New Venice 02 - Luminous Chaos

by Jean-Christophe Valtat

  From what Brentford had told the group, the trunk containing Blankbate’s body had been found near the Pont des Invalides but had been dragged there from another place. Given the position of the moon yesterday, this place—the place of Blankbate’s death, Tuluk told himself grimly—must have been slightly upstream. Turning towards the west, he walked cautiously to the middle of the cracking, frozen river. He took his time, step after step, stopping occasionally to look around, trying to imagine where the moon might appear as it had in the optogram. It was so easy, really, that he almost laughed when he finally found the location.

  The tall, charred ruins of what looked like it had been a palace stood a few hundred yards above the Invalides. Two-story-tall archways—bathed by the moonlight whenever the clouds allowed—had the shape of eyebrows and were overgrown with dead branches and brambles. It had happened here, Tuluk had no doubt. He trudged with regret towards the riverbank and up the ramp that led onto the quay. Hiding behind a dead tree, on the opposite sidewalk, he could see that the overgrown ruins would not be so easy to enter. And the ragged glow of a fire somewhere inside told him that the place wasn’t deserted, either.

  With a final look to make sure no one else was around, he crossed the street swiftly and lifted himself onto the balustrade, getting entangled in ivy and scratched by thorns as he did, but tumbling over nonetheless to crouch beneath an arch. Peering into the inner courtyard, he saw two men watching over the fire—as well as the guillotine standing nearby, curtained in black.

  As silently as he could, he crept around the surrounding arcade to get a better view of the guards. He finally spotted them: two men in thick fur coats and wolf masks sitting next to a brazier near a small makeshift tent, cleaning their guns and from time to time exchanging words that sounded more like grunts.

  Tuluk slowly drew the knife from under his anorak, ate a little snow so that his breath would not betray him, and with his other hand fumbled in the snowy rubble for stones or debris. If they wanted to play animals, they would be dealt with as such.

  Once he felt ready—and even, perhaps, a little excited—he threw a stone under the arcades, not very far from his hiding spot. It rolled and echoed, but the wolves simply pricked up their ears for a moment before going back to their task. Two throws later, however, and after a whispered but heated debate, one of the wolves stood up and, clean gun in hand, walked towards the arcade.

  From Tuluk’s perspective, he appeared in the moonlight with his pointy ears pricking but his eyes askance just as Tuluk wanted them: turned to the emptiness where the columns cast their shadows in oblique stripes on the snow.

  By the time he turned back it was too late: Tuluk had already plunged his knife into his neck where coat and mask met. The blade went in quite easily, and Tuluk could feel the exact moment when life resisted—a big jolt of reluctant meat—and quickly gave up in a gush of warm blood that trickled down his wrists.

  Tuluk caught the man up in his arms as he sagged and dragged him to a spot where he’d be visible to his companion. The sound of the dead man’s falling gun had rung through the arches and the other Wolf-man ran towards it. Tuluk had hidden behind a column, careful to leave no shadow showing. The second wolf, he knew, would have to choose, in a split second, between checking his mate’s pulse and watching his surroundings. This would be the time to attack.

  The second man grew cautious and called his friend’s name: “Pierre? Pierre?” Then he spotted him and made the last mistake of his life when he knelt down to undo the dead man’s mask. In two steps, Tuluk had pushed the knife between the man’s shoulders until he heard the bone cracking. Blood spurted into his face. He pulled out the knife and stood, his hands trembling slightly, thankful for the masks that hid their faces and made it all seem more like a hunt than murder.

  It was the first time that Tuluk had taken human life, and he felt for it what he felt for animals: a sense of shame, less for himself than for a world where death was the price of life. It was the only way that the wolves could be dealt with—or perhaps only the simplest, but where Tuluk came from, the simplest way was always the best. Surely, these men had families, children, friends … But they were also the ones who had killed Blankbate without a second thought. One can only take care of one’s own kin. They had not done this, but Tuluk had.

  And with that, he refocussed: now, he would destroy the thing that had actually killed Blankbate. Tuluk looked up at the dark silhouette that seemed to grow with each approaching step. If he ever needed a reminder of what was wrong with the qallunaat, this disgusting object would be it. So much cleverness lost on bad ideas, so much work wasted on death instead of life. He headed towards the brazier, grabbing up some sticks and twigs on the way and then trying to set them on fire. But they proved too wet from the snow.

  It took him a short while to decide to fetch the Millet. When he got to it, two flâneurs were examining it, but the sight of an Eskimo covered in blood running at full speed towards them quickly dissuaded them from loitering any longer. Tuluk grabbed the bike and pushed it through the deserted streets back to the ruins.

  He lifted the motorcycle over the railings, then, struggling through the snowy rubble, carried it to the dais where the draped guillotine stood. He opened the gas tank of the Millet and poured the petrol on the thick felt covers cloaking the machine. A lit match later, it flared up, first hesitantly, almost timidly … and then with a hot whoosh that lit the courtyard like a lightning flash. Tuluk’s face broke out into a big smile as the air around him became blurry and pungent and golden. He took a few steps back and, warming his hands at the growing inferno, watched the dark instrument of death rising amidst the flames, its lunette like an empty moon eclipsed by drifting fumes.

  To be continued …

  I

  The Telepathophone

  “Come in,” said Brentford, as he realized that the knocking he had just heard in his dream had drifted into reality. He felt slightly disappointed, though, when the dark shape in the doorway turned out to be Tuluk and not Lilian. “Lili” hadn’t come back to the hotel the night before, leaving Brentford to ponder on his own the thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle that was his heart. But she had been in his dream, he remembered now. He was lying in a coffin, paralyzed and mute, and she was knocking in the first nail with a miniature spiked hammer.

  Without a word, Tuluk walked over to the bed Brentford had just vacated and carefully placed something large on the bedspread.

  “For Mr. Blankbate,” Tuluk said.

  “What?” Brentford wondered, still half-asleep and trying to get his bearings in the gloomy room. “Open the curtains, will you?”

  Tuluk did so, thus revealing a day that seemed to have had a bad night: two wolves’ heads were lying on the bed, their fur caked with blood. It took Brentford a moment to realize they were actually masks, and a moment more to understand what they were doing there. Disgust and a grim satisfaction struggled to find a way to share his soul. He opened his mouth to explain that although he appreciated the intention, he had his reservations about the result. But all that came out of his mouth was, “Thank you, Tuluk.”

  Tuluk nodded and walked out of the room, his steps springing with pride.

  “Well,” Brentford said aloud to the heads after a few long moments staring at them. “Maybe it would be better if the maid didn’t find you here.”

  Tuluk went back to his room to join the Colonel, who had been relocated there to make it easier for his batman to take care of him. The Colonel’s maintenance didn’t take very long, but it had to be done with care: filling the syringes with nutrients, oiling the gears, tightening a few nuts and bolts and, in the Colonel’s words, “trimming the old tash.”

  The sessions had also become a time of increasingly open and friendly conversation between them. The Colonel appreciated Tuluk’s single-minded commitment to whatever he was doing, as well as his efficiency and ingenuity in all things technical. And he was glad to speak with someone about the Inuit, a people he had fo
ught against and come to respect deeply. As he was fond of saying, “There’s nothing like going to war against someone to appreciate what they’re really worth.”

  He began this session by asking Tuluk, “Did I tell you what happened that time I got lost in the blizzard, eh?”

  “No, sir,” said Tuluk, fascinated as ever by the workings of the rubber bellows that heaved as the Colonel spoke.

  “It was in the Thirties A.B., I’d say, and one of my last missions. We were doing a routine patrol near Strathcona Fjord when we found ourselves in the middle of the worst bloody blizzard I’ve ever been in. I quickly lost contact with my men, and Victoria, my camel, broke a leg in a crevasse, and I had to shoot her, poor thing. So there I was, lost in the middle of nowhere. I said to myself, ‘Branwell, old sweat, it was a privilege to know you, but I guess this is where we part.’ Since walking would have done nothing but tire me to death, I huddled in my fur blanket like a goddamn croaker, and waited to see who would pass away first, the blizzard or me. I must have fainted, for when I woke up I was lying in an igloo with a bunch of your compatriots watching over me as if I were a baby in a crib. I was covered in blubber and wrapped in blankets and I realized that they had saved my life—those people I had regarded as a bunch of half-wit huskies. I had lost only a few toes—ah, those were the good old days!—and I was feeling rather punk, but they took care of me for weeks on end, and as I spoke a bit of the lingo, it all went on rather well. After that, I retired from service, and I sometimes rode to Strathcona on my own, bringing nails and hammers, you know, the kind of stuff you people are so fond of, and we all had a wonderful time.”

  “Nails and hammers?” Tuluk asked, with a frown.

  “Yes, sir. I befriended the shaman, a nice chap named Siqiniq.”

  “Siqiniq?”

  “Yes, did I mispronounce it? He taught me a trick or two, and let me tell you, Tuluk, he had a sister … Sweet little snowflake, I called her.”

  “Qaniq?” Tuluk said, lifting his head slowly from the gears, his face gone pale.

  The Colonel looked at him, eyes wide in surprise, but before he could react, Tuluk had punched him in the face.

  “Blimey!” the Colonel said, jerking back into place and feeling his left eye bloom with pain. “Are you insane?”

  Tuluk was crying. “You left us! You left us!” he shouted.

  The Colonel understood instantly—Tuluk. That was what the Inuit called Englishmen. A fine name for a métis child, born from a qallunaaq stranger.

  “I never knew …” he stammered. “I was already an old man, and I never thought that … Then I had that little accident, and mmmmmph …”

  Tuluk had now smothered the Colonel in an embrace, saying “Ataata, Ataata”—Father, Father …

  “There, there,” the Colonel said, wishing he had arms to hug him back … and that Tuluk had already changed the saltwater from his tear ducts, for right at that moment, it stung like hell.

  Brentford, washed and dressed and carrying the wolf-masks Tuluk had presented to him bundled up in a sheet, walked quickly through the hotel lobby, hoping to find a dustbin out in the street where he could get rid of them. But before he could reach the door the hotel manager stopped him.

  “Ah, Mr. Orsini,” he said, so embarrassed that he immediately put Brentford ill at ease. “Sorry to disturb you, but it seems there was another problem yesterday. Someone complained that your Eskimo friend, er … shall we say … borrowed a petrol bike, right in front of the hotel.”

  Brentford pressed his eyes closed with his fingers and released a sigh that could have moved curtains. “If he borrowed it, then I’m sure he’ll give it back soon,” he answered, making a mental note to strangle Tuluk at the first opportunity, possibly with the manager’s intestines.

  “Exactly, sir, exactly. This is why the police haven’t been called yet. But if you could make sure that he actually gives it back, it would reassure everyone. By the way, may I help you with those dirty sheets? I’ll have them brought to the laundry.”

  “Well, um, no,” Brentford said, hugging the bundle to his chest as if it were his long-lost baby blanket. “I’d like to keep them with me, if you don’t mind … they just need a little fresh air.”

  The manager looked at him, puzzled, and then caught sight of something that made him turn pale.

  “Is that blood?” he inquired, pointing at the bundled sheets with a trembling finger.

  Before Brentford could find a plausible answer, a rumble made them turn their eyes. It was Gabriel, scrambling down the stairs, brandishing his cane.

  “Ah, Brentford,” he said. “I’ve been searching this dump through and through. I was afraid I’d missed you.”

  Taking hold of Brentford’s arm to lead him off, and without paying any attention to the manager, he announced: “Kiggertarpoq sent me a sign last night. I’ve made telepathic contact with the Polar Kangaroo!”

  “What?” Brentford exclaimed, mindlessly putting the bundle into the gaping manager’s hands.

  “Come on,” Gabriel said, dragging Brentford back to the stairs. “I’ll explain it all.”

  A thud made them turn their eyes. The manager had passed out, dropping the bundle of sheets, out of which the two wolf heads had rolled onto the carpet beside him.

  “What is this mess?” Gabriel asked with disgust.

  “Just that,” Brentford said, hastily pushing the wolf heads under a sofa before the manager could come to. “A mess. So, a sign, you said? What sign?”

  Gabriel stopped on the mezzanine. “Never mind the sign. It was somewhat personal. The point is, communication is possible.”

  Brentford frowned, but then hope flooded his expression. “Can it work both ways?”

  “There’s the rub. I tried and I tried with no luck.” He stared off pensively for a moment. “But there must be a way …”

  Tuluk, his vision still blurred by tears, went to Gabriel’s room, and having knocked to no avail, decided to enter anyway. (There were advantages, after all, to being a “savage.”) He found the Wimshurst influence engine and brought it back to his own room, where he installed it as well as he could beside the Colonel.

  “What are you doing, son?” the Colonel asked, trying to crane his neck, then wondering why he had bothered.

  “I’ll take care of you,” Tuluk answered. “Hold this,” he added, handing one of the rods to the Colonel.

  “And how the dickens am I supposed to hold it, you big oaf?” barked the Colonel. “And they say that intelligence is inherited.”

  But Tuluk was a resourceful fellow, and picking up a spool of butcher’s twine out of the mess that was his room—for a man worthy of the name always has twine at hand—strapped the rod to the Colonel’s head, ignoring his protests.

  “It cures everything. It will be good for your eye.”

  “You’ll blow us to kingdom come, you bloody ice wog!”

  Tuluk paid no attention, and having grounded the machine to the pipes as Brentford had explained, waved the other rod while cranking the influence machine.

  “It won’t hurt you, Ataata.”

  “It’d better not, let me tell you,” the Colonel mumbled, while a few violet sparks began to fill the air. “I may not be able to kick your arse, but I can still bite off your nose.”

  Tuluk brought the rods closer together and kept cranking.

  “Is this doing any good?” he asked, as the Colonel grimaced.

  “As much good as ether on a wooden leg,” he replied. “Where did you get your M.D., son? Off the corpse of Octave Pavy?”

  Tuluk cranked more frantically, his brow sweating with exertion.

  Just at that moment, Brentford swept into the room with Gabriel in tow, after only a perfunctory knock. (There were advantages, after all, to having been the Regent-Doge.) “Can we have a word—” he began. “What the pole is going on here?”

  “Nothing, nothing,” Tuluk panted as he continued to crank. “Just taking care of my father!”

  “Father
?” Brentford and Gabriel looked at each other.

  “That’s what he said!” the Colonel shouted over the whirring.

  Brentford and Gabriel decided they had no time to figure this one out. They’d come to make a much more important announcement.

  “We’ve made contact with New Venice!” Gabriel said, taking a few steps forward, his cane extended towards the Colonel triumphantly.

  But as soon as the cane came close to the Colonel’s rod, a burst of sparks lit the room, and the Colonel’s face abruptly froze and remained fixed, his mouth half-open as if about to say something.

  “What have you done?” Tuluk shouted, his face red with worry and anger.

  Then the Colonel spoke—but in a booming voice that wasn’t his.

  “HELLO? HELLO? MR. ORSINI? Is THAT YOU?”

  Deafeningly loud as it was, Brentford could instantly recognize the unmistakeable voice of W. B. Sson.

  “MR. ORSINI! MR. ORSINI! WHERE ARE YOU?”

  Brentford looked at Gabriel, who looked at Tuluk, who looked at Gabriel, who looked at Brentford, who was now shouting: “It seems we made it!”

  “What?” asked Gabriel.

  “That voice belongs to Woland Brokker Sson! He’s talking to us!”

  “I’VE BEEN LOOKING FOR YOU! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? IS THERE ANYONE THERE?” Sson shouted, making the windows rattle.

  “Speak to him!!” Gabriel advised. “Quickly!”

  Addressing the open-mouthed head of the Colonel, Brentford said, “Mr. Sson? Mr. Sson? Hello? Can you hear us?”

  “IS THAT YOU, MR. ORSINI?”

  “Yes, it’s me! Mr. Sson, I’m mightily pleased to hear you.”

  “So AM I, ORSINI! SO AM I! ARE YOU SAFE?”

  “Mostly, yes!”

  “SPEAK UP!”

  It was not in Brentford’s nature to shout, but it was now or never.

  “We’re safe, yes! But we have a problem!”