Aurorarama (49 page)

Brentford thanked him, more moved than he allowed himself to show.

Finally, he reached Hyperboree Hall. It looked deserted in the cloudy moonlight, but atop the magnificent floor map, he could make out a dark shape, sprawled on its back all over Frislandia Island.

Brentford sat on the fountain ledge, unfastening his bow tie.

The shape made a move, and with a screech, a can of Ringnes beer slid upright toward Brentford.

“A drink. In a helmet,” said Gabriel, in a somewhat slurred voice.

Why is it that people were suddenly constantly pushing beverages on him? Did they want to
poison
him? Brentford chuckled to himself. He wondered how long it would be before he took that threat seriously. He took one sip.

“How was your day, then?” he asked.

“Ups and downs, you know,” answered Gabriel, who had done nothing all day but running and jumping to avoid the odd stray bullet. He had seen the revolution from above, like little figurines in a model city, and however much he approved of it, he found that was the best view of it. But mostly, he had been mourning his lost love.
Thinke now no more to heare of
warme fine-odour’d snow:
such was his
serrat
, now, the magic formula that was only his own and by which he would live henceforward. His thighs ached from his repeated leaps and he had taken a pinch of Sweet Surf Silicium to cool down a little. He lay on his back, tides and ebbs of white noise in his ears, the only man to hear the motionless waves of the frozen sea as they crashed upon the shore. He looked through the dome openings and thought of the light of the stars and how it belonged to everyone, like the air or the earth. Who could be so vain and stupid as to claim that as his own? He tried to shake himself from his lethargy.

“So we’re on to some Golden Age?” he managed to say.

“It seems,” said Brentford, not sure himself if he was joking or not. “It is now officially the land of milk and honey. Money will flow and manna will fall. I heard you already had a gift from Hardenberg, by the way.”

The answer came back with a curious lag.

“It’s a farewell present from Stella, actually. It must be close to you, on your left.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Brentford said. Wasn’t today supposed to be a celebration? A day of solace for every wrecked marriage or love? He had not noticed in the dim light the frame resting against the fountain. He lifted it and moved it about until he could faintly see something. It was some sort of Renaissance engraving.

“Looks nice. What is it? Dürer?

“The
Seven Trumpets are Given to the Angels.”

“It looks like it’s on parchment.”

“Almost. It’s fresh human skin.”

Brentford shivered and put down the framed tattoo with disgust, as if he feared to have bloodstains on his hands. He did not want to know more about this atrocity. He had found revolution easy, but apparently it had been harder for some.

No wonder Gabriel did not feel too happy or talkative. He could understand, he thought. When he had shown him the first draft of
A Blast
, Gabriel had said that the only true community worthy of that name that he knew was that of lovers, a society against society. Now that Brentford had got his own community, Gabriel had lost his. But Brentford’s community was meant to be shared, and he would see that Gabriel got a piece of it. Or two.

“The twins miss you. They seem to appreciate you.”

“They’re swell kids.”

“I wondered if you would be interested in being, let us say … hmm … 
Prime Preceptor for the Dauphin-Doges.”

“I have nothing to teach to those miniature Elagabaluses.”

“I meant in a more general way than in bed.”

“
I
meant in a more general way than in bed. But precisely, yes, I want to hump them, not corrupt them.”

Brentford laughed.

“Nice curriculum. It’s no wonder you’ve been a success story in Doges College.”

“I supposed charges were to be conferred through a democratic process, anyway,” said Gabriel, with as much gentle tease as his weary, far-out voice allowed.

Brentford was about to answer that this could be arranged, but he corrected himself. This was how, he supposed, things had started with the Councillors. Dignified, decent, dutiful men who had suddenly let themselves believe that things could be arranged a little here and there, until everything was defaced and distorted.

“Well. I suppose there won’t be many candidates, anyway,” Brentford said.

“If I’m sure to win, that’s different. Put me in. Just add
Plenipotentiary
to the title. The word fascinated me when I was a child.”

Plenipotentiary. Indeed it was a potent and portentous word. As was Regent-Doge. Brentford felt the responsibility weighing on him again. His revolution had been, almost literally, a gala dinner. It was as if the Council had never had a chance. The Seven had reached some invisible limit, the edge of the world that they themselves had created, and had run out of their own reality. All that was needed was a little push to send them reeling over the top. Almost everybody had wished and waited for someone else to give this nudge. It was as if the dream had tunnelled from consciousness to consciousness and finally crystallized. Today they had all pushed together a little at the same time.

In the end, Brentford was amazed at how many allies he had with him: the Scavengers, the Aerial Anarchists, the Sophragettes, the Navy Cadets, the Inughuit. Even the Subtle Army and the Varangian Guard had deserted before they knew it themselves. He had carved himself a magic wand from the d’Ussonvilles’ crooked family tree. He had the blessing of the Polar Kangaroo, which was a little like the soul of the city. Helen had not helped as he had expected, maybe, but was he so sure? She had given him a rendezvous at the Pole for March 1, and this was, in a way, exactly where he was sitting right now on the map, except the appointment was only with himself, or with his own North Pole. And she had promised, hadn’t she, that she would feed the city. No. She was here as well. Watching over him in her usual unfathomable way.

He had so many cards in his game right now that he would have needed a Siamese twin to hold them all. More cards, even, than the Seven Sleepers had ever had, more than anyone would ever have again. But it was now that things were going to be difficult. Revolution is not only revolution. It is slowing it down. Living up to it. Learning the legerdemain that changes promises to compromises.

His mind drifted off toward blueprints for a new constitution. A Council of the Commonwealth, with members elected by all the inhabitants from each of the Seven Sectors. The Council would designate the Organizing Officers. Their charges would be held for one year only. (Even his own? Wouldn’t he need more time?)

He shrugged. Whatever it was that he put on that paper, he knew that once it was built, it would work as well as a square wheel, and that the Commonwealth would always threaten to turn into a Commonwaste. Because, as it was written in
A Blast
, “some were wise, some foolish, some subtle and cunning to deceive, others plain-hearted, some strong, some weak, some rash and angry, some mild and quiet-spirited.” Because it would be his dream or vision, but not their dream or their vision. They all would live together under the same flag, playing at being a nation, but the only flag that would truly represent them would have to be a Penelope’s shroud woven and unwoven for someone who would never return, someone who had never been there. A banner as moving, as ever-changing, as ephemeral as the images under one’s eyelids before one falls asleep.

Through the archway and stained windows, colourful lights of all hues began to play more brightly, more wildly on the icicles of the fountain. Gabriel mumbled something to himself that Brentford could not make out. He came closer.

“The aurora, the aurora,” Gabriel muttered.

Yes. There could be no better flag.

Later, a thick, steady snow began to fall. Somewhere along Barents Boulevard, on the half-collapsed stands, the forgotten wax effigies of the Seven Sleepers had remained seated, slightly tilted, on the armchairs that propped them up. The surrounding street lamps gave a pale yellowish hue to their faces and a
deep black sheen to their clothes, until the flakes dotted them, then covered them in patches, getting stuck in their beards and their eyelids. Their glassy eyes, faintly glinting in the gaslight, seemed to be all turned in the same direction: that of two small huddled figures sharing the same duffle coat, who stood in the snow, watching them in silence.