What Lot's Wife Saw (30 page)

“Dr Sanchez, you are presuming and I’ll not tolerate this!” I cut him off indignantly.

“I’m merely repeating your own words, Director, just to show how well I’ve taken them to heart,” smarmed Sanchez with a shallow bow.

I managed to escape the ring of doctors and strode into the hallway. For a moment I’d forgotten that the First Aid Station was at its end. It was forcibly brought back into my awareness when I heard the highpitched voice of the Treasurer rewarding the rapt attention of all the occupants of the Station with the gory details.

“… Just like that! Like a sack of potatoes they tossed me off the berlinga! What noble upbringing they all displayed! The Governor should definitely hear of their disgraceful shenanigans, but that sly Secretary buries all the incriminating paperwork!”

Some snide comment was aired about Secretary Siccouane and the room rocked with laughter. The voice of Pathologist Fernandez rose above the guffaws.

“… Last night they came to blows in the Opera restaurant.”

“Who was it brawling? The Priest and the Doctor?”

“Who else?”

There was an excited chattering that followed this and Regina’s name was mentioned twice before a new roar of helpless laughter drowned out any possibility of further eavesdropping.

I hurriedly unbuttoned my gown and headed for the exit. Spying the Head Nurse, I told him to assign Gerard Grousset to double shifts performing all the enemas, and to the night shift for the next four Saturdays, and, by the way, to get him to sweep my office too, but even that failed to lift my mood. The night was nowhere near as dark as I would have liked. My eyelids began getting caked with sand that stuck onto my tears and blinded me.

JUDGE BATEAU

… The young Governor had asked us all to attend the Sunday service at the Hesperides Metropolis. Was it our guilt-ridden behaviour that had precipitated his decision, or was our next humiliation waiting there? After that fiasco with the Black Ship, I became suspicious of his every word because it was impossible to know what was on that young man’s mind. Secretary Siccouane shouldn’t normally be allowed to attend services at the Metropolis since he didn’t reside in Hesperides and you could be sure that tongues would wag about that. Dr Fabrizio had been noticeably absent for years in the Metropolis, because of his vendetta with Montenegro, and he reserved his pew in a Catholic church on the far side of Hesperides. His unexpected appearance would add fuel to the Colony’s rumour and gossip industries.

The Metropolis is Orthodox, or rather became Orthodox since it was handed over to Montenegro, because here all temples of worship were built to a single design and they adopt the religion or denomination of the priest that presides. In any case, in the Colony, you don’t choose according to your faith, but according to your rank. The Metropolis, for example, where the Governor comes to worship, is an exclusive club for the upper echelons and in the struggle to obtain a pew reservation the field is open to Moslems, Jews, Orthodox, Catholics, Protestants, who socialise there but worship elsewhere. While the deceased Bera was alive, he’d always be found in his gold-trimmed pew come Sunday, ever the good example and representing the Consortium, whose interest in religion was evident since their whole advertising campaign is based on the Old Testament. The Colony was constructed on land with a rich Biblical past and our employers cultivate the connotations as it fires the consumer’s imagination and boosts sales.

If I leave aside the annoying smell of incense, which incidentally is burned to excess, and the fire and brimstone sermons of Montenegro, which inevitably bring on a headache, I’ve no problem with the Orthodox service even though I’m a Catholic. I follow it from beginning to end, as prescribed by my position, and I always remain for the discussion with the others in the grounds, where deacons offer cool lemonade, alcoholic drinks and sweets, along with the communion host. The ambiance is that of a social reception. There you’ll converse with the elite, comment on the events of the past week, analyse the Colony’s affairs, ask for favours, and grant requests to bypass red tape. In other words, you’ll enjoy the privilege of belonging to that group that lives in the most exclusive district, worships a few pews away from the Governor and hobnobs with those that run things. Sunday’s refreshments in the Metropolis grounds are one of the most attractive institutions that a medal bearer may enjoy. Leisurely enjoyment of each sip of lemonade in Bera’s entourage, plus the bonus of being the object of envy due to the glinting Star on our chest, is our privilege.

I was knotting my tie in front of the mirror on Sunday morning when I heard Eliza, my maid, engaging in an argument with the milkman on the doorstep. She slammed the door and began venting foul language as she came up the stairs. I was totally averse to learning what had happened. I’d no interest in minor incidents that had the potential to escalate, I’d far too much on my plate as it was. I stared at the bedroom door, willing it to stay shut. The door was kicked open. Eliza threw the little net with the milk onto the bed, shrieking that she refused to work for someone who was being ridiculed by all Hesperides. Unruffled, I continued to meticulously tie the knot, partly because I didn’t know which one of my questionable deeds had brought this on. Eliza accused us of indulging in orgies at the Palace and that was why the Governor had evicted the personnel and why the shutters wouldn’t open. It explained why I’d become an insomniac, why I drank too much and was always in a foul mood, always abrupt and rude to her and definitely why I’d end up in Hell.

I tried to control my anger – if the nights hadn’t been so lonely and my bed so empty I’d have long sent Eliza packing, back to the street cleaners’ quarter where she belonged. I asked her to bring me a clean handkerchief for my jacket pocket. Still in a temper, she opened the drawer, chose one and flung it at me. I picked up my belt and hit her across the face, the buckle drawing blood from her lips. She stood there stunned but didn’t utter a word. I’d never struck her before, nor had she ever considered that I was capable of it. I slotted the belt and buckled it around my waist. “My handkerchief,” I said calmly. Warily, she picked it up, folded it and pushed it carefully into my pocket. I spread my arms so that she might put my jacket on. I could feel her fingers trembling as she straightened it on my shoulders. “You’d do well to go to church,” I said and walked towards the door.

“Uncle Bernard, what’s happened to you? Why’ve you been like this since Friday?” she sobbed.

Was it just my idea or was I beginning to look very much like someone? The young Governor’s behaviour was beginning to have an odd effect on me and sometimes the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end when I looked in the mirror. I banished that awful thought and concentrated on the decision I’d taken the day before and must put into action. I still hadn’t decided on the best way to extricate Bianca from the Palace, even for a few hours, but she must be desperate for some fresh air by now, a change of scene. She’d been confined in Regina’s room for two days and three nights, wearing the Lady’s nightdresses and gowns since the pirate forbade her even to open a window.

Despite the fact that he hadn’t laid a finger on her, he insisted on keeping her imprisoned and the poor girl was going crazy. In the beginning I’d assumed that he’d taken a fancy to her – she’s no beauty, I must agree, but young Governors can run to offbeat tastes. I could understand that, accept it quite happily. I’d know what we were dealing with. Unfortunately he hadn’t made any move in her direction, apart from kissing her hand and being solicitous on the questions of her sleep and adequate nourishment. This didn’t strike one as normal.

I started climbing towards the Palace, having decided to ask the Governor’s permission to escort my daughter to church. I was worried about her mental health; she was slowly sinking in a torpor brought on by fear, and cutting down her interactions with her surroundings. She was continually lost in her own world and wouldn’t respond when you spoke to her. She’d draw meandroses with her finger on walls, pillows and shutters. She was wasting away with each passing day and would be reduced to skin and bones.

Reaching the Palace, I saw Regina coming down the stairs, wearing that linen suit speckled with multi-hued stains, and those silk stockings with gaping seams had acquired a number of holes. She dashed out of the gate and grabbed me by the arm. “He said ‘no’,” she muttered.

“Are you talking to me?”

“Yes, to you. He said no, you can’t escort Bianca to church because Bianca needs rest.”

I was speechless. But I hadn’t suggested it yet, or had I and couldn’t remember? I looked up, at the upper-floor windows. Through the slats of the sealed shutters, I thought I could see two terrified white eyes, like those of a wild animal in a cage. I shook my head angrily. “What nonsense, ‘Bianca needs rest’! Rest from what? She’s idle all day. Sleep, eat, sleep, and she probably doesn’t eat either. I’m certain that she hasn’t attempted to get him into bed, the silly little innocent – even the basics are beyond her.”

Regina looked at me as if I was unbalanced and she started to scream.

“Bateau, Bateau, you still haven’t cottoned on! You still can’t grasp that this man cannot be seduced? Wake up, Bateau! When he’s finished with us, we’ll be transformed into something beyond our imagination!”

I cautioned her to stop gesticulating and making a spectacle of herself because people were watching. I forced her to stand up straight and to walk with me, resting on my arm like a respectable lady and to shut up so that we could walk with as much dignity as her filthy garb would allow, and make our way down to the church, whose merry bells were beckoning.

There was a record turnout for the service because three days of a shuttered, silent Palace and the brushfire of the stories of the medal bearers’ astounding escapades had set alight the colonists’ curiosity. If nothing else, they’d be seeing the Governor who’d dropped out of sight since Thursday.

I watched as Dr Fabrizio walked to the church entrance with a quick step and a bowed head. His passage elicited whispering that erupted in his wake. The uproar caused by the appearance of Secretary Siccouane, however, was in another league altogether but that, in turn, paled by comparison to the pandemonium that enveloped Regina as she made her entrance in shredded stockings, escorted by the Judge rather than her husband. Captain Drake was already seated, his teeth working nervously on his moustache. We sought refuge next to him and were joined by Fabrizio and Siccouane. We felt like talentless actors who hadn’t been allowed to read their roles, standing helplessly in centre stage with all the stage lights trained on them and an audience that was about to break out into catcalls and whistles.

Drake leant over and asked me why Regina’s attire was so appalling, as if I was the one who had come between her and her free access to gowns and hats. Heads bobbed up in the air every so often as those at the back of the church were trying to catch a glimpse of the holes in the Lady’s stockings which those at the front were describing. Fabrizio’s unexpected and Siccouane’s unacceptable attendances were being commented on throughout the church, while the Governor’s gold-trimmed pew remained conspicuously empty, like an open mouth from which a myriad of questions arose and hovered like trails of smoke. The commotion was such that if I shut my eyes I could believe that I was in the market. This was the first time ever that I was impatient for Montenegro’s deep voice to boom from the pulpit.

I was relieved when the service began. The choir of psalmodists dampened the whispers, the Byzantine melodies drew the spotlights from us and breathing became easier. We hoped that it wouldn’t be long before the congregation was anaesthetised by the sweet, soporific, incomprehensible hymns and would forget about our presence.

It wasn’t to be. The liturgy didn’t provide the relief that we’d been hoping for because Montenegro had decided, today of all days, to be wracked by an existentialist crisis. He missed his cues to intone or chant, which threw the psalmodists into confusion. They tried a few dry coughs and a repetition or two in case he could be jogged back to form, but in vain. The Priest paced up and down, strode several times in and out of the sanctuary, waving his fists around angrily while being beset by sudden silences and seeming in total confusion. When it finally came time for the sermon, he launched himself into the pulpit with such vigour that he seemed to come within an inch of sailing over it and landing on our heads. As one, the first six rows recoiled and threw their arms up. He tried to keep his balance as if he was on a ship that was pitching in a rough sea. He looked at the congregation as if at a loss. He pulled the tattered copy of the Bible out of his pocket, opened it, found his page and read.

“Give me the people and take the goods for yourself.”

His eyes filled with flame. He waved the Bible in the air above his head.

“We read but we don’t comprehend! Genesis, chapter 14, verse 1: ‘And it came to pass in the days of Amraphel, king of Shinar; Arioch, king of Ellasar; Chedolamer, king of Elam; and Tidal, king of Goyim, that these made war with Bera, king of Sodom.’ How blind, how blind, perhaps if we’d had Bianca’s eyes we’d have seen it earlier. Verse 21: ‘And the king of Sodom said unto Abram, “Give me the people and take the goods for yourself.”’ All we are is a part-payment of an unholy deal, a debased barter!”

He raised his flashing eyes furiously to the heavens.

“This means, Yahweh, that we’re living in the year nought and Your Old Testament is to be read as a prediction. In vain, we search in the past to find traces of Sodom, for it has only now been founded. You had a Book of prophecies written and You allowed us to think, all this time, that it was historical. You’ve deceived us for forty centuries!”

He started walking up and down the pulpit like he was possessed and began muttering incoherently.

“It’s a mystery … who is he? Who can he be … The God of the Seventy-Five would never show himself … Dusan Danilovitz, you blaspheme! It’s just an inner debate, Lord … In antithesis with Jesus, who often begins phrases with the words, ‘I am …’ and who provides you with descriptions of his nature, the God of the Old Testament avoids doing the same. Ha! Who is he, then? Who … Careful, Danilovitz, you are nothing but a professor of the faculty of errors! Yahweh, my speciality is being the beneficiary of errors! My errors are committed for Your eternal glory!”