“How old are you?” he repeated.
Victoria understood the question; answering it was another matter. Father didn’t like her, and he would end up liking her even less. Mommy had stayed in the corridor to ask Mr. Schedule just to wait.
Father finally pulled a notebook from inside his big, white coat. He leafed through the pages, one by one. After an interminable silence, he declared: “Ah, yes. You don’t speak.”
He returned to perusing his notebook for many tick-tocks from the sitting-room clock. Had he forgotten Victoria altogether?
“Your mother wrote this to me,” he suddenly said, placing his finger on a page, “that your health causes her concern. You don’t look that sickly to me.”
Father’s majestic figure didn’t move, still facing the window, but his face swiveled round like a screw, as if his neck could turn entirely on itself. The moment he laid his expressionless eyes on her, Victoria got a terrible headache.
“If one excludes the fact, of course, that you are incapable of talking and walking.”
The more Father looked at her, the more Victoria’s head hurt. He was punishing her, and if he was punishing her, she must be at fault. She was afraid. Afraid that he would never like her.
She felt a tear rolling down her cheek, but didn’t dare wipe it away. Father stared in amazement, before turning his eyes back to the window. The pain immediately stopped.
“It wasn’t deliberate. My power . . . You’re probably not yet ready to endure it. This meeting is premature.”
Victoria didn’t know what Father was trying to explain to her. She didn’t even know whether he was actually talking to her. He always used words that were too complicated.
“I’m not going to impose my presence on you any longer.” At the precise moment he uttered this sentence, the bell of the house rang again. There was the sound of footsteps and stifled whispers. A prisoner in her armchair, Victoria waited with Father. Her dress had stuck to her body due to perspiration.
She froze when a strong perfume prickled her nose.
“My Lord! I was making a little courtesy visit to my dear friends, but I had no idea you were here. I just wanted to pay you my respects.”
Victoria was shaking, violently. The Golden Lady was there, right behind her. The pendants on her veil were tinkling ever louder as she moved through the sitting room.
“And you are?”
Father had asked his question without a glance at the Golden Lady. He seemed to find the candy jar on the windowsill more worthy of interest.
“It’s Madame Cunegond, my Lord. One of your finest illusionists.” Mommy’s arrival in the sitting room did nothing to calm Victoria down. She was terrified. The Golden Lady had just placed a hand on her armchair, her fingernails digging into the velvet like long, red knives.
“You’re sorry . . . or rather, it’s I who should be sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb your little family reunion.” The Golden Lady stroked Victoria’s white hair. It was with that very hand that she had closed the eyelids of the Second Golden Lady. She was so close that she had plunged Victoria entirely in her shadow.
In her shadows.
Victoria ran to hide under the table. She had journeyed out of panic, abandoning the Other-Victoria in her armchair and her sweat-soaked dress. The Golden Lady’s glittering veil was still visible from under the tablecloth, beside Mommy’s green satin boots and Great-Godmother’s patent shoes. The pounding of the Other-Victoria’s heart had become as distant as their conversation, but the fear continued to scream inside her, with all the strength of its silence.
A new pair of shoes invited themselves into the sitting room. Even though the journey had shaken her up, Victoria recognized the voice of Mr. Schedule:
“I can’t apologize enough for hurrying you like this, my Lord. You are expected at the meeting. It’s just that, my Lord has an extremely busy schedule!”
Victoria heard the parquet cracking like a burning log. Father’s big, white boots moved slowly, very slowly toward the table. To Victoria’s horror, the parquet creaked even louder as Father leaned forward. With the tips of his fingers—giant fingers—he lifted the lace tablecloth.
“Oh, they’re only drawings,” Mommy said. “The little one often settles there to play. Don’t you, darling?”
Father’s eyes, pale as porcelain, were interested neither in the Other-Victoria in her armchair nor in the drawings on the floor. They were focused only on the real Victoria, hiding under the table.
Could Father see her?
“My Lord,” murmured Mr. Schedule, with an impatient little cough. “Your meeting . . . ”
“Leave.”
Father had barely moved his lips. He was still bending forward, tablecloth pinched between fingers, long plait flowing like milk to the ground.
“Immediately.”
“My Lord?” Mommy inquired anxiously. “Has something vexed you?”
Huddled under the table, Victoria was staring at Father in amazement. She had always believed that he didn’t like her, but never had he looked at her the way he was now looking at the Golden Lady.
Thanks to her journeying eyes, Victoria could see Father’s shadow. A shadow even bigger and even more clawed than Mommy’s when she was angry. A shadow whose spikes all bristled in the Golden Lady’s direction.
“I don’t know who you are,” Father said, stressing each word, “but never enter this residence again.”
Since he was still holding up the tablecloth, Victoria could observe the astonished faces of Mommy, Great-Godmother, and Mr. Schedule, all turning toward the Golden Lady. She was smiling with those red lips, but she had stopped stroking the Other-Victoria’s hair. Her own shadows were swarming around her feet like an enraged mob. There were so many of them! Were they going to attack Father?
“As I please. Or, I should say, as you please.”
To a chorus of jewelry, the Golden Lady left the sitting room, and all the shadows left with her.
Victoria didn’t listen to the exclamations that erupted in the room after her departure. She had taken back the Other-Victoria’s place in the armchair, and now only had eyes for Father. With slow, very slow movements, he gathered up the drawings and pencils under the table, and then he handed them to her, paying no attention to all the questions Mommy, Great-Godmother, and Mr. Schedule were asking him.
Victoria looked at the shadows she had scrawled a bit earlier. She turned her page over. On this side, the paper was pure white.
As white as Father.
THE DUST
Ophelia had come across several waiting rooms in her life, but none of them resembled this one. A eucalyptus tree stood bang in the middle of the carpet, and there were budgerigars chirping on the backs of benches. The Deviations Observatory certainly was a most astonishing place.
When Blaise had mentioned it to her, Ophelia had imagined some sinister hospital. She now found it to be a building full of color, in which the jungle was integral to the design. Its pagodas, bridges, conservatories, and terraces formed such a sprawling complex that the observatory took up a minor ark all to itself. She had no idea what exactly the “deviations” observed here might be, but those responsible for the place clearly had considerable means.
Ophelia didn’t have to wait long. She had only just sat on a bench when an adolescent came to greet her. Wearing a yellow silk sari, pince-nez with dark lenses, and long leather gloves, she had a mechanical monkey on her shoulder. Ophelia would never have taken her to be a member of staff had she not indicated that she should follow her.
“Welcome to our establishment, Mademoiselle Eulalia! The patient has been taken to the visitors’ conservatory; allow me to take you there. You’re the first person to visit the poor Mademoiselle Mediana,” the adolescent whispered, once they had left the waiting room.
“I’m using my Sunday off to visit my classmate.�
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“Unfortunately, we can’t allow you more than five minutes with her. I’m sure it will do her good to see the face of a friend.”
Ophelia refrained from disillusioning her. “It was Lady Septima who left her in your care?”
“And who took on all the treatment costs. A real saint, that Lady Septima! Praised be the Lords of LUX!”
The young Babelian spoke with true religious zeal. Her every smile was like a ray of light across her night-dark skin. As Ophelia followed her along a corridor, she found herself envying her. For her part, she felt as if she would never smile again.
Our collaboration is over.
She banished Thorn’s words from her mind. Above all, no thinking. Action.
“What exactly is Mediana suffering from? I was told something about a stroke, but it wasn’t entirely clear.”
The adolescent’s smile widened and her eyes twinkled above the dark lenses of her pince-nez. “Désolée, mademoiselle, I’m not authorized to reply to that question.”
“But isn’t that the specialty of your observatory, cases like hers?”
“Désolée, mademoiselle, I’m not authorized to reply to that question.” On the adolescent’s shoulder, the mechanical monkey suddenly made a move, handing her a notepad.
“Aha, I see we already have a file in your name, Mademoiselle Eulalia.”
“In my name?” Ophelia asked, with surprise. “It must be a mistake.”
The adolescent burst into laughter as she leafed through her notepad. “We never make mistakes, Mademoiselle Eulalia, we’re very well informed. We have our own Forerunners at the conservatoire,” she added, with a knowing glance at the wings on Ophelia’s boots. “To return to your file, it would seem you had a medical checkup when you entered the Good Family conservatoire. Your test results were communicated to us and, from what I read here, they appear . . . interesting. You have five minutes,” the adolescent reminded her, opening a glass door. “I’ll be in the corridor, if you need me.”
Ophelia just stood there. Medical tests the day of her admission? All she remembered was having done some pointless movements, and fifteen laps of the track, which had almost killed her. She really couldn’t see how that could be of any interest to anyone.
She put it aside as she entered the visitors’ conservatory. Huge stained-glass windows turned the sunlight into a rainbow. The colors bounced off the tiles, mingled with the branches of the palm trees, and skimmed the water of the fish pools. The serenity of the place almost made one forget the wind outside, rattling every pane in its frame.
Mediana was seated on a bench. She was hunched over, legs drawn up, eyes wide open. She didn’t react to the familiar sound of Forerunner wings as Ophelia approached and sat beside her.
“Hello.”
Mediana didn’t respond. At first, Ophelia thought she was gazing at the stained-glass window opposite the bench, but her eyes were transfixed in their sockets. What Mediana was looking at was within herself. She was barely recognizable, in her baggy pajamas. Her muscles had wasted away, leaving her just skin and bone. Where had her strength gone? Where had her grace and pride gone? The light of the stained-glass window made the precious stones embedded in her face glimmer; so many colors on this soulless body, it was almost indecent.
Feeling awkward, Ophelia struggled to find the right words. “You’re probably wondering what brings me here. Your departure from the Good Family was so sudden . . . You left many questions in your wake.”
Mediana still didn’t respond. With her arms wrapped tightly around her legs, she continued to stare into space, like a stone gargoyle.
“You know that you’re still causing me problems?” Ophelia murmured. “Your cousins are giving me a hard time. You always said they detested you, but, believe me, they’re making me pay a high price for having taken your place.”
Still no response whatsoever.
Ophelia turned on the bench. There was no one but them inside the conservatory, and yet she had the continuous feeling of being watched behind her back.
“What happened in the Memorial restrooms?” she then asked, in a tiny voice. “Who did that to you?”
Still silence.
“I really must know,” Ophelia insisted. “Did you discover something about a book? A book by E. G., perhaps?” she suggested, to Mediana’s expressionless face. “The Era of Miracles?”
Still nothing. Ophelia took a breath; she had one last card to lay on the table. “‘He who sows the wind shall reap the storm.’ It was Fearless who asked me to give you that message. Was he the one who put you into this state?”
She waited a long time for a reaction, hoping that at least that name would have some effect, but Mediana didn’t even blink. A fly settled on her bottom lip, as though she were now but a corpse. Ophelia had promised herself never to feel sorry for her, not after her blackmailing and manipulating. And yet, seeing her like this upset her.
“So, is that it?” she chided her, quietly. “You’re going to spend the rest of your life in pajamas on a bench? You were dreaming of becoming a Forerunner, you wanted to know everything. The Mediana I knew would already be looking for a new secret.”
“Mademoiselle Eulalia?”
At the other end of the conservatory, the adolescent had opened the door and, with a big smile, was indicating to her to leave. “Désolée, mademoiselle, your five minutes are up.”
Ophelia rose reluctantly from the bench. Or rather, attempted to rise. Mediana’s hand clutched at her frock coat to stop her. Nothing in her demeanor had changed. The same wide-open eyes staring into space, the same rigid body, but her lips mouthed two words: “An other.”
“Sorry?” Ophelia leaned toward Mediana, to look her, at last, in the eye. All she saw there was a terror so intense, her own stomach clenched.
“An other . . . there’s an other one.”
“An other what?”
Mediana’s only response was to let go of her and sink back into her silence.
“Mademoiselle Eulalia!” the adolescent called out, cheerily. “The visit’s over!”
Ophelia had come to the Deviations Observatory to get answers. She left it with an additional question: so what was this new “other”? One thing, at least, seemed clear to her, as she descended the big marble staircase leading to the birdtrain stop. Mediana, Mademoiselle Silence, and Professor Wolf now really did share one thing in common: terror.
The wind proved particularly fierce around the platform’s belvedere, due to the proximity of the void. It whipped up eddies of dust so dense, one could see and hear practically nothing. The Deviations Observatory wasn’t a frequently served destination; one had to be patient between one birdtrain and the next. And patience was something Ophelia felt short of. As soon as she stopped doing things, thoughts returned with a vengeance.
Our collaboration is over.
Thorn had pushed her away. With his words and with his claws. Ophelia felt drier than the dust stinging her eyes. She missed him. She’d never stopped missing him, even when beside him. She’d not managed to keep her position of collaborator; she’d not understood at all what he really expected of her. She had hoped to get from him what he could no longer give her. Even now, she was clinging to her inquiry and delving into Babel’s hidden corners, when, in fact, it was still Thorn she was looking for.
Ophelia stiffened. Through the flurry of dust hitting her glasses, she discerned a figure on the platform. It could be just another traveler, but he seemed to be watching her intensely. Suddenly, the figure made straight for her, with rapid steps. Suddenly, Ophelia became conscious of the void’s proximity. In a flash, she thought of the misfortune that had struck all those whose mysteries she wanted to unlock. Mediana’s fear, Mademoiselle Silence’s fear, and Professor Wolf’s fear became her own fear.
“What are you doing here?”
Ophelia recognized t
he voice, full of mistrust, through the din of the wind. The figure before her was Octavio. He had lifted his jacket over his head to protect himself, which made him seem bigger than he really was. His gift as a Visionary had allowed him to recognize Ophelia, despite the belvedere’s poor visibility.
“You followed me?” he asked, insistently. “What do you want of me?”
“That you calm down. I came to visit Mediana. And you?”
There was a long, tense silence, and then:
“Don’t tell my mother you saw me here.”
It could have seemed like an order, but Octavio’s voice had gone from hostile to anxious.
“You, you’re asking me to lie? I thought honesty was a civic duty in Babel.” Ophelia was spluttering more than speaking; she swallowed dust with every intake of breath. She jumped at the screech of the birdtrain’s wheels as it landed on the track beside the platform. Perched on the carriage roofs, the giant birds remained heroically docile, despite the storm.
Ophelia and Octavio dived inside. They each punched their card, sat on a bench, and spent several minutes dusting down their clothes, without exchanging a word or a look. There was just one other passenger in their carriage, and he was so soundly asleep that his turban had toppled at his feet.
“Lying is a sin,” Octavio declared, once the birdtrain had taken off. “So I’m going to ask you what I asked the staff at the observatory. If my mother questions you, tell her the truth. In such a circumstance, I would appreciate your discretion.”
She sneaked a few glances at him. The long, black fringe he usually hid behind was in a mess. His face had lost its imperial serenity. Even his eyes, resolutely turned to the window, had a less proud glint to them. Octavio was clenching his fists on his thighs, as if he suddenly felt in a position of inferiority. Humiliated.
Ophelia had always seen him as a replica of Lady Septima. Knowing that he was capable of disobeying his mother, a Lord of LUX what’s more, made him seem less disagreeable to her. She wasn’t ready to trust him, all the same.
“If I must help you to hide something, I would at least like to know what it’s about. What were you doing at the Deviations Observatory at the same time as me?”
The Memory of Babel Page 28
