armenia every day, and not a single one of them has ever been sent without my reading it first. They’re full of fictions of his own. You wouldn’t believe the things Ender gets up to in his imagination, the things that he takes credit for. But ask him if he’s happier with what he has here or with the alternative—he’ll tell you.’

  I snapped my head round to look at the old man. He had one hand on the doorframe, one upon his hip, and he was gazing at the patterns on the rug. I could not tell if he was listening impassively or just pretending not to understand. ‘What Ender chooses to accept is up to him,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t allow you to censor me like that.’

  ‘We all need this place for different reasons, is my point.’ The provost dabbed his nose. ‘Gülcan is distraught: she’s sacrificed a lot for her position here. There are people who rely on her. Ardak, too; myself, everyone. There is an honour code on which this refuge operates, and you have shown us just how dimly you regard it. Which, as I’ve said, is a tremendous disappointment to us all.’ He waved the old man over: two inward jabs of his fingertips. ‘Ender will take you down now. I’m giving you until dinnertime to think it over. But there really isn’t a choice to make here, as you know.’

  Ender stayed with me the whole way. I was escorted through the empty corridors and down the stairs, until we found ourselves outside again in the sunshine on a slow walk back towards my lodging. I felt, in that moment, like some old zoo animal, captured on the brink of her escape, being paraded to her cage as an example to the others. The closeness of the old man’s steps behind me was pressuring and measured. I tried to see goodness in the sky and beauty in my surroundings—the neighbouring islands were so verdant with evergreens, the sea chalk-lined by ferry crossings, the apartment blocks of Heybeliada clustered far below, awaiting families to shelter through the coming summer. But where I used to look upon these things with reverence, they now filled me with anxiety.

  The old man accompanied me as far as my door. ‘At the din-nerble,’ he said, ‘I will come back for you.’

  ‘Is this how it’s going to be now?’ I said.

  He peered back vacantly.

  ‘A chaperone to every meal? Because I can tell you, it’s already getting tedious.’

  ‘Dinnerble. I will come back again.’

  ‘All right. But if you’re going to make a habit of this, you can knock for me and wait on the doorstep like everyone else.’ I let myself inside and he walked off, heading straight across the grass.

  The studio was dark but I did not pull up the blinds or turn the shutters back. The warmth outside was yet to permeate the cinderblocks and the floor was cool against my stockinged feet. I did not light the stove. I went and fell upon my bed, front first, and smelled the stale mattress. Its linens had been stripped to cover up the mural and the bare fabric had a curious musk—the fetid body odour of a hundred sleepless nights, not all of them my own. I felt the need to get up, but I stayed exactly where I was, my cheek pressing against the springs until it tingled and went cold. I thought about lying there forever. And I realised that if I settled there, doing nothing, seeing out my days inside the studio with no purpose left at all, then I might as well go and throw myself onto the rocks. The boy would stay lost and so would my mural. But if I went now—if I cut the painting off the stretcher now—I could carry it with me. I could circumvent the gates before the dinner bell and try to get home. And even if I had no papers, at least I would have my work. At least I would have the truth. This thought lifted me up.

  I ran to the bathroom, got out the jewellery box, collected the jetons and my opal ring.

  I took as many garlands as I could see in the back of my closet. The mushrooms came off with the slightest push. I scooped them from the table, onto a sheet of tin foil, enfolding it with tape to keep the light out. On the shelf below, I found my suitcase. The parcel of mushrooms fitted in the front pouch. Next thing, I was pulling clothes from their hangers and tipping out my bedside drawers and throwing in the boy’s comics. I was unpicking all the samples from the wall, baling them with string, jamming them inside the case wherever they would fit. I was clearing a space on the floor for the canvas, shoving the workbenches into the doorway, spreading out the linens to protect it, lowering it face-down to the concrete. I was on my haunches with my knife, and cutting along the line of the brass tacks, pressing firmly, surgically, so the fabric separated from the wood. And then I was hauling the stretcher frame away—an empty rectangle, cumbersome but light—and I was standing over the blankness of that canvas once again, right back where I had started.

  When I flipped it over, I could just make out three white circles of texture. I had no time to worry if the paint would crack in transit, or if the final layer was dry enough. The canvas
was four feet tall and twice as wide, so it took some rolling up—I had no carpet tube or dowelling to guide it with. Planning ahead, I ran a loop of string along the edge, then bunched up the lip of the canvas into my fists, folding inwards, inwards, inwards, until the weave of the cloth found a natural curl. I rolled until I had a bulky cigarette shape with a string running through it, and taped along its join to hold it all together. I waterproofed it with black plastic sheeting and more tape, more tape, more tape, more, then tied the ends of the string to form a strap. I stood up to test it, holding the roll across my back like a quiver of arrows. The string dug into my breast, but it was secure and it was portable. I just hoped that it was strong enough to last.

  His windowpane was dappled with the silhouettes of pines and skewed with the reflections of the mansion gables. But I could still see enough of Pettifer’s head above the top edge of his drafting board to read the glumness in his expression. He was gazing out into the trees so absently that he did not even notice me approaching. When I reached the sloping path down to his doorstep, my hurried movements seemed to startle him. He called to me: ‘Knell? What the heck—?’ Then he undid the latch to let me in. ‘Are you leaving already?’

  ‘Shshhh,’ I said, pushing past him. I threw my suitcase on his bed. ‘Close the door.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just do it.’

  He did. ‘Oh, sure, fine. Don’t worry about the interruption or anything. I mean, it’s not as though I could possibly be—’

  ‘Shshhh.’

  I went to draw the blind. There was just a single sheet of paper on his drafting table: a sketch of a vaulted doorway with a sort of fish-scaled covering. ‘I’ve been trying to invent a new type of awning,’ he said. ‘Collapsible but solid. Pointless, as it transpires. But I don’t suppose there’s any good reason why we’re standing in darkness now, either . . . At least put a lamp on.’