The Malacia Tapestry (6 page)

‘I am interested in the work you offered me, if you would be kind enough to tell me what exactly you require.'

‘Come back this evening. I have business now. I will then talk with you.'

I looked at Bonihatch, who stood ready with his stick.

‘I may have become a monk by evening, but I'll see what I can manage.'

Love, what a power it is! Nothing but love could have induced me to enter that dreary court three times in one day – and what dedication I showed, for the lady had revealed herself to be uncertain-tempered, vain, and I know not what else besides. Also irresistible.

How wise one feels to be a fool of love!

‘Even a fool can do this job,' Bengtsohn said. ‘Is why All-People indicated an actor, I suppose.'

By night, moving behind smoky lanterns in intermittent shadow, Bengtsohn looked almost sinister, his sunken eyes sometimes hiding, sometimes glittering, in their sockets. His long fingers were talon-like as he wove his explanation.

‘I told how I have discovered the method to mercurize real views through the zahnoscope, so that they have become implanted on glass slides. My ambition is to tell a story by such methods. People I need, actors. A simple story to begin. Big acorns from little oaks grow. I will mercurize the actors against real or painted settings. The product will be of an extraordinary originality and cause certain consequences. You shall be one from the four characters in the simple drama. The scenes of the drama will be emblazoned on glass far more faithfully than what artist could ever depict. This will be the real image, painted by light – light, that great natural force what is free for all, rich and poor alike.'

Keen to make him look a little less inspired, I said, ‘It will only be like a stage play with the action stopped, and paralysis suddenly overtaking everyone.'

‘You players are so ephemeral, your actions sketched in the air and then gone, the whole thing forgotten when the final curtain will come down. But when you are mercurized through the zahnoscope, why, then your actions become imperishable, your drama continuous. I will not mind wagering that the drama what you will enact for me will still be viewed by connoisseurs after you yourself will have grown old and died, young Perian!'

At that, I had to laugh. He was cutting an absurd figure, stroking an old japanned magic lantern with fluted chimney as he spoke, as if he expected a genie to emerge.

‘And what is this great drama you wish me to perform? Are we to put Sophocles or Seneca on glass?'

He came closer. Then he took a turn away. Then he returned, and clutched my hands in his. Then he dropped my hands and raised his to the sky.

‘Perian, my life is beset with difficulties and hedged by enemies. Let there be trust between us, as well as business also.'

‘You told me when we met that you had enemies and the State had eyes.' The proposition was somehow more reasonable here in the stuffy darkness of his workshop than it had appeared in the sunlit street.

‘We must each trust each. We are both in a same situation – namely we don't have no security in the world. I am old and have a wife for to support, you are young and free but, believe me, the gods – and society, more important – are against us both. That is a political situation. I have two passions, art and justice. As I grow more old, justice becomes more importanter. I hate to see the poor grinded down by the rich, hate it.'

‘That's a natural law. I intend to be rich one day.'

He scratched his head and sighed. ‘Then we will defer justice for a day later and instead talk about art. Is that more to your taste?'

‘Tell me about your drama.'

He sighed again, staring about the untidy workshop, shaking his head. ‘Young men care so little.'

‘You have no business saying that. Why do the old always hold the young in contempt? I'm a fine actor, as you can discover if you enquire, and my art is my life. My life is my art. Tell me about this drama of yours, I ask you, if you want my help.'

‘My dear young man … Well, let's keep to art if you wish it! I have a love for all the arts,
all
the arts, including the drama, though I am always too much poor to pursue them. For the first mercurized production, I have written a contribution to drama, entitled
Prince Mendicula
: or,
The Joyous Tragedy of the Prince and Patricia and General Gerald and Jemima.
'

‘A striking title. What is a Joyous Tragedy exactly?'

‘Well, Doleful Comedy, if you will – minor details aren't too clear in my mind yet – clear, but not too clear … I have some troubles with
detail
. Indeed, for simplification on to glass, I plan a drama
without
detail …'

‘Am I to be Prince Mendicula?'

He beamed, showing his shortage of teeth. ‘You, my dear boy, you have insufficient years for to be Prince Mendicula. You shall play the dashing General Gerald.' And he began to unravel the beauties of a plot which would enrich, if not indeed terminate, world drama. I paid what heed I could. As he talked with increasing rapidity, he took me to a lumber room and showed me some props for his drama. They were very poor, the clothes almost threadbare.

My interest in Bengtsohn's affairs was generated by the understanding that they would involve the divine Armida Hoytola. I began to see that there might also be profit for my career here; Bengtsohn was supported by a powerful patron, the Hoytola family, and, if the novelty of his mercurized melodrama were to catch popular fancy, it would be advantageous to have my name associated with it.

I broke in on the old man's account and said, ‘Will you not let me play the Prince?'

He drummed the fingers of his left hand upon his stringy cheek. ‘Gerald is more suitable for you. You might make a good general. You are not venerable enough for Mendicula.'

‘But I can make up my face with beard and black teeth and a patch and what-you-will. Whom have you marked out for this princely part?'

He chewed his lip and said, ‘You understand this is a – what's the word? – yes, unproved venture. We all take a chance from it. I cannot afford to pay for more than one real player, and that is yourself. Your looks and modest reputation will help. Whereas to play the Prince I rely on one of the boys in the workshop, the not ill-favoured man called Bonihatch.'

‘Bonihatch? With the yellow whiskers? What acting experience has he? He's just an apprentice!'

‘For a mercurized play, little acting is required. Bonihatch is a good man, what I depend on. I must have Bonihatch, that's my decision.'

‘Well. The others? Princess Patricia?'

‘For the Lady Jemima, with whom the prince is captivated, I will hire a seamstress who lives in this court, by name Letitia Zlatorog. She will be happy to work for a pittance. Her family has a sad history what exemplifies injustices. Her uncle is a friend of mine, a friend of poverty. A pretty girl, too, with quite an air about her, is little Letitia.'

‘And what blazing bundle of talent and beauty is destined for the role of Princess Patricia?'

He gave me another mouth-numbing smile.

‘Oh, I thought you had discovered that. The success of our enterprise, alas, depends heavily on my employer. So we are exploited. To satisfy his whim – and not from other reasons – the role of the Princess Patricia will be played by Armida Hoytola. It is a consolation that she is not ugly.'

‘Armida as Patricia … Well, you know that my art is all to me. It comes as a surprise to learn that Armida, whom I scarcely know, is also to act in your drama. Even so, I will work with you for the sake of this marvellous new form of drama you have perfected.'

‘Arrive here punctually at eight of the morning and that will suit me. There'll be time enough for speeches then. And let's keep secret the enterprise for a while. No boasting, if you can withstand it.'

It is a curious fact about old people that, like Bengtsohn, they do not necessarily soften if you speak them fair. It is almost as if they suspect you of being insincere. This trait manifests itself in my father. Whereas you can always get round friends of your own age.

But Bengtsohn was civil when I appeared next morning, cutting me a slice of solid bread-and-blood pudding for breakfast; he even paid me half a florin in advance for my work, from his own pocket. I helped him, his wife, and Bonihatch load up a cart with the things he needed, including the zahnoscope, a tent, several flats, and some costumes, before the others arrived. As we worked a true seigneur rolled up, the great Andrus Hoytola himself stepping down from his carriage.

Andrus Hoytola was a well-built, dignified man, lethargic of movement, with a large, calm face like a pale sea. He wore a flowered silk banyan over pantaloons that buckled at the knees. He had white silk stockings and his feet were thrust into slippers. His hair was done in a short stumpy queue tied with grey velvet ribbon. He looked slowly about him.

I gave him a bow. Bengtsohn made a salute and said, ‘We are getting forward with our matters, sir.'

‘One would expect so.' He helped himself to a pinch of snuff from a silver box and strolled across to regard the zahnoscope. I had hoped for an introduction; none was forthcoming. My consolation was the sight of his daughter Armida, who alighted from the other side of the carriage.

Her reserve was perhaps to be accounted for by the presence of her father. She evinced no surprise and little interest that I was engaged to act with her in the drama of
Prince Mendicula
; her attention was rather on her dress. Like her father, she was fashionably garbed, wearing a plain
decolleté
open robe of ice blue with long, tight sleeves which ended in time to display her neat wrists. When she walked, her skirts revealed a hint of ankle. A fragrance of patchouli hung about her. And what a beauty she was! Features that tended towards the porcine in her father were genuinely inspiring in Armida, especially when they lit as she said smilingly, ‘I see that the walls of neither monastery nor barracks have closed about you yet.'

‘A blessed reprieve.'

The cart was loaded and harnessed to a pair of mules, black of visage, long of ear, and inclined to foam at the mouth. We climbed on or walked behind, while the Hoytolas returned to their carriage. Bonihatch explained that we were heading for the Chabrizzi Palace beyond the Toi, where our play would be enacted.

The Palace of the Chabrizzis was set in a striking position at no great distance from Mantegan, where Katarina passed the days of her married life. The Palace was built under a last outcrop of the tawny Prilipit Mountains, to stare loftily across the city.

Within its gates we rolled to a stop in a weed-grown courtyard. Two urchins played by an elaborate fountain. Windows confronted us on all sides, straight-faced. To one side, cliffs loomed above the rooftops.

Everything was unloaded and placed on the flagstones. Armida climbed from her carriage. Her father merely sat back in his seat and suddenly, at a whim, drove away without speaking further to anyone.

Bonihatch made a face at Bengtsohn.

‘Looks as if the Council didn't make up their mind regarding the hydrogenous balloon.'

‘Or maybe the zahnoscope either,' said Bengtsohn grimly.

‘I'd prefer you not to discuss my father's business,' Armida said. ‘Let's get on.'

Later, the mule-cart was driven off. While a primitive outdoor stage was being set up, Armida talked to a timid girl in work clothes. I went over to speak with them and discovered that this was Letitia Zlatorog, the little seamstress engaged to play Lady Jemima.

It would be difficult to imagine anyone less fit for the role, although she was pretty enough in an insipid way. She was pale, her hands were red, and she had no mannerisms. She appeared all too conscious of the honour of meeting a player from the great Kemperer's company. I took care to appear rather grand; nevertheless, when Armida's attention was elsewhere, I slipped an arm about her waist to set her at ease.

Even more strongly than before, I felt that I, as the one professional member of this ludicrous cast, was entitled to play the Prince, and so be married to Armida. I knew how the simulated passions of the stage often translated by sympathetic magic into genuine passions off stage; to think of the cocky apprentice Bonihatch embracing Armida was not to be borne.

Having failed to convince Bengtsohn on this point, I took Bonihatch himself aside, intimating as tactfully as I could that as mine was the name which would win audiences, mine should be the right to play the title role of Mendicula.

‘Think of this as a co-operative enterprise,' he said, ‘in which all work as one, not for profit or fame, but for the common good. Or is such an ideal too much for your imagination?'

‘I see no disgrace in fame as a spur! You talk more like a Progressive than a player.'

He looked at me levelly. ‘I am a Progressive. I don't wish to make an enemy of you, de Chirolo. Indeed, we'd all be glad to have your co-operation. But let's have none of your fancy airs and graces round here.'

‘Take care how you speak to me. I imagine a good thrashing would impress you.'

‘I said I didn't want to make an enemy of you –'

‘Now now, young gentlemen,' said Bengtsohn, bustling up. ‘No quarrels as we inscribe a new page in the massive volume from Malacia's history. Give me your hand to setting up this ruin.'

He had some flats representing a destroyed town. Bonihatch and other apprentices went to his aid. I tucked my arms under my cloak and made myself look tolerably moody, remarking to Armida, ‘This is a melancholy old place. What has become of the Chabrizzis? Did they all kill themselves in a fit of spite, or have they gone to look for the Lost Tribes?'

‘Poor Chabrizzis, they squandered several fortunes in the service of the Nemanijas and Constantinople. One branch of the family turned to Mithraism. Of the remainder, one of them – my great grandfather – married into the Hoytolas, though for a noble to marry a merchant's daughter was generally condemned. They both died of the plague within a twelvemonth, leaving a little son. So their history may be reckoned, as you say, a melancholy one. All the same, I love this old palace and played here often as a small girl.'