What Lot's Wife Saw (45 page)

I found Secretary Siccouane down at the docks biting his fingernails with worry. He whispered that there was considerable tension in the air and the dock workers were at it again. From the quays and wharves just out of our line of sight, we heard swearing and the sounds of flesh slamming into flesh. The fracas seemed to be heading our way and a few casualties hit the ground only metres away. Drake’s men, all six of them, hadn’t bothered to get up and were lounging silently on comfortable coils of rope. Fed up with the contradictory directives from above, the troops had replaced Navalle’s bullets, Gomez’s darts and Smailovitz’s nightsticks with their own favourite – avoidance. They watched from a safe distance and placed bets.

The Secretary rubbed his jaw. “You know what I’m thinking, Bateau? That this is some experiment. The Seventy-Five are testing the running of the Colony without a Governor.”

“If this keeps up, Siccouane, there won’t be a Colony, just its ruins.”

“Bateau, you have no idea. In the end, fear, anger and lawlessness will transform into something that you don’t suspect. It’s all been planned, down to the last casualty. Listen to me, I tell you. I’ve studied the Seventy-Five.”

I edged closer to sniff his breath to check whether he had become inebriated for the first time but concluded that he was drunk on his own sophistries. He seemed both impressed and frightened. He told me that the reason the pirate had stayed out of sight was that the experiment had a slight chance of failing. If this happened, the disaster would be blamed on the deceased Bera, since, ostensibly, he was still the Governor and it was his signature that legalised all the dubious decrees. That’d be a time when the pirate would appear, properly dressed, under his real name, and take over as the people’s Saviour. Who’d believe us if we swore that this man had been holed up all those days in the Palace, dressed as a corsair and forging Bera’s signature? Not a soul.

He took on the smug air of an expert. “I know the Seventy-Five inside-out!” he repeated.

“Siccouane, take your precious Seventy-Five and get lost somewhere together!”

Luckily, the Correspondence Ship hove into view at that moment, before I vented my pent-up frustrations on the puny Secretary. The unwieldy vessel made slow progress towards the quay. Grappled fore and aft, it was unceremoniously reeled landwards – how degrading for a proud sea-going ship! I’ve seen dead fish hauled on board with more decorum. My thoughts jumped to the frigate IEREMOI that must be in the throes of advanced decomposition by now, and my heart lurched from pain. We were truly unpardonable, I more than the others. I, the poor excuse for a Judge and an embarrassment to justice. I had never brought the guilty to trial, let alone convicted him, while there was still time to avert the catastrophe. I let Bera live like a king, and to choose his own time of death like a god. He was extinguished peacefully, ceremonially dressed and smiling – but unpunished. Bera didn’t deserve such a peaceful death; he was the instigator of all our guilt, the mentor of our decadence and guile. I should have strangled him while looking him straight in the eye so he could feel the magnitude of his crime and get a taste of what he had created. Now the opportunity had passed and the debt I owed weighed heavily on my shoulders. The hands that had not been wrapped around the neck of the one who had made them so dangerous could now only wrap themselves around my own neck.

Shame suffused me. Thank heavens that this Correspondence Ship was not captained by Cortez, whose glass eye managed to read the depths of your soul and whose nose could sniff your despair on your breath. As we watched the captain descend the gangway we could see how lucky we were. It was Captain Arnaud, glowing with bonhomie. Arnaud couldn’t see a crime even if you pointed at it. He was talkative, jolly, unbearably effusive and displayed the minimum amount of intuition and tact that a Consortium captain could have. He beamed his way down to the quay and promptly gave me a hearty whack around the shoulders.

“Bernard, my good Bernard, how the hell is it going in this Gold Coast?”

“We’re getting by, Arnaud.”

“Come now, understatements don’t become you people, your monthly salary is larger than the all ship’s crew put together. Charles, my tiny friend, have you shrunk further or is it only my impression?”

“I try not to take up too much space,” Siccouane replied testily.

Arnaud guffawed. “Witty, always witty, that was a good one, Charles. Okay, fancy making your way to my cabin to pick up your parcel?”

His hefty arms gave both of us a shove in the right direction, trying our tolerance. In the Colony we rarely used first names but Arnaud insisted on behaving here as if he was in civilisation. He introduced us to his first mate, who’d be the fourth member of the procession, and led us into his cabin.

I was thinking that the upheaval we were witnessing here might have associated ripples in the halls of the Consortium but I wasn’t at all sure that Arnaud was the best person to provide the intelligence. As Siccouane was unlocking the vault, I asked the captain how things were in Paris.

“It rains continually.”

“I mean, is everything fine with the Consortium? Have you seen anything new, anything strange?’

“Bernard, are you pickled again?”

“I’m asking because news takes such a devil of a time getting to us.”

“The demand for salt is increasing and the Seventy-Five are grousing, as usual, about your lousy port. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Siccouane sent me a warning glare to keep quiet. As if we could say anything to arouse this oaf’s curiosity. He opened the vault and asked me to help with the Box. We pulled it out and got it off the ship.

The streetlights were shining brightly enough so Arnaud decided that visibility would be sufficient and that we didn’t need to rope ourselves together. Siccouane and I immediately protested that the rope was absolutely necessary, today more than ever. Arnaud gave in to our insistence and he passed the rope through the hoops on the Box and then tied it around our waists. We tested the knots and, having instructed our escort to repel any colonist that got too close, we set off at a rapid pace. Startling the two officers with our haste, we nearly dragged them over.

“Damn it, you’re killing us,” Arnaud gasped.

“The Governor is waiting, he’s in a hurry!” Siccouane yelled, frightened by the crowd that was closing in around us.

As we drew near the Palace, we could see that the crowd had fused into a solid mass that had left only a narrow corridor leading to the gate. It was like open jaws that would crash together as soon as we attempted the gauntlet. We hurried forward and the crowd pressed in as we advanced. As I reached for the gate, a woman spat in my face and cursed me. “God will punish you!”

We ran across the garden and banged on the entrance door but Regina didn’t respond.We kicked the door and pleaded with her to open it. The mad woman had barred the doors, frightened by the menacing gathering. We were forced to show her the armed guard before she complied. Once in, the Secretary dropped the Box and grabbed her by the hair. Beside himself, he asked whether she’d intended to allow the crowd to lynch us. Regina stammered that she’d been doing us a favour and that inside the Palace tonight it was more dangerous than anywhere out of it and we should leave as soon as possible. We sent the officers off and instructed the six troops to patrol the garden until further notice. Siccouane fled weeping and sought refuge in his tiny office.

Wrought, I paced the lobby shouting for the Governor to show himself and see what his precious Colony was coming to. This couldn’t go on anymore. Regina was watching my outburst while clutching the banister as if her life depended on it. I fiercely demanded that she tell me where the pirate was. “In his room,” she answered in a quiet voice, but advised me not to disturb him. I pushed her aside and stormed upstairs.

On the floor where the bedrooms were, the fish-oil lamps were out and I couldn’t see the tip of my nose. I tried to orientate myself by memory. Flush against the wall, I felt my way along until I reached the Governor’s room. I barged in without knocking. It was in total darkness, but definitely inhabited. I could sense his presence but that was all. I repeatedly called him with no response. I looked in my pocket for my lighter and lit it. My mouth was totally dry from fear.

In the flickering of the flame I distinguished the late Governor Bera, the dead Bera, lying in bed. The corpse was on its stomach, wearing the ceremonial uniform with patent leather shoes and a hat with peacock feathers. He was exactly as we had found him dead a week ago, only this time his face was jammed into the pillow and his arms and legs were spread out. I was trying to understand how something like this could possibly have happened, since I remembered that we had torn that uniform in search of the key and that we had incinerated the Governor – in fact I myself had flung his dismembered body into the oven.

“Someone is superfluous in this room, Bateau.”

I jumped in terror. The corpse was talking, and was talking in the voice of the pirate. My lighter fell from my fingers and continued to burn on the floor as fish-oil lighters never extinguish, even when you want them to. The corpse didn’t fit the voice. I tried mumbling the name of Governor Bera without being sure which of the two Governor Beras I was addressing; the one I saw or the one I heard.

“The Judge must punish the guilty,” said a voice, which scratched me so deeply that I tasted my own blood.

This judge punishes only the innocent, the guilty slip through his hands. I was inexcusable, pitiful. I shouldn’t have waited so many years. It was too late for revenge.

“It is never too late,” said the voice.

What did it mean? That I could punish a dead man? Was a second chance being given to the cowardly Hermenegildo, who always belatedly remembered his duty? Who’d waited for Europe to be covered by the sea before he realised what he’d lost, that’s to say what he was always missing.

I approached the bed without believing I deserved such luck. I made out the nape of the dead man’s neck in the gloom and decided that this time I wouldn’t hesitate. I sat down carefully on the edge of the bed and wrapped my fingers round his neck. I felt a vein pulse under my fingers. He was alive. So dreams
can
come true! Hell had sent him back for me to punish. His arms and legs were spread-eagled as they’d been tied to the bedposts. The pirate was making this too easy for me. Even I could kill such a helpless victim. I didn’t want him facing away, however; I had to look into his eyes. I turned him over and his hat slipped down and released his black locks onto the pillow. From under the hat flashed my daughter’s terrified white eyes. Her mouth had been gagged and it was her limbs tied to the bedposts. All she could do was move her neck slightly under my vengeful grip.

I heard the scrape of a match behind me and a fish-oil lamp was lit, bathing the room in its glow. The pirate was sitting in an armchair with his jet black eyes impaling me. I could feel Bianca’s convulsive swallowing in my grip. She was having difficulty breathing.

“There are too many of us in this room, Bateau. Someone’s superfluous,” said the pirate.

I didn’t have the strength to continue squeezing but nor could I remove my hands as they were where they should be. It was the first time I was acting like a proper father but at the same time everything felt wrong.

“I must punish the guilty,” I explained to my daughter, hoping that she’d understand why I wouldn’t loosen my grip. This judge and father had no right to continue avoiding his responsibilities by pretending not to recognise them.

Bianca looked up fearfully. She swallowed, shut her eyes and stopped resisting. I felt a warm tear roll down onto my wrist. Bera would never have given up so easily, he’d have fought for his life. Bianca had to struggle or else she’d destroy everything. I tried to regain my impetus, to erase her face from my mind and replace it with the hated face of Bera, while at the same time ignoring those black eyes that were studying me from the armchair. I couldn’t.

“It’s all wrong!” I wailed.

I looked despairingly around me to find what was wrong. Then I realised that the only mistake in this room was me. I was superfluous.

I was hit by the beauty of the scene that, like an idiot, I’d been about to destroy. My daughter was exactly where I’d been trying for years to get her, in the Governor’s bed. I’d done it! This foolish creature who’d never understood what her father had expected from her when he’d sent her as a chambermaid to the Palace, had finally found her way to the Governor’s bed. I didn’t know how to apologise for my indiscretion. My daughter’s tears were burning the pillow but love always brings pain and the Governor’s love, blood. Bianca had reached the altar she’d been destined for, that she’d been born for. I made sure that her bonds hadn’t been loosened and I replaced the gag over her mouth. I got up, bowed politely to the pirate and left the room, closing the door behind me so that no one would disturb them.

DOCTOR FABRIZIO

… Perhaps the story of Sodom is not a myth. Perhaps the ultimate kingdom exists, one that’s defined by some innate limit, but when you go beyond that nothing terrible or supernatural occurs, simply your life dries up like a desert. Then you realise that Sodom is quiet, not raucous; it doesn’t reek of brimstone nor are there bodies being ravaged in the streets. In fact, there’s nothing in your surroundings that have changed, apart from you. Sodom is not a myth, although after so many centuries its story has become vague so you don’t know what exactly to imagine when you hear the word “Sodom” and you probably imagine what you would wish for rather than what you fear.

The days that passed were painfully empty and I doubted that the anniversary celebrations would provide any kind of relief, not because I considered it unlikely but because I was no longer sure it was what I wanted. I felt myself withdrawing from the simple pleasures of life, incapable of even feeling enjoyment from the little things that had previously enhanced my day. The pleasure of a good meal, the release of mirth triggered by a funny joke or the simple satisfaction of choosing a tasteful tie had all turned to ash. Life had become insipid and it passed me by as if it had nothing to do with me.