The Malacia Tapestry. Brian Aldiss

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      ‘My stomach’s active. What brings you here, Katarina?’

      She smiled in a sad fashion and gazed down at the cobblestones.

      ‘Idleness also, you might say. I came to see the captain of the vessel to find out if there was word from Volpato, but he has no letters for me.’

      Volpato was her husband – more often absent than present and, when present, generally withdrawn. Both de Lambant and I made consoling noises.

      ‘There will be another ship soon.’ I said.

      ‘My soothsayer misled me. So I’m going to the cathedral to pray. Will you join me?’

      ‘Our Maker this morning is Kemperer, sweet sister,’ I said. ‘And he will make us or break us. Go and act as our Minerva. I’ll come and visit you at the castle soon.’

      I said it lightly meaning to reassure her.

      She returned me a concerned look. ‘Don’t forget, then. I went to see Father last evening and played chess with him.’

      ‘I wonder he had time for chess, burrowing among his old tomes! A Disquisition on the Convergences – or is it Congruities or Divergencies? – for I never seem to remember – Between the High Religion and the Natural Religion and Mithraism and the Bishop’s Nostrils!’

      ‘Don’t make fun of your father, Perian,’ Katarina said gently, as she climbed back into her carriage, ‘His work is quite important.’

      I spread my hands eloquently, tilting my head to one side to show pity and resignation.

      ‘I love the old boy, I know his work is important. I’m just tired of being lectured by him.’

      As de Lambant and I walked along the quay in the direction of the Bucintoro, he said, ‘Your sister in her dove-grey dress – really quite fetching in a sober way … I must visit her in her lonely castle one of these fine evenings, though you are disinclined to do so. Her husband similarly, it appears.’

      ‘Keep your filthy thoughts off my sister.’ We talked instead about de Lambant’s sister Smarana, whose wedding day, determined by a useful conjunction of constellations, was little more than five weeks away. The thought of three days of family celebration cheered us, not least because the two families involved, the de Lambants and the Orinis, had engaged Kemperer’s company to play on the second day. We should have work then, at least.

      ‘We’ll perform such a comedy as all will remember ever after. I’m even prepared to fall down the stairs again for the sake of an extra laugh.’

      He dug me in the ribs. ‘Pray that we eat before that date, or I can see us treading the boards in the Shadow World. Here’s the market – let’s run different ways!’

      The fruit market stood at the end of the Stary Most district. At this time of morning it was crammed with customers and buzzing with argument, gossip, and wasps the size of thumbs. De Lambant and I slipped among the stalls at a trot, bouncing off customers, swerving round posts, to arrive together at the other end laughing, with a good muster of peaches and apricots between us.

      ‘A day’s work in itself,’ de Lambant said, as we munched. ‘Why bother to go to Kemperer’s? He has nothing for us. Let’s make for Truna’s and drink. Portinari will probably be there.’

      ‘Oh, let’s go and see the old boy anyway, show him we’re alive and thin for want of parts.’

      He struck me in the chest. ‘I don’t want for parts. Speak for yourself.’

      ‘I certainly wouldn’t want to speak for what is doubtless unspeakable. How the women put up with those digusting parts of yours is beyond credit.’

      At the corner of a certain scrivener’s stair stood an ancient magician called All-People. All-People stood at the scrivener’s stair whenever the omens were propitious, and had done so since the days when I was taken to market on piggy-back. His face was as caprine as that of the billy goat tethered to the post beside him, his eyes as yellow, his chin as hairy. On his iron altar a dried snake burned, the elements sprinkled on it giving off that typical whiff of the Natural Religion which my priest, Mandaro, referred to contemptuously as ‘the stench of Malacia’.

      Standing in the shade of the scrivener’s porch consulting All-People was a stooped man in a fur jacket. Something in his stance, or the emphatic way he clutched a box under his arm, caught my attention. He looked as if he was about to make off faster than his legs could carry him. Always watching for gestures to copy, I recognised him immediately as the man who had come smartly off the trireme.

      Several people stood about waiting to consult All-People. As we were passing them, the magician threw something into the hot ash of his altar, so that it momentarily burnt bright yellow. My attention caught by the flame, I was trapped also by All-People’s amber gaze. He raised an arm and beckoned me with a finger, red and twisted as an entrail.

      I nudged de Lambant. ‘He wants you.’

      He nudged me harder. ‘It’s you, young hero. Forward for your fate!’

      As I stepped towards the altar, its pungent perfumes caught me in the throat, so that I coughed and scarcely heard All-People’s single declaration to me: ‘If you stand still enough, you can act effectively.’

      ‘Thanks, sire,’ I said, and turned after de Lambant, who was already hurrying on. I had not a denario to give, though advice carries a high value in Malacia.

      ‘Guy, what do you think that means, if anything, “Stand still, act effectively”? Typical warning against change, I suppose. How I do hate both religions.’

      He bit deeply into his peach, letting it slobber luxuriously down his chin, and said in an affected scholarly voice, ‘Highly typical of the misoneism of our age, my dear de Chirolo – one of the perils of living in a gerontocracy, to my mind … No, you turnip, you know well what the old goat’s on about. He’s a better critic of the drama than you suspect, and hopes by his advice to cure you of your habit of prancing about the stage stealing the limelight.’

      We were falling into a scuffle when my sleeve was clutched. I turned, ready for pickpockets, and there stood the old man with the fur jacket and the box. He was panting, his mouth open, so that I had a view of his broken teeth and chops; yet his general expression was alert and helped by blue eyes, which is a colour rarely met with in Malacia.

      ‘Forgive me, gentlemen, for the intrusion. You are young Perian de Chirolo, I believe?’

      He spoke with an accent of some sort. I admitted my identity and presumed that he had possibly derived some enjoyment from my performances.

      ‘I’m not, young sir, a giant one for performances, although it occurs I have myself written a play, which –’

      ‘In that case, sir, whatever your name is, I can be of no help. I’m a player, not an impresario, so?’

      ‘Excuse me, I was not about to ask for favours but to offer one.’ He pulled the jacket about him with dignity, cuddling his box for greater comfort. ‘My name, young sir, is called Otto Bengtsohn. I am not from Malacia but from Tolkhorm at the north, from which particular adversities what afflict the poor and make their lives a curse have drove me since some years. СКАЧАТЬ