The Malacia Tapestry

Now her regal mouth cried of damnation. She was dressed still in deshabillé, with flimsy slippers on her feet and her golden hair trailing about her neck, knotted carelessly with a white ribbon. Good and ample though her figure was, it held something of the stockiness of the generations of Malacian peasants from which she had sprung (at least according to one account of her origins). Yet it also radiated majesty as she ranted to a dying lover on a battlefield long ago.

‘“Oh, I will be revenged for your lost life, Padraic, never fear! Far worse than enemies, friends it was who brought your downfall. This is not war but treachery, and I will root it out – for am I not come of a great line of warriors, of generals, admirals, high-mettled princes? My remotest forebears lived in the old stone towns of Sasqui-Halaa, and from them rode out to vanquish those half-human armies of Shain and Thraist, a million years ago –”’

‘No, my thrush. “A million years ago …”’

‘That’s what I said, “A million years ago, from out –”’

‘No, no my dear, confound it, listen “a mill-i-ion years ago …”, or else you break the rhythm.’ He offered her some yellow teeth which achieved at one glint both of wolfishness and supplication.

‘“A million years ago, from out the tepid prehistoric jungles swarming. So shall the armies of my hate –”’

She noticed me by the curtain and became La Singla again. The transformation was sudden. Her face broadened as she smiled in sheer good nature. Maria, La Singla, was about my age. She had good teeth, good eyes, and a good brow; but it was her good nature I most loved. Kemperer, furious at the interruption, snarled at me.

‘How dare you sneak into a gentleman’s house, you puppy, without being announced? Why is my privacy always invaded by rogues, relations, and renegade mummers? I’ve but to call one of my men –’

‘Darling Pozzi-wozzy,’ remonstrated La Singla.

‘Hold your tongue, you minx, or you’ll get a cudgelling too!’ Such abrupt turns of mood caused us to fear him and ape him behind his back.

‘How could I not be drawn in at the sound of that divine tragedy of Padraic and Heda?’ I asked, assuming the role of diplomat.

‘There’s no work for you today, as you well know. You flounce in here –’

‘I don’t flounce. You mistake me for Gersaint.’

‘You sneak in here –’

‘Maestro, allow me to hear more of the Padraic tragedy. I never weary of it.’

‘I weary of you. My little thrush Maria is to give a recitation before the joust at the Festival of the Buglewing, that’s all. I merely coax her, coax her, coax, as fox coaxes fowl, to smooth the ragged edges of her diction.’

‘I’d never dare to make an appearance without your coaxing, my good spouse,’ piped the fox’s wife, coming so near the fox that she could peep over his dandruffy shoulder at me.

Mollified, he tickled her chin.

‘Well, well, well, I must powder my wig and get down to the jousting field to see that our box is properly constructed. Do it yourself or it’ll never get done … Attention to detail, the mark of a man of genius … True artist never spurns the practical … Reality the common clay of fantasy … “A million years ago, from the tepid prehistoric jungles swarming …” A bold line, if not mouthed to death.’

As he chattered in a way I knew well, Kemperer was whisking about the room with La Singla and a man-servant in pursuit, preparing to venture out, I took the opportunity to pull my provisions from their hiding-place and have a bite.

When he had his wig in place and the servant was helping him struggle into his coat, Kemperer glanced suspiciously at me and said, ‘You understand what I say, de Chirolo? You shall play Albrizzi at the Lambant-Orini marriage ceremonies, but, while Byzantium is in such a bad way, engagements are few and far between, so it’s no good your hanging about my doors hoping for favours.’

‘Then I’ll stay and coax La Singla in her part as Heda,’ I said, taking up his prompt book where it lay open on a sofa.

He flew into a tiny rage, snatching the book from me. ‘You’ll coax her in none of her parts. Show her impeccable respect and that’s enough. You young nincompoops, think yourselves bucks, trying to spoil the peace of mind of my dear wife! You’ll come with me. I’m not leaving you loose in my house.’

Drawing myself up, I said, ‘I shall be happy to accompany you, Maestro, since to be seen walking with you can but increase my reputation – provided I understand correctly that you cast no slur on my unsullied regard for La Singla, the great actress of our day.’

Mollified, but still given to the odd mutter, he seized my arm before I could elaborate farewells of his wife, and led me across the courtyard – glancing neither right nor left, not even to take in Albert, who set up a forlorn chattering at the sight of his master.

When the gate closed behind us, and we stood in the street, I asked him which way he was going.

‘Which way are you going, de Chirolo?’ He always had a suspicious nature.

I pointed hopefully north towards St. Braggart’s, thinking that he would have to turn south to get to the Arena, where the jousts were held in time of festival.

‘I go the other way,’ he said, ‘and so must deprive myself of your company. What a loss, dear, dear! Remember now – nothing happening until Albrizzi, unless I have you sent for. Don’t hang about. And don’t imagine I like an idle season any more than you do, but in the summer the grand families go away to the country. Besides, there’s a confounded Ottoman army marching about somewhere near Malacia, and that’s always bad for theatre. Anything’s bad for the theatre.’

‘I look forward to our next meeting,’ I said.

We bowed to each other.

He stood where he was, feet planted firm on the ground, arms folded, watching me walk to the corner and turn it. As I turned, I glanced back to see him still observing me. He waved a mocking farewell, dismissing me with every bone in his skeletal wrist. Once round the corner, I hid behind the pillars of the first doorway I came to, and there I waited, peeping out to see what happened. As I expected, Kemperer appeared round the corner himself. Looking foxy, he scanned the street. When he had made sure it was clear, he muttered to himself and disappeared again.

Giving him time to get well away, I retraced my steps, to present myself once more at his gate. I rang the bell, and was soon admitted into the sunny presence of La Singla.

Since I left her a few minutes before, she had thrown a robe of blue silk over her flowing night garments, but could not be said to be any more dressed than before. Her hair still lay on her shoulders, golden. Ribbons fluttered about her person as she moved.

She sat at the table, daintily holding a coffee cup to her lips.

‘Remember, I must show you my impeccable respect,’ I told her.

‘And much else besides, I expect,’ she murmured, glancing down at the white cloth on the table, thus giving me the advantage of her long lashes.

Bounding forward, I knelt beside her chair and kissed her hand. She bade me rise. I crushed her to me, until I felt the cushioning of her generous breasts doing its worst against a mixture of ham, and cheese and bread.

‘Dammit, my tunic!’ I cried, and snatched the mess from its hiding-place.

She burst into the prettiest and best-rehearsed laughter you ever heard.

‘You must remove your shirt, dear Perry. Come into my boudoir.’

As we trotted into her fragrant room, I said, laughing in high humour, ‘You see how famished a poor actor can be that he sneaks food from the table of the woman he admires most in the world! You discover ham in my tunic – what may not be concealed in my breeches …?’

‘Whatever is there, it shall not take me by surprise.’ Matching action to words, she put her hands behind her back and started to tug at the laces which held her dress.

In another moment, the two of us were one, rolling in delight, naked upon her unmade couch. Her kisses were hot and thirsty, her body gloriously solid, while she had, as the orientals say, a little moon-shaped fishpool, into which I launched my barque until the waters grew altogether too delighfully stormy for sense. After which, rapturously shipwrecked, we lay about in the bed and I gazed upon her soft and verdant shores.

‘… “the torrid prehistoric jungles swarming …”’ I misquoted.

She kissed me juicily until my barque ran up its sail again. As I reached for her, she wagged her finger at me in slow admonition.

‘The secret of any happiness is never to have sufficient. Neither the rich nor the evolutionaries recognise that profound truth. We have enjoyed enough for both of us, provided the future promises more. My husband can’t be trusted to stay away for any length of time. He is insanely suspicious, poor dear, and takes me for a perfect harlot.’

‘So you are perfect,’ I declared, reaching for the scrumptious mounds of her breasts, but she was away and slipping into her shift.

‘Perfect, maybe, but not a harlot. In truth, Perian – though you’d never comprehend this, for you are a creature of your lusts – I am far more affectionate than promiscuous.’

‘You’re lovely as you are.’

When we were dressed, she gave me a glass of melon juice and a delicious cut of cold quitain. As I was eating, I asked her, ‘Do you know someone called Bengtsohn? – an old man with blue eyes, a foreigner, who says he has enemies everywhere. He comes from Tolkhorm, and has written a play.’

She was getting restless. ‘Pozzi has used him to paint scenery. He was a good worker but I think he’s a Progressive.’

‘He offered me work with his zahnoscope. What’s a zahnoscope?’

‘How you do talk! Pray eat up and permit me to let you out of the side door, or Pozzi will come back and fall into such a frenzy of jealousy that we shall have no peace for weeks on end.’

‘I wanted to talk to you …’

‘I know what you wanted.’ I picked up my drumstick and made off obediently. There was no fault in this fine girl, and I was anxious to please her. Her main interests were bed and the play which, I supposed, was the reason she was always so sweet-tempered. It seemed no more than just that Kemperer should pay tax in kind on such a precious possession.

In the streets, my elation began to wear almost as thin as my clothes. I had nothing, and was at a loss. My father was no support; I could not sponge off my sister. I could go to a tavern but, without a single denario to my name, could hardly expect my friends to welcome me with open purse. Most of them were in similar straits, except Caylus.

For want of better amusement I followed various citizens, studying their walks and expressions, until I reached St Marco’s Square. The usual morning market-stalls were set up, with the usual crowds of country men and women in attendance, their horses and mules tethered along the shaded side of Mount Street.

About the edges of the great square, clustering particularly under the colonnade of the Old Custom House, were booths for less serious-minded personages and children, where one might view two-headed calves, dioramas of ancient time, animated human skeletons, oriental jugglers, live ancestral animals, snake-charmers from Baghdad, fortune-tellers, marionettes, gaudy magic-lantern shows, and performing shaggy-tusks no bigger than dogs.

How I had hung about those enchanted booths with my sister Katarina as a child. The magic-lantern shows, with their panoramas of shipwreck, noble life and majestic scenery, had been our especial delight. Here they still were, unchanged.

What was unusual about this day was that it was the first Thursday of the month, the day set since time immemorial for the Malacian Supreme Council to meet. Not that the affairs of those greypates concerned me, but older people took an interest. I heard them murmuring about the Council as I walked among them.

Bishop Gondale IX blessed the Council in public, but the deliberations of the Council were held in secret. The results of those deliberations were never announced; one could only deduce what had happened by observing who disappeared into the capacious dungeons of Fetter Place, there to be strangled by capable hands, or who was beheaded in the public gaze between the great bronze statues of Desport’s slobbergobs in St Marco, by the cathedral, or who reappeared as piecemeal chunks about various quarters of the city, or who was found with his mouth nibbled away by pike in the whirlpools of the River Toi. If the Council saw fit to dispatch them, then they were troublemakers, and I for one was glad to know that everything worked so well for the contentment of our citizens. The immemorial duty of the Supreme Council was to protect Malacia from change.

I found a hair in my mouth. Removing it from between my teeth, I saw it was golden and curly. Ah, the Supreme Council could drown all its citizens in the canal, if so be I might get near enough to La Singla to pasture on that same little mountain.

The traders at their stalls were discreet, knowing well the system of informers which helped maintain the peace of Malacia, but I gathered from a couple of them that the Council might be discussing Hoytola’s hydrogeneous balloon, to decide whether or not it could be approved. Nobody understood the principle of this novel machine, but some magical property in that phrase, ‘Hoytola’s hydrogenous balloon,’ had given it a certain lifting power in the taverns at least. The reality had yet to be seen; it was the Council which had ultimate say on such possibilities.

One of the traders, a tallowy man with blue jowls and the same innocent look as the dead geese in his basket, said, ‘I reckon the balloon should be allowed to fly. Then we’ll be the equal of the flighted men, won’t we?’

‘All that’s interesting happens on the ground,’ I said. ‘Heroes, husbands, heretics – leave the air to sun and spirits.’

I knew nothing of Hoytola. The sending up of small hot-air balloons had been a child’s pursuit in Malacia for ages. I remembered my father ponderously explaining how a whole fleet of hot-air balloons tied together might transport an army to surprise the Ottoman enemy. He had had a pamphlet printed concerning it. Then a captain in the Militia had called on him and dissuaded him from taking further interest in current affairs.

It was enough that there were flighted people not greatly different from us, except for wings. They talked our language, married, died of the plague, much as we. Three of them soared about the square as I strolled through it, to settle by their cote at the top of St Marco’s campanile, traditional eyrie of these traditional sentinels of Malacia.

I was hailed several times by stall-keepers as I went by. They had been groundlings when I performed here or there, and still cherished my performances. What a thousand shames that I should have arrived at the highest pitch of my art to find no chance to exhibit it to those who would appreciate it.

As I scowled to myself, a figure close by said, ‘Why, Master de Chirolo, you look to bear the cares of the old wooden world on your shoulders!’

Sidling up to me was the gaunt figure of Piebald Pete, so known because of the tufts of black hair which survived on his head among the white. He was the fantoccini man; the large, striped frame stood behind him, its red-plush curtains drawn together.

‘I haven’t a care in the world, Pete. I was merely acting out a drama in my head, as your marionettes act it out in their box. How’s the world treating you?’

I should not have asked him. He spread wide his hands in despair and raised his black-and-white eyebrows in accusation to heaven. ‘You see what I’m reduced to – playing in the streets to urchins, me, me who once was invited into the greatest houses of the state. My dancing figures were always in demand – and my little Turk who walked the tightrope and chopped off a princess’s head. The ladies liked that. And all carved out of rosewood with eyes and mouths that moved. The best fantoccini figures in the land.’

‘I remember your Turk. What’s changed?’

‘Fashion. Taste. That’s a change the Supreme Council can’t prevent, any more than they can prevent night turning into day. Only a year back I had a man to carry the frame, and a good man he was. Now I must hump the frame everywhere myself.’

‘Times have been easier.’

‘We used to do great business with evening soirées. That’s all but gone now. I’ve had the honour of appearing at the Renardo Palace more than once, before the young duke, and before foreign emissaries in the Blue Hall of the Palace of the Bishops Elect – very proper, and no seduction scenes there, though they applauded the Execution and insisted on an encore. I’ve been paid in ten or more currencies. But the demand’s dropped away now, truly, and I shall go somewhere else where the fantoccini art is still appreciated.’

‘Byzantium?’

‘No, Byzantium’s a dust-heap now, they say, the streets are paved with the bones of old fantoccini men – and of course the Ottoman at the gate, as ever, I’ll go to Tuscady, or far Igara where they say there’s gold and style and enthusiasm. Why not come with me? It could be the ideal place for out-of-work actors.’

‘All too busy, Pete. I’ve only just come from Kemperer’s – you know he makes you sweat – and now I must hurry to see Master Bengtsohn, who beseeches something from me.’

Piebald Pete dropped one of his eyebrows by several centimetres, lowered his voice by about the same amount, and said, ‘If I was you, Master Perian, I’d stay clear of Otto Bengtsohn, who’s a troublemaker, as you may well know.’

I could not help laughing at his expression. ‘I swear I am innocent!’

‘None of us is innocent if someone thinks us guilty. Poor men should be grateful for what they get from the rich, and not go abusing them or plotting their destruction.’

‘You’re saying that Bengtsohn –’

‘I’m not saying anything, am I?’ Looking round, he raised his voice again as if he hoped the whole bubbling market would hear it. ‘What I’m saying is that we owe a lot to the rich of the state, us poor ones. They could do without us, but we could hardly do without them, could we?’

The subject plainly made Pete and everyone nearby uncomfortable; I moved on. Perhaps I would visit Bengtsohn.

As I walked down a side-alley towards Exhibition Street, I recalled that Piebald Pete had performed in my father’s house on one occasion, long ago. My mother had been alive then, and my sister Katarina and I little children.

The show had enchanted us. Afterwards, when the magic frame was folded and gone, my father had said, ‘There you have observed the Traditional in operation. Your delight was because the fantoccini man did not deviate from comedic forms laid down many generations earlier. In the same way, the happiness of all who live in our little utopian state of Malacia depends on preserving the laws which the founders laid down long, long ago.’

I slipped through a muddy by-lane, where a few market-stalls straggled on, becoming poorer as they led away from the central magnet of St Marco, towards the sign of the Dark Eye. At the entrance to the court stood the Leather-Teeth Tavern, its doors choked with red-faced countrymen, drinking with a variety of noise, enjoyment, and facial expression. Fringing the drinkers were whores, wives, donkeys, and children, who were being serenaded by a man with a hurdy-gurdy. His mistress went round the crowd with a cap, sporting on a lead a red-scaled chick-snake which waltzed on its hind legs like a dancing dog.

Beside the tavern, stalls of fresh herrings had been set up. I tucked my coat-tails under my armpits to get by. Beyond, a couple of bumpkins were urinating and vomiting turn and turn about against a wall. The overhanging storeys of the buildings and their sweeping eaves made the court dark but, as I got towards the back of it, I came on Otto Bengtsohn washing his hands at a pump, still clad in his mangy fur jacket.

His arms were pale, hairless, corded with veins; ugly but useful things. He splashed his face, then wiped his hands on his jacket as he turned to examine me. Beyond him, lolling in a doorway, were two young fellows who also gave me an inspection.

‘So you altered your mind to come after all! What a cheek you have also! Well, you’re only once young.’

‘I happened to be passing this way.’

He nodded. ‘All-People was right.’ He stood contemplating me, rubbing his hands up and down his jacket until I grew uncomfortable.

‘What’s this zahnoscope of yours?’

‘Business later, my young friend. First, I must have something for to eat, if you don’t mind. I’m on the way to the Leather-Teeth, and perhaps you’ll join me for some bite.’

‘It would be a pleasure.’ There was merit in the old man after all. ‘I am feeling peckish.’

‘Even the poor have to eat. Those of us what are going to change the world must keep ourselves fed up … We aren’t supposed to think about change in Malacia, are we? Still, we’ll see …’ He grinned at me in a sly way. He pointed up at the leather-toothed ancestral depicted on the tavern sign, its segmented wings outspread. ‘You have to have jaws like that creature to eat here. Do you mind visiting our slum, de Chirolo?’

We pushed into the tavern.

There, Bengtsohn was known and respected. In short order, a grimy girl placed soup, bread and meat balls with chillies and a pitcher of ale before us, and we set to, ignoring the jostling bodies at our elbows. I ate heartily.

Sighing after a while, and resigning myself to his pouring me more ale, I said, ‘It’s good to feel the stomach full at midday for a change.’ There I checked myself. ‘Why should I say “for a change”? Everyone today seems to have been talking about change – it must be because the Council’s meeting.’

‘Well, talk, yes, but talk’s nothing – foam off from the sea. Malacia never changes, hasn’t done for thousands of years, never will. Even the conversations about change don’t change.’

‘Aren’t you introducing change with your – zahnoscope?’

He dropped his fork, waved his hands, shssh’d me, leant forward, shook his head all at the same time, so that I found my face peppered with half-chomped meat ball. ‘Remember that whereas talking about change is proper and fit, anyone who makes bold as to implement change IN THIS DEAR OLD STABLE CITY OF OURS’ (said loud for effect as he groped with his fork) ‘is liable to finish up in the Toi with his throat cut to shreds …’

Silence while we ate. Then he said, in a tone of voice suggesting that the statement might be of particular interest to any eavesdroppers in the vicinity, ‘I work in the field of art, that’s all what interests me. Happily, art is a central interest of this dear city, like religion. Art’s safe. Not a better place in the world for to pursue art, though heaven knows it don’t pay all that much, even here. But of course I don’t complain of that. How I’ll go through next winter with a greedy wife … Come on, mop down your platter with the crust and let’s get back at the workshop. Work’s the thing, if it earns fair pay.’

Back through the court we went, and into the workshop, which was a dim and dirty place, cluttered with all manner of objects. Bengtsohn waved his hand in a vaguely descriptive way which took in a number of apprentices at benches, some munching hunks of bread.

‘You have a busy place.’

‘I don’t have it. It isn’t mine. I can be booted out from here tomorrow, with boss’s boots. This is an extensive works, biggest in Malacia. These workshops and glass factories back on the great exhibition gallery. You’ve been in that, I suppose – the gallery of the Hoytola family, Andrus Hoytola.’

‘Hoytola’s hydrogenous balloon.’

‘That’s another matter. I’ve been here during some years now, ever since I have come from Tolkhorm with my family. There are some worse masters than Hoytola, I’ll grant you that. Here’s Bonihatch – he’s foreign to Malacia too, and a good man.’ He made reference to one of the apprentices, who loitered up in shirt-sleeves.