Euridyce's Lament

by Brian Stableford

  A few moments later, as Dellacrusca went to join his sons, it was Mariette’s turn to take me aside. Oddly enough, she said exactly the same thing, to begin with. “How did you do that, Master Rathenius? It really felt as if the hand you were holding turned to ice—and those sounds! What kind of device did you use?”

  “I didn’t,” I told her. “It wasn’t me.”

  “It wasn’t Vashti Savage.”

  “No,” I agreed, but I couldn’t bring myself to make the same suggestion to her that I’d made to Dellacrusca.

  She looked to her right and left, as if to make sure that no one was eavesdropping. I thought she might be about to confess to her own involvement in some kind of ingenious hoax, but instead she said: “What did you mean, this morning, when you said that there’s no such thing as a whore?”

  I suspected that she had overheard Dellacrusca’s remark, or my reply.

  “There are circumstances,” I said, “in which women are forced to traffic the favors of their body in order to feed themselves and their loved ones, for want of practicable alternatives. What they do is a momentary product of those circumstances; when it is over, it is over. It does not mark them, or transform them, in any permanent fashion. The term whore is an empty item of vulgar abuse. It has no substantive meaning.”

  She nodded her head and said, “I see,” as if she did. Then she added: “If it wasn’t you, then it really was Eurydice?”

  “I believe it was,” I said, almost half-sincerely.

  “And did you manage to infer what it is that she wants?”

  “No,” I said, apologetically.

  “Don’t worry,” said Hecate, who had come up behind me without my having the slightest awareness of her presence, having completely lost my earlier hypersensitivity. “I did.”

  “What is it?” I said, helplessly.

  “You’ll find out,” she promised. “I know, now, how to write it.”

  “The poem?”

  “No,” she replied, almost as if it were a stupid conjecture. “The language of sighs.”

  It was Niklaus Hylne’s turn to be absurd next. He, at least didn’t accuse me of having been the non-existent trickster. “Vashti is quite the conjuror,” he said. “She must have had an accomplice, of course. Aethne de Mesmay, obviously… or her husband. It was one of these supposedly-secret communication devices that diplomats and the secret police use. There must have been people on the island, you know, who knew three days ago that Hekla had erupted—Dellacrusca, to name but one, if he’d arrived by then—but they laughed in their sleeves and let us wonder. The locals are still convinced that it’s the Devil, you know.”

  “Perhaps it is,” I said. “Personally, I think it’s Hades, annoyed that we’re trying to poke around in his Underworld. Have you made any headway with that cryptogram I gave you?”

  “I’m afraid not,” he said apologetically. “Are you sure it’s not a fake?”

  “To be honest,” I admitted, “I’m virtually certain that it is a fake—but I’m not sure what it is that’s being faked, or how good a fake it is”

  “Just like the séance, then,” he observed.

  I didn’t know whether to agree with him or not. Was it possible that such a thing could be faked? Probably. But even if it could have been, who could have done it? Mariette? Certainly not. Mesmay? I couldn’t believe it. By the mysterious thirteenth presence in the room? If so, then some fakers of the supernatural are supernatural themselves.

  No, it had to have been an effort of the unconscious mind, and probably more than one, operating in collaboration. In which case, it had indeed been Eurydice, trying to surface from the mists of myth, still inarticulate, still unable to make her meaning clear... except, apparently, to Hecate Rain

  Dellacrusca came over to me again, flanked by his two boys, before leaving. “A suitable appetizer for the day after tomorrow,” he said. “Was it your idea to have Elise accompany Hecate Rain in the recital?”

  “No,” I said, “it was Elise’s. She was quite insistent, and certainly knows how to get what she wants. It must be in her blood.”

  If he had been sure that I was being serious, he would probably have swollen with pride. “Parenot and the whore know?” he queried, although he wasn’t in doubt.

  “Parenot and Mariette are fully informed,” I told him.

  “And they’re not going to make any difficulties?”

  “They’ll do what’s best for Elise,” I said. “They only want what’s best for her.”

  “She’ll have every advantage,” Dellacrusca promised. “Every advantage. Given time and the opportunity, I might even make her Empress.”

  “Perhaps she’ll commission me to paint her portrait,” I said, in a perfectly level tone.

  “You artists,” he said, “have such small ambitions.”

  “I fear so,” I said. “We come, and we see, but we do not conquer.” Unlike those, I carefully did not add, who come to conquer, but cannot see.

  XV. The Head of Orpheus

  For the next two days I worked as long and often as I could on the triptych—not on the second panel, which I left unfinished, but on the third. I was wholly absorbed for the first day, but on the second—the day of the scheduled reception—I was too wound up, longing to be interrupted. I honestly thought that Sister Ursule might turn up, if not to tell me that she had discovered more about the mysterious script, at least to tell me more about her research into the origins of the Orphic cult. Nor did Dellacrusca come to bring news of the copy that I had given to Tommaso to take to the Capital, and which presumably had gone to the Capital, perhaps even to the address I had given to Tommaso, where the finest scholars in the province were probably working on the mystery, as fruitlessly as Niklaus Hylne. I might even have been grateful to see Mesmay, but he was presumably busy with preparations for his entertainment. The only person who came was Myrica Mavor, presumably because she felt at something of a loose end.

  “An agent who interrupts her best client at his work,” I told her, is doing herself an injury as well as him.

  She inspected the severed head.

  “Well, it looks suitably dead,” she said. “What’s that in his eyes?”

  “The reflection of his final thought: his image of Eurydice.” I told her.

  “No one is going to be able to work that out,” she said. “To anyone who doesn’t know, they’re just gray smudges.”

  “The images are necessary blurred,” I told her, “Firstly because death is slowly eroding and effacing them, and secondly, because Orpheus never really saw Eurydice clearly. He fitted her to his hypothetical ideal rather than seeing her as herself.”

  “It’s always the way,” she said. “We women can never measure up to our lovers’ expectations. Men are so arrogant—especially artists.”

  “An agent who insults her best client in his professional pride,” I told her, “is not doing herself any favors either. And I assure you that you have always measured up to my expectations.”

  “That’s because you’ve never loved me,” she said. “You’ve never painted my portrait either—which would probably be the worse insult of the two, if I were sensitive to such things.”

  I didn’t take my eyes off the head of Orpheus in order to study her features. I’d done that long ago. I’d seen her, not quite in the depth that I’d have required and achieved if I’d painted her, but clearly enough.

  “One day,” I told her, “I will paint you, when the time is right.”

  “For you or for me?”

  “If the time is right for me, it will be right for you.”

  “And will you try to seduce me then?”

  “I couldn’t give you what you want or need, Myrica. There was a time when I didn’t care about that, and there are times, even nowadays, when passion simply gets the better of me—but mostly, I only make love to women who want or need me to do it. It’s more satisfying that way. I’ve known you for a long time. We’re past the stage when infatuation could carr
y either of us away, and we haven’t yet been afflicted by any kind of mutual need or desire.”

  “We’re as comfortable with one another as a pair of old slippers,” she said, looking down at my feet, without so much as a rueful sigh. “There was a time when I was tempted… but I was stern with myself, forcing myself to keep it strictly business. And I did the right thing, didn’t I?”

  “Yes,” I told her. “So did I. It’s good to know, isn’t it, that we’re both capable of that kind of self-control and sanity?”

  “Yes,” she agreed, not wholeheartedly. “Sometimes, though, I wonder whether I’ve missed out by always keeping passion in check, always keeping it within measure.”

  “You’ve had your moments.”

  “Not as many as you. But then, I’m not an artist. I just sell other people’s pictures.”

  I didn’t bother trying to persuade her, for the sake of polite flattery, that there was an art in that too. I wasn’t in the mood.

  “Have you seen Hecate?” she asked.

  “No, but she’s only a little more than a stone’s throw away, ensconced with Elise, preparing for their duet.”

  “It’s not a duet. Hecate sent me to the Convent yesterday to negotiate a contract with Sister Ursule for the services of eight of her best marine trumpeters.”

  “They’ll merely provide a chorus,” I told her. “The true performers will be Hecate and Elise...and Hecate, figuratively speaking, will be playing second fiddle.”

  “How on earth did you persuade her to accept that?”

  “I didn’t. Elise did—it’s hard to say no to the child, especially when you know what’s hanging over her.”

  “Does she know yet?”

  “She didn’t when she demanded to accompany Hecate, but she does now. Charles and Mariette have had the talk with her. I imagine it must have been harrowing for both of them, but Elise apparently took it well enough—otherwise, she wouldn’t be rehearsing with Hecate…although that’s probably the best way for her to keep calm, and think things through sanely…if she can do that. She’s only twelve, after all.”

  “I really owe that child a huge debt,” said Myrica, thoughtfully.

  “Why?”

  “Dellacrusca has just commissioned Charles Parenot to paint a portrait of her playing the viola da gamba, and he’s commissioned another picture from him, using Mariette as a model. It’s a huge fee, and the news will send his reputation sky-high. So technically, you’re no longer my best client.”

  “You can feel free to interrupt and insult me, then,” I remarked, with a contrived sigh.

  “You aren’t suffering any interruption,” she pointed out. “You’re applying paint with a rare dash, almost as if you wanted it finished by tonight.

  “No, it won’t be finished tonight. There’s still something I haven’t quite grasped, and I can’t finish it to my own satisfaction until I do.

  “The high fee attached to the commissions is a kind of bribe, obviously,” Myrica added, after a pause.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “In fact, you already knew.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you didn’t tell me.”

  “You’re the one who owes me a secret, remember. I paid my debt.”

  “Yes, but this affects business.”

  “Positively, it seems.”

  “Did you actually persuade Parenot to take the bribe?”

  “No. I might have pointed out to him in passing that it’s far better to preserve and protect any and all means to keeping in contact with Elise than to abandon her. They can’t go against Dellacrusca, so they have to pay court to him, no matter how much it hurts, and no matter how humiliating it is. They can see that. Your help will be valuable to them, though.”

  “But Dellacrusca isn’t going to harm the girl, is he?”

  “Define harm.”

  “She’ll have every advantage.”

  “Did Dellacrusca say that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then, it must be true, mustn’t it?”

  “This is all my fault, isn’t it? If I hadn’t pushed Dellacrusca so hard, practically begging him on my knees to visit Charles studio, he’d never have known.”

  “Once the viola da gamba was brought out of its wrapping and out of Parenot’s loft, it was probably just a matter of time. Dellacrusca must have had men on the lookout for it all over the Empire.

  “Do you think he’ll still be able to paint to the same standard?”

  I didn’t suspect her of being as mercenary as that question might have sounded to an inexpert ear. “What does it matter, once his reputation’s sky high?” I said. “Reputation is everything, in terms of bankability.”

  “It matters,” she said. “There are other criteria than bankability, even for an agent.”

  “I know,” I said, to reassure her. “What role is Mariette going to take, for the second picture that Dellacrusca is commissioning?”

  “Persephone.”

  “And I thought he didn’t have a sense of humor. Tell him that if he cares to commission a portrait from me instead, I’ll paint her as herself, and it will be a work of genius.”

  “Do you still want to paint Elise too?”

  “More than ever. You needn’t worry about selling that idea to him, though. If she wants it, she’ll take care of it herself—and you’ll still get your twenty per cent.”

  “I don’t think I can get him to commission a Mariette by you. He doesn’t like you—or Mariette, for that matter, although he’s being exceedingly careful not to upset Elise... for now.”

  “He hasn’t really had the chance, yet,” I pointed out. “The real test, for him, begins tonight.”

  “He’ll take her away after the concert?”

  “That was always the plan.”

  “I don’t really want to be there to see it, but I don’t have a choice, any more than you do. Are you going to bring Charles and Mariette back in your carriage afterwards?”

  “That’s the arrangement we’ve made. You can come too, if you like. You’re his agent, after all… although Mariette is the only one who can hold him together… if she even wants to. I’ve been appointed by the Devil himself to work magic, in order to make sure that everyone comes out of it smiling with delight, but I can’t really do magic, so all I have going for me is hope…and to be perfectly honest, I don’t know what to hope for, or even what the possibilities are. My head tells me that Elise isn’t really Charles’ child, and that he still has Mariette, and still has the rest of his life in front of him, and that this surely isn’t one of those wounds that even time can’t heal… but I don’t know. And there’s still a possibility that if things go awry for Dellacrusca, or even if things don’t quite measure up to his expectations, Charles and I will both be in his sights, similarly marked as scapegoats.”

  “You can’t think he’d have you killed! You’ve done what he asked!”

  “No, I can’t think that he’d be so vulgar—but his annoyance might be manifest in subtler ways. I hear that America is becoming more civilized, though, since the Iroquois Federation negotiated the latest trade agreement with the Empire. Perhaps I’ll emigrate.”

  “It won’t come to that. You have a good many years on Mnemosyne left to you yet.”

  She didn’t sound wholly convinced. The possibility of things going awry, and turning sour for her two best clients, just when they seemed to be going so well, would be a chilling one for any agent, let alone one whose heart wasn’t made of stone.

  “Is there anything else I can do to help things go smoothly?” she said. Again, it wasn’t as mercenary as it might have sounded to an untutored ear. “Apart from coming back with you and Charles after the concert—which, of course, I will.”

  “Ask the Sisters of Shalimar to pray for us,” I suggested. I couldn’t think of anyone else whose prayers stood any chance of success with any of the miscellaneous gods worshiped on the island. I wasn’t even sure that Sister Ursule could make herself heard.
Gods are not reputed to have any great love of true scholars.

  “I wish the weather wasn’t so foul,” Myrica said, evidently feeling in need of a change of subject. “It’s still October, and we haven’t had a glimpse of the sun for five days. It’s so cold! You’d think that a pillar of fire would warm things up.”

  “I’m sure it did, locally, but all the smoke and ash the volcano pumped out will blot out the sun’s life-giving light for a while yet. The winter will be probably be harsh. It will only be temporary, though. Spring will come eventually—and Hekla, regular in her habits, won’t be scheduled for another eruption for a hundred years or more.”

  “You remember the last one, then?” she said, with calculated light irony, but probing yet again.

  I didn’t answer.

  “Do you think that whatever happened at the séance is going to happen again tonight?” she asked, after a pause.

  “That depends on Hecate and Elise,” I said, “and the Sisters’ chorus of marine trumpets. But I think there’s every chance that it will be even better. I hope so.”

  “It wasn’t trickery, was it? It really was something… weird.”

  “I really don’t know what it was,” I said. “Art, of course—primitive, but effective—but as to its meaning… Hecate seemed to think that she’d grasped something, but if she did, she’s way ahead of me. I’m still at a loss, just like everyone else who didn’t sleep through it. Some of them are still in conscientious denial, but not one of them really thinks that it was a trick worked with wireless telegraphy. Even Dellacrusca expects something more to happen tonight, but he doesn’t know what, any more than I do. He’s the head of the Cult of Orpheus, but he has no idea what the mysteries of his own cult really contain and imply.”

  “Your head of Orpheus looks a bit like Dellacrusca now you’ve fleshed out the sketch,” Myrica commented. “That’s deliberate, I suppose. Mesmay might not approve.”

  “Dellacrusca is the head of the cult, not the head of Orpheus,” I told her. “There’s all the difference in the world. Orpheus is a symbol of music, of charm, of art. Dellacrusca is only a symbol of the lust for power and possession.”