Salamander (5 page)

He awoke to find his mattress shuddering beneath him. Fearing some calamity – an earthquake, a flood, a peasant revolt – he parted the heavy crimson curtains. His chamber, if there had indeed been one, had vanished and his bed was moving along a curving passageway into a spacious hall, gilded and corniced, lined on one side with deep window alcoves pouring ice-light. From a vaulted firmament of cloudscape and cherubs hung a chandelier, a bloated glass spider. A tall pier glass stood between each alcove, and in the sudden bedaz-zlement of reflected brilliance Flood did not at first see the elderly man in an old-fashioned campaign wig and hussar’s
uniform, sitting at a table giving orders to a small group of liveried servants. The old man glanced at Flood’s bed arriving and clapped his hands twice sharply.

The assembly broke up. Servants and their wavering mirror-twins hurried towards one another and then all these moving bodies, both real and reflected, vanished with a ripple as concealed doors silently opened and closed like the valves of some giant undersea creature. The old man, alone now in the centre of the great hall, beckoned to the printer, who still had not emerged from his refuge behind the bedcurtains.

– Good morning, Mr. Flood. Welcome to Hrad Ostrovy. I trust you slept well. No need to be alarmed. All is functioning as it should. Come, join us for breakfast.

Flood ducked back behind the curtains, searched frantically, and then stuck his head out again.

– Your Excellency, I haven’t got my clothes.

The Count raised a finger.

– Yes. Just a moment.

A panel in the ceiling above Flood’s head slid open. A wicker basket was winched down to him by unseen hands. He took the basket off the hook from which it hung and found inside it his clothing, discarded in a heap at the foot of the bed last night and now cleaned, pressed, and perfumed. By the time he had hurriedly pulled on his shirt, waistcoat, breeches and stockings and had climbed cautiously down from the bed, the Count was hunched over the table, busily attacking his breakfast.

Irena had joined him, Flood was alarmed to see. And a man somewhat older than himself, strikingly handsome, wearing the skullcap and black cassock of a cleric, his long raven hair tied back in a queue.

The Count greeted Flood this time with a hearty grunt and offered him a less opulent and noticeably shorter chair than his own.

– I gather you were still asleep when the shaving machine stopped by your bed. That would have been … six-forty-five, by my reckoning. You didn’t hear the bell?

– The bell? I –

– You’ve met my daughter, the Count said.

– Good morning, Mr. Flood.

– And this is the Abbé de Saint-Foix, from Quebec.

– Of course, Flood said, startled, the name immediately familiar to him before he knew why. The writer of –
what was the book called?
He had never met anyone quite this famous, and all at once found himself red-faced and groping for words.

– All Europe, he tried, is talking about your novel –
how do you address an abbé?
– Monsieur.

The Abbé acknowledged the compliment with a smile and a barely perceptible nod of his head.

– Have you read the Abbé’s book? the Count asked Flood.

– Not yet, Excellency.

– Well, I have. I never read made-up stories, as a rule. They are, to my palate, mere concoctions of spun sugar, but since the Abbé’s
conte philosophique
speculates on ideas of interest to me, I made an exception.

The printer sat down, disoriented and still dazed with sleep. As he turned at the sound of his bed trundling slowly back down the way it had come, a wheeled tray laden with dishes rolled up beside him. Numbly he took a platter heaped with pig trotters, spiced eggs, and an assortment of braided, looped, and knotted pastries. The tray clattered out again.

Flood glanced cautiously at the Count, intent upon the pastry roll he was buttering. Conscious of the fact that he had not yet washed or shaved, the printer could not bring himself to look directly at Irena. Out of the corner of his eye he took in her primrose-coloured morning gown, the lace cuffs embroidered with tiny silver violets, her quilted white satin petticoat that flashed in the light as she reached across the table to pour her father some coffee. Catching sight of his dishevelled hair in the polished silver coffeepot, he thanked Providence that at least he was in clean clothes. Mumbling a quick grace over his food, he picked up a knife and fork and began to push things around on his plate, still too overwhelmed to dare plunging a utensil into anything.

He was so dazed he almost did not hear the Count asking him the same question Irena had asked the night before. He stammered a polite reply.

– And what did you think of my ship?

– It took some getting used to, Excellency.

– Did it? I confess that answer surprises me, coming from someone like yourself.

– It does?

–
Light am I
, the Count intoned,
yet strong enough to carry a man away. Small am I, yet within me multitudes sleep, waiting to be awakened. Silent am I, yet my words cross great distances and never falter
.

– A book, Flood said after a moment’s thought.

– Not long ago, the Count said, brushing at the flakes of pastry lodged in his moustache, I purchased a library from a retired colonel in Boston. One of its volumes was a book of yours.

Another panel in the ceiling opened and a servant in red livery appeared on a descending platform, vigorously brushing
a pair of knee-length riding boots. He caught Flood’s eye and, with a lopsided grin that spoke of resignation in the face of madness, disappeared through a trapdoor in the floor.

The Count dug in a pocket of his dressing gown and pulled out the
Conjectural Treatise on Political Economy
.

– I’m sure you recognize this.

Flood nodded.

– One of my first commissions. For a philosophical society in Dublin.

– Well, somehow or other it found its way to New England. I would be willing to wager that your so-called philosophical society is in reality a revolutionary cabal. With chapters on both sides of the Atlantic.

– I would know nothing about that, Flood said. I print what I am asked to print. What people do with the books after they leave my shop is their own business.

He quickly bit into a bread roll, alarmed at the resentment that had slid into his voice.

– Of course, the Count said. What goes on in your nation’s disgruntled colonies concerns me very little as well. To tell you the truth, I was surprised to learn that there are such things as libraries in the American wilderness. I had always thought it inhabited only by painted savages and woodsmen.

While he was speaking, the Count had been removing each nested volume, until the innermost book sat in his palm.

–
The great do devour the little
. Ingenious.

– Excellency, I am –

– Indeed you are, Mr. Flood. A clever man. My daughter will tell you of my delight when I first saw this.

Flood raised his eyes to Irena.

– We were both very impressed, Father.

– And now, said the Count, at last – he closed his hand slowly around the tiny book – you are here. And I will tell you why. I am building a library like no other. A library of one-of-a-kind volumes, oddities, editions consisting of a single, unique copy. But there is yet, in spite of all my efforts, one book that has always eluded me. Rather than continue to search in vain, however, I’ve decided to have it printed for me.

– You have the manuscript.

– No.

– Then there’s the matter of obtaining copyright, I suppose.

The Count snorted.

– Copyright. That is most amusing. To whet your curiosity, let me say that the text of this book has never been attributed definitively to any known author. And in fact, I’ve never even set eyes on a manuscript. Intrigued?

– And mystified.

– Glad to hear it. I surmised from your work that you would be one to accept a challenge.

Flood bowed his head.

– Your generous offer has –

– Yes, yes, the Count said, scratching at his wig and stirring up a cloud of powder. I have an idea, a chimera, you might say, that I hope you will be able to help me with. The finished work will be my property, of course, although you will be allowed to imprint the colophon with your device. You will find I am not parsimonious with credit where it is due.

– Thank you, Excellency.

The Count returned to his breakfast. Irena lifted a porcelain sauce boat shaped like a Spanish galleon and poised it over Flood’s cup.

– Chocolate?

– Please.

She poured him a full cup of the thick steaming liquid, and it occurred to him he had never had a cup of melted chocolate in his life. He took a trial sip. It was good. Very good. He took another, longer gulp, savouring, then looked up, met the Abbé’s amused gaze, and set his cup down with a clunk.

– Nothing quite like it, the Abbé said. Hearing a voice as smooth as the dark ambrosia he had just tasted, Flood realized these were the first words he had heard the man speak.

– Did you know, the Abbé went on, that to the Aztecs chocolate was a sacred drink? They used to offer it to their most distinguished victims, the ones considered worthy of having their hearts torn from their chests to feed the gods.

Flood let out a nervous, barking laugh and quickly bit into a crescent-shaped pastry. I
will not make another sound at this table …

– Here we don’t show our guests such courtesies, Abbé, Irena said. They usually leave with their hearts intact.

– I confess I find that hard to believe, Countess.

Flood glanced back and forth at the two of them, aware of a world unknown to him, where wit and flattery flew like shuttlecocks. The Abbé set his knife and fork down in the middle of his plate and sat back, stroking his immaculately shaven chin. Apparently he hadn’t been so unexpectedly awakened, and Flood wondered whether he was a guest or a permanent resident. The slightest of smiles hovered at the edges of his full-lipped mouth, the kind of careful almost-smile Flood had seen time and again on men of a certain distinction who desired the services of a skilled and discreet printer. I’
m here but I’m not really here
.

– My daughter is in charge of the books, the Count said
without looking up. She will explain to you how we have arranged everything.

– I will, Father, Irena said.

The Count’s head shot up again.

– Assistants, he said through a mouthful of sausage. I expect, Mr. Flood, you’ll require assistants for the project I have in mind.

– I most often work alone, Flood said. But I would certainly welcome any –

– I have just the fellows for the job, the Count said, stabbing his fork in Flood’s direction. Wait until you see them.

Glancing into the passageway down which his bed had disappeared, Flood saw a horse being led by a groom. He looked at Irena, whose line of sight also must have included the apparition, but she was busy pouring her father another cup of coffee.

– I see, the Count said, that the brewing machine has finally stopped cranking out that godless Mahometan gruel.

– I made the coffee, Father, Irena said. We tried all morning to repair the faulty valve, but it needs a new –

The Count’s wrinkled hand paddled the air.

– We will have a look at it later.

– If I may say so, Excellency, Flood ventured, I am more concerned about
where
I am to work. I would imagine I could be most productive if a room were set aside –

– Set aside? the count growled, sitting back in his chair and dabbing at his lips with a white silk napkin. A room
set aside
, the fellow says. Young man, have you any inkling – Has no one, my daughter or some other member of my household, explained to you the workings of this castle?

– I arrived quite late last night, and as yet no one has explained anything to me. In any case, a printing press must be bolted down to prevent jarring and shaking.

– Of course, the Count said, blinking. He tilted his head back and gulped down his coffee. Of course. I will have my head carpenter discuss the matter with you later today. I am sure we will be able to arrive at some kind of suitable compromise. In the meantime, my daughter will provide you with a basic plan of the castle, and the latest timetable, to help you navigate.

– I’ll see to those now, Father, Irena said, rising and nodding to the Abbé and Flood in turn. She glided noiselessly away, her long gown concealing her feet so that she seemed to slide across the floor like one of the castle’s mechanisms. There was something in her carriage, Flood noticed for the first time. An odd stiffness.… He followed her with his eyes until a deep, sonorous
bong
, more a felt vibration than a sound, jolted him back to his former circumspection. He glanced quickly at the Abbé, who was regarding him now with a slightly more corporeal smile. As the reverberations of the sound died away, one of the pier glasses slid upward and a wall, panelled and wainscotted, began to slide outward into the room. At the same moment, another pier glass on the other side of the room also opened and a second wall began sliding towards the first.

A movement from the Abbé drew Flood’s attention back to the table.

– I will take my leave as well, Excellency, the Abbé said, rising and brushing at his black cassock.

– Off to work with you then, my handsome friend, the Count said over his shoulder. You cannot disappoint those fair readers who are no doubt panting in their corsets waiting for your next offering.

The Abbé bowed slightly and then turned to Flood.

– I hope we will have more opportunity for conversation.
Our nations may be rattling spears at one another, but that is no reason for us to do likewise.

– Of course not.

The Abbé nodded, bowed again to the Count, turned smartly on his heel, and walked between the moving walls, which came together behind him with a soft click.

– Time, the Count said, checking the gold watch that hung on a heavy chain around his neck. Give us time, Mr. Flood. You will come to appreciate what at the moment seems only utter chaos.