Benjamin Wood - The Ecliptic

All he said was: ‘Jesus, Ellie.’

The walls were banked with wooden painting boards, turned inwards — there must have been over a hundred. Victor hardly paid them any mind. He was staring at the gleaming garland by the water boiler. It was hanging from the clothes-rail at the back end of the room. As he approached it, the radiance of the mushrooms was so strong that his whole body seemed floodlit. He moved even closer, shielding his eyes. ‘What are they?’ he said, clasping one of them in his fingers. ‘They’re unbelievable.’ But I did not answer. I was moving for the door, breaking through the hallway, through the lounge, and swinging back the kitchen beads. Victor did not call after me. He was transfixed by the shine.

Now the kitchen sink was faintly humming blue as well. Drips of the pigment had hardened on the edges of the mixing slab that lay inside the basin; flecks of it were on the handle of the muller, drying on the rack beside it. I felt a prickling elation, scoring along my spine.

With my good arm, I cleared everything from the table, sending food and dishes careening, smashing. I picked up the mural and laid it there, dropping it to the surface like a cut of meat. With my sore nails I picked at all the tape along the corners and the seam. I pulled at the plastic and lifted it away. There was a blush of pallid light. The canvas unfurled. It spread across the table, moist in my grip. It spilled over the edges, kissed my boot caps.

Victor clattered through the beads. He stood at the threshold, dazed. Three blue circles bloomed upon his lenses and I could not see his eyes behind them. I thought he was about to speak, but he stopped himself. He moved slowly to the canvas, knitting his hands behind his head. It was a gesture of surrender. He did not ask me any questions. All the darkness in the room was painted out.

This book could not have surfaced from my imagination without the generosity and support of a number of people. First, a special thank you to my former editor Jessica Leeke, who afforded me the time and space I needed to chase down these ideas and whose confidence in me was so important throughout. Thanks to everyone at Simon & Schuster, most particularly Rowan Cope, Jo Dickinson, and Carla Josephson. Thanks as ever to my agent Judith Murray and the team at Greene & Heaton; to Grainne Fox at Fletcher & Co., and Ed Park at Penguin Press. I am greatly indebted to Jonathan Lee, Karen Brodie, and the British Council for giving me the chance to live and write in Istanbul; to November Paynter, Anlam Arslanoglu, and the teams at SALT and Noa Apartments for hosting me so warmly while I was there. My eternal gratitude to Cansu Ataman, Caroline Hesz, and Machiko Weston for the various translations featured herein. Thanks to Shumon Basar, Robert Weston, Simon Johnson, Ellis Woodman, Funda Kucukyilmaz, Sema Kaygusuz, Sam Alder, Jack Cocker, Derek Dunfield, Peter Irving, Alistair Windsor, and the fine comforts of Galata Kitchen; enormous thanks to Professor Ian Crawford and Dr David Lloyd for assistance with research matters; to Birkbeck College and all of my supportive colleagues in creative writing. Thanks to the Hesz family, to my brother Nicholas for help with everything (NaCW!), to Katy Haldenby, and my family, especially my granddad for steering me on course when I most needed it. To JB and RH for inspiration. Above all, thank you to my wife Stephanie, whose love and understanding of me is the most extraordinary thing: every day with her is clarity.