Matryoshka

by Ricardo Pinto

  The valet shrugs. ‘Different times, sir.’

  Cherenkov smiles ruefully.

  He is half dressed, when there is a rap on the door. Before either can react, Octavio enters. ‘I’m to be hidden like some shameful secret!’ Grief on the boy’s face seems to age him.

  ‘People here believe you died more than forty years ago.’

  The valet gives a slight nod.

  ‘Your sudden reappearance would take quite a lot of explaining, don’t you think?’

  The boy glares at the floor.

  ‘Besides, you’re leaving with me tomorrow… after the funeral.’

  Still no reaction. He notices the valet cranes forward to listen.

  ‘What’s the point of causing a fuss merely so you can attend this ball as yourself; though I can’t see that need stop you being there.’

  Octavio shakes his head. ‘I don’t want to go in disguise!’

  ‘So you’re not actually interested in the ball.’

  Octavio frowns, chews his lip, seems to be trying to bore a hole in the floor with his toe.

  ‘You don’t really want to wreck Septima’s big day, do you?’

  Octavio shakes his head.

  ‘I’d gladly have you go in my place!’

  Octavio grins. ‘It is bound to be dreary, isn’t it? All that polite chit chat; the bowing,’ he flourishes his hand, bends, and sweeps his arm round before him, ‘the dancing,’ he steps in a circle with exaggerated grace, his chin in the air. ‘In truth, Cherenkov, I feel only pity for you!’

  Both laugh.

  ‘Well, I’m off to spend the day ‘surfing the web’.’ And with that, he leaves.

  The valet helps Cherenkov into the jacket of the suit. ‘May I ask, sir, what is it that the Lord Octavio plans to do with spiders?’

  Cherenkov shrugs: the statement probably has something to do with the computer; Octavio and it have become inseparable.

  ❖

  ‘I don’t know if I have the strength to rule alone,’ Septima says, as she slides her hands down the satin of her evening dress. Its sequin-crusted embroidery flashes as she moves.

  ‘I am going home.’

  Her eyes flash. ‘What home do you think you have left?’

  He glares at her.

  Her eyes lens with tears. ‘I’m sorry.’ She dabs at her eyes, and curses softly. He offers her a handkerchief and she uses that instead. ‘Has the mascara run?’

  He takes the handkerchief from her and wipes a tiny smudge from under her eye. ‘No, it’s fine; you’re fine, and beautiful.’

  She smiles at him. ‘If only I had the strength I once had: I was confident; invincible.’

  ‘You know that’s not true.’

  Anger flits across her face. She regains her smile. ‘You’re right.’

  He takes her hands in his, looks into her eyes and kisses her cheek. ‘You’re strong enough.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Are you ready?’

  She adjusts the black mourning band he wears upon his arm. He offers her his arm and they advance towards the gilded doors. Footmen in sombre frock coats and white wigs open them, and bow.

  ❖

  The doors part and reveal a room all white and gold, from whose high ceiling hang chandeliers, like monstrous thistledown, that shower down mellow rays upon a glimmering multitude. The whole assemblage sinks and bows.

  Cherenkov freezes as he takes in their numbers; the bewildering colours of their silks; the furious glitter of their jewels. He looks at the chequered floor.

  Septima leads him in. He matches her stately pace along the aisle left open by the courtiers. Each step brings them into a region in which new perfumes hold sway.

  At last they reach the foot of a dais that bears two thrones. A pair of more modest chairs stands upon a less elevated step. Septima nudges him towards one, and ascends to the other. Once both are seated, an usher strikes his staff upon the floor and the bewigged heads come up, and Cherenkov and Septima become the focus of a thousand eyes.

  ❖

  A trumpet sounds and the doors across the ballroom open again. Once more the multitude subsides; their obeisance now orientated towards the couple who stand in the doorway. The Tribune dazzles in a gown that seems spun entirely from gold. Chandelier rays ignite the diamonds at her throat and that sparkle in her high coiffure. At her side, in a matching frockcoat, is Consort Heinrich.

  The two golden figures cross the chessboard floor,and the bowed heads of their courtiers are drawn to them as lilies follow the sun.

  As they near the dais, Cherenkov narrows his eyes against the glare of their costumes. They ascend the steps, pass him, and seat themselves upon the thrones.

  Again the usher cracks his staff upon the marble; again the courtiers rise with a rustle.

  The usher cries out: ‘Let the dances commence that shall seal the closing of this epoch.’

  ❖

  Consort Heinrich leans towards Cherenkov and says above the stately music: ‘These are the long families: those noble founders of this city and state who have come to pay us homage and to witness the new age that Septima inaugurates with her return.’

  Cherenkov gazes at the snaking lines the courtiers interweave across the floor.

  ‘A minuet,’ says Heinrich. ‘A dance from my time; alas that such elegance has passed away.’

  Dancers turn, sway in convoluting symmetries, arms rounded, stately, heads poised, feet dart, jewelled buckles flash, the gowns of the ladies inflate and deflate.

  ❖

  A slow dance is followed by a livelier one in which the sinuous tendrils of dancers tighten and unwind more quickly. In the intervals between dances, the symmetries dissolve into a fluttering of fans and chatter.

  ❖

  The music stops, partners bow to each other, but this time the usher strides into their midst and strikes his staff in the centre of the floor. In ranks the courtiers turn to face the thrones. Cherenkov draws back as if from the pressure of their gaze. He licks his lips.

  He frowns as he watches the musicians scurry away behind the jewelled throng, holding aloft the spiralled necks, the brass curls, the silver-keyed tubes of their instruments.

  Sexta rises to her feet and her subjects bow again.

  ‘My daughter and Heir Apparent, the Lady Septima Tribunaria, has now returned from her eight years travelling the two worlds and has brought back with her the Consort-in-Waiting, the Lord Cherenkov. Now they shall dance before you as sign and revelation of a new epoch; as prefiguration of the reign to come.’

  Cherenkov closes his eyes, draws in a long breath, rises and opens his eyes. The courtiers clear a stretch of floor. Septima gives him a tiny smile, and they descend to the dance floor hand in hand.

  ❖

  Sudden light floods down as if the roof has been torn off to expose the ballroom to the sky. With gasps the courtiers crick their necks, arms half-shielding their eyes, they search for the source of such blinding illumination. As startled, Cherenkov and Septima squint up at the cornice all lit up with electric lights.

  There is no time to think before music blares. He and Septima know the song, but everything about it is a cause of consternation to the people round them. A voice begins rumbling out: We Have All The Time In The World, against a big band sound. Cherenkov’s hands find Septima’s, their bodies find the beat and, to the staring amazement of the Eboreans, they begin to dance a foxtrot.

  Eight

  They stand around a grave opened in the flagstone floor. A mitred bishop drones in Latin. Cherenkov is surprised by how much this funeral resembles others he has attended. His gaze climbs the columns to their foliaged capitals, to the arches that leap from them, up to a dome where a mournful Christ floats in a sky of gold mosaic and makes a sign of peace; Cherenkov is reminded of the Russian church he used to attend with his grandmother.

  The grave, lined with marble, holds the gilded coffin that contains the Lord Anzolo. The family are pale with grief; Consort Heinrich frow
ns.

  On the wall a relief depicts the facade of a large house. The snowy marble is pocked repeatedly with groups of five dots, as on dice. Carved in low-relief is a coffin within an arch, a shrouded body lies upon it, and a procession passes before it. Other figures in long gowns stand in niches on either side. At the base two cherubs in flight support an inscription that begins with the words: “Qvinta Tribvnaria”.

  Octavio gazes at this through tears. When Cherenkov looks at him, the boy motions with his eyes in the direction of the church door. Cherenkov nods. The boy ignores the frowns from Septima and her mother, crosses himself, bows to the tomb, flicks some tears into the grave, and retreats back to the nave and Cherenkov follows.

  ‘I could bear it no longer,’ says Octavio, under his breath.

  Cherenkov pats his shoulder.

  The boy pauses to kneel before a stone woman laid out on a stone couch her hands pressed together on her chest.

  Octavio crosses himself again and rises. ‘My grandmother.’

  Cherenkov dips his head, and they leave the church

  ❖

  They emerge into the blue twilight of the marshland, and soon reach the boardwalk that runs between the bronze door and the jetty. Eboreus is a mere twinkle on the somnolent waves.

  Octavio looks to the bronze door. ‘It looks very close.’

  ‘Are you still determined to leave with me?’

  The boy looks up at him. ‘What is there left for me here?’

  ❖

  Heinrich beckons Cherenkov away from the bronze door. ‘Are you sure, son, that you won’t change your mind? I’ve had a good life here; a wonderful life really.’

  ‘I’ve made up my mind.’

  Cherenkov returns to the door where Septima takes her leave of him. She winces as he embraces her and he stands back and regards her with a frown. Her eyes glare at him from pits of smeared mascara. The frown only leaves his face when she crouches to hug Octavio. The boy freezes until she releases him. She rises stiffly, using the boy as support.

  The Tribune is by her litter, her face a mask. Cherenkov nods to her, and she regards him with wintry eyes.

  Her face softens when she turns to Octavio. ‘Stay with us, brother.’

  The boy shakes his head. ‘I need to catch up with your years, Sexta.’

  ‘Cherenkov, we trust you will at least do as you have promised.’

  He nods. ‘I’ll take care of him.’

  ‘You will need to buy new garments as soon as possible.’

  Cherenkov looks down at his silk britches and frockcoat. It has been decided that it will be better to turn up in the twenty first century in what will be taken for fancy dress, than it would be to try and attempt a costume of the time; Cherenkov has been assured this is a complicated one.

  Octavio is dressed in much the same style, except that he has insisted on wearing Cherenkov’s old raincoat over his frockcoat.

  Sexta offers Cherenkov something: ‘This will provide you with as much money as you will need.’

  He takes the object and turns it to catch the glow from a nearby mere: it is something like a calling card, but thicker; strangely patterned; with writing that is ridged to the touch.

  ‘Four eights will make it work,’ she says.

  He shrugs and frowns. A guard opens the bronze door and Octavio steps through first. When Cherenkov follows him, he notices the white cable that snakes across the floor. He takes a seat where he Septima had sat, and slides his fingers along the underside of the seat until he finds the levers.

  ‘I have them!’

  The guard nods. The door clunks closed, and its locking bars engage. Cherenkov and Octavio look at each other.

  ❖

  As they wait, Cherenkov sinks his head. He glances at Octavio: the boy gnaws at a knuckle.

  ❖

  The bronze chamber gongs as the outer door opens. A woman fills the doorway. Cherenkov squints at her.

  ‘What’s the matter, Cherenkov?’

  Cherenkov looks at the boy. He releases the levers with a sigh of relief, rises and smiles. ‘Nothing, Octavio.’

  The boy rises too, and Cherenkov puts an arm around his shoulders. The woman in the door stands aside, and watches them with her black eyes.

  Out in the curving corridor, Cherenkov and the boy look first one way and then the other. With a dull thud and boom, the door closes behind them. Cherenkov watches the old woman lock the door and slip the key into her pocket.

  ‘Do you remember me?’ he says.

  She shakes her head and indicates the direction they are to walk.

  ❖

  The old woman unlocks a door in the outer wall of the curving corridor. She pulls aside a curtain and ushers them into a shadowy storeroom. Leaves brush his face, and Cherenkov feels a shock of remembrance. He looks around the courtyard they come into, dazzling bright after the gloom. The stair he remembers is there and climbs to the same marble balustrade. They enter a corridor and that brings them to a sombre room.

  When they come into the shop with its dusty shelves loaded with ivory caskets, he pauses, leans on a counter.

  Octavio touches Cherenkov’s hand. ‘Are you all right?’

  Cherenkov looks disturbed: ‘It all looks the same.’ He peers through the window at the street and laughs. ‘It all looks the same!’

  ❖

  They stand in the street, Cherenkov smiles, hums to himself. Octavio looks up at him in pained confusion.

  ‘Everything’s fine. Come on!’ He pulls the boy after him. ‘I think it’s this way, but if it isn’t, we’ll just wander about; we’re bound to come to somewhere eventually.’

  ❖

  As they amble over bridges, along alleyways, by the edges of canals, Octavio gazes wide-eyed at the play of light upon the water. ‘I don’t understand… those reflections…’

  Cherenkov points up and watches the boy’s mouth gape as he stares at the luminous blue sky.

  They saunter on, and Cherenkov smiles; he enjoys Octavio’s wonder as he looks at the bright walls, the scatter of windows, of balconies, the varying roof lines with their peculiar swollen chimney pots. The boy tries to look past the buildings.

  ‘What’re you searching for, Octavio?’

  The boy points at the angled shadows, and resumes his search beyond the buildings. ‘Something bright up there plays hide and seek with us.’

  When they emerge into a square, Octavio falls to his knees and stares up, mouth hanging open.

  Cherenkov claps his hand over the boy’s eyes. ‘You mustn’t stare directly at the sun!’

  The boy pulls Cherenkov’s hand down: ‘A burning disc pinned to the sky!’

  ‘It’s much brighter than the light you’re used to; if you must look at it, just take short glances.’

  Octavio does as he is told, shields his eyes with his hands, peers through his fingers. ‘What did you call it?’

  The boy glances up at Cherenkov and sees he is frozen, pale-faced, sweaty; his eyes flick side to side as he watches the throng. Octavio frowns as he sees people of every shape and size: some very dark; many seemed inflated almost to bursting.

  ‘So much bare skin…’ He rises and tugs on Cherenkov’s frockcoat. ‘Are they all sailors?’

  Cherenkov turns his frown on the boy who points. ‘Even the women have tattoos. Look at their hair! And how do they see through those strange black eyeglasses.’ The boy’s eyes widen further. ‘Look at the metal in their faces!’ Needles and rings pierce lips and noses and even eyebrows.

  A group looms towards them, one of whom says something. Octavio tugs on Cherenkov’s coat again. ‘What did she say?’

  Cherenkov fixes him with wild eyes. ‘She asked if we are guides.’

  He turns back to the oriental girl who has spoken to them. She is all smiles, and has a wide-brimmed hat and a huge camera that bounces on her pink blouse.

  ‘How old are you?’ says Cherenkov in the language they had used: English.

  Perhaps it is the way
Cherenkov stares at her that makes her smile fade. She frowns at him, and pulls her friends away into the crowd.

  ❖

  Cherenkov looks at Octavio. ‘Did you see them?’

  When he returns to staring at the ground, the boy sneaks a wary look at him. ‘They were just people.’

  They are up an alley, sitting on a step in a doorway. Octavio glances to where figures cross and recross the alley mouth.

  Cherenkov hangs his head. ‘People? Certainly not like the people I know… knew… This isn’t my world!’

  ‘Even less is it mine.’ Octavio’s upper lip quivers.

  Cherenkov pulls him close and drapes his arm over him.

  The boy presses against him. ‘It’s all a bit strange, but it’s bound to be, isn’t it?’

  ‘We need to get somewhere safe.’

  ‘Shall we return to the old woman’s house?’

  Cherenkov frowns and shakes his head. ‘We need to find a hotel. But a hotel costs money.’

  ‘The card.’

  Cherenkov looks down blankly.

  ‘In your pocket. My sister gave it to you.’

  Octavio rummages in Cherenkov’s pocket, fetches out the card, and peers at it. ‘How does it work?’

  ‘No idea.’ Cherenkov rises. ‘Come on, let’s go find ourselves a hotel.’

  ❖

  Cherenkov sits upon the bed and gazes at the tatty furniture, the ugly prints, and the garishly-patterned curtain rigged into swags with twisted cords. The bed is solid and smells clean, and they have the unbelievable luxury of a bathroom of their own.

  He turns the card in his hand: it’s made of something similar to glossy paper, but much stronger. It seems to have gold on it, but, since the receptionist downstairs hadn’t scraped any off, that explains nothing. She had shoved it into a small box and handed that to him. The box had a small window – like the computer – and tiny buttons. She had asked for: ‘his number, please’. It was Octavio who had whispered it to him: eight, eight, eight, eight. Cherenkov had keyed in the numbers, and the words and numbers on the window had changed and the woman had taken the box back. She gave them back the card with a smile, and with it a piece of paper that the box pushed out. She also gave him another card that she had told them was the key to the room. As they had ridden the elevator up to their floor, Octavio had whispered: ‘It seems that here everything’s done with these cards.’