Дэймон Найт - Orbit 12

“They’re still playing Albrizzi, are they? By the caduceus of Mercury, that farce was old thirty years ago, when I first saw it! And they had good actors in those days. Why do you think I should enjoy to be jostled in the alleys, I with my calculus troubling me?”

I moved over to the shuttered window and peered into a neglected inner court, where the ornamental Triton no longer blew a fountain from his conch.

“We shall insert topical matter, Father, as no doubt they did in your young day. If not the tavern and not the street, then at least take a turn in the garden with me. The air’s so stale in here.”

“No, no, the air’s pure in here, guaranteed so. All sorts of illnesses lurk outside. I don’t even let Beppolo enter here now, for fear he contaminates the place. When you get old, you have to take care of yourself.”

“Did you hear that Lambant’s sister is to be wed to a gentleman from Vamonal, Father? He comes of the military house of Orini.”

“Beppolo says the well’s run dry. I’ve never heard of the Orinis. If he’s not lying its the first time that ever happened— in your mother’s time, we had water in plenty. Everything seems to go wrong. Who are the Orinis, I’d like to know!”

“The well often runs dry at this time of year, but I’ll see to it on my way out.”

“You’re off already, are you? You never told me what you’ve been up to. Well, I suppose there’s nothing to keep you here.” He went over and sat in his battered leather chair, heavily carved with mythical beasts and lizards. “Yes, I saw Albrizzi as a student You’ve been working this morning, eh? What were you working at? More play-acting with the players, I suppose. Why don’t you join the pantomimi, as approved by Hadrus and Seneca and Lucian, and become a proper tragic actor, eh?”

I moved towards the door, saying, “There’s no taste for tragedy in this age, Father.”

“You should become a tragic actor. As long as there’s tragedy in life, tragedy is needed on the stage. You see, the housekeeper doesn’t always come when you ring—it’s the way with housekeepers. Actors should hold a mirror up to nature, and not just indulge triviality. I don’t know what the world’s coming to . . .”

Taking proper leave of him, I quitted the chamber and walked along the corridor. From its panels came an aroma of something like resin which took me so far back to those years when I depended on the good humour of others that I quickened my pace.

As I crossed the court, Beppolo emerged from the empty stable, hurrying round-shouldered to see me out of the gate, his right hand already thrusting itself forward, inch by shaking inch, cupping itself in a receiving attitude.

“Your illustrious father is cheerful this morning, sir! As well he might be, sir, according to his prosperous station. He tells me he has found out who Philip of Macedon is, to his great benefit!”

“Where’s the housekeeper?”

‘‘Why, sir, is she not in the house? No? Then perhaps she has gone out There’s not much for her to do. If she’s not in the house, then she has gone out.”

“And I suppose that if she has not gone out, then she is in the house?”

“You could very likely be right, sir.”

“Tell her I shall be back tomorrow, expecting to see the house cleaned and a proper meal set before my father. Understand?”

“Every word, sir, as I stand here wearing my old patched breeches.” He bowed low and dragged the gate open. I tossed him a sequin. I heard the gate squeal closed again; its lock turned wearily as I made down the street.

“‘Even in their ashes live our wonted fires...’” I quoted to myself.

The bells of St. Marco’s were chiming one of the afternoon. A pack of ragged children were teasing a thecodont against a wall. The little yellow-and-red creature barked at them like a gruff dog—a habit it had no doubt learned from the local mongrels, for several of the smaller kinds of dinosaur, wandering in from the wilderness, had come to an alliance with the canine inhabitants of Malacia. Pigeons were waddling in the street, getting almost underfoot, fluttering up at the last moment; I kicked at them and headed past Truna’s for the next taverno.

The Cellar of the Small Goldsmiths was built into an old ruined triumphal arch. I sat outside it and was served wine and meat, speaking to no one, although there was a cheerful meeting of fellows at the table next to mine. Finally, as I was leaving, and they were singing and bellowing, one of them leaned back to pluck my sleeve.

“You must have a solemn philosophy, cavalier, to keep so straight a face with your wine!”

Looking down at him, I said, “There you are correct, sir. Henceforth, I mean to pursue pleasure as a serious business.”

They called to me to join them, but I would not. As I walked down the street, their voices faded, although there were other taverns, other voices. At one was a woman, singing as sweetly as a bird, with dark-red lips and a black skin. I turned in the direction of Caylus’ chambers.

Under the archway of his house, an old hag in black stood in the shadows selling paper charms—little birds, shields, flowers, pterodactyls, boats, animals. The little tissues fluttered in a slight draught blowing under the archway. Behind her, she had lit a smouldering charcoal enchanters fire; wisps of smoke rose from a tibia and a sprinkle of chicken bones. On impulse, I bought a paper shield and then mounted the wide stair.

No answer came to my call at his door. I pushed it open, vexed that he might not be here after what he had said. Company I needed, and Caylus’ easy laughter.

In his chambers all lay quiet. Something told me that the room in which I stood had but recently been vacated—some vibrance in the air, some disturbance in the golden motes floating between window and rug. Sunlight created its grid pattern on a limited area of floor by his couch. In the air, a faint scent was discernible, faint but luxurious, so that I stood there in a pleasant reverie, as still as the room itself.

Once I said his name aloud. I remained where I was in the middle of the gold-flecked room, the door still open behind me, the cries of the street coming to me only distantly. I looked about me, bewitched by the flavours and the room’s sense of rest. Caylus’ few books, his many engravings, his altar, his table with a flask and two empty glasses on it, his fernery, his phonograph, his water clock, and his couch, covered by a rumpled silken spread. On top of the spread lay an amber object no bigger than a sparrow’s wing.

Even before reaching the article, I recognised what it was. The tortoise shell glowed in slatted light, its two little horns thrusting upward like the tender retractile eyestalks of a snail. It was a plectrum of rare design, and I let it rest in my hand.

Caylus’ time had been better occupied than mine! Pulling up a chair to the table, I set the plectrum in the middle of the table and sat down. Sprawling there, taking up his quill and ink, I composed an ironic quatrain to greet him on his return, whether alone or no. I tucked it under the plectrum.

Then I left the room. Strolling slowly downstairs, I passed the old hag and so into the afternoon street, heading toward my tailor.

Within the shade of a ruinous triumphal arch sat an astrologer. I sometimes passed his way when going to the theatre, if I was seeking to avoid my creditors.

We had astrologers enough in the city; the reason why I liked and noticed this one was his plumpness. Considering his trade, he was a cheerful-looking man. He sat in a creaking chair upon a little rough platform on which a rug of Oriental design had been flung, his books beside him, and gazed out across the rooftops to the trees beyond, with an expression suggesting he was on good terms with his own mysterious universe.