The Rift

by Nina Allan

  In the following instant, the crystal clarifies and turns transparent. I draw in my breath, trying to control my startle reflex. Julie Rouane appears completely unsurprised. It’s the heat of your hand, she says. You’re lucky, though. It doesn’t do that for everyone.

  [A note for later: if the crystal does not behave in the same way for everyone who touches it, then there would seem to be some other factor in play and not just ordinary body heat. DNA? Blood type? These are conjectures only.]

  I hold the pendant up to the light. There is something inside it, I see that immediately, embedded in the heart of the crystal like a fly in amber. A spindly-legged insect, with narrow, dart-shaped wings and a tapering body. It is a little like a daddy-long-legs, or crane fly. It appears to be moving, swimming almost, at the centre of its crystal prison. Its movements are repetitive, but captivating. The longer I keep watching the more I become convinced that the insect is caught in a repeat cycle, the same half-dozen movements endlessly repeated, like a living computer gif.

  The creature itself is almost transparent, barely there. When I turn the pendant at a certain angle it disappears.

  It’s a silverwing, Julie says. They’re very common in Fiby. Like mosquitoes. My friend Cally gave it to me. It’s supposed to symbolise eternity.

  I have heard many improbable stories in the course of my work. I would say that a good part of my work is about listening to these improbable stories and trying to decide if there might be any truth in them. I’m not talking about provable facts – it’s more complicated than that. What interests me most, and what helps to bring me closer to discovering answers, is whether the person telling the story believes what they are saying.

  Julie Rouane believes what she is saying. I am as certain of this as I am of the pendant’s extraterrestrial origin. Partly this is because Julie makes no effort to convince me. She talks about the pendant as if it were a carton of milk, something she picked up at the corner shop on her way home from work. She doesn’t seem to care if I believe her or not.

  Do you know what these are called? I ask her. I point at the swarm of silver manikins that encircle the crystal.

  They’re glis, she says, without hesitation. They’re a kind of monkey, or lemur, something like that. In the wild they live in the forests around Julippa but I saw some in the hothouse, in the zoological gardens. It’s too cold for them in Fiby. To live outside, I mean.

  She speaks in the same offhand way as when she was telling me about the silverwing. It is as if she is tired of telling her story, bored with it, almost. She is like a witness in a long-running court case. The facts of the matter are selfevident to her. She doesn’t see why she should go over the whole thing again.

  I ask her to tell me about Cally. How did she come to give you the pendant? I ask. Julie closes her eyes.

  Can you imagine what it’s like, being asked these questions? she says. I feel like a trained monkey. Everyone acts like it’s a big deal when they see a chimpanzee pouring tea from the teapot but really what they want to see is the ape going ape and shitting on the carpet. She laughs softly to herself, then opens her eyes. I’m so tired, she says. My own sister doesn’t believe me, why should you?

  I do understand how you feel, I say. A little, anyway. It is difficult for people to accept ideas they are in no way prepared for. But I have seen an alien artefact. I know such things exist, and if they exist then so too must the civilisations that produced them.

  You still don’t believe me though, she says. Do you?

  I don’t know yet, I reply. But I would like to think I am capable of believing you.

  I know things no one should know, she says, very quietly. She looks away from me and out of the window. Those things – they’re a part of my life now, whether I like it or not. I know Selena would like me to pretend, to go back to how things were before, but I can’t forget. It would be like trying to forget my own name.

  Can you tell me anything more about the pendant? I say. I realise I am still holding it, the peculiar insect ticking back and forth against my palm. The crystal feels much warmer than it did before, and although I realise this is probably just the warmth of my own hand I still feel uneasy. I lay it carefully back inside its cardboard carton.

  Silver is common on Tristane, Julie says. As common as iron is here. It’s not the silver that makes this pendant valuable, but the workmanship. This piece of jewellery was made by Aivon Ramera, who is a senior member of the Guild of Silversmiths in Fiby. Ramera’s work is famous in all the six cities.

  Is it actually made of silver, do you know? Or is it an analogue? An alien metal that looks and feels like silver?

  I have no idea, Julie says. She looks surprised. I thought that was your department.

  I will run all the standard tests for silver, of course, but I am already halfway convinced that the tests will come back negative, or inconclusive. The metal appears like silver when you first examine it, but look more closely and you begin to spot tiny differences. The surface sheen has a fuller glow, the underlying blue colour has a more intense resonance. The perfect outlines of the mouldings suggest that this metal, whatever it is, is denser than silver. Even the purest silver has a certain softness, a blurred quality. But the tiny monkeys – the glis – are sharply defined, as if they have been fashioned from glass.

  I know better than to guess at such things, but I would lay money on the pendant being heavier than it should be. Heavier than the same object rendered in ordinary silver, I mean.

  As for the crystalline substance containing the insect? For the moment I have no idea where I should begin.

  Do you have brothers or sisters? Julie asks me suddenly.

  A younger brother, I reply. His name’s Amir.

  I was never close to my sister Selena, she says. I used to think I was, but I wasn’t, not even when we were kids.

  There was always, I don’t know, a gap. I used to think it was because she was younger than me, but now I understand it was because of Cally. I was still feeling the separation from her, even though I couldn’t remember it. Even though I couldn’t remember her, she was still in my life. I know all teenagers feel alienated, to an extent, but I felt as if part of my memory had been erased. You know, like when you tape some music off the radio and then later you decide to record something else over the top of it. Like with the Top 40. Selena and I used to record songs from the Top 40 every week.

  And Cally is your friend, in the alien city?

  It was Cally who knew where to find me when I got lost, out by Shoe Lake. If it hadn’t been for Cally I would be dead now. Julie is silent for a moment. I saw Cally in Manchester once, on the street outside Allison’s apartment. I mean Allison who was one of my college tutors. We watched a UFO together – Cally and I did, I mean. She looked after me when I was sick, after my father died. I’ve known Cally for as long as I can remember.

  Were you and Cally lovers?

  Julie shakes her head. It wasn’t like that. And anyway, Cally has Noah.

  Noah is Cally’s partner?

  He’s her brother.

  I wait for her to continue, to tell me more, but she says nothing, just stares at me instead, as if she’s waiting for me to do something stupid, like the chimpanzee she was talking about earlier, with its pot of tea.

  6

  The trip to Amsterdam is Vanja’s idea. The hotel’s already booked, it’s been booked for weeks, and there’s a spare plane ticket. It would be a shame to waste it, Vanja says, and she can claim back the money anyway, because it’s a business trip.

  The spare plane ticket belongs to Vasili of course, but when Selena asks why he won’t be going Vanja waves the question away as she so often waves away questions about Vasili.

  He’s busy, she says. Please say you’ll come. It’ll be hilarious. Amsterdam is so beautiful, you have to see it. And I want you to meet Nora. Nora is great.

  It would be good to get away, Selena thinks. Away from Julie? Yes, probably. And it’s just the two nights. Th
eir hotel is in the city centre, one of the gracious old merchants’ houses that flank the canals. This must be very expensive, Selena says to Vanja as they wait to check in. Are you sure I don’t owe you anything?

  Vasili is friends with the manager, Vanja says. We get discount rates. Don’t worry about it. We can go shopping after lunch, she adds, but first we must see Nora. We’ll take a taxi.

  * * *

  Nora is Nora Shah, who Selena likes immediately, even as she feels afraid of her. Nora is tiny but robust, with the compact, wiry physique of a long-distance runner. Her eyes are bright and skittish, like a robin’s. It is impossible to tell how old she is. She has a youngish Dutch assistant, Peder, a po-faced, almost completely silent man with an old-fashioned jeweller’s loupe on a leather thong around his neck. Each time Peder brings in a new tray of samples, Nora leaps off her chrome-legged stool and helps him to settle it securely on the examining table. When Vanja mentions that Nora was born in Kuala Lumpur, Selena’s heart leaps up. She wonders how long it will be before Kuala Lumpur is translatable in her mind as anything but Johnny.

  Before settling in Amsterdam, Nora Shah traded gemstones on the Asian markets for more than twenty years. Some of the older guys didn’t like it, what a surprise, Vanja tells her later, when they are in the café. She rolls her eyes. Nora doesn’t give a shit about those arseholes, or the arseholes here, either. Nora’s a tiger.

  The atmosphere of Nora Shah’s office is curiously calm, more like a laboratory than a valuer’s shop, the same gliding movements, the same ultra-clean surfaces and refined lighting. Nora wears dark trousers with a silk tunic. She looks like a government administrator, or the boss of an oil company. Each time she wants to examine a stone she takes off her glasses, squinting into the crystal as if she’s convinced she’ll find a message there. Selena longs to know more about her life in Kuala Lumpur but she’s too shy to ask. She finds she can easily imagine Nora dressed in a T-shirt and messy combats, shifting and sluicing gem clay with her own bare hands. Nora and Vanja chat and make deadpan jokes together as if they’ve known one another half a lifetime, as Selena supposes they have.

  Somehow, at some point, some kind of deal is concluded and the atmosphere changes again. Coffee is brought in, and amaretto biscuits. Afterwards Peder is dismissed, presumably on his lunch break. Nora asks Selena if she’s ever considered studying for a qualification in gemmology. Selena blushes, says she’s been thinking about it.

  She has a very good eye, Vanja says. I’ve told her over and over she should go back to college. Not that she listens to me. I should fire her for obstinacy.

  From the Latin verb obstinare, to persist, Nora says. She smiles at Selena, a gleaming, diamond-cut smile that is like the clouds opening. Persistence is more valuable than bravery, in my book. It is certainly more useful, in the long run.

  * * *

  Selena finds herself thinking, just for a moment, that the guy who just walked into the restaurant is Vanja’s boyfriend. The man is in his late twenties perhaps, certainly no older, a lanky, loose-limbed individual with long mousy hair in a ponytail and a denim jacket. His eyebrows are darker than his hair, Selena notices. He’s good-looking in a way, the kind of guy you don’t always notice first off, but who sticks in your mind afterwards.

  This is my son, Vanja explains as he approaches their table. Alexei.

  Alex, says the guy. He puts out his hand. Good to meet you.

  Selena shakes his hand and smiles. Good to meet you, too. She feels wide-eyed with surprise. The idea that Vanja has a child is startlingly new to her, although now she’s been told who Alex is, it’s completely obvious. They have the same hands, the same walk, the same smile, even. Alex has a vaguely American way of speaking, the rise and fall of his voice, like a guy in some movie about raising cattle in Arkansas.

  Do you live in Amsterdam? Selena asks. It is the only thing she can think of to say without sounding stupid.

  Alex laughs and says yes, he’s Dutch now. Double Dutch, in fact, he adds, because I have two Dutch children.

  Vanja grins and punches his arm. That makes you double double Dutch, then, she says. They really are very alike, Selena thinks. It is difficult to believe that up until five minutes ago she had no idea that Alex even existed.

  Vanja orders more coffee and a plate of the small round honey cakes that seem to be everywhere in this city and they talk, Alex and Vanja, mostly in English but sometimes slipping over into Russian. Their pleasure in being in each other’s company is obvious, and contagious. Selena feels it washing around her like a wave, like the wake from a ship. She sips coffee and listens. As so often with Vanja there seems to be a subtext to what is being said, a second, deeper level to the conversation she is aware of but can’t quite interpret.

  When Alex gets up to go to the toilet, Vanja puts a hand on her arm and asks her if it will be all right if she doesn’t come back with her to the hotel tonight.

  I’d like to spend some time with my grandkids, and Marieke, she says. Marieke must be Alex’s girlfriend, Selena supposes, girlfriend or wife. I don’t get to see them that often, Vanja is saying. Are you OK by yourself, just for this evening?

  Selena says yes of course, without even thinking about it much, because what else can she say? The change of plan comes as a surprise to her, even as she realises that for Vanja there has been no change of plan, she has intended to spend the evening with Alex all along. Probably that’s why Vanja invited her to come to Amsterdam in the first place, so she could cover for her. There will no doubt be a reason Vanja can only see her son intermittently, some beef with Vasili, presumably, and none of her business.

  I’ll be fine, she repeats.

  You know how to get back to the hotel from here? Vanja asks. Just two stops on the metro and then turn right. She looks embarrassed.

  I know where it is, Selena says, which she does, pretty much anyway, and she has the laminated fold-up map in her bag if she runs into problems. I think I’ll stay here for a bit, though.

  The pancakes here are great, Vanja says. Her face fills up with relief. You get loads for your money, too. Then Alex comes back from the toilet and they are gone. Their departure happens suddenly, in a whirlwind of bags and coats, as if now everything has been decided they can’t wait to get out of there. Once she is sure they are out of sight, Selena drapes her jacket across the back of her seat to keep her place and goes up to the counter to order pancakes. They are Dutch pancakes, each one the size of a whole large dinner plate, with the filling cooked into the batter rather than rolled or folded inside the pancake itself. At the centre of each table there is a heavy brown earthenware pot of glistening syrup, which the Dutch like to eat with their pancakes, Vanja had explained, regardless of whether the filling is sweet or savoury.

  The scent of the syrup, when you get close to it, is like black treacle: not sweet exactly, more spicy, with an undertone of something resinous, most likely tree bark.

  Selena orders a ham and aubergine pancake with extra red onion then returns to her table. The little restaurant is filling up quickly now – students, mostly. The interior of the building is like a light box, replete with orange warmth and the combined aromas of candle wax and pancake batter and very strong coffee. Beyond the windows the streets are filling up, too, awash with bakers and hippies and grandmas, young men in designer shades with their hair slicked back. Selena presses her fingertips to the glass, letting the people spill through her hands like coloured beads as they flow past the windows of the coffee house, moving crowdwise, like a single-celled organism, nosing its way between the buildings and along the canal paths and over the bridges, seeking food, warmth, laughter, information, conversation – the life-giving sustenance it needs to get through this night, and begin another day.

  The ghost in the machine, the beast in the cage, a behemoth of raw energy, an energy that sweeps down through the pavements and storm drains like excess rainwater, crackling in the briny air like free electricity. Selena’s pancakes arrive and she
begins to eat. The texture of the cooked batter is softly luxuriant, the browned edges crisp, almost caramelised, the flavours of meat and vegetables smoky-buttery-peppery and delicious. She tries to imagine making her home here, in this city, blending in with the crowd the way Alex does, in his battered denim jacket and straggly ponytail. She tries to imagine working for Nora Shah, taking the place of her taciturn assistant with the antique loupe, fetching her coffee from the downstairs concession in between appointments, learning her habits and gaining her trust, taking on the attributes of the tiger.

  A Sumatran tiger, Selena thinks, so rare they’re close to extinction and yet they cling on anyway, prowling the forests, hiding their fires. The image shimmers before her like a projection, black-green-gold, like one of the coloured transparencies in Dad’s old hand-held slide viewer, each photo in its own cardboard frame, each a single second’s reminder of a world that has vanished, or of a future that can now never happen.

  The idea that she could claim to belong here is an illusion, as ephemeral and deceptive as one of Dad’s transparencies. Manchester is in her blood, like a build-up of tar or cholesterol. She is not like Nora Shah.

  She finishes the last of her pancake then pays the bill. Outside on the street the air is warmer than it would be in Manchester at this time of year but still chilly enough to make her wish she’d brought a thicker jacket. She walks almost at random, wandering along thoroughfares that seem to her like aisles in a monster cathedral, away from the city centre towards the narrower canals, the murkier backstreets, the scratched and pockmarked doorways swathed in the liquid shadows of approaching night. Lights suspend themselves in the water, bobbing like oil spots. Selena tries to make a mental note of where she is going, counting the bridges, the cobbled courtyards, the gabled houses and concrete apartment blocks, the particular cant and angle of a particular street. It doesn’t much matter where she ends up, she reminds herself. So long as she can locate a metro station she can find her way back to the hotel from anywhere in the city.