Matryoshka Page 2
❖
Within the foundations of the lighthouse, the gondola nuzzles a modest quay. Shadows quiver up the pale walls that are lit by smoky lamps whose sooty brows smear up into the vault. Disembarking Cherenkov judges that only the flagstones are not bone. A bone arch leads to another bone-lined room, to a bone stair – its treads inlaid with marble; he follows Septima and her parents up its spiral.
❖
While the others climb higher, he is told to remain behind on a landing. A pale little man introduces himself to Cherenkov as his valet, and shows him into a room panelled with bone, with a cornice and elaborately embossed ceiling of bone. The bed is whiter, finer and seems true ivory. Against the bone plank floor the reds and blues of an oriental rug are shocking. A single wooden chair looks out of place, its red silk back and seat as raw as wounds.
The valet regards Cherenkov’s attire with a raised eyebrow. ‘Sir will change for dinner?’
Cherenkov looks at the raincoat he has lived and slept in for so long that it has become a second skin. When had it become so filthy?
The valet leans into a fancy wardrobe of polished bone, and holds up a suit. ‘A frockcoat befitting a gentleman.’
Cherenkov recognises it as the same style of fancy dress worn by Septima’s father. The valet ignores the shake of his head and retrieves matching waistcoat and breeches, a white shirt, stockings and what can only be drawers. The man cocks his head and squints at Cherenkov’s feet. He rummages in a trunk and produces a pair of black shoes, with prominent heels and silk ribbons on the toes.
‘Those are women’s shoes,’ says Cherenkov.
The valet stares at him. ‘I can assure you, sir, that they most certainly are not!’
He places them side by side on the floor, adjusts the suit he has laid out on the bed, and turns to Cherenkov with a forced smile.
Cherenkov runs his hands down his raincoat. ‘I stole this…’ When he raises his eyes he sees the valet’s confusion.
The man rallies. ‘We shall launder sir’s… coat, and it will be returned to him.’
They stare at each other. Cherenkov takes from his pockets a packet of cigarettes, a box of matches and a little painted doll. The valet slips the raincoat from his shoulders.
When Cherenkov begins to unbutton his shirt, the valet strokes his fingers away, and the man’s pale hands continue the unbuttoning. Cherenkov endures with a fixed smile and soon is naked but for his briefs. He holds onto them. ‘These are not coming off.’
The valet dips his head. As he puts Cherenkov into the silk suit, he apologises every time an arm needs to be fed into a sleeve or a leg pushed into the britches. Cherenkov finds a pocket in the suit and slips in his things. The valet kneels and offers one of the ribboned shoes. With a grimace, Cherenkov raises his feet, and the valet slips the shoes on.
When the valet holds out a white wig, Cherenkov waves him off. ‘No!’ The valet regards him with a frown, and shrugs. He guides Cherenkov to another part of the room where he draws back a cloth from a mirror. Cherenkov stares at his reflection, turns to one side, and makes a face.
The valet holds the door open for him. Another servant is outside in the hallway. Cherenkov approaches the doorway. He takes the valet by the arm. ‘Where are we?’
The man half frowns, half smiles. ‘The House of the Tribune, sir.’
‘The Tribune?’
‘Our ruler, may she rule for ever.’
‘What does the Tribune rule?’
The valet screws up his eyes to examine Cherenkov’s face. ‘This city and much of the ocean beyond.’
‘This city?’
‘Eboreus, sir.’
Three
Ivory doors patterned with gold open to reveal a room so resplendent with mirrors, gilding, scarlet, lamps, crystal, velvet – that Cherenkov, as he enters, can only gape. A painted doll stares at him. His eyes widen: it’s Septima! Her head looks huge in a grey wig that winks with yellow-green jewels; the gown that sheathes her seems woven from silver. By contrast, her mother, in a golden gown densely brocaded into a honeycomb pattern, could now be her older sister. Rubies next to her skin seem gobbets of blood.
Septima’s father comes to greet him, in a frockcoat also of gold, with scarlet cuffs embroidered with more gold. His face too is painted, and is framed by a white wig. He punctuates each step with a rap from a gilded cane. ‘My dear fellow; my dear, dear fellow.’
He looks Cherenkov up and down, and glances at his wife. ‘Damn my eyes if, properly attired, he doesn’t cut a bold figure.’ He winks at his daughter who covers her mouth with a fan, but her eyes twinkle.
Cherenkov’s mouth hangs open. Septima’s father motions him into the centre of the room, and, with a flourish, bows to his wife. ‘You have met Her Serene Highness the Lady Sexta, Tribune of Eboreus.’
The Tribune inclines her head a little, but her eyes remain fixed on Cherenkov.
‘My daughter you know…’ says Septima’s father, and, as she curtseys, he adds: ‘Her Highness the Lady Septima, Heir Apparent.’
Septima won’t meet Cherenkov’s gaze.
‘And this…’
Silence forces Cherenkov’s attention back to Septima’s father who indicates a corpulent man in a chair before a log fire. Voluminous velvet adds to his bulk; the cloth is slashed to reveal brighter tones beneath.
‘…is the Lord Anzolo…’
Cherenkov chews his lip – the old man wears a ruff and pearl earrings!
‘My Lady’s father and Consort to her Tribune mother as I…’
Septima’s father sweeps his arm through an elegant bow.
‘… Heinrich von Reichenau, am Consort to the Lady Sexta.’
Cherenkov stares at Septima’s father. ‘You’re German?’
Septima catches his eye, and, with a pained expression, subtly shakes her head.
‘And your given name, Herr Cherenkov?’
Cherenkov examines the smiling face of Consort Heinrich with its raised eyebrows. Septima still has the same pained expression on her face. Her mother watches him and is very still. The Consort glances at his wife and daughter, begins to frown.
‘Just Cherenkov.’
The Consort’s forehead smooths. ‘Perhaps you are in the right, Herr Cherenkov; you do not yet owe us intimacy.’
Cherenkov nods, and feels his cheeks burn. He looks away. His eyes flit from one thing to another, and he struggles to keep expression from his face. His gaze settles on a contraption painted all over with landscapes and figures in gauzy clothes. Approaching it he sees it has two keyboards, one stepped above the other.
Septima’s gown rustles as she rushes to join him. Her hand momentarily covers his. ‘Would you care to hear me play?’
He edges away from her, puts the body of the instrument between them, glances up at a book open on a stand, its pages covered with musical notation. His fingers stray to the keys and he pushes down on a couple and is a little startled by the metallic sounds that the instrument emits.
Consort Heinrich joins them, his face lit with eager delight. ‘Do you play? I would very much like to hear the latest gavotte.’
Cherenkov regards him blankly.
Heinrich’s face falls. ‘Well, would you like to hear something?’
Before Cherenkov has a chance to answer, Heinrich nudges him aside and manoeuvres his daughter past him to seat her on the stool.
Septima gives him a strained smile. ‘What shall I play, Papa?’
‘Something from home! Bach?’
Septima looks flustered. ‘Something French, I think!’ She rummages through the music on the stand. ‘Rameau,’ she says with a sigh of relief, sets the music before her and begins to play.
Sharp sounds rattle out of the instrument. The patterns and runs are quite startling to Cherenkov, and he cannot take his eyes off her fingers as they blur across the keys. He shakes his head and looks away.
Behind the instrument, Chinese figures, dotted across the silk that covers the wall, seem crus
hed by a huge painting in a heavy gold frame: a family portrait the like of which Cherenkov has seen before only in a book; and those reproductions did not possess such intense colours. Behind the figures in the painting, through a pair of windows, is depicted a glowing sea. Its blue radiance casts sinister highlights on the figures, the elaborate furniture and the porcelain that fill the picture.
As Septima continues to produce the eerie metallic music, Cherenkov scans the room – it is the one portrayed in the painting, he is sure of it: there are the two windows, though they are mostly hidden behind ivory shutters.
He peers again at the figures in the painting. A woman dominates the composition. Her head and hands emerge from a vast dress with a ballooning skirt and swollen sleeves bound from bursting by ribbon bows. Strings of pearls swag down to her unnaturally narrow waist. She is wearing a ruff of stiff lace like Lord Anzolo’s. Her pallid face is framed by an extravagant red coiffure studded with more pearls. At first he thinks it is the Lady Sexta but, if the picture is a good likeness, this cannot be her. Perhaps someone closely related: her grandmother?
The man standing beside this queen is decked out in a magnificent skirted tunic studded with jewels, and his massive coat makes him impossibly wide. Cherenkov peers at the man’s face, and glances at the Lord Anzolo sitting by the fire. The man in the picture has his hand on the head of a small boy. At his side, with the queen’s hands on her shoulders, is a girl of about twelve. He looks from her little face to that of the Lady Sexta who catches his look and raises an eyebrow. He nods at her, and looks away.
The fury of Septima’s playing seems to reach a crisis. He watches her until the music cascades to a brittle finish. Her fingers rest lightly on the keys as the sounds fade. As she lifts them off, she glances up at him. He tries to return her radiant smile.
His eyes half-close as a servant enters. The man almost bends double as he announces: ‘If it please, your Serene Highness, the repast is ready.’
The Tribune moves off, and Septima rises from the stool and follows. Her father smiles and offers Cherenkov the next place in the procession. Setting his face, Cherenkov follows Septima; Heinrich guides him with a hand on his back.
They pace along a curving corridor lined with servants in matching uniforms. Cherenkov’s eyes wander over the paintings he passes, though he does not really see them. He spies a strange clock and comes to a halt.
Heinrich collides with him. ‘My dear fellow!’
Cherenkov stares at the clock face: instead of a twelve at the top it has an eight.
❖
A table meticulously laid with Chinese porcelain, crystal and silver cutlery. The Tribune sits at one end, her consort at the other. To her left, Septima; beyond her, Lord Anzolo. Cherenkov sits opposite Septima, on her mother’s right.
As attendants file into the room with steaming platters, Cherenkov forces a smile and addresses the Tribune. ‘Lady Sexta–’
Septima grimaces, and hisses: ‘Your Highness…’
Cherenkov swallows an angry retort, and starts again. ‘Your Highness, I couldn’t help noticing that your clock only measures eight hours.’
The Tribune smiles enigmatically and, with her eyes and raised plucked brows, makes Cherenkov aware that he has leaned into the path of the attendant attempting to serve him. Cherenkov sits back, embarrassed. He stares at what is on the plate: it is unmistakably some kind of rat.
‘Dormouse stuffed with sea urchin,’ says Septima, brightly, ‘I’ve not had its like for years.’
Cherenkov glances up and their eyes meet: is she trying to signal something? He looks down at his plate, and tries to keep disgust from his face.
‘Octals.’
Cherenkov looks at the Tribune. ‘Octals?’
‘Here we measure time in octals.’
‘I don’t…’ He shakes his head.
The Tribune smiles indulgently. ‘Our day is divided into sixteen octals by two revolutions around the dial.’
Cherenkov knits his brow. ‘An hour and a half…’
The Tribune nods. ‘Just so…’ She picks up a fork and a knife and begins to eat.
Cherenkov locates the same pieces of cutlery from the array around his plate. Gingerly, he slices a sliver of the dormouse and brings it up, hesitates, and puts it in his mouth. The taste of the meat is there beneath a sweet and sour flavouring, peppery and spiced: like chicken though more gamey. He dares the golden mound of sea urchin: buttery, lightly sweet, having something of the brininess of oyster. He purses his lips, and nods.
‘Not as bad as you expected?’ says the Tribune.
‘Yes… No.’ He frowns and focused on the food.
Some forkfuls later he raises his head and tries to follow the back and forth of the conversation. When there is a gap he addresses the Tribune again. ‘Where exactly are we?’
The Tribune smiles. ‘On the shore of the Infinite Ocean.’
‘Infinite, your Highness?’
She shrugs. ‘However far we sail, there is always more.’
‘That makes no sense!’
Septima pipes up. ‘Mother, I came across the work of a natural scientist, Einstein; though a Jew his work might explain –’
‘Cunning, the Jews, but untrustworthy,’ says Heinrich.
The blood drains from Cherenkov’s face.
‘You know that I do not like or permit this talk,’ says the Tribune.
Daughter and husband lower their eyes to their plates, Septima nudges at some food with a knife, and frowns.
‘Have you forgotten the Jews who have loyally kept our outer gate for generations?’ her mother says.
Septima raises eyes bright with anger, but her mother raises a hand. ‘We shall discuss your Einstein when you return.’
Septima blushes. ‘Of course, Mama.’
They eat in silence.
Cherenkov puts down his fork and knife. ‘Does your Highness claim we’re in another world?’
The Tribune gazes at him. ‘You came here through my two very plain, very earth-bound bronze doors, did you not?’
‘You’re asking me to believe that this city and the ocean upon whose shore it stands lie somehow unseen within Venice?’
‘Do you have an alternative explanation? Perhaps you believe this to be a dream?’
Cherenkov narrows his eyes, but shakes his head
The Tribune smiles. ‘Shall you then seek to explain this as magic, sir?’ She looks around the table. ‘That we are sorcerers living in some never never land.’
She laughs and her husband and daughter laugh with her. Anzolo’s head comes up and he scowls at them. He points the dagger that is his only piece of cutlery at Cherenkov. He cuts a chunk, spears it with the knife point, and raises it to his mouth, all the time peering out from under his white brows at Cherenkov. ‘Came you from outside, boy?’
‘It seems so.’
‘Who’s doge then?’
Cherenkov shakes his head. ‘I don’t know what –’
Septima puts her hand on her grandfather’s arm. ‘Grandpapa, how’s the dormouse?’
The old man focuses on her; resumes chewing; nods; chews a little more and makes a face. ‘Passable, quite passable.’
Cherenkov turns back to the Tribune. ‘And where’s the sun, your Highness?’
She regards him with cool eyes. ‘The sun does not reach us here.’
‘Then where does the light come from?’
The Tribune points at the oil lamps that burn along the walls.
Cherenkov groans. ‘There was light outside, light in the sky.’
‘It emanates from the clouds, from water, from glass; from many things.’
He is too exasperated to speak.
The Tribune signs to the attendants, and they file down both sides of the room and reach up to small wheels under the lamps. As each it turned, a lamp snuffs out. Cherenkov watches the last dim and die; they are not plunged into the darkness he expects.
‘See for yourself,’ says the Tribune.
‘In Eboreus, all are blue-blooded,’ says Septima with a nervous laugh.
The Tribune raises a hand.
‘Please, a moment…’ says Cherenkov. He stares into space, squinting. He tilts and turns his head. ‘In my eyes…’
The Tribune issues a command and, the first lamp flame that ignites banishes the eerie faerie radiance.
‘That blue phosphorescence intensifies towards pure white light the further into the Infinite Ocean you sail.’
‘There are those,’ says Septima, ‘who say that here we are in Purgatory and that what lies beyond the ocean is Heaven’, and others –’
‘How did this all come to be here?’ He looks round at their faces. ‘How did you come to be here?’
‘Where this realm came from we know not,’ says the Tribune, ‘But we came here fleeing the Huns.’
‘The Huns?’
‘She doesn’t mean the Germans,’ says Septima, quickly, with a glance of apology towards her father whose face shows incomprehension. ‘My mother refers to the savages who swept out of Asia and helped bring an end to the Empire of the Romans in the west.’
She registers his confused disbelief and points above his head. He cranes round: a strangely-shaped bow hangs on the wall.
‘When strung it would bend the other way,’ says Heinrich. ‘It hails from the Steppes and is fashioned from wood and horn and sinew.’
The Tribune fixes Cherenkov with a steely gaze. ‘A Hunnish bow.’
‘How long ago?’
The Tribune shrugs. ‘We reached Venice’s lagoon in the year of our Lord four five two.’