A Void (38 page)

Which contains, in its last paragraph, a highly

significant blank

"And so," says Savorgnan, finally rounding off his account, "it

was all up with Amaury Conson."

"By Baour Lormian, translator of Ossian," says Swann, using

with obvious satisfaction a florid oath from his childhood, "that's

a fascinating story all right. But I could point out a handful of

contradictions in it."

"I know, I know," says Savorgnan. "For, if my chronology is

right, Amaury's own fatality should not occur prior to that of

Yvon, his lastborn son. But whilst, worn out, I was snoozing

upstairs, am I right in thinking you told Squaw of Yvon's liqui-

dation?"

"That I did," Swann admits. "You know your onions, Arthur,

I must say. That wasn't what I was thinking of, though. What I

found contradictory was that, if your lunatic dad did away with

all six of your offspring - with Anton Vowl, Douglas Haig

Clifford, Olga Clifford Mavrokhordatos, Hassan Ibn Abbou

and that pair of sons that you brought up on your own and that

your papa would spirit away from you in a distant past - why not

you? By rights, your surviving such a holocaust is illogical."

"It's a fact that's also running through my own mind," says

Savorgnan, visibly quaking. "I know, too, that it'll soon swoop

down, thus putting a final point to all this horror that's blighting

my family."

But Swann again contradicts him.

2 6 5

"No, it's a final point only if you all know your lot, your
fatum,

as in all good fiction."

With a look of contrition, Ottavio Ottaviani tugs at his chin.

'That's right, Ottavio," says Aloysius Swann. "It's your turn

now to hold forth."

"But, boss," Ottaviani stubbornly insists, "my opinion isn't

worth a sparrow's fart - so it's always said."

"Now now, don't go putting on airs," says his boss jovially.

"I can't wait - and I know I'm talking for all of us - to find out

what you plan to say to us."

Ottaviani sighs and starts talking.

"It was on my third birthday that, in Corsica, in a public park

in Ajaccio, a tall, skinny chap cast a charm upon us, fascinating

us, luring us away into a wood, kidnapping us -"

"Oh God, it's my son!" howls Savorgnan.

"Daddy!" sobs Ottaviani, taking him in his arms and hugging

him.

"But, son," says Savorgnan, cuddling him in a spasm of patriar-

chal passion, "which of you is it - Ulrich or Yorick?"

"I'm Ulrich. That's to say, I was Ulrich at first. But I was

caught, along with my sibling, by a bandit, who taught us how

to snatch cocks and ducks from all kinds of country bumpkins,

and I was finally sold, for an insultingly low sum, I must say, to

a local infantryman from whom I think I got my vocation as cop.

Yorick was sold, too, to a carnival showman known as Gribaldi."

"So my son Ulrich is still living," says Savorgnan with a loud

sigh. "So you didn't fall victim to that Law, that 'I for an I'. But

what of Yorick?"

"Yorick took off with his carnival for Bonifacio, whilst Ottavi-

ani, by whom I was brought up, bought a small bungalow for

us in Bastia. I didn't know in which city Yorick was living. And

though, in my 20s, I occasionally had to go to Bonifacio for a

job, I couldn't find any hint of Yorick or his carnival.

"All I found out about him was his studying music - drums,

so I was told - and boarding a brig bound for Livorno, for that

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showman guy, an Albanian by birth, thus a Tuscan, had a wish,

prior to cashing in his chips, for a last, nostalgic look at that

district still so familiar to him from his youth . . ."

Swann laughs - abrupriy, harshly.

"You want to know if Yorick is still living? You want him

living, don't you, for that would imply your own survival. No

such luck, I'm afraid! Yorick got his about 25 springs ago . . ."

"Alas, poor Yorick!" says Savorgnan, his vision misting up.

"Voila," says Swann, brandishing a small black book. "Know

what this is? It's my adjutant Pons's account of Yorick Gribaldi's

dying:

Wasqu'lham: Today, Monday 28 July, a trio of conscripts is

found missing from our battalion's barracks at morning roll

call. Adjutant Boutz is furious:

"Six days!" Boutz shouts at his corporal. "I'm giving you

just six days to put your hands, and your handcuffs, on that

band of fucking good-for-nothings!"

But four days pass and our arrogant trio is still AWOL.

"Ifs Biribi for all of'm!"growls Boutz.

Boutz informs Major Glupf his commandant, who says in

his forthright way that his garrison must do all it can to catch

and bring back, a.s.a.p., living or not, hussars Pitchu, Folkoch

and Worms, to stand trial in a court martial, on an accusa-

tion of disloyalty to Wasqu'lham's population.

Glupf consigns his garrison to barracks, mobilising six bat-

talions, guns at hand, and promising thirty ducats to any

man with vital information to supply. But this award brings

in only a bit of salacious gossip that, frankly, has nothing to do

with anything. Rummaging through a train and dragging a

canal also fails to turn up trumps.

Now Boutz has to inform his major of an infantryman

going AWOL in his turn: Ibrahim, a Roman by origin, 25,

a corporal, a Military Cross and in addition Glupf s cousin!

And, in 24 hours, a Tuscan drum-major, Gribaldi, follows

suit, making 5 AWOLS in all, in just six days!

26
7

Boutz, running out of things to do, frowns. It's lucky that

his nation is not at war and that its King's dying, with lots

of public oratorios, has brought a modicum of calm and har-

mony to its population.

A furious Major Glupf insists on having a total blackout;

and, his confining his garrison to barracks proving hard on

local shops and bars, has to justify it publicly by giving out a

rumour (phony, naturallyj about an assassination of Lord

Horatio. Mobilisation, it's said, is about to follow any day.

Glupf also craftily finds out, during his inquiry, that our

skiving bastards had a point in common: about a day prior

to going AWOL, all had drunk a glass of schnapps in a

local bar,
Conscript's Arms,
adjoining a municipal abattoir

- a bar which has a barmaid, Rosa, with a notorious passion

for dragoons.

So, substituting civilian clothing for his uniform with its

dazzling gold braid, Oskar Glupf thinks it worth having a

look at this squaddfs hang-out. With a guard standing

watch not too far o f f , Glupf sits down and has a bock, paying

for it with a gold florin.

Noticing that Rosa is washing out cups and tankards in a

sink, Glupf starts chatting about this and that, but, by Saint

Stanislas, and notwithstanding all his cunning, gains noth-

ing for his pains.

His suspicion, though, is still stuck on this barmaid, who

(so common gossip has it), acting for a rival country trying

hard to suck his own into an all-out war, is guilty of inciting

his troops, doughboy and NCO, infantryman and dragoon,

hussar and spahi, to turn traitor. But, with six battalions on

constant patrol, with road blocks cutting off local highways,

how could anybody possibly find a way out? So it's Glupf s

opinion that his band of missing hussars is still lying doggo

in Rosa's bar.

But how to find out? That day, without any obviously

logical motivation, Glupf has Rosa's sink and its canalisation

2 6 8

dug up. Nothing. And pays a visit to Rosa's upstairs room,

tapping its walls, poking around on its roof. Nothing

again.

At last Rosa is brought in front of a military tribunal.

Without wasting an instant, and without mincing words,

an army solicitor shouts, "What did you do with our missing

hussars ? What did you do with Ibrahim, with Gribaldi and

with Worms, all of whom hang out at your bar? And what,

pray, did you do on Monday night, 28 July?"

But Rosa is a match for him.

"Worms? Gribaldi? Ibrahim? By all my holy saints, by my

darling Virgin Mary, I don't know any Worms, Gribaldi or

Ibrahim! Lots of troops hang out at my bar!"

"Harlot!" shouts out Glupf. "It's all around town!"

"I am? You liar! I got a boy of my own, a good boy, a

dragoon, who'll kill anybody that puts a hand on my body."

"Who is it! Who!"

"I obj-" a solicitor starts to say, until Glupf shouts him

down.

Finally an accusation of criminal disloyalty and incitation

to kill is brought against Rosa.

But in his own summing-up Rosa's solicitor shows that this

accusation has as its foundation not proof but only word-of

mouth, no convincing fact but only circumstantial supposition,

no probing point but only Major Glupf s wish, at any cost,

to vilify his antagonist.

So, to a standing ovation, with a host of "hurrahs" and

"bravos" and "attababys" from an approving public, Rosa is

found not guilty. Poor Glupf admits to losing - promising,

though, that only a fight and not a war is lost, that a day

will dawn, a day on which Rosa will find out who is truly in

command, a day on which Auschwitz will turn up its gas

- and strolls out whistling a military march.

Within six days of that trial, a commando attacks Rosa's

bar with a bazooka. Body upon body, carcass upon carcass,

2 6 9

is found, including Rosa's, but not including Gribaldi's or

Ibrahim's or that of any missing conscript. . .

"Now I'd call that totally unambiguous," says Swann, concluding

his curious account.

"Why, not at all," says Savorgnan, instantly contradicting him.

"I'm willing to go along with you on Yorick's going AWOL, but

not on his dying."

"Arthur's right - not on his dying," says Ottaviani, parrot-

fashion, hoping to sound brainy by imitating his dad.

"As Rosa's bar, not surprisingly, was blown to bits, with not

a wall standing," says Swann, "Glupf and his troops had to start

bulldozing away a mass of bricks and mortar and tiling and stuff,

and a watch was found, a charming rococo watch with, on its

dial, a ribbon of gold garlands of Arab origin - a watch, I might

add, which Yorick Gribaldi had bought just that month."

"But who's to know it wasn't a gift from Yorick to Rosa?"

"That's right - a gift from Yorick to Rosa," parrots Ottaviani.

"Hmm, all right," admits Swann, "on its own it isn't implicit

proof of Yorick's dying. But I'll furnish you now with a truly

convincing proof. This,
ab absurdo
, is my postulation:

"Assuming that Yorick
is
in fact kaput, all anybody has to do

is kill Ottavio Ottaviani, alias Ulrich Savorgnan, so that instantly,

according to that old family law, Arthur Wilburg Savorgnan,

having no son still living, will fall victim to it in his turn!"

"Cunning!" clucks Squaw.

"Inhuman!" shouts Savorgnan.

"Nazi!" spits out Ottaviani.

"And, in fact," says Swann almost nonchalandy, "I think I'll

find out if my solution works. First of all, I'll kill Ottavio, who's

starting to put my back up anyway."

"But why?" says Ottaviani imploringly. "I'm too young!"

"Now now, Ottavio, I want no grumbling from you," says his

boss. "Wasn't it obvious to you that a climax was approaching

fast?"

2 7 0

Ottaviani starts sobbing.

"But it's got nothing to do with -"

"Button your lip, you moron!" roars Swann, pounding him

on his skull. "Why don't you look at this communication that

was put into my hands not long ago?"

Swann unlocks his holdall, draws out a manuscript and hands

it to Ottaviani.

"Why Ottaviani?" asks Squaw, who was obviously not
au fait

with Swann's tactics.

"You'll find out," murmurs Swann, smiling sardonically.

"Aloud, Ottavio,
s'il vous plait."

Adjusting his lorgnon, coughing, swallowing, gargling,

Ottaviani gulps and, with a slightly pompous intonation, starts:

"I'm going to rock this child in his cot ," sighs Orgon, son of

Ubu. "I'm going to wolf down mutton, broccoli, dumplings,

rich plum pudding. I'm going to drink, not grog, but punch."

Orgon drinks hock, too, rum, Scotch, plus two hot brimming

mugs ofBovril to finish up with, which soon prompts him to

nod off. Running brooks drown out his snoring. I stroll to

rocks on which I too will nod o f f , with Orgon's dozing son,