Benjamin Wood - The Ecliptic

‘Steady,’ Tif said, wobbling his gut. ‘That’s how it starts, you know.’

Quickman was now leaning down with the napkin held out for Nazar under the tabletop. She guzzled the food right from his hand. ‘I do realise,’ he said, ‘this means she’s never going to leave me alone ever again. But I’ve rather got used to her following me around.’ When the dog was done, he straightened up, looking for a spot to dump the slobber-stained napkin, deciding on Pettifer’s plate. ‘Oi!’ Tif said. ‘That’s revolting.’ And this set Quickman off laughing, then Mac. But the impulse for laughter made me feel so guilty that I had to gulp down some milk just to smother it.

Then Q got up and started gathering his empty dishes. ‘Knell, would you mind helping me take these over?’

I stared back at him.

‘The woman just sat down,’ Tif said. ‘You can manage all that on your own.’

‘I’ll help you,’ Mac said.

But I could tell from Q’s pointed expression that clearing the table was just an excuse to speak to me. ‘It’s fine,’ I told them, standing up to take their dishes. ‘I’m in the mood for some tea, anyway.’

Pettifer bunched up his eyes. ‘You two aren’t—?’ He leaned back, crossing his arms. ‘My God, I knew it — you are .’

Q said, ‘Are what exactly?’

‘You know what I’m getting at.’

‘No, Tif. Enlighten us.’

‘Together, he means,’ Mac said apathetically. ‘He thinks you’re an item. I’ve already told him he’s being ridiculous.’

At this, Quickman sniggered. Then he turned to them and said, ‘I should think Knell could do a fair sight better than me, don’t you?’

‘I’ll say,’ Tif replied. ‘But you don’t have to sneak around, you know. I’m fine with it.’

‘Thrilled that we have your permission,’ Q said. ‘To walk from one side of the room to the other.’

‘I’m just letting you know: I’d be hurt, but it wouldn’t kill me. The two of you getting together would make sense in an odd sort of way.’

‘Well, that’s really touching, Tif, thank you. Completely misguided, as ever, but touching.’

‘It’s straight from the heart.’ He grinned. ‘Knell’s staying quiet on the subject, I notice.’

‘Best not to engage with you in this mood, in my experience,’ I said.

‘Hmm.’ He made a face I could not read: nostrils tightening, tongue rolling across his teeth. ‘Go on then, lovebirds. Off with you.’

I went with Quickman to the ledge by the kitchen, where we left the plates for Gülcan, and then trailed him to the serving pass where Ender handed us both hot glasses of çay on saucers. Nazar was never far behind. At the condiments table, Quickman took three sugar cubes and dropped them in my tea without asking. ‘Keep your strength up,’ he said, then put four into his own. Stirring it, he leaned in and said, ‘Did you find much in his lodging?’

‘All kinds. Your lighter for one thing.’

‘Oh good.’

‘And—’ I whispered it: ‘Comic books. That’s what he was here for. He wrote them.’

Quickman puffed out his cheeks.

‘You’ve got to see them, Q. They’re so well done.’

‘How d’you know for sure that he wr—?’ He pretended to smile at a short-termer passing by us on the way to the serving pass. ‘How’d you know he wrote them?’

‘If you come over, I can show you.’

‘There’s a difference between drawing them and writing them. The stories aren’t always done by the same person.’

‘Well, I’m sure you’re right, but I’m certain he did both.’

He was waving now, affectedly, at Pettifer, who was turned on his chair gawping at us. ‘I need to shake off hawk-eyes over there before we do anything. How long has he been this way? Did I miss something?’ Peering down at Nazar, he said, ‘At least the dog knows when to be quiet.’

‘He’s always been Pettifer, if that’s what you mean.’

‘Well, perhaps I’m just losing my patience for his uglier side, I don’t know.’ Q lifted his çay glass, blew across it. ‘Listen, I finished the translation. Took me all bloody night, and I’m still none the wiser.’

‘What does it say?’

‘More adverts,’ he said. ‘But the last few are the strangest.’

‘In what way?’

‘I can’t explain it all now — Tif’s already making me feel guilty just for standing here. We should get back to the table.’ He paced alongside me, Nazar trundling behind. ‘Let me leave first, OK?’ he muttered. ‘Finish your breakfast, then come to my room when you can. I’ll be waiting.’

I had often wondered what possessed women to have romantic affairs, and now I could understand exactly what it was: operating in the margins brought out the most attractive qualities in men (decisiveness, attentiveness, mystery) and, somehow, all the sly manoeuvrings gave each brief connection more significance. But I had already chosen the man I loved, and Quickman — good friend though he was — would never be a suitable replacement.

‘It took me a while to work out the tone of the language, but my best judgement is, they’re photograph captions. From a travel brochure, perhaps. I’m not one hundred per cent on that yet. Have a listen—’

Quickman was perched on the edge of his desk, one hand in his pocket, the other clutching a legal pad. His pipe was laid on the windowsill. The curtains were open, but the gloom of the afternoon offered scant reading light, so his lamp was turned on, angled upwards. It gave him the backlit quality of the rocks in a fish tank.

‘ Goats wait to be milked by the village cheese-maker. And then, in brackets: Norwegian Office of Travel. ’ He smirked at me. ‘Any idea what that is?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘Me neither.’

‘Keep going.’

Quickman read on: ‘ Norway’s horses are experts in farming on sheer slopes. As the markings on this fine animal’s legs show, it is a Norwegian —no idea what the next word is, so I’ve left it blank— an ancient breed, highly prized amongst the locals. It goes on and on like this. Meaningless, really.’ He flipped the page. ‘ At fifteen hundred feet, the waterfall of the Seven Sisters cascades into the —I believe it says fjord , not creek or stream; it’s more specific than that— into the fjord at the village of Geiranger —that bit’s just written out in English, well, Norwegian, I suppose— almost four times the height of the Statue of Liberty. There is a permanent worry about landslides in this region. During the ice age, tumbling glaciers from the mountains widened the gorges into giant canyons. The Norwegian coast is a long sawblade of fjords, spanning thousands of miles. Pictured centre, local villagers eat a picnic of bread and curd with —’

‘Wait,’ I said. ‘Wait.’

Quickman lowered the notepad. ‘I’m fairly certain it says “curd” there, and not “jam”. But I can triple check it if you think it’s necessary.’

I needed a moment to think.

‘Knell, are you all right?’

I needed a moment.

‘What is it?’

The Norwegian fjords, I thought.

Skiers in Alta, Utah.

Oxen in Schneeburg, Austria.

Diamond Rock, Martinique.

‘They’re not from a brochure,’ I said. ‘They’re from a magazine.’

The realisation left me woozy. I had to rest my hand on the bed-frame.

‘How the hell did you get that — from bread and curd?’ Quickman said.

I could hardly explain it. My head was awash. ‘It’s National Geographic .’

‘If you say so.’ He stepped back. ‘You seem very certain about things all of a sudden. What am I missing here?’