by Jack Vance
Lyssel said hurriedly, “Just be nice to Uncle Forby; he could be a valuable friend.”
“I’ll do my best. Goodbye for now. Is Hanafer watching us?”
“He’s been doing nothing else.”
Jaro put his arms around Lyssel and kissed her. She stiffened at first, then melted against him.
Jaro said: “I’ve been wanting to do that for years.”
Lyssel grinned up at him. “It would have been nicer if it were not done to spite Hanafer.”
“Hanafer hasn’t even noticed,” said Jaro. He started to kiss her a second time, but she held him away. “Hanafer has noticed everything—and so has everyone else.” Lyssel stepped back and out of Jaro’s grasp. “One kiss can be explained away as a friendly farewell; a bit maudlin of course, but no cause for excitement. Two kisses mean that the kissers enjoy it. Three kisses indicate scandal.”
“Was Hanafer counting?”
“Very carefully, but now he is strolling away. Hm. Odd. Hanafer is better known for his brusque comments.” She glanced at Jaro sidelong. “I’m afraid that you have hurt poor Hanafer’s feelings.”
“Hanafer must learn stoicism,” said Jaro.
Lyssel looked away. She said softly, “Sometimes you frighten me.”
5
When Jaro telephoned during the early afternoon, Lyssel’s response was slow and hesitant, as if she were coping with a series of unforeseen difficulties.
“Everyone is in a lather,” she told Jaro gloomily. “Uncle Forby can’t be found; apparently he’s at an important conference, and no one knows when he’ll be available. My grandmother is in a state of fulmination, which means that we all walk around on tip-toe.” Lyssel went on to explain that Jaro’s function as an escort would be more or less nominal, in view of the special circumstances.
“By ‘special circumstances,’ do you mean your grandmother?”
“I’m afraid so. My Aunt Dulcie had planned the party, but nothing suited my grandmother, and now she has come raging in like a wild bull and is changing the arrangements. Still, the recital shall occur and I will have carried out my part in the bargain with you.”
Jaro was puzzled. “What bargain is this? And how, with such facility, have you carried it out?”
“Please, Jaro! Don’t be tiresome. You wanted to be my escort, and I have arranged it. Now listen carefully. The plan is more or less as before. Dame Vinzie—that’s my grandmother—wants to celebrate the birthday of my Aunt Zelda tonight, along with everything else. The party will convene for sundowners at Primaeo, Dame Vinzie’s mansion on Larningdale Slope, then proceed to the Conservatory at the back of Pingaree Park. After the recital, the party will return to Primaeo for an intimate family supper.”
Jaro asked: “And where do I fit into the scheme?”
“Things aren’t going as smoothly as I had hoped, especially with Uncle Forby missing. But you can meet us in the lobby of the Conservatory. I’ll introduce you as a musician, and you will no doubt be invited to join the group, and share Dame Vinzie’s box. You may even be allowed to sit beside me, depending upon whether Dame Vinzie perceives you as a nimp and a milksop, or as a bona fide student of exotic music.” Lyssel went on to explain that Jaro must conduct himself with impeccable gentility, since the other members of the party would be observing his every move. Lyssel would quietly explain his lack of comporture by citing his connection with the Professors Hilyer and Althea Fath, who must be considered authorities of transworld prestige. Lyssel 41 might also mention Jaro’s ambition to explore the music of lost tribes on remote worlds. “In any case,” said Lyssel, rather tardy, “You must be modest and discreet and not try to expound any of your private theories. You might thereby ease past the suspicions of Dame Vinzie, though there is no chance whatever that you will be asked to join the supper party.”
As for her mother. Dame Ida Bynnoc, Lyssel advised Jaro to contradict none of her remarks, on pain of being labeled a “brash young nincompoop.” Jaro thought that Lyssel sounded cool and distant, as if she now regretted the occasion and feared for the outcome. He wondered if he should bring up Lyssel’s undertaking to slip away with him after the recital. He decided to say nothing. The whole idea, in any event, had never been more than a bubble of dream gas, that neither he nor Lyssel had truly expected to be realized. Lyssel was probably adept in the making of such gauzy promises which she found exciting but which she never intended to validate.
Jaro sighed and shrugged. If Lyssel chose to retreat from a personal relationship, it was probably all for the best. Lyssel was pretty, but her mind-processes were not at all in concord with his own. It was notable, he thought, that when she called from home, the irresponsible exuberance of youth, along with the hints of sexual abandon were absent, leaving a residual personality which seemed cautious and calculating. He remembered his time at Langolen School. Lyssel had been pretty and teasing and provocative; she had changed little save to acquire a certain intensity of flavor. Even then, she had not seemed as fascinating as Skirlet Hutsenreiter, and whenever Skirlet appeared, Lyssel seemed to become pinched and wan. Strange! Jaro thought back across the years. Dear gallant little Skirlet! What had become of her? She had departed Thanet and nothing more had been heard from her.
The afternoon passed.
Lyssel called Jaro with last minute instructions. She sounded more taut and distracted than ever, and was still concerned for her uncle. “He called us, and it’s all very annoying as Grandmother likes to have affairs exactly in order.”
“He has probably met some friends at his club,” said Jaro.
“He had some important business, but it was supposed to be only a formality, and tonight we would celebrate. Well, no matter. You’re still coming, I take it?” Lyssel sounded less than enthusiastic, as if she hoped Jaro would find reasons to beg off.
“I’ll definitely be on hand,” Jaro assured her.
There was a moment’s silence; then she said, “Very well, though I may not be able to give you much personal attention. In fact, if Uncle Forby isn’t on hand to ease the way”—she broke off. Then she said, “It may be a bit more difficult, since both my mother and my grandmother are very keen on social distinction.”
“Quite all right,” said Jaro. “I have other reasons for wanting to be on hand.”
Lyssel asked suspiciously, “What reasons are these?”
“Perhaps I’ll tell you sometime.”
“Hmf. Well then, please be prompt, as I can’t wait for you a single instant.”
“I’ll be there.”
6
Jaro dressed with care, avoiding any extravagances which might be considered foppery. He drove the family runabout into Thanet but, lacking membership in the Pro Art Association, he was required to park in a public area at the back of the Institute and walk through Pingaree Park to the Conservatory.
In due course Lyssel’s party entered the lobby. Jaro stepped forward and was introduced, the party barely breaking stride for the conventional interchanges. Still, all went well enough, thought Jaro. There were no suspicious challenges, nor haughty glares; indeed the redoubtable Dame Vinzie barely noticed him. Dame Ida, Lyssel’s mother, swept him with a glance which was penetrating though not hostile. The rest of the group was indifferent. Forby Mildoon was conspicuous by his absence. Perhaps on this account. Dame Vinzie, Dame Ida and Lyssel seemed tense, brooding and grim. Jaro saw that if he wished a congenial evening, his demeanor must be both suave and self-effacing, and he allowed himself a sheepish smile for his own duplicity.
The group entered the Conservatory, Jaro and Lyssel bringing up the rear. They went directly to the box; there was a moment or two of bustle and confusion with Dame Vinzie’s hoarse voice booming across the auditorium. Unobtrusively Jaro found a seat beside Lyssel, at the side of the box, where no one seemed to notice him. Lyssel’s manner was distant. Jaro sat quietly, observing the company and wondering what had occurred to alter Lyssel’s mood so notably. Her face was pale and drawn; but as usual she looked
demure and dainty wearing a dark blue gown, decorated with a few chaste stripes of white and pink. Around her forehead she wore a band of dark red and blue embroidery, with a moonstone cabochon at the forehead.
The company settled themselves, while Dame Vinzie took stock of her environment and made no secret of her opinions. Presently a decorous conversation came into being, and even Jaro was allowed to utter a sentence or two. He conducted himself with such propriety that even Dame Ida, sitting keen eyed on the other side of Lyssel, could find nothing to criticize. Dame Ida was a seasoned matron, rather short, with a stylish bosom, a lily-cream skin and pink curls. She was so immaculately groomed as to seem glossy, as if she had stepped from the pages of a fashion magazine. Here, thought Jaro, was Lyssel in years to come, when youth had drifted away.
Dame Ida, like everyone else, deferred to Dame Vinzie, an extremely tall and ugly woman with a heavy torso, lank arms and legs and great bony hips. A ruff of iron-gray hair surrounded her scalp and rust-colored blotches mottled her heavy face. Her features were large, coarse and vulgar: eyebrows beetled over deep glaring eye-sockets; folds of leathery skin draped down her cheeks and overhung her jaw; her nose plunged and hooked to cover her upper lip. In spite of all this. Dame Vinzie projected such vitality and bravura, that her ugliness became a positive quality, and commanded fascinated attention. Her voice, loud and harsh, was like a prodrome of her person; her most private and confidential remarks could be heard across the chamber, though obviously she cared not a fig. Surrounded by her kin, she seemed an elemental matriarch, reeking with mana. Jaro thought that she gave off a taint like that emitted by the hanging carcass of an enormous gaunt beast. Jaro looked from Dame Vinzie, past Dame Ida to Lyssel. Three generations, three individuals in a line! Staring closely, he could trace a similarity, grotesque though the idea might be. Never again, he thought, would he be stimulated by Lyssel’s charms.
Lyssel, noticing his attention, whispered: “There! Now you’ve met my family; aren’t they splendid? My mother is like a darling doll, so precious and beautiful, and everyone says that Dame Vinzie is absolutely magnificent.”
Jaro changed the subject. “Where is your uncle?”
Lyssel’s momentary animation vanished and her face became more pinched than ever. “Today he suffered a setback and in consequence he is ill.”
“What happened to him?”
Lyssel clamped her lips. “He was deceived by that terrible Gilfong Rute, and it has cost us all dearly.”
“All of you?”
Lyssel’s cheeks sucked in; she thrust her face forward so that her nose seemed to prod at the air; for an instant Jaro saw a wispy indefinite sketch composed in pale pastels of Dame Vinzie. The glimpse flickered away as rapidly as it had come. Jaro caught his breath, and sat still and nerveless. He could not take Lyssel now if she had been offered to him nude in a tub of whipped cream. “We all share Uncle Forby’s distress,” said Lyssel, and turned quickly away.
Dame Vinzie noticed Jaro for the first time. She gave him a five-second scrutiny, then dismissed him just as a fisherman tosses a trash fish back into the water.
Jaro looked down at his program, which read:
“Tonight: the Tala-Lala Strike-offs perform a group of inspired musical illusions after the mode of the five New Aeon Heralds, followed by a recapitulation to create a blindingly expressive unity.”
Reading farther, Jaro learned that the program, despite the exquisite accuracy of its patterns, might not be instantly accessible to the unprepared listener.
The quintette filed out upon the stage, settled themselves and tuned their instruments. Whenever Jaro had attended a recital of live music, he found that this was often the time he enjoyed the most: the random sounds, still sweet, altering to become ever sweeter and more meaningful as they approached concord, meanwhile building up a most exciting and pleasant tension.
The music began. Jaro soon conceded defeat. The “illusions” surpassed his understanding in all directions at once. At intermission Dame Vinzie stated that only the masterful technique of her granddaughter Dorsen made the Katzenjammer tolerable. Owing to the fine acoustics of the chamber, the remark was carried to every ear in the house.
Jaro reserved his own opinions, though he cautiously agreed with Dame Ida that the music seemed a bit dense. Dorsen brought a fellow musician to the box, a somber young tamurett player, who tried to explain the music to Dame Ida. “You are hearing material of a special sort. Admittedly no one will leave the hall whistling one of our melodies. The notes are intended to function not as entities in themselves, but as boundaries, or limits, defining the empty silences between. In the juxtaposition of these so-called ‘empty silences’ and the tension of their interaction, the true beauty of the music is to be found.”
Dame Ida said that, while the music no doubt had merit—otherwise, surely, no one would be playing it—she still found it beyond her comprehension. Jaro felt safe in stating that he shared her feelings, but no one paid attention. Dame Vinzie wondered loudly why the musicians simply did not put away their instruments and allow the audience to enjoy the silence in its purest form.
The music began again and the audience listened dutifully. At the end of the recital, Dame Vinzie marched from the box, followed by the rest of her company, with Jaro bringing up the rear. In the lobby Dame Vinzie paused to speak with acquaintances. Jaro and Lyssel went out to wait on the front terrace. Lyssel said, “The music was quite grand, don’t you think? I hope you enjoyed it. It has really been a great evening for you, or so I should think. You met my mother, who is a Kahulibah, and you were also introduced to Dame Vinzie, which is truly an honor. She is a Sasselton Tiger, and greatly admired. You should feel quite grateful to me.”
“Grateful for what?” demanded Jaro in sudden outrage. “You made me listen to that music—worse, in company with that old harridan. When I sat down to the left of your mother, she carefully picked up her purse and moved it to her right side. Do you think you have done me a favor? I think you have played me a ghastly joke!”
Lyssel threw up her arms and stamped her feet in a fury of her own. “Then why did you come?”
“I had my reasons.”
“Oh? What reasons?”
“They do not include our original plans for this evening. I can assure you of this, since I never believed you in the first place. I know you too well for what you are.”
Lyssel darted glances right and left. “Hush! You are acting like a vulgarian, and everyone is looking at you.”
From the lobby came Dame Vinzie. She swept past Jaro as if he had not existed. Dame Ida gave him a curt nod; then she too hurried away. Lyssel cried: “Everything is topsy-turvy and I don’t know what to do. Good night!”
Lyssel ran off after the others. The group entered the stately old conveyance which awaited them beside the terrace. They swept grandly down the drive and disappeared through the gloom of Pingaree Park, and Jaro was left alone on the steps. He waited a few moments while the audience filed out and departed. Behind him the lights of the Conservatory began to go out. Only the eternal flame in a bronze lantern remained to illuminate the terrace.
Jaro hunched his shoulders against the tendrils of mist swirling down from Mount Vax and through the trees of Pingaree Park. He descended the steps and set off toward where he had left the runabout. The path into the park wound between ancient yews, cedars, madrone and many indigenous species. Above him foliage blotted out the stars; a faint illumination seeped through the trees from scattered lights in the parking area.
Jaro walked fifty yards without haste. He stopped to listen. Nothing, save the sigh of the wind in the trees.
Jaro proceeded another few steps, then stopped again. He hissed through his teeth with impatience. Had he been forced to sit through the “Strike-offs” and the proximity of Dame Vinzie and Dame Ida for nothing? At last he heard what he had expected: the soft thud of hurrying feet.
Jaro smiled a soft pensive smile and removed his jacket, which he carried und
er his arm. He listened again. The steps sounded more loudly, and Jaro could see the swing of tall black wings and the flap of black robes. He placed his jacket neatly on the loam to the side of the road, then turned and waited.
7
In the morning there was news of a most curious and dramatic event. It seemed that four youths about to be graduated from the Lyceum had gone out on some sort of prank, for they wore the ritual garments of the Black Angels of Penitence. But their lighthearted escapade had come to a disastrous end. At midnight a late pedestrian in Pingaree Park had come upon the seriously incapacitated bodies of the four bravos.
The victims were all prominent students at the Lyceum, of good comporture and excellent social prestige. Their names were: Hanafer Glackenshaw, Kosh Diffenbocker, Aimer Gulp and Lonas Fanchetto. All had been set upon by a gang of thugs and beaten without mercy. None escaped grievous injury: broken bones, crushed knees and elbows, multiple fractures, bruises and contusions. Further, the group had been carrying a quantity of depilatory compound, for purposes known only to themselves. This substance had been smeared over their own heads, with the result that all were now stone bald, and would remain so for several months to come.
Police Inspector Gandeth had not yet been able to take a statement from the victims. His remarks to the press emphasized his personal outrage: “It appears that the four youths were out on a lark when they encountered a band of hooligans, who indulged themselves in acts of unconscionable savagery. This sort of conduct is intolerable! Be assured that we will bring the perpetrators to justice, without fear or favor.
“As soon as possible, I will interview the victims and ascertain facts; at this moment they are still under sedation and it seems that all will be kept in the hospital for at least three weeks.
