The Weaver Fish (11 page)

15

For Anna, life at Chaucer Road had never recovered after the
Abel
accident. The contentment and easy companionship that sustained their separate professional lives seemed less assured. From once enjoying the spaciousness of a large house they now lived almost entirely in the new conservatory, where they had all meals and to which Edvard would bring work from his study and library. Pleasant as the space was for both of them, this radical resettlement felt eccentric and oddly impermanent, signifying to Anna withdrawal and distancing from what they had once shared.

The legacy of damage from the balloon crash was not limited to Edvard. Though her role in saving his life was universally praised, Anna regularly found herself intensely self-critical. It was not to do with her medical management. It was about the fact that she did not absolutely recognize Edvard when he was delivered so gravely ill from the jungle. It was a disappointment that some metaphysical bond had not immediately identified him against the evidence of her eyes. And it was her failure to dismiss categorically any doubt in herself and others about who that person was. She felt it as guilt, irrational and unfair to herself, and she didn't share it.

Another matter was again concerning her. On a recent visit to Mingle Lane, being a few minutes early for his appointment with Barbara Bokardo, Tøssentern had briefly visited the Ornithological Society's antiquated museum, situated only a few doors from her rooms. When he enquired of its aquiline curator about the artifacts and literature pertaining to the Asiatic condor he was met with astonishment. The reason for this was that earlier in the same week two Chinese gentlemen had sought the same material, which had otherwise lain dormant for decades. When it had proved necessary to impress upon them that items in
the museum collection were not for sale at any price, they became agitated and left very uncivilly.

This intelligence aroused in Tøssentern a sense of urgency around returning to the Ferendes and prosecuting the campaign against illegal logging. He had, of course, been in regular contact with Paulo about research progress and some administrative decisions, but Paulo also had disturbing news about the Chinese problem. He had managed to visit the lookout on the northern plateau just once, but was able to report that a much longer deepwater jetty had been built, and he had photographed a very large vessel alongside. Enormous sheds had also appeared near the shoreline. The areal survey of deforestation that they had set up was no longer adequate as the extent of destruction was now well beyond the range of their optics. Arising from this, Paulo had copied Tøssentern into an email to Nicholas requesting that he organize access to satellite imagery.

The idea of Edvard returning worried Anna, partly because he seemed unsure what form an anti-logging campaign could possibly take, and also because she knew he would be keen to locate and visit the
Abel
crash site. That would involve an arduous trek with, no doubt, physical and (she was sure) psychological risks. She advised that she thought it unwise that he interrupt his therapy programme. She argued again that it would be sensible to wait until Nicholas had completed his consultancy in Perth and returned to the LDI station. And privately, she was wondering whether she should take extended leave from the Compton to go as well.

Despite the Ferende preoccupation returning, Anna did have a sense that Edvard's moods were improving. His morbid silences were fewer, he seemed more focused on his research and happy to be writing again. There was some return of lightness and humour in their idle conversation. These changes she ascribed, as did he, to therapy. She started to accept more the peculiar confinement of their lives to the conservatory.

It was pleasing then, given that they had not entertained friends for months, when Edvard suggested they invite to dinner Penelope Loom, the recently appointed Fellow in Homeric studies at Nazarene, who was new not just to the college but to
Cambridge itself. Anna remembered enjoying her company at Edvard's Lindenblüten lecture. This was more like the old days, when they habitually were host to new Fellows, visiting scholars and graduate students. She immediately contacted Penelope and secured a date.

They decided to include Rodney Thwistle, a long-time bachelor friend and also a Fellow of Nazarene. Edvard telephoned him and explained the dinner's purpose.

‘Well, I'll bring Penelope, shall I?'

‘No, no, Rodney. She's bringing someone, I'm sure.'

‘No, no, Edvard. PH-D. Anna knows. We should talk about Nicholas.'

Thwistle hung up, leaving Tøssentern bewildered. He recounted the exchange to Anna.

‘Oh, PH-D. Actually PH-D PhD. How nice.'

Tøssentern's bewilderment was undiminished.

‘Penelope Hyffen-Dascher. I don't think you have met her, Edvard.'

‘What is she, a dynastic punctuator? A printer's devil's daughter's compositor? Should I type her en or em? How ... wide is she?' Tøssentern was enjoying the mischief, but Anna interrupted.

‘Edvard, of all people, you are the one who says always be respectful of names, never to make fun of them.'

Tøssentern looked undecided between contrition and fully abandoning the principle.

Anna continued. ‘It's aristocratic, from Saxe-Coburg or somewhere. Anyway, Penelope's an engineer. I know her from university. She's an editor. She'll be fun.' She reflected briefly on the match with Thwistle, and added, ‘That Rodney, what an old charmer he's turning out to be.'

In the event, Thwistle arrived alone, by bicycle, and PH-D a few minutes later, having driven from London. Penelope Loom and her companion Vissy were delayed by a gas leak in her neighbour's house that caused an invasion of emergency vehicles blockading the street. As she described the scene, the unpleasant odour, and hysterical public announcements to evacuate and avoid ignition
hazards, Vissy, with consummate theatricality, mimed striking a match and lighting an imaginary cigarette. As he drew upon it and exhaled through pursed lips, she admonished, ‘Vissy, put that out at once, you know we could all blow up.' Feigning surprise, he stubbed it out on the sole of his shoe. It was a virtuoso performance. Anna liked him.

After introductions, they sat at the long dining table in the conservatory. Both Edvard and Anna brought dishes from the kitchen, from which the guests were served. It was quite informal.

The purpose of the evening being to welcome Penelope Loom, much of the early talk was on life in Cambridge, the perils of cycling, property prices, and harmless chatter about Nazarene and its present Master. Tøssentern entertained with stories that even Thwistle hadn't heard, about a Nazarene Fellows' revolt in the 1870s when five logicians, calling themselves the Quintics, seized power. The chaotic, insolubly divisive two-year College Interregnum that followed ended only when Martin Gales, a gambler mathematician expelled from Oxford, was elected Master, and managed to rein back insurrection while clandestinely doubling, then twice redoubling, the Nazarene treasury.

When Penelope was asked about her areas of research, the discussion ranged from emergent glyph chirality to the nature of the heroic temperament, hermeneutics and the painstaking dissection of history from fiction, allegory from hallucination, amnesia from deception. Anna felt some anxiety that these themes of interpretation touched upon Edvard's recent preoccupations in his own life, around his recollection of the crash, and the obituaries.

But if he were disturbed, it didn't show. At one point, when Penelope mentioned the symbology of Cycladic figurines, Edvard rushed enthusiastically to his library and returned with a treasured example. It was passed around the table, each present offering an account of its meaning and purpose followed by a slightly boisterous round of applause. Interestingly, Vissy was the only one to imbue it with voice, speaking solemnly in what might have been a scholarly proto-Greek, or might have been nonsense. For the benefit of the others, he offered to translate, appearing to falter occasionally with the difficulty of the task:

He then briefly addressed the sculpture in its own language, respectfully bowed his head, and passed it on. It was difficult to discern the serious from the satirical in Vissy.

And this being a dinner party in Cambridgeshire, it wasn't long before the conversation shifted to the vicar of Postlepilty. The subject was raised by PH-D, who reported that the gossip in London's editorial circles was that Simon Vestry had not been seen since that first letter from Barnabas Bending inciting riotous correspondence in the
Tribune.
For the second time, Tøssentern left the table, returning with a file of papers and clippings. He selected the letter in question, musing aloud as he scanned it.

‘The Postlepilty symposium. Recognizing cant. I wonder how that will go. Anna and I couldn't even find the place.'

He passed the folder to Penelope Loom, who was the least informed of the party. The others were aware that no more theatrical reviews had appeared from Simon Vestry, but news of his disappearance was received with a good-mannered delectation for scandal. Tøssentern, always analytical, asked whether it was definitely known that Simon Vestry was a real person. Had PH-D ever met him? Might it be that he was an invention? Indeed, might he be an alter ego of the Reverend Barnabas Bending, himself the putative invention of Simon Vestry? Could it be that what they were witnessing was a mortal battle of two figments,
a battle for endorsement, to be elected real? Or was there a third party, a master who falsified both? And why stop there: why not a concatenation of masqueraders having its origin who knows where? These ideas were so antithetical to the presumed order of things that PH-D confessed an impatience to return to London, and (in a phrase offered by Tøssentern) inseminate the city rumour mill.

Anna had known PH-D since student days. Though reading different disciplines, they shared a love of flying, and met through their university aero club. Together, they founded
Altimeter
magazine, which was noticed, acquired, and closed, by UITA Press. Anna, very occasionally, would still write a less formal invitation piece for the aviation literature, but for PH-D, the joint passions for aerospace science and writing had scripted her life. After postdoctoral work on propulsion management about collinear Lagrange points, she had advanced more rapidly in the publishing than the engineering worlds, and was now the London-based executive editor of the prestigious
Aviation Reviews.

When the subject touched upon how she and Rodney had met, the less forthcoming Thwistle diverted the conversation.

‘What is it you do, Vissy?'

‘Well, I began as a classicist—not Hellenic, more declining Rome. Then declining fortunes, as a poet.'

‘What sort of poetry do you write?' It was PH-D who asked.

‘About incidents, characters. Not in the laureate tradition; nothing narrative, nothing pastoral.' He sounded reticent.

‘Not in the style of Modern Tedium, the elegiac parochial,' murmured PH-D.

‘Vissy, you should tell them about the rapper lyrics.' Penelope addressed the table generally. ‘He's been sensational; it pays more than poetry magazines, or academia for that matter.'

Her manner now, suddenly enthusiastic and slightly disinhibited, contrasted oddly with the serious, scholarly woman of minutes earlier. It was a display of admiration, and quite endearing.

‘You're a rap lyricist!' The voice and shift in posture betrayed PH-D as vastly impressed.

Vissy smiled politely, still reticent, evidently embarrassed. He,
too, seemed a different person from the one who had clowned about cigarette smoking during a gas leak.

‘Tell us about your characters,' asked Anna quietly. It changed the tone completely.

‘Those I inhabit or those I write about?'

‘I expect they're the same,' said Anna.

Vissy looked at her appreciatively. ‘Yes, they're essentially one. A visitor, uncertain with words.' He hesitated. ‘Often haunted, like all who have loved, by the past erotic.'

His voice and his look, still directed at Anna, were intense. She nodded slowly, returning his gaze.

‘The past erotic. It sounds like a tense, if I might say so. Is that the new grammar?' It was Thwistle. Anna suspected he was dealing with discomfort. She had a little herself. Vissy looked at Thwistle.

‘You are right. In poetry, it is the only tense.' From that point he was silent for a long time.

It was PH-D who returned to the subject of Simon Vestry, which had clearly continued to absorb her. She raised the matter as if there had been no intervening conversation.

‘We should be able to figure out who invented whom; after all, who came before the other?'

Tøssentern was the first to respond. ‘Well, that might not be sufficient. I think we should be mindful of the Halfpenny Set.'

‘That's not a coin collection, I take it,' offered Penelope. She had been shuffling through the Bending file, and seemed unaffected by Vissy's seriousness.

‘It could be—' began Tøssentern.

‘The cash reserves of a modern superpower?' The interjection was PH-D's.

‘But it's also about the limits of inference, named, as it happens, for Daniel Halfpenny.' Now the only response was inquisitive stares from around the table, and Tøssentern added, ‘Let me illustrate with an experiment.'