Benjamin Wood - The Ecliptic

Under Quickman’s desk light, the boy’s scrawled notes seemed like preserved exhibits. I still did not know what they meant. ‘Did you translate them yet?’ I asked.

‘Some of them,’ Q said.

‘And?’

‘They’re extremely odd. Not dissimilar to the boy himself, in all honesty.’ He picked up the cards and turned back through them. ‘These ones, for example. They read like advertising copy. Some sort of public health notice from the United Fruit Company — I’m not joking. I’ve translated to the best of my ability, but still, there’s something awkward about the language. See what you make of it.’ He slid open the drawer of his desk and brought out a yellow notepad with his own writings in pencil. And removing his pipe, he read:

‘ How to add life to your years —dot, dot, dot— and years to your life —exclamation mark. You’ve probably noticed it among your own acquaintances. Some people at sixty or even seventy seem to be doing more, and having more fun at it, than others who are fifty, or even forty— exclamation mark . Chances are, if you could look closer into their lives, you’d learn a few things. They chose the right parents. Open bracket: Heredity —possibly lineage, that word, not sure— has something to do with it. Close bracket. They find joy in their work. Open bracket: That has a lot to do with it. Close bracket. You might discover that the people who live longest and enjoy life most are people who eat enough of the right kind of foods. For a properly balanced diet, medical scientists —possibly just doctors there, but medical scientists seems more correct— medical scientists can literally slow up the ageing process. Slow up. Sounds very American, doesn’t it? Hang on. Lost my place now. . That means plenty of proteins — the building blocks that keep your body in a state of good repair. Vitamins and minerals — the protective foods that keep your eyes shining, your hair and skin in good condition— dot, dot, dot— and your whole outlook on life brighter. Energy foods — the fuels your body has to burn to give you vigour and enthusiasm. ’ Q widened his eyes. ‘I’m not sure you need to hear the rest.’

‘Is that all of it?’ I said.

‘No, there’s more. Plenty more.’ He leafed through his notepad, clearing his throat. ‘ That is not to say you have to eat a lot. In fact, as we grow older, we need less food. The important thing is to eat a wide variety of the right foods. For instance, take a banana. Take it— exclamation mark —peel it, eat it— exclamation mark . It’s satisfying and nourishing. Vitamins and minerals are there in well-balanced supply and wholesome natural sugars to give you energy. Slice a banana into a bowl and pour milk on it —dot, dot, dot— you’re adding proteins to keep your body in good repair, as well as consuming —don’t know what that word is —and bone-building —possibly bone - growing, there— calcium. Easy to fix. Again, that’s quite American. Easy to fix. Easy to eat. Easy to digest. In fact, doctors often recommend bananas in cases of severe digestive disturbances. And you don’t have to feel very hungry— open bracket —or even be very old— close bracket —to enjoy this simple treat— exclamation mark. And then the tagline: United Fruit Company. For health, eat and enjoy a plentiful variety of the right foods. ’ Quickman tossed the notepad aside and clamped down on his pipe again. ‘If you can tell me what any of this relates to, I’d be very glad to know. Because I’ve spent the past few hours working on all that and it still baffles me. I mean, who the heck was this lad, anyway, if this was the nonsense filling his head?’

I did not have the answers for him. ‘All I know is that we didn’t do enough for him while he was here.’

Q said nothing.

‘Have you translated any more?’

He sighed. ‘About half of them. There’s an ad for Cadillac and the Encyclopaedia Britannica , and one for Zenith hearing aids. I’m officially bemused.’

‘Please keep at it,’ I said. ‘They’re all that’s left.’

‘I will.’ He scratched his beard, leaning back. ‘Any distraction at the moment is a welcome one. Except—’ He straightened up, swivelling to catch my eye. ‘They’re not quite all that’s left. I mean, he came here with a bagful, didn’t he? There must be other things in his lodging we can save.’

Fullerton’s window was boarded with plywood. ‘Just for now,’ Ender said. ‘I can order tomorrow some glass.’ He unlocked the door for me, flipped on the wall-switch. A stark fluorescent haze brightened the studio. I tried not to look towards the threshold of the bathroom, where my last sighting of the boy was still imprinted in the space like some trick of the light. There was a stink of Ajax in the air. The concrete floor had been mopped dry and the boy’s bed had been stripped. His guitar was stored above the wardrobe. ‘What’s wrong with the lamps?’ I asked, seeing they were all unplugged.

‘For safeness,’ Ender said. ‘We have to test.’

The boy had a large drafting table, similar to Pettifer’s, though his was tilted at a sharper angle against the wall. There were no sentimental images from home tacked up on the plaster behind it, no inspiring prints or clippings, as you might have found in other studios. The materials on his workbench were quite meagre: a few coloured pens and pencils; a pot of red ink, a pot of blue; a graphite stick and blotting tissues. ‘I will come back soon, yes?’ Ender said.

I nodded. ‘Thank you.’ But it struck me that I should not let the old man leave without pressing him for answers. ‘Hang on. Ender?’

He was halfway out the door. ‘ Evet .’

‘Did you come across a note at all? When you were cleaning up the place?’

‘Excuse me. My English. .’

‘A note —’ I made the action: left hand paper, right hand pen. ‘Did the boy leave a note?’

‘Foolertin?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Fullerton.’

The old man shrugged. ‘There was nothing like this, I don’t think.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes. Very sure.’

‘The provost doesn’t have it?’

He shook his head. ‘No. No. There was nothing like this.’

I had been thinking all day about the circumstances of the boy’s death, and I had concluded that nothing ought to be assumed. Everyone was behaving as though Fullerton had killed himself — even Quickman had swept to judgement on the matter, though he seemed to be wavering on it now — and I still had misgivings. I had seen the odd effects of the boy’s sleepwalking, after all, the full influence of his dreams, and I reasoned that his drowning in the bathtub might well have been its consequence. Accidents like these were possible.

‘I can go now?’ the old man said.

‘Yes. I won’t be long.’

‘I will come back for you soon. To lock it. The wood I leave outside your door, OK?’

I nodded.

The neatness of the room was troubling — it had been forced back into order after cleaning, and the placement of the boy’s possessions was too overtly conscientious. I dragged the desk-chair to the wardrobe and brought down the guitar. Its wooden hips were damp at the edges, watermarked. As I thumbed the strings, it made the most unmusical sound. The thinnest strings were missing, in fact, and so were the little white pegs that secured them. When I laid it on the bed, I heard something clattering inside the body of the instrument. I had to shake it upside down, expecting the pegs would drop out, but a jeton fell onto the mattress instead.