“So?” she asked. “Was that what the Genealogists asked you to find?”
“Is there anything else in that register that you might have missed?” True to character, Thorn had asked his question in a methodical tone. He didn’t seem to notice that his every word reinforced her unpleasant impression of not having come up to his expectations.
“My trance didn’t last long, but I think I covered the essentials.”
“Would you be able to repeat the procedure?”
“I don’t think so. I have no control over such visions; something has to trigger them. I . . . I’ll give it another try,” she couldn’t help but promise, faced with Thorn’s intense stare.
She suddenly realized that there wasn’t much she would have refused him, had he but asked. It was ironic to see how much the roles had been reversed. Had he also experienced it, in the past, this state of permanent instability?
There was a grating of steel when Thorn suddenly ended his stillness. “That won’t be necessary,” he said.
He went over to the back of the room and opened a door; it was so well concealed within the wood-paneled wall that Ophelia had never noticed it. Thorn hadn’t asked her to follow him, but as he was taking a long time to return, she finally joined him.
The door led to accommodation that went with the job, decked in the same wood and copper as the Coordinator room. The furnishings proved equally austere: a wardrobe, a table, a lamp, and a bed. Ophelia noticed two phantogram facilities. One was a garbage chute, allowing waste to be disposed of outside the Secretarium. The other contained a dish, which itself contained a nondescript gruel. Did they phantomize Thorn’s food?
There was not a crease in the sheets, not a speck of a dust on the furniture, not a forgotten sock on the floor. There were, however, pharmaceutical bottles lined up in serried ranks on every shelf, like in an apothecary’s dispensary.
Thorn had folded up his body on a chair, facing the wardrobe, its doors wide open. With an elbow planted on each knee, and chin perched on linked hands, his attention seemed to be totally focused on the inside of the wardrobe. Ophelia’s eyebrows rose when she saw that he had pushed the shirts on hangers to either side. They rose further when she discovered an amazing quantity of punched tapes, pinned up like a collection of butterflies. They were book references generated by the Coordinator. Each one was marked with a black cross.
“So, what’s this hidden bibliography all about?” Ophelia asked.
Thorn rose as she approached, so abruptly that he almost jammed the contraption on his leg. Maybe it was to allow her to take a good look, but she thought it more likely that he wanted to maintain a distance between them.
“The Genealogists know neither the title nor the author of the work they have asked me to track down,” he replied. “On arrival, I understood that it would be statistically impossible for me to locate it using the old catalogue. I needed a database worthy of the name. The more the reading groups add to the new catalogue, the more the Coordinator’s searches gain in precision, and the more likely I am to accomplish my mission. You are looking at the selection I had put together. As you can see,” he said, indicating a tape on which the ink of the cross wasn’t yet dry, “the caretaking register was my last contender.”
Ophelia slipped the tapes through her fingers. She now knew by heart the language of those punched holes, and could decipher, almost without difficulty, the references they represented. Apart from their printing dates, which were all pretty ancient, the works here were quite different: memoirs, essays, handbooks, certificates, etc.
“It’s not feasible,” she muttered. “You can’t find one book among hundreds of thousands without a single guideline.”
“In fact, I do have one.”
In her surprise, Ophelia yanked a bibliographical tape from its pin, damaging the sequence of punched holes. She quickly tried to put it back in place, but Thorn hadn’t noticed a thing. He was releasing the clasps on his gauntlets, one by one.
“This document the Genealogists are after isn’t about any old subject. It would contain some very specific information. Information,” he said, releasing the final clasp, “that would allow the person who knows it to become God’s equal.”
Ophelia considered Thorn for a long time, without blinking, without speaking, without breathing.
“Needless to say,” he continued, “you must repeat that to no one. Lady Septima, in particular. She thinks my research is only for the sake of the catalogue, and that’s how it must remain.”
Feeling dizzy, Ophelia sat on the bed. “What do you mean by ‘become God’s equal’?”
“I don’t know. For the moment, at least.”
“And you’re saying that such information would exist here, at the Memorial, in full sight of, and accessible to, everyone, with no one realizing it?”
Thorn laid his gauntlets down and pulled the stopper out of a bottle of surgical spirit. The nauseating smell instantly pervaded the room.
“Almost no one. If the Genealogists know of the existence of this document, someone must have told them about it.”
Ophelia frowned. Could that be the “ultimate truth” mentioned by Ambrose, the day he’d brought her to the Memorial for the first time? She had found no strongroom in the Secretarium, and not for want of searching, so she’d ended up accepting that it must all be folklore.
“The Genealogists told me nothing else,” Thorn concluded. “If I want to find out more about it, first I’ll have to prove myself.”
“And you imagined that such a secret was to be found in the caretaking register.” Ophelia better understood now why he hadn’t jumped for joy when she’d told him of her discovery. In the end, she had informed him of what he already, more or less, knew.
“I was convinced of it. You confirmed it for me. I must inform the Genealogists about it.”
With that, Thorn began to disinfect his hands meticulously, over a bowl. Ophelia noticed that every time he mentioned the Genealogists, or was on the point of doing so, he would knit his brows even more, gathering shadows in the middle of his face. He really didn’t like them.
“Who wants to become God’s equal?” she asked him. “Them . . . or you?”
“I will not depose one god for another. I have had but one aim since my escape: finding the weak point of this coward who conceals his true face from the world.” The shadows between Thorn’s eyebrows had become even heavier.
“I doubt the Genealogists share your vision of things.”
Ophelia didn’t know which prospect was the more terrifying. A world governed by God, or a world governed by men who think they’re God.
“Indeed,” Thorn said, through gritted teeth. “They don’t share it.”
Silence fell, during which Ophelia resisted the selfish question she was itching to ask. What about her in all this? This mission Thorn had set himself, what place did it leave for her?
“That boarder the caretaker spoke of,” she said, “the one he considered different from the family spirits. What if that was him, the Other. Maybe he had become too dangerous. Maybe that’s why God imprisoned him in a mirror? You have no looking-glass here,” she suddenly noticed, gazing around the room.
Thorn shook his head. He had rolled up his shirtsleeves to rub surgical spirit on his forearms, as if he wanted to erase all the scars on them.
“But didn’t you become one?”
“One what?” he muttered.
“A mirror visitor.”
“Even though your power enabled me to escape from prison I haven’t made a habit of using it. Indeed, you, too, should also keep well away from mirrors,” Thorn added, putting down the spirit bottle.
“Why? Do you think there’s still an ‘Other’ that I could release by accident?”
“No. I will only believe in the existence of that ‘Other’ when I have encountered him or her. In the m
eantime, God, for me, will be solely responsible for our world’s state of decay. The fact is that he took on your appearance; he probably absorbed your family power, and we don’t know what use he might make of it. As far as I’m concerned, I’d rather he didn’t turn up in my bathroom.”
Ophelia made an effort to think about it. Passing through mirrors demanded great intellectual honesty, and, from what she had seen of him, that wasn’t a quality she would ascribe to God. This thought led to another:
“That night he visited us in prison, I noticed something odd. God doesn’t have a reflection. He has thousands of different faces, but in front of a mirror, he . . . ” Ophelia hesitated, looking for the right words. “I don’t know. It’s as if he didn’t really exist. Becoming God’s equal could come at a price.”
Thorn’s movements halted over the bowl. “That is odd, indeed.”
With that, he returned to his vigorous rubbing. Much as Ophelia appreciated silence, when it fell between them at every pause, it felt like torture. She didn’t understand. Why did she feel more alone now than she’d ever felt during those last three years? Why was the emptiness she felt inside deepening in Thorn’s presence?
“And reading objects?” she asked. “Has that ever happened to you? Because if you need any advice . . . ”
“No need. It has never happened to me.”
“Perhaps that’s due to your memory. My uncle always repeated to me that a good reader had to forget themselves.”
“That would be it,” Thorn declared. “I never forget anything. In any case, Sir Henry isn’t supposed to be an Animist.”
Silence fell again. Ophelia had to face it: she had no talent for making conversation. Thorn shared all the information relating to his research with her, but withdrew into himself as soon as it became personal.
When he seized his bottle of surgical spirit, she thought he was at last going to replace the stopper and put it away. Instead, he disinfected his hands for a second time, as if they really were repulsive.
They weren’t in Ophelia’s eyes. From a distance, she took in the network of veins under the skin, the long, curved fingers, the bone that rose up on each wrist, and suddenly, she felt something like pain in the pit of her stomach. She hadn’t the slightest idea what was happening to her, but looking at those hands made her want to scream.
She turned away when Thorn, until then absorbed in his disinfecting, looked straight at her.
“I have told you all that I know. You should return to your company now. Every minute you spend here with me is fuel for gossip. I prefer to use this time exploring new leads.”
There was a stiffness in his voice. Ophelia got the feeling that it was to him, more than anything, that her presence was a problem. She stood up, knocking the bedside table as she did, and knocking over the lamp that was on it. To her great astonishment, the lamp righted itself, the bedside table straightened itself, and the sheet smoothed itself until not a crease remained. Maybe Sir Henry was not supposed to be an Animist, but that didn’t stop his personal fixtures and fittings from reproducing his habits . . . It was strange for Ophelia to think that, despite their being apart, a small aspect of her at least had rubbed off on Thorn. She thought of the fob watch. Since she had returned it to him, she’d never seen him using it. Had he got rid of it because it didn’t work? Ophelia hoped not. Losing the scarf had been painful enough.
“What are you expecting of me now?” she asked, indicating the punched tapes pinned to the back of the wardrobe. “Must I evaluate new documents until I discover the one that holds God’s secret? I no longer have much time, myself. In a few days, either I will become an aspiring virtuoso, or I will hand back my wings. I know you’re really counting on my making the grade, but . . . let’s say that the future is uncertain.”
Thorn put his metal gauntlets back on. “I’ll inform you tomorrow, I still need to think. In the meantime, keep a low profile around Lady Septima. What I revealed to you today exposes you to danger. Don’t isolate yourself, watch your back, and, if you notice the slightest unusual thing, report it to me as a matter of urgency.”
Ophelia was tempted, just for a second, to tell him about the problems she was encountering with the other members of her division. She decided to keep quiet. Thorn no longer treated her like a fragile little kid that has to be hidden in the shadows. He entrusted her with responsibilities. He spoke to her like an equal. She’d lost everything else; she refused to give that up, too.
“Will do.” Ophelia had no desire to leave. If remaining with Thorn was a source of permanent frustration, leaving was even worse. She found it very irritating, having to come up with ploys to see him in private, and then to time their every meeting.
As she was placing her hand on the handle of the door, a word stopped her in her tracks.
“Ophelia.”
It was so surprising to hear herself being called by her real name, after going by someone else’s for months, that she felt her stomach lurch. Was Thorn finally going to say them, those words she so needed to hear?
Leaning with both fists on the table, he inflicted his most intense stare on her. “Are you really certain you have nothing to say to me?”
Caught off guard, Ophelia just kept clinging to the door handle.
A spark then flashed deep in Thorn’s eyes. “You know where to find me,” he said, indicating to her to leave.
THE REMINISCENCE
Ophelia spent the night tossing and turning in her bed, surrounded by the snoring of the dormitory and the whining of the mosquitoes. She no longer understood Thorn at all. What was that question he’d asked her supposed to mean? Did he think she was hiding information from him? She had run away from home to look for him; she had changed her identity on an ark where lying was a crime; she had chosen to put up with Mediana’s blackmail rather than betray him; she had remained at the Good Family because he had asked her to; and never, at any time, had she complained.
Wasn’t it rather up to Thorn to tell her in what way, exactly, she was so disappointing?
Exasperated by the heat, Ophelia pushed off her sheets. She should have been furious with him, but it was with herself that she was most annoyed. Three years ago, she had failed to help Thorn when he had really needed her. And the past was repeating itself: now more than ever, she felt useless.
Maybe the only words he was expecting from her, in the end, were those of apology.
Ophelia finally dozed off. She flew above the old world, lost somewhere between the past and the future, dreaming and reality. Beneath the clouds, she caught sight of a town in ruins, scarred by bombardment, and then there was the sea, as far as the eye could see. No, it was much more than a sea: an ocean. It was strange to think that one day, all this water would be swallowed up entirely by the void. By focusing, Ophelia managed to distinguish the underwater curves of a coral reef, and, somewhere in the middle of a lagoon, a tiny patch of greenery.
An island, well clear of the coast.
“That’s me blasted home.”
It was then that Ophelia noticed a man who was sitting to the side of her, right on the edge of a cloud. She immediately recognized him. It was the caretaker whose register she’d read. The muslin of his turban barely concealed his disfigured face. His mouth resembled a badly healed wound. And yet, Ophelia understood him perfectly when he raised his small, round spectacles towards her and spoke to her in a language she’d never heard before:
“Watch it with that other. He ain’t like them blasted brats, that one.”
“What other?” Ophelia asked.
The caretaker’s only response was to return to contemplating his island, and to twist what remained of his mouth. “If you seek E. G., the other will find you.”
Ophelia woke up with a start. Dawn hadn’t broken yet, but she no longer felt at all tired. In the neighboring bed, swaddled in her sheet, Zen was anxiously watching her in the half-lig
ht, as she would have done a raving lunatic preparing to leap on her.
Once she’d tracked down her glasses, Ophelia slipped on her uniform and boots behind the screen, and then ran down the transcendium. The clatter of her wings filled the silence of the Hall of Residence. She inserted her apprentice card in the turnstile of the telegraphic booth. It was a shame to waste hard-won points to send a simple message, but she just didn’t have the patience to hang around.
“To Mr. Blaise, Babel Memorial, Department . . . um . . . for the classification of collections,” Ophelia dictated into the receiver. “I need to see you later for . . . um . . . some advice. It’s about the books . . . um . . . that you mentioned to me at the bazaar. From Eulalia . . . um . . . of the second division of the company of Forerunners.”
After a few seconds, the counter’s mechanical arm swiveled on its stand. Its copper finger tapped out pulses, some short, some long, on a telegram machine. Ophelia hoped it wouldn’t transmit all her “um”s.
How could she have forgotten E. G.’s books? Mademoiselle Silence had destroyed them without permission, just before dying of a cardiac arrest, and not for a second had it crossed Ophelia’s mind to tell Thorn about it. She must rectify this mistake as soon as possible.
She spent the rest of the day counting the minutes. The atmosphere at the Good Family had become stifling. Torrid winds made all the buildings’ windowpanes rattle, and hurled sand right into the atriums. Every time Ophelia went near a window, she searched through the swirls of dust for the Memorial, standing on its distant little ark. If only the flight could not be canceled today! She remained shut away for the afternoon, with her fellow students, in the evaluation laboratory, surrounded by a seething silence. The Seers left her out of all the group activities, and Zen changed places so she wouldn’t end up sitting beside her. Octavio, who usually never took his eyes off her, had been avoiding meeting hers since their conversation in the restrooms. As for Lady Septima, she didn’t honor Ophelia with a single comment during the practicals; she assessed, advised, critiqued everyone, except for her.
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