Дэймон Найт - Orbit 12

“See, Caylus, my morning’s labour bears fruit!” I said. There’s no calling this fine gentleman back to life to establish who he was, but his costume shall be restored in time for our festivities next month!”

Caylus sprawled half out the window, unheeding. I gazed out over his shoulder. Below, the women still stood, still playing at their instruments. The girl with the golden hair was singing quietly. The favourite, if such he was, was making off down the steps.

“She’s alone now,” said Caylus. “Look at her lovely hands!”

Indeed, they were fine: so slender and supple that they seemed an integral part of the music, plucking out vibrant notes with a light tortoise-shell plectrum. From where we stood, I could note the unusual design of the plectrum, with two little horns to one side, as if it were fashioned in the likeness of a satyr. This touch seemed characteristic of the girl, about whom I felt somewhat dubious.

“Prian, I’m going down to her before another rival appears!” said Caylus, standing and regarding me, smiling as he pulled at his little beard. “I declare I’m out of my mind about her already!”

“Caylus—” I wished to say to him that my feelings told me the girl was someone to beware of; and yet, why should my distrust of her be important to him? And what did I know against her, save that she allowed herself to parade in sunlight with a painted face? He misinterpreted my hesitation.

“Don’t say it! You’re going to visit your father in any case...” Still smiling, he turned and started down the stairs. As he went, he called over a shoulder, “I’ll be in my rooms this afternoon. Come to me when you’re ready, and we’ll go together to the rehearsal—unless I have good fortune now!”

For a while I stood at the top of the stairs and chewed my lips.

Glancing out of the window, I saw the girl with mandoline turn and look at Caylus approaching, although I could not see him. I noted again her brazen glance and her fingers unfalteringly holding the plectrum. Then I also went downstairs and out at the opposite door.

Beyond Count Rinaldo’s palace, the grand way with its lines of trees quickly petered out in a maze of alleys, through which I picked my course, avoiding the rubbish in the middle gutters. At this hour of the morning, there were few people about, though I could glimpse women working in the rooms close on either side of me. From the nearby canalside, I heard a barrel organ; the tune it played, “This Sweet Perspective,” was one familiar to me from my childhood; its notes brought me a vivid picture of a fellow in ragged uniform who pushed the organ, and the monkey that used to dance upon it.

At length, I came out on a wider avenue and, beyond that, the street of the goldsmiths. At the far end stood my fathers house, behind its tall tiled walls.

Beppolo, the old servant, let me in and closed the gates behind me. Doves took wing and clattered away to the streets. Familiar scents and corners of the mansion surrounded me immediately. I walked through the side courtyard, cool in shadow, noticing how overgrown it had become, and how shaggy were the bushes of laurel on either hand, once so neatly clipped. The stable was empty; no hounds frisked here as in bygone years. The windows of the house, those not shuttered, looked down featurelessly on the scene.

At the other end of the court the green door stood open. When I went in, it was to be enfolded by the silence of the house. I looked in at what we had called the Garden Room as I passed; the light through the jalousie revealed it only in monochrome, its informal furniture pushed to one side as if awaiting sale.

My father would be in his study at this hour—or at any other hour, for that matter. I hesitated for a moment, studying the cabalistic signs painted on the panels, listening for a sound from within. Then I tapped upon the door and entered.

So recently had I come from the sunlit outer world that I failed to see him standing in the shadow of an alcove, poring over an ancient manuscript. He turned so slowly and raptly to me that what my perceptions first gave me was only an old grey scholar and then, faintly under that, the lineaments of my father. I went to him and took his hand in my hands.

“It’s a long time since you came to see me, my boy. It’s so dark in here! Didn’t you know I have been unwell with the colic?”

“When I heard, Father, I came at once. You are better now?”

“If it isn’t the colic, it’s the stone. If it isn’t the stone, it’s the spleen, or the ague. You know I am never better. I can eat nothing. At least I am not afflicted by the plague, which I hear gathers strength in the markets of the saddlers. Malacia has its share of earthly woes, to be sure.”

“Plague is always there, and in the tanneries—it is part of the nature of those trades, just as darkness seems part of yours. Let me open a shutter! How can you see to read in this twilight?”

He went before me, spreading his hands to bar my way.

“Whether horseflesh doesn’t spread the plague is a question some scholar should look into. How can I think when the light is hurting my eyes? And what’s all this about the tanneries? Why aren’t you working?”

“I have worked all morning, Father.”

“And what have you to show for it? So you came at once, did you? . . . Do you know what I have found out this very morning?” He extended an arm with one grand faltering gesture towards his shelves and towards the folios of Pythagoras, Solomon, and Hermes lying there, as well as many ancient histories. “I have at last discovered what a maati is, beloved of Philip of Macedon.”

“Father, leave your books and let’s eat together at Truna’s as we were used to do—you look starved.” Indeed, as he leaned against his table by the window, I noticed how thin he had become.

“Do you attend me? A maati is not just any delicacy but a specific one, first introduced in Athens at the time of the Macedonian Empire. Philip was assassinated during a wedding feast, you know. I have unearthed reference to a treatise on it, which claims it was a dish beloved of the Thessalians. As you know, the Thessalians have a reputation for being the most sumptuous of all the Greek peoples.”

“I suppose you’d come with me to Truna’s if we could eat a maati there?”

“Do you mark what I say? All you think about’s food! I have made a contribution to learning this day, and you just want to eat at Truna’s. You won’t always be young, you know! You won’t always be able to dine at Truna’s.” He looked angry. His hands shook, and he wiped his brow with the hem of his cloak. For an instant he closed his eyes tightly, as if in pain.

I saw how pale his skin was, and glistening. Going over to him, I placed a hand on his shoulder and said, “You need a cup of wine, Father. Sit down. Let me ring for the housekeeper.”

“No, no, I’ll not disturb the woman—she may be busy. So you worked all morning, did you? And what did you achieve?” He brushed his hair back shakily from his forehead.

“I was intending to tell you. Lambant’s sister, Marana, is to marry, and we are to perform a comedy for the nuptials. I shall play the chief role of Albrizzi, and, this morning, after days of search, I discovered—”

“Truna’s? Why do you mention him? Old Truna is dead this twelvemonth, and his tavern sold. That shows how often you come to visit your father. You prattle on about performing comedies and all the time Truna is one with historic personages!”

“Father, Philip of the Macedonians is dead, yet people are still marrying. Come out down the street with me and enjoy the bustle of humanity about you, as you used to do—it may set your mind on more cheerful things.”