New Venice 02 - Luminous Chaos

by Jean-Christophe Valtat

  “But I saw de Lanternois’ wax figure at the Musée Grévin!”

  “A young journalist named Gaston Leroux let the cat out of the bag. The state does its best, but it has insufficient control of the press, and accordingly they had to dance to the newspaper’s tune and make de Lanternois the hero of the week. But then, with these atrocious winters, the notion of a Frenchman dying of cold has come to seem rather unremarkable, and the newspapers dropped the topic. Right now, they’d rather attack the government about its handling of the current weather situation than about why de Lanternois’ ill-fated excursion was kept a state secret.”

  Brentford wanted to ask why the wax effigy had a snow-globe eye, but thought this a bit premature, so he tried another angle. “I had a feeling that there was something a little more than just politics to it,” he ventured. “As I told you, while I was above the Arctic Circle on personal business, I happened to come into possession of a rather curious object, which was presented to me as having belonged to a dead French explorer. This object is a magnetic crown.”

  D’Ussonville tried to hide his interest, but a glint in his eyes betrayed him.

  “You must have an interesting personal business,” he commented, with a slight but distinct chill in his voice.

  “Oh!” Brentford said, his mind racing to find an alibi that would pass muster. “Not really. I’m in insurance. Shipwrecks. Lost cargo. That sort of thing. I have to survey a lot of flotsam. We got the crown from some Baffin Bay Eskimos.”

  For a man who wasn’t a liar it was a big blubbery fib. He feared that d’Ussonville would inquire about the cost of coverage for a 46,000-ton line ship sailing through the Arctic, but instead the Sleeper asked, “And what is a magnetic crown?”

  Brentford suspected that this disingenuity was a part of his repertoire, unless he simply wanted to flatter Brentford that he had things to learn from him. “From what I’ve been told,” he said, “it’s a device that allows one to store—and, it would seem, pass on—hypnotic suggestions.”

  D’Ussonville knitted his eyebrows. “And what makes you sure it belonged to de Lanternois?”

  Brentford improvised. “It shows Paris when you put it on your head.” He doubted that d’Ussonville bought this story, but the Sleeper chose to remain noncommittal for the moment. “That certainly beats panoramic pens,” he said.

  Brentford took a deep breath. “In fact, the crown is what brought me to Paris. I’m hoping to assess its actual value. Though the magnetic crown has also been used in medical research, it seems that it was first devised by occultists—Papus, not to put too fine a point on it. What I can’t figure out is why they would have given one to de Lanternois.”

  D’Ussonville gave the impression of already knowing the answer. “I don’t believe there’s anything ‘more than just politics’ to it,” he said. “These really are the politics of our day, and it’s not for me to say whether that’s good or bad. Last year Papus published a book entitled Anarchy, Indolence and Synarchy, in which he advocated, through rather childish physiological analogies, a strongly autocratic political system devised by his mentor, a certain St. Yves d’Alveydre. His praise of the Czar is quite strong, and not limited, I’m afraid, to his writing in this book: two years ago, for example, he became involved in a Franco-Russian cabal whose aim was to cause an uprising in the Punjab that would drive the English out. He had—or at least this is what I have been told—a certain occult interest in the operation, relating to sacred cities in the region. And the presence of one of his devices on de Lanternois’ head might make a little more sense in that context—the Arctic being something of a sacred place for certain traditions.”

  “I still don’t see the point of the device,” Brentford persisted. “Were they trying to record his thoughts?”

  “The important point you miss is that, according to your own explanation, a magnetic crown works by suggestion—de Lanternois may have been hypnotized into risking that insane adventure, and the crown was there to reinforce the suggestion during a difficult expedition. Or perhaps it was meant as a kind of telepathic device, either to receive thought transmissions or to send them to some clairvoyant—at the Czar’s residence in Tsarskoye-Selo, for instance, where clairvoyants are said to abound. Telepathy is all the rage in occult circles these days.”

  Horrified, Brentford imagined the mesmerized de Lanternois fighting the blizzard like a clockwork toy, straight ahead, straight ahead … He shook off the image. “I met Papus a few days ago, by the way,” he said. “He seemed to be very concerned with Palladian activity in the Arctic.”

  D’Ussonville smiled, an inch wider than before. “He would be, yes.”

  Brentford understood that the Sleeper was done discussing the matter. But, as he was to discover over coffee, that didn’t mean that d’Ussonville had finished with him.

  “I’m afraid I will soon have to take my leave. I have a rather busy day ahead of me,” he began, placing his napkin on the table. “Shouldn’t we get on to business and discuss our little deal, Mr. Orsini?”

  “I wasn’t aware we had business,” Brentford said cautiously.

  “Well, I’m buying you lunch, am I not? What else could that mean in this city but business? To put it simply, how much do you want for the crown?”

  Holy Cod! thought Brentford. He hadn’t foreseen this. The crown wasn’t really his to sell nor to give away, for one thing. On the other hand, the Sleepers knew what to do with it better than he did. Yet he also felt certain that the Most Serene Seven, or what was left of them, would need the crown in order to get back to New Venice—a point it would be difficult to explain to d’Ussonville.

  He cleared his throat. “If it were for me to decide, I would call a lunch a fair price. But I’m afraid the crown does not belong to me. There might be a legitimate owner—the family, for example …”

  D’Ussonville’s gaze was unblinking. “I suspected you are not one to be bought. I congratulate you on this virtue, which is becoming ever more rare. I only hope that it doesn’t put you in—shall we say—an uncomfortable position.”

  Brentford wondered if this was meant as a threat, but nothing in d’Ussonville’s demeanour supported that hypothesis. Words that would have rung ominously in Lodestone’s mouth sounded more like polite concern in d’Ussonville’s …

  And suddenly it all made sense: the men behind de Lanternois’ mission simply wanted the crown back. Of course. Brentford was relieved that he had used a false name when introduced to Papus, as he now realized that they were no doubt looking for him. The Sleepers, he reckoned, would be better placed to protect the crown from Papus and his goons, and Brentford sensed that they needed it as badly as the Most Serene Seven did. After all, the French conspiracy to reach the Farthest North had directly threatened the Sleepers’ interests in the region. New Venice might be at stake.

  And so Brentford found himself facing a hard choice: to give the crown to the Sleepers and run the risk of never going home … or to keep it to himself and run the risk that there would be no home to go to.

  D’Ussonville seemed to realize his unease and spoke mildly as he rose from his seat. “In case you change your mind, you can reach me at my sister’s place—the Baroness de Bramentombes,” he said. “I may even take the liberty of inviting you to one of her salons tomorrow night. Perhaps then you will be more inclined to discuss the possibility of a deal. I trust you to make the right choice, Mr. Orsini.”

  He held out his hand, and Brentford, rising before the legendary Sleeper, couldn’t help a slight tremor as he took it …

  As soon as they had parted and d’Ussonville had turned the corner of the boulevard Henri IV, Brentford set about following him from what he deemed a safe distance. He did not have to stalk the Sleeper for long: d’Ussonville swerved towards the Arsenal harbour—just as Brentford had hoped he would—and, after crossing a brand-new iron footbridge, descended onto the quay via a narrow flight of stairs. Passing snowy sand heaps that looked like the Alps in miniature, th
en moving along a row of low wooden huts, d’Ussonville finally turned up the gangway of a yacht that stood among the long black montluçon barges like a swan trooping among aquatic crows that flew a familiar flag.

  So Thomas had been right. The New Venetian flag flew in Aresenal Harbour—a name that must have reminded the Sleepers of the Arsenale shipyards in Venice.

  Feeling exposed as he watched from the parapet overlooking the docks, Brentford circled back to approach the quay from the Place de la Bastille. With its dozen useless boats listing in the early ice, the Arsenal from that approach looked more like a scrapyard than a harbour, which didn’t bode well for a city that depended so much on the river for its supplies. No wonder there hadn’t been any boaters at the restaurant—the quays were deserted. Brentford drew up in the shadows to look out at the unguarded yacht. The steam-powered vessel was impressive, not so much because of its size—he estimated it at barely longer than one hundred feet—as because of its obvious robustness. Brentford knew enough about boats to know that this one would have no problem with the Parisian ice; it was clearly fit for much more northerly climes. And, indeed, as Thomas had told him, it flew the flag of the Winged Sea Lion of New Venice—Or on a field of sable and silver. Metal on metal—a bold heraldic statement. Only Jerusalem and the Vatican had such a distinguished coat of arms. Brentford almost felt the tears welling up. He couldn’t make out the name blurred under a fine layer of frost on the ship’s prow, but after briskly crossing the open space to huddle out of sight beneath it, he couldn’t resist the impulse to reach up and give the frost a swift swipe. He was only half surprised when the word Dukedominion appeared.

  But there was no time to waste. Using the anchor chain, he pulled himself up to where he could grasp the top-rail and managed, on the third try, to hoist himself up, winded, onto the deck. From there, he tiptoed to the deckhouse, thanking the snow for muffling his footsteps, and keeping to the starboard side, where he would not be so easily spotted by passers-by.

  The portholes of the deckhouse were curtained but, thankfully, the curtains were open. Hugging the side of the deckhouse, Brentford took a quick peep through the first porthole, but all he could see through the thin film of frost were blurry lights and insubstantial shapes, among which he was uncertain whether he recognized d’Ussonville. Afraid that his ear would freeze to the glass, he couldn’t make out more than muffled conversation, either. He quickly felt he was risking too much for too little, and was about to retrace his steps when he heard voices that sounded as if they were coming from the dock. He hurried aft to catch a glimpse and saw two men—one thickset and black-bearded, the other fairer and moustachioed—walking towards the yacht, accompanied by a nun, talking quietly. All that Brentford could make out was a certain note of haste and concern. They boarded and were admitted to the deckhouse, where they stayed for approximately half an hour—Brentford shivering all the while as he hid in the shadows—after which they walked out, hurried across the quay to climb the stairs, and stepped into a waiting hackney cab.

  After Brentford could no longer hear the cab horse’s hooves and had decided that he could safely make his exit, the deckhouse door opened again and d’Ussonville, now in a navy-blue coat of military cut, crossed the gangplank and headed across the quay towards the stairs in turn. Crouching below the portholes, Brentford watched him until he saw the Sleeper’s top hat bobbing along the parapet overlooking the harbour. For a second it crossed his mind that he should try to slip into the deckhouse, but a stern voice in his head told him that in its humble opinion this was the lousiest idea he’d had in quite a while. At times Brentford found the voice of his conscience something of a bore, but he had learned to trust its advice. He turned away and was scanning the deck for the anchor chain when a slight crunch on the ice below made him dart his eyes fast enough to spot a checked jacket and a pair of fuzzy sideburns, and a hand carrying a rifle vanishing behind an abandoned barge. Brentford dashed to the foredeck, twined himself around the anchor chain, and—why complicate things?—fell down to the dock, then ran for the stairs, hoping to get lost in the busy thoroughfares around the Bastille.

  But the spy who had caught Brentford spying did not take up the chase. He was heading towards the prefecture to develop the contents of his new photographic rifle.

  V

  Three Drops of Blood

  When Thomas had first arranged with Blanche for a rendezvous, he’d had something more enjoyable in mind than a walk in a cemetery, even if a little shot of morphine in a Vespasian toilet (to calm himself down after he had just pushed away a stout, jowly, blond, ether-smelling man who had called him “handsome sailor”) had added some brightness to the prospect.

  The Cimetière du Père-Lachaise, he had to admit, was impressive, if you enjoyed that sort of atmosphere. It looked like a half-scale model of a city, with its streets, and various crypts and mausoleums like so many houses, mansions, palaces, and monuments. And half-smothered in snow as it was, it gleamed blindingly, at least to an opiated eye.

  A dim memory of New Venice’s Boreal Grounds passed through his mind. Père-Lachaise was much smaller, of course, but equally magnificent, and, like its New Venetian equivalent, a step closer to a real city. The mausoleums had windows through which you could see statues of the deceased eternally playing out some moment of their domestic lives, and doors through which you could pay them a courtesy call, a bouquet of flowers in your hand. Other statues had invaded the paved paths and could be seen strolling around in stilled steps of weathered bronze, or sitting on the stone benches reading never-changing headlines from unruffled newspapers, or engaged in suspended conversations. Near rows of little graves, effigies of dead children played hopscotch or hoops with brazen abandon. Living people, however, had made themselves scarce. The place, some explained, was a tad too uncanny for comfortable meditation …

  Maybe, Thomas thought, the Boreal Grounds had only ever existed in his mind, in one of those mysterious cities of which you sometimes dream. As the days passed, everything about his home had receded further into uncertain morphine mists, and he found it harder and harder to believe in it.

  Trying to shake off his dream, he turned to Blanche and said, “This is a strange place for a meeting.” Over her shoulder he noticed a half-faded white rose laid on the nearby tomb of some poet, and he reached out to pluck it and offer it to her.

  “Why is everyone always giving me flowers?” she asked with a wince. “I’ve told you before—it’s like a little funeral every day.”

  “You seem to be very interested in death,” he said—a little hesitantly, for he wasn’t very fond of serious conversations. However, ever since the time—during one of their more feverish trysts—that she’d told him she would like to make love to him while he was strapped supine into a guillotine, he had decided that there were things he needed to know about her.

  Blanche, seemingly by way of answering, dropped her lace handkerchief on the snow, and when he bent to pick it up he was shocked to see bloodstains blooming in its folds. He stared at the crumpled lace in his hand, which was bloodied like an old bandage.

  “Tuberculosis,” she said simply. “I hope you don’t mind the blood.” She extended her hand for the handkerchief. “Said the young girl to the sailor.”

  “No, I don’t,” he said as he gave it back. “It’s more that I refuse to believe it.”

  “I did, too, when I first learned I had it. Then the man I was to be married to died … and after that it occurred to me that I should make myself familiar with death … and if possible have a little fun with it.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Thomas said, embarrassed. “Who was he?”

  “A naval officer and a promising explorer who didn’t live up to his promise. He disappeared in the North, not far from where you’re from, and was never found again. All I have to remember him by is a wax figure in the Grévin Museum.”

  Thomas must have made a face, for she went on somewhat apologetically. “I realize that this isn’t
a very becoming conversation to have with a young girl who isn’t even twenty years old, but you started it. Nevertheless, if it reassures you, let me tell you that I have discovered that if in the midst of life we are in death, the reverse is equally true. I met you here to show you something that I hope will amuse you.” She took his arm, and wheezing softly at his side—he noticed now—she led him up the stairs leading to the top of the slope.

  “By the way,” he told her, “I went to la Villette this morning, hoping to see you.”

  “Oh, sorry … I felt lazy,” she said in the kittenish tone at which French girls, he had noticed, were so bloody excellent.

  “Never mind. I just wondered … I saw that fellow—you know, the tall fellow you spoke with the other day …”

  She turned towards him showing signs of a nascent smile. “The very handsome one?”

  “To you, perhaps.”

  “He seemed to have caught your eye as well.”

  Thomas hesitated. “I just wondered where you knew him from.”

  “From La Villette. That seems obvious.”

  “And you struck up a friendship there?”

  “Exactly. And, believe me, long and enduring it is.” This time a note of mirth was unmistakable. At least I entertain her, thought Thomas, piqued.

  “You make friends easily, it seems.”

  “And you’re a fine one to complain about it, Mr. Paynes-Grey.” She looked at him in all seriousness this time. “Love is easy, free, and for all. If there’s wisdom in dying, that’s the piece of it I got. Now look over here—” A bit out of breath, she pointed to a strange monument that resembled a megalithic temple, all covered with flowers. “Allan Kardec’s grave. ‘The father of French spiritualism.’ ”

  “Is that what you wanted to show me? Is this what you meant by ‘Life in Death’?”

  “Spiritualism? I wouldn’t call that life.”