The Ecliptic

by Benjamin Wood

  ‘I bloody well slipped trying to reach you.’

  ‘I told you I was fine.’

  ‘How was I supposed to know that? I thought you were crying out for help.’ He lowered himself to the gravel next to me, shivering. The mangy roll of tape and plastic lay between us. He glanced down at it. ‘So that’s it, is it? Doesn’t seem like much from here.’

  My hand was still gripping it. ‘It’s what’s on the inside that counts.’

  ‘Well, that’s not always true, believe me. That thing better be worth all the trouble. There aren’t many paintings I’d jump into a freezing lake for.’

  ‘I thought you slipped.’

  He cornered his eyes at me.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said.

  ‘Well, about bloody time.’ He patted his hands clean of stones, hooked on his glasses. ‘My kingdom for a towel.’

  ‘We can dry off by the fire,’ I said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In Henry’s cottage. It’s five minutes that way.’

  He looked north. ‘That might not be such a bad idea. My teeth are chattering.’

  ‘I can hear them.’

  He gripped his jaw to quell it.

  ‘It’ll be worth it when you see it,’ I said. ‘I’ll show you.’

  ‘I just want to get dry and get home.’

  ‘It’s yours—the painting. I’m giving it to you.’

  He rubbed his knees. ‘That’s all very sweet. But I don’t want it. Even if it’s worth a fortune, I’m not taking your work.’

  ‘You kept that portrait I did of you.’

  ‘That had diagnostic value.’

  ‘So does this, probably. I wouldn’t have found it without you.’

  ‘Well, I’ve already diagnosed you once, and that didn’t turn out very well, did it? We’re not great adverts for the wonders of psychiatry.’ He stood up, extending his arm to me. ‘Come on. Let’s find somewhere to dry off and then we’ll hit the road.’

  I let him haul me up.

  We walked along the shore, the pair of us doused and shuddering. The canvas sagged and drooped in my clutches. ‘You’d better check that’s actually what you think it is,’ Victor said. ‘People dump all kinds of stuff in lakes, you know.’

  But I could tell from the configurations of the tape around it, from the way that I had tucked and joined the pieces over its ends, that my mural was inside. The outer plastic was torn up; the inner layers still seemed to be intact. ‘I just hope it isn’t ruined,’ I said. ‘If the water’s really got to it, I might as well throw it back in.’

  ‘It’s probably more soaked than we are.’

  ‘I knew you’d find a way to cheer me up, Victor.’

  ‘You’re lucky I’m still talking to you. I’ve not been this drenched since I set the hotel sprinklers off on my honeymoon.’ He snorted a laugh from his nostrils. ‘One cigar. I’ve had one cigar in my life and I nearly set fire to the whole bloody building.’

  And the thought of this did cheer me up somehow. We trudged along the beach, with the dregs of the daylight waning above us, and the silhouettes of dinghy-masts scratched darkly on the sky.

  When we reached the nettled pathway to the cottage, Victor hung back. There were no lights on inside and the mossy roof was sagging ominously in the middle. The chimney had crumbled off. One of the windows had a brick-sized hole in it. The general impression of the place amidst the gloom was of a shipwreck. I pushed on, through the high weeds and grass. Part of me was still hoping to find Jim coming through the woods with a basket of fresh pickings. Part of me was thinking of Portmantle.

  The front-door fixtures were corroded shut, so I led Victor round the side, into the thicket of the garden. There was a rusted oil drum lying in the nettles. The back door was unlocked and there must have been a shilling or two still left in the meter, because the bulb blinked yellow as I turned on the switch. The kitchen sink was stacked with unwashed crockery, and all across the table there were stale food scraps, tea left mouldering inside cups. It was colder in than out. The room had the upsetting reek of sour milk and Victor covered his mouth. ‘Blimey,’ he said. ‘All the medication in the world couldn’t make me put up with this mess. You’d have to hold me here at knifepoint.’

  But this was not where I had really been. This was just the place my body had been ghosting.

  I laid the mural across two of the kitchen chairs and went to find the matches in the drawers—there were none. Victor had already parted the beads in the doorway and was looking through into the lounge. He turned the lights on and, going through, said, ‘Well, this is one way to live, I suppose.’

  I followed after him.

  A mattress was spread out by the fire, covered in dirty blankets that looked more like decorator’s dustsheets. The fireplace was crammed with singed paper and splinters of pine cones. The curtains were taped around the window frame. A fold-up table was loaded with rags and hardened tubes of paint, jars of briny water and murky bottles of linseed oil. There was a scattering of flora all across it and the floor, and a bucket of mulched pink petals, soaking. ‘That’s all Jim’s stuff,’ I said. ‘Or it was Henry’s. I can’t tell the difference any more.’

  I found matches by the hearth and crouched to light some of the kindling scraps I found left in the scuttle. ‘Is there any paper over there that I can burn?’ I said.

  But Victor’s mind was on something else. He was standing, cross-armed, by the wall at the far end of the room. ‘Ellie,’ he said. ‘Come and see this.’

  ‘I thought you wanted to get dry,’ I said.

  ‘Just come and look.’

  I left the kindling fizzling out and went to him. ‘Honestly, we’re going to catch pneumonia if I don’t get this lit.’ And, when I gazed towards the aspect of the wall that so fascinated him, I saw that it was pasted with images—they were glued right onto the plasterwork. Vivid colour photographs showing lush greenery, white houses glinting on a summer waterfront, men driving horses and carriages, two enormous buildings nestled in dense pines. I stepped closer, near enough to read their printed captions in the borders:

  The only cars allowed on the islands are police and utility vehicles. Instead, there are horse-drawn carriages known as phaetons (‘faytons’ in Turkish). . .

  ‘National Geographic, if I’m not mistaken,’ Victor said. He walked towards the window, where there was another workbench of materials. I could not take my eyes from the wall. ‘You seem to have given my exercise some thought. Perhaps too much so.’

  Heybeliada’s most visited attraction is the nineteenth-century Aya Triada Manastiri, a Greek Orthodox school of theology, which looks down over the island from its northernmost peak . . .

  ‘At least now I understand what you were trying to tell me in that message. My secretary couldn’t figure out what you were saying. She thought she heard “Istanbul”, but it wasn’t the best of connections. You were rather garbled at the end.’ Victor was a blur now in the fringes of my vision. ‘I thought you said able something, table something, maple something. I should probably get my hearing tested.’

  On the south side of the island is Heybeliada Sanatorium, a refuge for TB sufferers at the farthest point of Çam Limani Yolu.

  I felt so numbed. There must have been ten or twenty of these images, cut from the magazine and glued down flat. And, surrounding them, I could see lines of my own handwriting in pencil. Ribbons and ribbons of scrawled text curving and bending all along the wall. I had copied it straight from the magazine, verbatim.

  ‘The Heart of the Princes’ Islands’ by scratched out of the wall with a blade. We know little about the island before we step off the ferry, but there are some things we have researched. This is as much a scouting mission as it is a relief exercise. Heybeliada lies twelve miles off the coast of Istanbul, the second largest of the islands that the locals know as Adalar. It is crowned by two steep forested hills to the north and south and its middle section bows into a plane of settlements where the natives live and ply their t
rades. Much of the work is seasonal. In the winter, the squat apartment blocks and rangy wooden houses stand vacant and unlit, but when the bright weather comes again they fill up with summering Istanbullus, who sit out on their fretwork balconies, sunbathe on the rocky beaches, flock upon the shining Marmara like gulls, and drink merrily on their roof-decks until dark. The Turkish meaning of its name—Saddlebag Island—evokes its shape at sea level. It is far up on the south-eastern peak, amidst the dense umbrella pines and pomegranate trees, that the Heybeliada Sanatorium is positioned. And we are—

  I heard a noise like buttons rattling in a jar. Victor was holding a glass medicine bottle with the label ripped off. He shook it and shook it and the tablets clattered weakly inside. ‘I don’t know how many were in here to begin with—maybe sixty or so,’ he said, and tipped out a mound of them into his palm, ‘but this suggests our toxicology’s been off the mark.’ He picked up a tablet and examined it. ‘It’s Tofranil, no question. Looks to me like you stopped taking them. So, whatever’s been showing in your blood-work, I wouldn’t think it’s necessarily from these.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘You tell me.’ He brushed past me. ‘Could be the oil paints. They’re full of chemicals. Or the turps, maybe.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  My eyes turned back to the wall, picking up a section further down:

  We have been advised to chart a horse-drawn fayton when we leave the ferry port. The best way to reach the sanatorium is from the east, via a dirt road that leads up to a spear-top fence, cordoning off the property. On the way up, we pass warning posters stapled to the trees along the slope: DIKKAT KÖPEK VAR /BEWARE OF THE DOG. But we are not worried.

  The sea view from the promontory affords tuberculosis patients an abundance of fresh air and serenity, removed from the hustle and the noises of the city. Built when the disease was at its most widespread and fatal, the sanatorium was opened in 1923, a year after the founding of the Turkish Republic. Previously under the ownership of Greek authorities, the building was revamped under the aegis of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, the founder of modern Turkey—

  It was a complete transcription of the entire article, scribbled from the ceiling to the skirting boards. On and on it went in detail:

  Most of the patients are students from all over Anatolia who came to Istanbul for their education at the city’s universities. They take in the sea air in the daytime and engage in debates at night over çay and salep. Friendships boost morale amongst the patients and so do activities—

  Victor was busy at the hearth. He tore something, and struck a match, and then I heard the sudden puff of an ignition.

  Concerts are organized and films are projected for the residents in the day room twice a week. The sanatorium is also equipped with a rehabilitation centre, where local craftsmen such as Ardak Yilmaz (pictured right) are brought in to teach woodworking skills to patients. Although it has established a fine reputation over the years as a centre for thoracic surgery, the facility is now extremely underfunded and the chief doctor is concerned that a—

  ‘Come and get warm,’ Victor said. ‘It’s really getting going now.’ He was kneeling at the fireplace with both hands extended to the flames. The orange light dappled his face. He looked so entrenched in the glow of it, and I felt so cold and jittery, that I could not resist.

  Kneeling beside him, I saw that he had ripped the topmost pages of another magazine and fed them to the fire. The uncomfortable dampness of my clothes began to bother me. We stayed there on our knees together for a while, saying nothing, letting our bodies gently warm through. And then I said, ‘I don’t know if I’ll get over this, Victor.’

  He kept his eyes upon the flames. ‘You’ll be all right. We’ll work through it together.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can go back with you. Not yet. I always thought that I could live without anything as long as I had painting. Now look at me—I’d be better off in a factory, doing something useful. I think I’d be much happier that way.’

  Quite unexpectedly, he placed his arm around me. ‘Elspeth,’ he said, ‘you are twenty-six years old and you are still alive. And the sun will rise tomorrow, as it always does. That’s all you have to think about for now.’ I wanted to lean my head on his shoulder, but I could not get past the pain. ‘What happened to your sling?’

  ‘It came off in the loch.’

  ‘Then I’d better make you another.’ He reached onto the bed and removed the grubby slip from the pillow. He ripped along the seam, folded a triangle, and put my arm inside it, knotting it at the back of my neck. ‘You have people who care for you. Remember that,’ he said. ‘I’ve never known Dulcie Fenton get sentimental about anyone. But she is genuinely fond of you—and not just because she has a vested interest.’

  ‘Well, she tries to make it seem that way, at least.’

  ‘No, I think it’s quite sincere. She must have called me twenty times, asking if I’d heard from you.’

  ‘Worried about the show, most likely.’

  ‘At first, maybe. She said that you’d written to her. Gave me an earful about it, actually—I told her you would be OK travelling on your own, that we shouldn’t be alarmed. But even after your show went on, she was still calling about you. I think she even phoned your mother a few times. Everyone said the same thing. Travelling. None of us knew where to look for you.’

  He tore off another page of National Geographic, balled it up, and threw it on the fire. I could not tell what time it was. The mantel clock was smashed and buried outside. But it did not matter. We were drying out, slowly and steadily, and soon we would get back to the car and he would drive me all the way to Kilburn, where nobody was awaiting my return.

  ‘So what do we do now? Go back to having sessions once a week?’ I said. ‘Pretend this didn’t happen?’

  ‘If you feel that’ll help.’

  ‘I doubt I could afford you any more.’

  ‘Nobody can. After this, my fees are tripling. I’m pricing myself out of the psychiatry game entirely.’

  ‘That’s probably for the best,’ I said. ‘You’re a bad influence on people.’

  ‘Precisely. The world is better off. I’m going into show business.’ He grinned. ‘Jazz clarinet has always been my calling. There has to be a career in it for me.’

  I smirked.

  ‘You think I’m joking. I’ve actually got—’ The bulb went off above us, and the kitchen light had blinked out, too. ‘I suppose that’s the last of the meter,’ Victor said. ‘We ought to be making tracks. Are you dry yet?’

  The hospital had given me back my wretched painting clothes: a paint-smattered flannelette blouse and stiff cotton trousers. They were grimy and still damp, but I felt much warmer now. ‘Not quite,’ I said.

  ‘We’ll put the blowers on in the car.’

  He helped me up. The flames gave off the last remaining light inside the cottage. It quavered on the floor and our moving bodies flashed and dulled it. Victor reached down for the bucket of mulched petals. Lifting it, he sniffed the liquid to make sure it was not flammable, and, when he was satisfied, he came and threw it on the flames. They spat and sizzled into blackness, and gave off the smothered scent of a dud firework. For a second, it was so dark that I could not see where Victor was standing. ‘Hang on,’ he said, ‘I’ve got the matches in my pocket.’ And I heard him get them out and fumble with them. But before he could strike one, the far end of the room brightened, swelling with a pale blue light. I could see Victor’s outline now before me, burnished like the moon. ‘What is that?’ he said.

  He went after it, walking into the blue glow on instinct: a moth in the tow of a porch light. I trailed after him. Beyond the hallway was the storeroom that I had once cleared out with Jim. The door was shut but there was a clear blue eking out from the gaps around the frame, between the hinges. Victor looked at me, slightly fearful. ‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘Nothing can harm you.’

  ‘What can’t?’

  He was dithering no
w, so I twisted the handle and showed him inside.

  All he said was: ‘Jesus, Ellie.’

  The walls were banked with wooden painting boards, turned inwards—there must have been over a hundred. Victor hardly paid them any mind. He was staring at the gleaming garland by the water boiler. It was hanging from the clothes-rail at the back end of the room. As he approached it, the radiance of the mushrooms was so strong that his whole body seemed floodlit. He moved even closer, shielding his eyes. ‘What are they?’ he said, clasping one of them in his fingers. ‘They’re unbelievable.’ But I did not answer. I was moving for the door, breaking through the hallway, through the lounge, and swinging back the kitchen beads. Victor did not call after me. He was transfixed by the shine.

  Now the kitchen sink was faintly humming blue as well. Drips of the pigment had hardened on the edges of the mixing slab that lay inside the basin; flecks of it were on the handle of the muller, drying on the rack beside it. I felt a prickling elation, scoring along my spine.

  With my good arm, I cleared everything from the table, sending food and dishes careening, smashing. I picked up the mural and laid it there, dropping it to the surface like a cut of meat. With my sore nails I picked at all the tape along the corners and the seam. I pulled at the plastic and lifted it away. There was a blush of pallid light. The canvas unfurled. It spread across the table, moist in my grip. It spilled over the edges, kissed my boot caps.

  Victor clattered through the beads. He stood at the threshold, dazed. Three blue circles bloomed upon his lenses and I could not see his eyes behind them. I thought he was about to speak, but he stopped himself. He moved slowly to the canvas, knitting his hands behind his head. It was a gesture of surrender. He did not ask me any questions. All the darkness in the room was painted out.

  This book could not have surfaced from my imagination without the generosity and support of a number of people. First, a special thank you to my former editor Jessica Leeke, who afforded me the time and space I needed to chase down these ideas and whose confidence in me was so important throughout. Thanks to everyone at Simon & Schuster, most particularly Rowan Cope, Jo Dickinson, and Carla Josephson. Thanks as ever to my agent Judith Murray and the team at Greene & Heaton; to Grainne Fox at Fletcher & Co., and Ed Park at Penguin Press. I am greatly indebted to Jonathan Lee, Karen Brodie, and the British Council for giving me the chance to live and write in Istanbul; to November Paynter, Anlam Arslanoglu, and the teams at SALT and Noa Apartments for hosting me so warmly while I was there. My eternal gratitude to Cansu Ataman, Caroline Hesz, and Machiko Weston for the various translations featured herein. Thanks to Shumon Basar, Robert Weston, Simon Johnson, Ellis Woodman, Funda Kucukyilmaz, Sema Kaygusuz, Sam Alder, Jack Cocker, Derek Dunfield, Peter Irving, Alistair Windsor, and the fine comforts of Galata Kitchen; enormous thanks to Professor Ian Crawford and Dr David Lloyd for assistance with research matters; to Birkbeck College and all of my supportive colleagues in creative writing. Thanks to the Hesz family, to my brother Nicholas for help with everything (NaCW!), to Katy Haldenby, and my family, especially my granddad for steering me on course when I most needed it. To JB and RH for inspiration. Above all, thank you to my wife Stephanie, whose love and understanding of me is the most extraordinary thing: every day with her is clarity.