– I don’t know the place, Flood told Pica. It wasn’t here in my time.
It was getting late in the day, he told her, and the best course was to return to the ship and look for Ranelagh in the morning. To his surprise, she gave in without protest and he looked at her more closely, realizing from the sag of her shoulders that the city had finally worn her down. They were returning to where they had left the Turinis when Flood halted suddenly in front of a narrow shopfront under a dirty blue-and-grey awning. The brass plate on the door read A. Martin. Colle, Carton, Cartes á jouer.
– What is it? Pica asked, but Flood was already pushing open the door.
Monsieur Martin was confined to a wheeled chair, but still supervised his four sons at the making of the finest playing cards in London. When he recognized Flood, the old man began to weep.
– Nicolas, he growled, wiping his eyes. My boy, I thought you were dead.
– Not yet, Papa Martin. I’ve been away a long time.
The old man leaned forward in his chair and squinted at Pica, his brows knitting.
– Can this be … Marguerite?
– This is my daughter, Papa Martin.
The old man patted the air with a shaky hand.
– Of course, of course. Forgive a witless old dotard. Are you still printing books, Nicolas’?
– I am. And I’m in need of your finest paste.
– For something very special, eh? Your father would be proud.
Old Martin clapped his hands and one of his sons appeared through a doorway curtained in strips of leather.
– Jean, a bottle of the family stock. Vingt-neuf.
When his son had bowed and gone out again, the old man turned to Pica.
– Did your father tell you, ma petite miette, why so many of our people went into trades that involve paste?
– No, monsieur.
– In France, in the terrible days, they wouldn’t let us bury our dead. We had to take them with us. Until it was safe to lay them properly to rest. Can you guess how we kept them hidden?
– Bones, Pica said, after a moment’s thought. Paste is made from bones.
– A clever little coquille, Nicolas, the old man chuckled. I can see she is yours. Yes, child. What better way to hide the bones we weren’t supposed to have than in a heap of other bones? To be sure, from time to time a bit of one’s ancestors ended up by accident in the glue vat.…
A catarrhal laugh shook him as he struggled to finish.
– We Huguenots, he choked out, can truly say that we bury ourselves in our work.
Old Martin’s son returned with a squat, neatly labelled brown bottle. As Flood dug for his coin-purse, the old man waved his hand, his eyes brimming again with tears.
– Take it, Nicolas. It was good of you to visit. Corpses like me only live when people remember.
– I’ll come again soon, Papa Martin.
The old man was already wheeling himself backwards into the gloom of the shop, no longer looking at them.
– Yes. Yes. Soon.
– Who is Marguerite? Pica asked when they were back outside among the crowds.
– My sister, Meg. She died when we were children.
As a lid of smoke closed again over the streets, they rejoined the Turinis and made their way to Blackfriars Stairs, dazed and footsore. When they arrived at the ship they found Snow had already returned, with even less to show for her day. Those sailors, she found, who weren’t already indentured to other vessels were in hiding from the press gangs. The few she was able to buttonhole in taverns and gambling dens eyed her with distrust and refused to go have a look at the Bee, plainly suspecting that a woman, a black woman at that, could only be the navy’s latest lure.
That night Pica sat up in her bunk, aware as always of the sounds of her father’s nightly vigil. The rhythmic creaking of the press timbers had lulled her to sleep often on their journey. Tonight she was restless, her pulse seeming to beat out of time with that of the press.
All day her eyes had been open so wide that even in the dark she could not will them closed. The city was within her now Its smoke, its clatter and hum and flash. The quicksilver of its being had seeped through her skin and into her blood. Her father’s history, its sombre current, now ran there as well.
Goaded by her whirling thoughts she left her bed and climbed on deck. Beyond the slap of the waves, the hull’s familiar hollow bump against the pier, she could hear the alien sounds of London. A foreign language. Scraps of voices raised in brawling, laughter, and song drifted brokenly to her. The smash of glass. The clatter of carriages transporting merrymakers to yet another party.
The wall of night was lit here and there with the glow of ceaselessly burning outdoor fires. Dizzily she felt herself floating in the blackness between the stars. She thought of the children out there, living in the streets. Foraging. She had seen them during the day, distinguishable only in size from the grown-ups around them. The same cold watchfulness in their eyes.
Madame Beaufort was out there, too. Somewhere.
She remembered a woman she had seen in the morning near the cathedral, leaving a milliner’s shop with a hatbox wrapped in pale blue paper. Tall, graceful, about the right age, she thought. While her father ducked into another bookshop she had followed the woman down the street, rehearsing in her head the moment when she caught her up, spoke to her. Pardon me, ma’am, but I was wondering …
She was about to make her approach when a man stepped up to the woman, leaned his face close to hers and spoke harshly. The woman frowned, took his arm, and they went off together around the corner. Pica turned and went back to the bookshop where she had left her father. He stood waiting for her at the door. When she came up he put a hand on her shoulder. That wasn’t her, he had said quietly.
The creak of a plank behind her. She turned. Amphitrite Snow stood there in her father’s hat and redingote.
– Caught me again, little girl.
– Where are you going?
Snow plucked Turini’s hat and storm-cloak from their hook under the binnacle.
– You want to find out, put these on.
Pica obeyed, following the young woman over the side and into the darkness of the dockside streets.
– I was thinking about that drunken fool we met in Canton, Snow whispered. There are plenty more where he came from, I would imagine.
She kept on swiftly through the blackness as if possessed of cat’s eyes, halting now and then at corners and reaching a hand back to stop Pica, while a carriage or a man being lighted home by a link-boy passed in front of them. Once they had to crouch in a doorway, holding their breath as another clutch of night prowlers glided past, the reek of gunpowder the only certain evidence of their presence. Pica could not help thinking of her father’s stories of London’s terrors. She had listened to them as if they were tales from a vanished age. Now that city of words was all around her in the dark, as close as a breath. She was on the point of insisting they turn back, but she held her tongue and crept along in silence.
Finally, in a covered archway between two courts, Snow found what she was looking for. A hatless man came staggering up the tunnel, splashing in and out of the gutter on a weaving course towards them.
– Silver buckles, I believe, Snow said. And gold trim. He’s our fop.
Pica felt something poke her in the ribs. From her coat Snow had produced the two ancient flintlock pistols that usually hung above the door of the great cabin.
– I thought those didn’t work.
– They’ll work well enough.
A few steps from where they crouched the man suddenly stopped and turned towards the wall. They heard soft curses as he fumbled with his clothes, then a moan of pleasure as his stream began to splatter against the wall.
Snow nudged Pica.
– Here we go.
– No.
She grabbed Pica’s cloak sleeve and tugged her into the alley. They froze as the man’s voice hacked through the silence.
He was leaning forward, his head touching the wall.
– You hear me? Not worth a poxy piss. In a ‘pothecary’s pot. Say, that’s rather good, isn’t it? Have to tell it to the mistress.
Snow darted forward and shoved both pistols into the man’s back.
– Your money, she said, her voice lowered to a growl. The man started and then laughed sourly.
– May I finish first?
His stream died to a trickle and then ceased. He shook himself once expertly and calmly began buttoning up his breeches.
– Thank you. You’re a lad of good breeding.
– Thanks to my mother, Snow said. Now hand it over.
– What? The goodfellow?
– Your money And don’t turn around.
The man dug in the breast pocket of his jacket and hoisted a leather pouch over his shoulder.
– Always the cash. The world never wants anything else. My philosophy of life. The noble sentiments of my heart. The lessons that bitter experience has stamped upon my soul.
– Pocketwatch, too. And rings.
The watch was delivered. There were no rings. The man, still leaning with his head up against the wall, mumbled something Pica did not catch. Forgetting herself, she whispered to Snow.
– What did he say?
– I said, go ahead and do it. Finish the job, my dears.
Back in the great cabin, Snow spilled the contents of the pouch on the table and began sorting the coins.
– Pretty good. Not great, but a decent start.
Pica stood in the doorway, hugging herself against the chill. Snow glanced up and rolled her eyes.
– We didn’t hurt anyone, she said. He would’ve spent this on gambling or drink anyways.
Pica looked away.
– Without money, Snow said, I can’t hire a crew.
Pica felt sure the young woman was keeping something from them. She had been so eager to reach London, the one place on the globe the renegade Commander dared not pursue her. And now that she was here, she was just as eager to set sail again.
– When you leave, Pica said, where will you go?
– Are you thinking of coming with me?
– I…
– Not sure, eh?
Snow picked up a coin.
– Here’s one way to decide.
With a flick of her thumb she sent the coin spinning and caught it in a fist.
The next morning the Turinis rose earlier than anyone to claim their valuable piece of ground in Covent Garden. At the end of that first promising day, Darka had unpacked and mended their costumes and Turini accompanied them with a collapsible platform on wheels that he had hammered together out of planks left over from the refit of the Bee.
Flood and Pica found the coachman waiting for them at the Stairs, huddled in his cloak against the morning chill. He roused himself and his horse and drove them south, through Charing Cross and into the genteel streets and squares of Westminster. At the gates of Ranelagh Gardens they asked the coachman to wait for them, bought tickets, and strolled with surprise into another realm, a sedate, orderly labyrinth of trees, fountains, colonnades, and pavilions.
After wandering for a while they made their first wary approaches to the fashionable. The women would barely deign to look at them, and the few men they were able to attract were clearly only interested in Pica as a kind of novelty. A fat, painted man in high-heeled shoes followed them at a distance before finally veering into their path. He blinked at Pica through an eyeglass.
– Did we not meet in Venice? A year or so ago, I believe.
Flood took Pica’s arm to draw her away, but she broke from his grasp.
– Do you know the Duchess of Beaufort?
– The Duchess, is it? the painted man said. My dear child, I can be a duchess for you, if you like. But yes, she and I have a passing acquaintance. In fact, I believe she is here today, holding court in the Temple of Chocolate. Do you see the Moorish-looking turrets, peeking up over the grove of orange trees?
Flood thanked him brusquely, and as he and Pica were turning away he called after them,
– It was delicious running into you again. If you need anyone else, I’ll be here.
The Duchess was tiny, a doll child disguised as a woman. The tips of her shoes swung just above the Persian carpet. Her stubby fingers struggled with the huge china serving boat.
– It was so delightful of you to call, she said, pouring Pica another saucerful of chocolate. And you’ve come from so far away, too. Goodness, the world is too large to bear thinking on. My father went to India ten years ago. I was a baby then. I don’t remember him. He caught a brain fever and died there. I like to think of him resting under a banyan tree. I don’t know what a banyan tree looks like, but it sounds like a restful sort of tree, don’t you think?
– It does, miss, Pica said.
– There’s just Mama and me now, and she stays in bed all day. She’s gotten quite fat now, the silly dear. She won’t see anyone.
She giggled, her pagoda of powdered hair wobbling.
– Well, almost no one. My brother’s gone, too. His name is George. Such a loving, thoughtful son and brother. How we wept when he went away to that island in the Caribbean – I can’t recall the name just now, St. Somebody-or-other.… He writes us six letters a year. Sometimes we get them all at once, though, if there was a hurricane. Or pirates. Sometimes we don’t get any letters for a long time. He’s getting on swimmingly in his business, he says, which has something to do with the blacks. He sent me one for my last birthday.
– One what, miss?
– A black. For a manservant. Mama gave the fellow our name. Because he’s so lovely, with his skin like chocolate, and so strong. Beau. Fort. You see?
She reached up a tiny hand and tugged at the bell pull above her sofa.
– He’s just outside. I’ll fetch him. You’ll see.
In the white mask of her face her watchful eyes danced.
– More chocolate?
The serving boat hovered ominously over Flood’s knees.
– No thank you, he said. Has your family always lived here? In England, I mean?
She giggled again.
– Of course, silly. Mama and I were both born just across the street. Did you think we were from Asiatic Tartary?
– No, miss. We’ve been searching for someone with the same name …
– Oh, yes. I know. When your family is as old as ours, people steal your name for all sorts of things. There’s a wigmaker …
– Yes, we’ve heard of him, Flood said.
– And a fortune teller and a boxer …
– A fortune teller, Pica said, leaning forward.
The Duchess pouted into her cup.
– I haven’t been to see her, of course, she said. Mama won’t let me. Although Mama does have her odd notions, too. She says when she dies she wants to be buried under a tree, like Father. A palm tree. Beaufort’s managed to grow one here, the clever fellow.
Back out in the gardens, the swampy heat was now as suffocating as anything they had endured on their ocean crossing. They were drawn into the dusky cool of the serpentine grove, a tree-lined path that turned back on itself in a figure eight. Statues of goddesses lined the pathway and drew Pica onward, until she came out opposite the Temple of Chocolate again, and found that Flood was no longer with her.
She retraced her steps and found him standing in the centre of the grove. He stared blankly at her, seemingly without recognition.
– Only if one, he muttered, stops moving …
Pica insisted that they return to the ship, where he went straight to the press room.
That night, when Snow came to take her on another nocturnal excursion, Pica pulled the blanket over her head and lay in her bunk, listening to the young woman’s footsteps die away. Then she realized that there was no sound from below. She got up and crept down the hatchway stairs. Her father was sitting at his work table, thre
ading a needle. A pot of glue bubbled on the water-bath nearby. For a while she watched him, and when he spoke suddenly, she jumped.
– What’s the matter, Pica. Can’t sleep?
She climbed the rest of the way down and joined him at the work table.
– I didn’t hear the press, she said. I came to see …
– If I was finished?
She kept silent, not sure in what sense he meant it.
He set the threaded needle aside and turned to look at her.
– Almost.
He nodded towards the sewing frame on his work table, in which sat a small, coverless volume she had not noticed until now.
– The type is still liquid, he said, but it isn’t producing any more new formes. I thought it was time to bind what I had. Whatever that may be.
He took up the needle and thread and bent again to his work. Pica pulled up another chair, sat beside her father and watched him complete the sewing and then the rest of the binding. With the plough he cut the unruly fore-edge smooth. Tiny motes of paper shavings swirled into the candlelight and after a moment Flood raised his head, turned away and sneezed.
– That happens every time, he said.
He pasted the dyed, stiffened sealskin cover to the endpapers of Trincomalee parchment, rounded the back and worked the leather along the French groove, moulded the head and tail pieces. As always when he worked at these final stages of a book, he whispered soft words of encouragement to the inanimate materials he was urging into shape.
Pica watched and listened, and then asked,
– What was that you were talking about today, in the garden?
He looked up at her, frowning.
– Talking about …
– Only if one stops moving, you said.
– Oh. Yes. I was thinking about a book I once made. For your grandfather. It was about two young lovers, searching for one another. As long as both of them kept moving their story could never end. The Count was not impressed, so I gave it to your mother to keep. I suppose it’s lost now.
At last on the table sat a thick, compact volume, slightly narrower than ordinary pocket-size, bound in soft, dark green leather. The rhythm of the work had lulled her, and when her father spoke next she stretched as if waking.
Salamander Page 24
