The Memory of Babel

by Christelle Dabos

  The guardsman and photographer bowed and left the office. Octavio watched the door closing behind them with an expression on his face that Ophelia had never seen before. Nothing, of all he had lived through over the past twenty-four hours, had shocked him as much.

  “A detail?” he repeated. “Mother, I don’t understand, shouldn’t I, too, be answerable for my actio . . . ”

  Lady Septima cut him short with just a look. “Here, I am not your mother, Apprentice Octavio. And it is not for you to pass judgment on the decisions of the representatives of law and order. Apprentice Eulalia, are you behind this excursion to the neighborhood of the powerless?”

  Her tone had become as scathing as the look in her eyes. From that moment, Ophelia knew for certain that Lady Septima hated her. She was the foreigner who had led her oh-so-perfect little boy off the straight and narrow. They now had personal business to settle.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you encourage Apprentice Octavio to join you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you deliberately instigate an encounter with Fearless-and-Almost-Blameless?”

  “No.”

  “But can you assert that there was no likelihood of encountering him over there?”

  Ophelia’s jaws tightened. Lady Septima’s way of twisting her questions made them incriminating. Helen followed this questioning in silence, as though she had no say in the matter. Didn’t Ophelia’s case come under her jurisdiction, rather than that of a representative of Pollux? Was this family spirit, in the end, as easy to manipulate as her twin brother?

  “I can’t assert such a thing, but I didn’t know . . . ”

  “Are you aware that the awarding of grades is taking place soon?” Lady Septima continued, not allowing Ophelia time to elaborate.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you aware that you have jeopardized your classmate’s apprenticeship, on top of putting his life in danger?”

  “Y-yes.”

  Ophelia hadn’t managed to prevent her voice from betraying her. Every word from Lady Septima injected her with a little more guilt.

  “I request permission to present my version of events,” Octavio intervened. “I accompanied Apprentice Eulalia of my own free will. We conducted an inquiry jointly, as Forerunners. What we discovered is more important than what we’re discussing here. If you would allow us a chance to explain to you . . . ”

  “Your testimony has already been heard,” Lady Septima hissed, her tone final. “Apprentice Octavio, I order you to return to your division immediately. You will stop at the infirmary and the cloakroom on the way. You are presenting a lamentable image of this establishment.”

  The son’s eyes held the mother’s for a long time, like two conflicting fires. Ophelia saw Octavio’s flame gradually go out. Even when his chain had been torn from him, he hadn’t shown such suffering. Of all his illusions, he had just lost the one that was most precious to him.

  He slammed the door behind him. Helen’s ogreish mouth grimaced at the noise.

  “Madame,” Lady Septima continued, turning on her heels toward her. “Since this concerns one of your Goddaughters, the choice of punishment is up to you. I do, however, take the liberty of recommending to you expulsion with immediate effect.”

  “I refuse!”

  The words had erupted from Ophelia along with her anger. For the first time, she was fully conscious of the claws that extended her every nerve ending. A primal instinct whispered to her how she could use them to wound Lady Septima as painfully as she herself had wounded Octavio.

  She just needed to link her own nervous system to hers.

  She just needed a single thought.

  Ophelia turned her glasses away, took a deep breath. The following second, she succumbed to the temptation she had felt.

  “I refuse,” she repeated, in a more controlled voice. “I refuse to be expelled without being allowed to say what I have to say.”

  “I am listening.”

  Helen’s voice had a mineral resonance, as if the inside of her body was fashioned of the same marble as her desk. It was the first time she had spoken since the start of the summons. With just three words, she had reasserted her presence in the room.

  Ophelia focused all her attention on the optical appliance that was trained on her. She had to disregard Lady Septima; if the woman was so keen to get rid of her a few days from the awarding of grades, she must fear seeing her become an aspiring virtuoso, and thus deem her capable of doing so. Ophelia had let Thorn down with everything else, she owed it to him to fight for this.

  “I am grateful for the opportunity I was given to join the Good Family. I received quality training here that allowed me not only to hone my family power, but also to broaden my knowledge. I endeavored to make my contribution in return by working hard for the reading groups. Just as I endeavored to prove myself worthy of the trust placed in me by taking over from Mediana at the Secretarium.”

  Ophelia cleared her throat and straightened her back to relax her diaphragm. She wouldn’t allow her little voice to take over. Today more than ever, it was time to make herself heard.

  “If there is one thing I have retained from my apprenticeship, it is that Forerunners don’t wait for information to come to them; they have to go and look for the information. And that is what I did. I discovered that some unique volumes had been incinerated at the Memorial, and I led an inquiry to understand why. Apprentice Octavio assisted me. We assumed Professor Wolf would be able to throw some light on certain parts of our investigation, but we didn’t find him at home. It was in those circumstances that we unintentionally came across Fearless-and-Almost-Blameless.”

  All the events that Ophelia had just described were strictly true, but she had chosen to skip the most important ones. She didn’t trust Lady Septima enough to risk making any further revelations. And yet, going by the slight jerk of her eyelids, her surprise was sincere.

  With pachydermic slowness, Helen turned her chair. “Is that correct? Were books thrown on the fire? Isn’t that contrary to the very purpose of the Memorial?”

  “I wasn’t aware of it,” Lady Septima admitted, reluctantly. “But that by no means excuses what you have been up to, Apprentice Eulalia. You should have come and told me about it.”

  Ophelia moved a step forward, purely to make the wings at her ankles clatter. “We didn’t have all the elements at our disposal. We wanted first to return to the source. Just as you taught us to, professor.”

  It was most satisfying, turning Lady Septima’s own teachings against her. Ophelia found her suddenly less dazzling, despite the fine gold decorations on her uniform.

  Helen unlinked her endless fingers, snatched a fountain pen, and scribbled a note.

  “Apprentice Eulalia will not be expelled. She will have the right to present herself at the conferment of grades, just like all the apprentices, and, like them, her candidature will be admissible for the status of aspiring virtuoso. However,” she added, just as Ophelia was about to thank her, “the pride and lack of judgment she has shown in this affair are the opposite of what I expect of my Forerunners. For that reason, Apprentice Eulalia will be locked in the isolation chamber until the day of the ceremony. She will not complete her apprenticeship at the conservatoire; she will not be able to communicate with anyone; and her misdemeanors will be recorded in her file. You will use this time profitably for reflection, apprentice,” Helen concluded, in a lugubrious voice. “The isolation chamber is the ideal place for that.”

  Ophelia could no longer hear her. Her blood was pounding in her ears like the drum of a washing machine. The only reality of which she was cruelly aware was Lady Septima’s triumphant smile.

  THE GAP

  Although Ophelia had never seen the isolation chamber, she had heard all about it. The most dreaded room in the conservatoire, it was reserved for rebels. It was said that just a
single hour in it felt like a whole day, and staying in it too long sent one mad. Ophelia had doubted its existence, but could no longer do so as Elizabeth led her to the very back of the gardens, where the jungle was but a tangled web of creepers. They arrived in front of a statue of a woman sitting cross-legged, her head that of an elephant. It was monumental enough for trees to be nestled in its crevices, their sinuous roots spilling over the stone. Elizabeth climbed the stairs of the pedestal, and then, clearing away the brambles with the tip of her boot, she uncovered a circular trapdoor in the stone.

  “Open it, Apprentice Eulalia. That’s the tradition.”

  Ophelia turned the handle several times. It had to be forged in some Alchemist’s rustproof alloy because, despite its obvious age, it put up no resistance. She found it harder, however, to lift the trapdoor: it was thick as her body! Her glasses blanched on discovering a dark well plunging several yards down within the stone of the pedestal.

  “I really have to go down.”

  It was more an acknowledgment than a question. Ophelia knew that she had no choice. Contesting the ruling of a family spirit would amount to making oneself an outlaw.

  Casually, Elizabeth dropped the basket of dried fruit she had brought with her. The wicker echoed strangely as it hit the bottom of the well. “You’ll find sufficient water and light down there. At least, so I’m told. I’ve never been into the isolation chamber. I’ll come to collect you at the end of the week, to escort you to the ceremony. Be sure to ration out the food; no one’s going to bring you any.”

  Ophelia thought Elizabeth would add her usual “I’m joking,” but it seemed that, for once, she wasn’t. The thought of finding herself alone at the bottom of this well for several days and several nights triggered a sudden surge of claustrophobia.

  “Would you . . . would you explain the situation to Sir Henry?”

  “Don’t worry about him, apprentice. He’ll replace you, just as he replaced Mediana before you.”

  Ophelia tried not to show how painful it was to hear those words. “Do you think I still have a chance of becoming an aspiring Forerunner, like you?”

  “I don’t think so, no.”

  Much as Ophelia was used to her perpetual neutrality, she would have appreciated her forgoing it today. As she climbed down the rungs of the well, Elizabeth leaned over, pushing the hair clinging to her cheeks behind her ears. “But I have faith in Lady Helen. You should, too.”

  With this advice, Elizabeth closed the well’s trapdoor. Her freckles were the last thing Ophelia saw of the outside world. Just as her voice was the last sound: the cries of birds, monkeys and insects were replaced by a stark silence. Ophelia felt her chest pounding as anxiety overwhelmed her again.

  She did not want to stay here alone.

  She fought the impulse to bang on the trapdoor and beg Elizabeth to reopen it. She took a slow, deep breath. The air wasn’t particularly fragrant, but it was breathable. She unclenched her fingers from the rungs, and, one foot after the other, made her descent.

  A few Heliopolis bulbs cast a cold light at the bottom of the well. The isolation chamber was furnished with basic conveniences: a toilet pan, an unscreened shower, a basin, a medicine cabinet, a mattress, and mirrors. Many mirrors. Every wall was a mirror. The ceiling was a mirror. Even the floor was a mirror. When Ophelia picked up the basket of dried fruit Elizabeth had dropped down the well, her movement was endlessly multiplied. She saw herself from the front and the back at once, her reflections forever shrinking. She felt as if she were not in a confined space, but in the middle of a multidirectional tunnel populated by thousands of other Ophelias. And she couldn’t escape from a single one of them.

  There was neither a telephone nor a periscope, and nothing, either, to occupy the mind. Nothing to read, nothing to write with, nothing to fill the emptiness and the silence. There was only her. An infinity of her.

  An ideal place for reflection.

  Ophelia sat in a corner of the isolation chamber, drew her legs up, and buried her face in her arms. Time crept over her like glue. She had no notion of the hour—there was no clock, either, in the chamber—but the longer she remained slumped, the drowsier she became. After two sleepless nights in a row, she needed to sleep. But she couldn’t. Every time she was about to doze off, her body sent her an electric shock that made her jump. She didn’t dare leave her corner of the room, tormented by the eyes of her countless reflections. It wasn’t comfortable, but the stench from the mattress was worse.

  When had Elizabeth closed the trapdoor? Today? Yesterday? Was it nighttime, up there? If Ophelia could have at least heard the sound of the gong . . . The only sounds here were organic, coming from the plumbing and from her stomach.

  Gnawing at the seams of her gloves, one by one, her thoughts veered in all directions: to God, to the Other, to E. G., to LUX, to the Rupture, to that mystery person who spread terror in his path.

  Ophelia tried to order her thoughts, but the chamber’s mirrors distracted her. She was a mirror visitor. She should have felt in her element here, but anxiety was crippling her. The last time she’d tried to use her power, it had been distressing. She was afraid of confronting her reflection again, and she knew that the mere fact of being afraid made any mirror passage impossible.

  Because Octavio was right. Because she’d become too blurry a person.

  Where would she have gone, anyhow? To her knowledge, there was no other mirror on the Good Family ark. The closest one in which she’d been reflected was in the Memorial restrooms, and she was incapable of covering such a distance.

  Ophelia curled up even tighter. The real question wasn’t “where to go?” but “why go there?” Thorn no longer expected her. He’d put an end to their collaboration. She had thought she could hand him the book he was looking for on a platter, but despite everything that had happened, despite all she had learnt, she had made no progress. On the contrary, she had compromised her chances of becoming an aspiring virtuoso.

  She had failed to help Thorn. Again.

  Exhausted, Ophelia let herself slide onto the floor. Lying on this great ice-cold mirror, she saw her myriad reflections on the ceiling as strange celestial bodies. And then she saw nothing. Her thoughts became diluted, sleep soaked her up, and she felt herself sinking.

  When Ophelia awoke, she was floating in a haze in which she glimpsed fragmented images, fluctuating colors, distorted sounds, as if she were drifting beneath the surface of a lake. She felt neither fear nor amazement. In fact, she had rarely felt so calm. She felt as if she were sliding on the tensile web of space and time. She knew this place, tiny and vast, from having passed through it hundreds of times without ever stopping in it. The floor of the isolation chamber had swallowed her up while she slept and she hadn’t resurfaced. She was nowhere. She was everywhere.

  She was in the gap between the mirrors.

  “Why are you in Babel?”

  Thorn’s voice vibrated on Ophelia as on a tuning fork. He wasn’t physically here with her, inside the gap, but his question was only too real. It was the first thing he’d said to her on the evening of their reunion. This echo from the past now returned to her with the inevitability of a pendulum’s swing.

  Why had Thorn asked her why? Wasn’t it obvious that he was the only answer to his own question?

  Barely had this thought occurred to Ophelia than she understood the reason for her being within the gap. This space was the very reflection of her inner state. Neither child nor adult, neither girl nor woman, she had remained stuck on the cusp of her life. She had expected words and gestures from Thorn that she had never offered him. At no time had she said “we.” At no time had she reached out to him. At no time had she laid herself bare.

  The truth, the only truth, was that she had been cowardly.

  This realization ran through her like a fissure; the surface of her being felt as if it were shattering, like eggshell.
It hurt, but Ophelia knew that it was a necessary pain. Her suffering soared when her old identity shattered.

  She could feel herself dying. She would finally be able to live.

  *

  When she was little, Ophelia had once amused herself by running backwards in the garden, to see the world go by the wrong way. Her foot had then skidded on a ball, and she had felt herself tipping backwards, no longer able to tell up from down.

  This was exactly what she felt as she left the gap. She fell backwards with a feeling of unreality. Her back suddenly hit the ground. Her lungs emptied from the impact. For several long seconds, she was no longer breathing. Dazed, she stared through her glasses at the maze of spiderwebs glistening above her. A glimmer, pale as a moonbeam, came through an opening in the middle of a vaulted ceiling.

  Ophelia may have left the gap, but she hadn’t returned to the isolation chamber.

  She got entangled in the spiderwebs as she got to her feet. The place she found herself in was bathed in a nebulous twilight. Apart from the small opening in the ceiling, there was no apparent door or window. An old mirror in the room was, however, producing a vague reflection. Its surface was coated in a thick layer of dust, except for where Ophelia’s body had emerged: that dust was still floating in the air in the wake of her fall.

  Where was she? How could she have passed through a mirror in which she had never been reflected? It defied every law of Animist physics.

  Ophelia soon noticed that that wasn’t the only particularity of this mirror. It was hanging in the air. It wasn’t in a state of levitation, as one often saw in Babel. Getting closer to it, one could make out that it was surrounded by a panel that was both transparent and—from the way Ophelia could pass her hand through it—ethereal. Of the wall it had been fixed to, all that remained was a ghost.

  Ophelia had a quick look around the room, and up at the ceiling, the source of the ray of light. And suddenly she knew where she was: at the heart of the Memorial, in the Secretarium, inside the weightlessly floating second globe. This mirror before her belonged to one of the top floors of the original building. It hung exactly where the other half of the building had collapsed at the moment of the Rupture. For some reason, it hadn’t fallen into the void with everything else. It had remained absurdly anchored in the air. Someone had had the globe constructed around this anomaly to conceal it. Was that, there, the work of God? How many people today knew of the existence of this suspended mirror?