After wandering around the topsy-turviums, wondering where she was supposed to go, she went up to the top floor, just beneath the cupola’s stars, where a single circular corridor led to several doors. Hanging over each one was a wrought-iron sign bearing the name of a company.
Ophelia went through the Forerunners’ door.
Inside it was so very dark that she banged into several beds, triggering a chain reaction of drowsy grunts, before finding one that was vacant. She placed her uniform on what she supposed was a chair, and unlaced her boots in the dark. All she could hope now was that her stomach’s moaning wouldn’t wake up the entire Hall.
Ophelia had barely lain down before she heard stifled laughter in the darkness. There was no mattress on her bed. “Of course,” she thought, clasping Thorn’s watch close to her. “Tradition.”
THE RUMOR
Ophelia leapt from cloud to cloud, above an old world that was still intact. She wasn’t interested in the towns, the forests, the oceans of the past flashing by beneath her feet. She sought only to reach the birdtrain flying across the sky. She could just see the scarf caught in its door, and a familiar silhouette behind one of its windows. Thorn’s silhouette. Ophelia was just catching up with the birdtrain when, suddenly, the clouds under her feet started groaning.
She half-opened an eye to peer through the bent glasses she’d forgotten to take off to sleep. It wasn’t the clouds groaning, but the springs of her bed. It took her many blinks to remember where she was and why. The heat was oppressive. The window, bright with morning, cast a limpid light over the dormitory. It was an austere room, with visible beams, a strong smell of hot stone, wrought-iron furniture, and a single screen to assure privacy. A screen that Ophelia wouldn’t be needing: there was no one left here but her. The other beds that she’d banged into during the night had been replaced with study desks.
If a bell had rung, she hadn’t heard it. In fact, the only bell she was hearing right now was the one chiming inside her skull. She would need a whole urn of coffee to make it shut up.
Ophelia dragged herself off the springs of the bed, to the sound of her every vertebra protesting. She felt like an automaton that had been taken apart, screw by screw, and then reassembled any old how. It was no great surprise to see that her uniform had gone from the chair. Probably down to the same jokers who had thought it amusing to remove her mattress.
With a yawn, Ophelia thought: “I’ve been Berenilde’s valet, Farouk’s plaything, and Baron Melchior’s prey; a tasteless prank isn’t going to intimidate me.”
Keeping on her stadium outfit, still caked in mud, she pulled on a cord hanging from the wall. With a mechanical hum, her bed rose until neatly slotted into the wall alcove, while a desk, through an ingenious telescopic process, unfolded itself in its stead. It was just like those books in which the illustrations open out and then close up as one turns the pages. Ophelia would have marveled at it had that bed not put her through torture.
The rest of the Hall turned out to be as deserted as the Forerunners’ dormitory. Ophelia encountered no one in the refectory, where she made do with the remains of some cereal; or in the cloakroom, where she looked for a new uniform; or in the communal showers, where she hurriedly soaped herself. She checked the noticeboard, but the mechanical arm had written no instruction in chalk. She was almost certain she was supposed to be somewhere else, but she didn’t know where.
For an information specialist, it was a great start.
As she was roaming the walkways, in search of someone to advise her, Ophelia couldn’t help but think of Ambrose. She imagined him alone, surrounded by his father’s automatons, waiting for news of her. He must really think her the queen of ingratitude, a profiteer ready to leave one benefactor for another offering more. Ophelia would have readily improvised using a mirror to pay him a flying visit—although the distance was probably too great—but she hadn’t yet found a single one at the Good Family. Helen seemed very keen not to encourage vanity among her students.
In fact, it wasn’t such a bad thing. Strong as the temptation might be, it was better not to reveal that she was a mirror visitor. She’d already taken enough of a risk in revealing her talent for reading objects.
Ophelia finally found some other apprentice virtuosos in the amphitheater where she’d had her assessment the previous day. All was so silent that, when she had pushed open the door, she had at first thought the place deserted. She saw no lecturer on the rostrum, but all the students were busy writing. They were wearing earphones. No one looked up from their shorthand as Ophelia, as unobtrusively as possible, tried to find herself a place on the top tier.
Once seated, she understood that a radio was incorporated within each unit. She slipped on some earphones, heard nothing, twiddled a few knobs, still heard nothing. When she asked her neighbors how to use her radio, they gestured to her to be quiet. With perseverance, she finally found the frequency modulator and succeeded in catching some broadcasts. Dozens of broadcasts, each on a different frequency. They were exclusively university lectures recorded live in the city’s academic institutions; how could she know which one she was supposed to follow?
Ophelia lowered the sound and stopped trying. She had come to Babel to do research, not to study. She wiped away the trickle of sweat already running down her neck, resisting the urge to take off her too-tight frock coat. She studied the apprentices sitting in front of her, one by one. Thorn was not among them, but that in itself wasn’t surprising. If he had reached here in advance of her, as she supposed, she would be more likely to find him among the aspiring virtuosos; going by stripes on uniforms, there wasn’t one of them in this amphitheater.
At first, Ophelia had thought the silence total, but that wasn’t the case. Above the scratching of fountain pens on paper, above the rustling of voices in earphones, above the chirring of the cicadas outdoors, she could hear some whispering. It was going on in the row below hers. Apprentices were leaning over to each other, allowing glimpses of nervous expressions. Ophelia wouldn’t have paid them much attention had the word “Memorial” not suddenly reached her. She switched the sound of her radio off, and, without removing her earphones, leant forward slightly on her desk.
They were all speaking with the same accent, very different to that of Babel, but just as musical:
“I had a premonition. Didn’t I tell you that, yesterday?”
“Shut up. We all had a premonition. The trouble is, we should have foreseen what, where, and who, but didn’t manage to do so.”
“It’s surely not that serious, is it? It’s just a rumor. They always exaggerate, do rumors.”
“Oh sí? And why have today’s readings all been canceled?”
“No complaints from me. I can’t see a book anymore without feeling nauseous.”
“You’re forgetting the automaton.” The apprentice had pronounced it “owtomatin,” but Ophelia, who was leaning further and further on her desk, immediately understood the allusion to Sir Henry. “He’ll make us work twice as long to catch up.”
“You don’t find it a bit too much of a coincidence? The little new girl turning up, and this incident at the Memorial?”
“Basta. She’s watching us.”
At these words, all the whisperers replaced their earphones and returned to their shorthand. All apart from a pretty, boyish girl who turned around, unashamedly, to stare at Ophelia with obvious curiosity. On her face, illuminations shone like inlays on a carnival mask.
A sonorous voice immediately boomed across the amphitheater with the force of a rumble of thunder: “Apprentice Mediana, eyes forward.”
The boyish girl returned nonchalantly to her work, and Ophelia pretended to do the same, not without glancing at the gramophone horn that was fixed to the ceiling. She hadn’t noticed it, that one, no more than she’d noticed the periscope that turned its cyclops eye now to the right, now to the left. She had taken the absenc
e of a lecturer as evidence of trust, a sign that the conservatoire treated its students as responsible young people. Big mistake. They were all under surveillance.
As soon as the voice from the horn announced the end of the radio lessons, much later on, Ophelia hurried to catch up with the whisperers on the stairs outside. Now they were standing, she could see the wings pinned to their boots. As she’d suspected when listening to them, they were all Forerunners.
“I’m ‘the little new girl,’” she said, introducing herself with sarcasm. “Forgive me for inviting myself to your confab, but I believe mention was made of m—”
“Sorry about your glasses,” one of them suddenly interrupted her.
“Pardon?” The remark so threw Ophelia that she missed a step and descended the rest of the marble staircase on her backside. The Forerunners stepped over her, one after the other, without a glance. Now she herself could only half-see them; she’d lost one of her lenses in her fall. As she was feeling around for it on the steps, her body humiliatingly sore, an illuminated hand held out what she was looking for.
“Mediana, of the second division of the company of Forerunners,” the boyish girl formally introduced herself. “But that you already knew, didn’t you? My cousins’ predictions cause almost as many accidents as they prevent. Beware, signorina, they do take advantage somewhat.”
Her accent made her pronounce each word with a sensual purr. Cautiously, Ophelia took back her lens. “The Forerunners are all from your family?”
“A good number of them. We, the Seers of The Serenissima, have information in the blood.”
“Ah. And you can see the future, too, Mediana?”
“No, with me it’s more the past. A bit like you, little reader, but our skill is different.”
So, noted Ophelia to herself, Mediana, as a Forerunner worthy of the name, already knew what her family power was.
“What were you talking about with your cousins? What happened at the Memorial?”
With overt familiarity, Mediana laid a finger on Ophelia’s mouth, inciting her to wait. Apprentices continued to flow around them, as carelessly as a river around a rock. When there was no one but them left on the stairs, she brought her face close to Ophelia’s, so close that the latter could see each illumination, despite her missing lens. Mediana had a rare beauty in which were combined, with infinite subtlety, curved lines and angular forms—an allure that could enchant both men and women.
“I’m going to try to help you gain precious time, little reader. Lady Helen should never have accepted your application. My power is worth at least ten times yours, and I have perfect mastery of the ancient languages. You are condemned to be a prisoner of my shadow, as are all the other Forerunners. Don’t think my cousins like me any more than you do. Friendship doesn’t exist at the Good Family, because only the best remain.”
“I—”
“Say nothing,” whispered Mediana, pressing her index finger to Ophelia’s lips. “Just listen, signorina. Violence, even in its most trivial form, is severely punished on Babel. You will suffer no physical mistreatment among us. But believe me,” she added, her hot breath brushing Ophelia’s skin, “there are all sorts of torment. Go home, forget the virtuosos and forget the Memorial. It’s my destiny, not yours.”
Ophelia was less shocked by these words than by the tone in which they were said. A sincere, deeply apologetic tone. Through her half-glasses, she watched Mediana walk down the stairs with a mixture of strength and grace, the illuminations on her skin glinting in the sunshine.
“I’ve been Berenilde’s valet, Farouk’s plaything, and Baron Melchior’s prey,” she repeated to herself, while returning her lens to its frame. An empty threat isn’t going to intimidate me.
With her lower back smarting from her tumble down the stairs, Ophelia followed the Forerunners at a respectable distance. Whether they wanted her or not, they were now members of the same company; she would impose her presence on them for as long as she needed to be one of them.
They all crossed the impressive bridge that linked the ark of Helen’s virtuosos to that of Pollux’s, and then continued to one of the conservatoire’s outbuildings. Two floors up, Ophelia discovered a laboratory that was the epitome of estheticism, all high ceilings, brass, and velvet. The room was bathed in the rainbow light of a rose window and the balmy breeze from the overhead fans. The precious-wood tables displayed the very latest in instruments for experiments.
When Ophelia, unsure, took a seat at the bench, she realized that the number of Forerunners around her had doubled. The division of Helen’s Godchildren had joined that of the Sons of Pollux in a swirl of uniforms and a surge of accents, which stopped the moment a woman closed the laboratory door.
“Knowledge serves peace,” she declared.
“Knowledge serves peace,” the apprentices all repeated in unison, holding fists on chests and banging winged heels of boots together.
The woman approved without a smile. Judging from her bronze skin, black hair, and blazing eyes, she was a true Babelian. The gold braiding on her uniform was as dazzling as the look she directed at Ophelia.
“Apprentice Eulalia, I am Lady Septima, and I will be your specialization teacher. The results of your assessment yesterday have been passed on to me. They are not brilliant. I prefer, however, to judge for myself whether you are worthy or not of becoming a Forerunner. To be worthy does not mean to succeed.” This time, Lady Septima’s eyes took in the entire laboratory, drawing into their blaze the face of each apprentice. “Today, there are many of you, but only two among you, one Son of Pollux and one Godchild of Helen, will ultimately be able to rise to the rank of aspiring virtuoso.”
Lady Septima’s eyes had lingered, possibly unconsciously, on an apprentice who resembled her too much not to be a member of her family. As for Ophelia, she better understood certain things. Only the best remain. This conservatoire had made rivalry its cornerstone.
“My work,” Lady Septima continued, returning to Ophelia, “consists of turning the crude mineral that is your family power into the purest of diamonds. And that is not all. The corporation of Forerunners, of which I am overall in charge, has been conferred the honor of revising the Memorial’s catalogue. Those who are worthy of joining the reading groups, and they only, belong at the conservatoire. You have three weeks, Apprentice Eulalia, to convince me that I am not wasting my time on you. Do you have any questions?”
Ophelia gritted her teeth hard to hold back all those that came to her. How could one gain the right to enter the Secretarium? Does it really have a strongroom? Does it harbor any vestiges of the old school? And what is it, this ultimate truth that your glorious Memorial refuses to divulge to the public?
It would have been unwise, not to say dangerous, to reveal the true object of her visit. “Why were the reading groups canceled today?” she simply asked.
This curiosity was legitimate. At least, Ophelia had thought so before realizing that everyone around her had frozen, as if the ceiling fans had suddenly flung an icy wind over the laboratory. Only Mediana was biting her lip so as not to burst out laughing.
As for Lady Septima, she remained unperturbed. She just toned down, with a mere flicker of the eyelids, her fiery gaze, directing it not at Ophelia in particular, but at each apprentice.
“I have no comment to make on the affair you all have in mind. Pay no attention to the rumor that’s going around. The Official Journal will tell you all you need to know tomorrow. Remember that for you, Forerunners, it must be your sole source of information. And now, I would like each of you to examine the sample before you, applying the regulatory procedure,” she added, in a tone that brooked no response. “You must have identified the object to which it belonged and written a full report by the end of the class. Apprentice Eulalia, you will touch nothing today; simply observe your classmates to see how they proceed.”
If Lady Septima had hope
d to obtain Ophelia’s utmost concentration, it was a total failure. While all the apprentices carefully studied their samples with the laboratory instruments, she wasn’t remotely inclined to watch them doing so. All she could think of was that rumor. What had actually happened at the Memorial? Was there a chance, even the slightest one, that it was connected to Thorn? Had he been in trouble while she remained there, twiddling her thumbs?
Ophelia was drawn from her thoughts by the sense of eyes burning into her. At first she presumed it was Mediana still shamelessly staring at her, but the Seer was totally immersed in her work. No, this time it was another apprentice; the one Lady Septima had silently singled out during her talk. Sitting on the other side of the bench, he had already finished typing up his analysis report. His Visionary’s eyes were boring into her, so she felt caught in the beams of two incandescent lamps, as if she were a new sample to be analyzed. A golden chain linked the arch of his brow to his nostril. Ophelia hadn’t yet learnt all the subtleties of the Babel dress code, but Ambrose had spoken to her of this type of jewelry; this young man belonged to a family that was highly placed within Pollux’s lineage. There was no doubting it now—he was Lady Septima’s own son.
Ophelia returned to his stare with equal curiosity. Getting to know him would have been a good strategy with regard to her plans, but she dropped the idea almost as soon as she’d had it. The relentless intensity with which the young man was staring at her wasn’t merely a sign of interest. It was distrust.
“Put away your equipment, leave your samples on the bench, and hand your reports in to me before you go,” instructed Lady Septima at the end of the class. “Sons of Pollux, you are to go to the gymnasium for your sensory training. Godchildren of Helen, you are to return to your ark and to mind what you say. No more rumors for today, understood? Stay with me, Apprentice Eulalia,” she added, holding Ophelia back by the shoulder. “I would like to discuss one or two things with you.”
The Memory of Babel Page 10