Cloud Atlas (9 page)

Next thing I knew, found myself in a trench so deep the sky was a strip high above, lit by flashes brighter than day. Savages patrolled the trench astraddle giant, evil-toothed, brown rats that sniffed out working-class people and dismembered ’em. Strolled, trying to look well-to-do and stop myself breaking into a panicky run, when I met Eva. I said, “What in hell are
you
doing down here?”

Eva replied with fury! “Ce lac appartient à ma famille depuis cinq siècles! Vous êtes ici depuis combien de temps exactement? Bien trois semaines! Alors vous voyez, je vais où bon me semble!” Her anger was almost physical, a kick in your humble correspondent’s face. Fair enough, I had accused her of trespassing on her mother’s estate. Wide awake, I stumbled to my feet, all apologies, explaining I had spoken whilst dreaming. Quite forgot about the lake. Plunged right in like a b. fool! Soaked! Luckily the pond was only navel-high, and God had saved Ayrs’s precious Nietzsche from joining me in the drink. When Eva eventually reined in her laughter, I said I was pleased to see her do something other than pout. I had duckweed in my hair, she answered, in English. Was reduced to patronizing her by praising her language skills. She batted back, “It does not take much to impress an Englishman.” Walked off. Couldn’t think of a snappy response until later, so the girl won the set.

Now, pay attention while I talk books and lucre. Poking through an alcove of books in my room, I came across a curious dismembered volume, and I want you to track down a complete copy for me. It begins on the ninety-ninth page, its covers are gone, its binding unstitched. From what little I can glean, it’s the edited journal of a voyage from Sydney to California by a notary of San Francisco named Adam Ewing. Mention is made of the gold rush, so I suppose we are in 1849 or 1850. The journal seems to be published posthumously, by Ewing’s son (?). Ewing puts me in mind of Melville’s bumbler Cpt. Delano in “Benito Cereno,” blind to all conspirators—he hasn’t spotted his trusty Dr. Henry Goose
[sic]
is a vampire, fueling his hypochondria in order to poison him, slowly, for his money.

Something shifty about the journal’s authenticity—seems too structured for a genuine diary, and its language doesn’t ring quite true—but who would bother forging such a journal, and why?

To my great annoyance, the pages cease, midsentence, some forty pages later, where the binding is worn through. Searched high and low in the library for the rest of the damn thing. No luck. Hardly in our interests to draw Ayrs’s or Mrs. Crommelynck’s attention to their unindexed bibliographic wealth, so I’m up a gum tree. Would you ask Otto Jansch on Caithness Street if he knows anything about this Adam Ewing? A half-read book is a half-finished love affair.

Find enclosed an inventory of the oldest editions in Zedelghem’s library. As you see, some items are
v
. early, early seventeenth c., so send me Jansch’s best prices as soon as ever, and keep the tightwad on his toes by letting it slip you’ve got the Parisian dealers interested.

Sincerely,
R.F.

CHÂTEAU ZEDELGHEM
28TH—VII—1931

Sixsmith,

Cause for minor celebration. Two days ago, Ayrs and I completed our first collaboration, a short tone poem, “Der Todtenvogel.” When I unearthed the piece, it was a tame arrangement of an old Teutonic anthem, left high and very dry by Ayrs’s retreating eyesight. Our new version is an intriguing animal. It borrows resonances from Wagner’s
Ring
, then disintegrates the theme into a Stravinskyesque nightmare policed by Sibelian wraiths. Horrible, delectable, wish you could hear it. Ends in a flute solo, no flutter-bying flautism this, but the death-bird of the title, cursing the firstborn and last-born alike.

Augustowski visited again on his way back from Paris yesterday. He read the score and shoveled praise upon it like a boiler man shoveling coals. So he should! It’s the most accomplished tone poem
I
know of written since the war; and I tell you, Sixsmith, that more than a few of its best ideas are mine. Suppose an amanuensis must reconcile himself to renouncing his share in authorship, but buttoning one’s lip is never easy. But best is yet to come—Augustowski wants to premiere the work under his own baton three weeks from now at the Cracow festival!

Got up at crack of dawn yesterday, spent all day transcribing a clean copy. Suddenly it didn’t seem so short. My writing hand came unscrewed and staves imprinted themselves in my eyelids, but finished by supper. We drank five bottles of wine between the four of us to celebrate. Dessert was the best muscatel.

Am now Zedelghem’s golden boy. Been a v. long time since I was anyone’s golden boy, and I rather like it. Jocasta suggested that I move out of my guest room into one of the larger unused bedrooms on the second floor, furnished as I pleased with whatever catches my eye from elsewhere in Zedelghem. Ayrs seconded the motion, so I said I would. To my delight Prissy Missy lost her sangfroid and mewled, “Oh, why don’t you just write him into the will as well, Mama? Why not give him half the estate?” She got down from the table without being excused. Ayrs croaked, “First good idea the girl’s had in seventeen years!” loud enough for her to hear. “At least Frobisher earns his damn keep!”

My hosts wouldn’t hear my apologies, they said Eva should be apologizing to me, that she has to lose her pre-Copernican view of a universe revolving around herself. Music to my ears. Also re: Eva, she and twenty classmates are bound for Switzerland v. soon to study at a sister school for a couple of months. More music! It’ll be like having a rotten tooth fall out. My new room is big enough for badminton doubles; has a four-poster bed from whose curtains I had to shake last year’s moths; centuries-old Cordova peels off the walls like dragons’ scales, but it’s attractive in its way; indigo witch ball; armoire inlaid with burr walnut; six ministerial armchairs, and a sycamore escritoire at which I write this letter. Honeysuckle laces abundant light. To the south one looks over the grizzled topiary. To the west, cows graze in the meadow, and the church tower rises above the wood beyond. Its bells are my own clock. (In truth, Zedelghem boasts a good many antique clocks, whose chimes go off some early, some late, like a Bruges in miniature.) All in all, a notch or two grander than our chambers in Whyman’s Lane, a notch or two less grand than the Savoy or the Imperial, but spacious and secure. Unless I do something clumsy or indiscreet.

Which brings me to Madame Jocasta Crommelynck. Damn my eyes, Sixsmith, if the woman hasn’t begun,
subtly
, to flirt with me. The ambiguity of her words, eyes, and hand brushes is too consummate to be chance. See what you think. Yesterday afternoon, I was studying rare Balakirev juvenilia in my room when Mrs. Crommelynck knocked. She wore her riding jacket and her hair pinned up to reveal a rather tempting neck. “My husband wants to give you a present,” she said, moving in as I gave way. “Here. To mark the completion of ‘Todtenvogel.’ You know, Robert,”—her tongue lingers on the
t
of “Robert”—”Vyvyan’s so very happy to be working again. He hasn’t been this spry for years. This is just a token. Put it on.” She handed me an exquisite waistcoat, an Ottomanstyle silken affair, too remarkable in pattern to be ever in fashion or out. “I bought it on our honeymoon in Cairo, when he was your age now. He won’t be wearing it again.”

Said I was flattered, but protested that I couldn’t possibly accept a garment of such sentimental value. “That’s precisely why we want you to wear it. Our memories are in its weave. Put it on.” Did as urged, and she stroked it, on the pretext (?) of removing fluff. “Come to the mirror!” Did so. The woman stood just inches behind me. “Too fine for moths’ eggs, don’t you agree?” Yes, I agreed. Her smile was double-bladed. If we were in one of Emily’s breathy novels, the seductress’s hands would have encircled the innocent’s torso, but Jocasta is a more canny operator. “You have
exactly
the same physique Vyvyan had at your age. Bizarre, isn’t it?” Yes, I agreed again. Her fingernails freed a strand of my hair that had got caught in the waistcoat.

Neither rebuffed nor encouraged her. These things shouldn’t be rushed. Mrs. Crommelynck left without another word.

At luncheon, Hendrick reported that Dr. Egret’s house in Neerbeke had been burgled. Luckily no one was hurt, but the police have issued a warning to be on the lookout for gypsies and ruffians. Houses should be secured at night. Jocasta shuddered and said she was glad I was at Zedelghem to protect her. Admitted I’d held my own as a pugilist at Eton, but doubted whether I could see off a whole gang of ruffians. Perhaps I could hold Hendrick’s towel whilst
he
gave ’em all a sound drubbing? Ayrs didn’t comment, but that evening he unwrapped a Luger from his napkin. Jocasta chastised Ayrs for showing his pistol at the dinner table, but he ignored her. “On our return from Gothenburg, I found this beastie hidden under a loose floorboard in the master bedroom, with its bullets,” he explained. “The Prussian captain either left in a hurry or got himself killed. He stowed it there perhaps as an insurance policy against mutineers, or undesirables. I keep it beside my bed for the same reason.”

Asked if I could hold it, as I’d only ever touched hunting rifles before. “By all means,” replied Ayrs, handing it over. Every hair on my body rose. That snug iron fellow has killed at least once, I’d wager my inheritance on it, if I still had any. “So you see”—Ayrs had a crooked laugh—”I may be an elderly, blind cripple, but I still have a tooth or two left to bite with. One blind man with a gun and
v
. little left to lose. Imagine the
mess
I could make!” Can’t decide if I only imagined the menace in his voice.

Excellent news from Jansch, but don’t tell him I said so. Will post the three referred volumes to you from Bruges next time I go—the postmaster here in Neerbeke has an inquisitive streak I don’t trust. Take usual precautions. Remit my lucre to the First Bank of Belgium, Head Branch, Bruges—Dhondt snapped his fingers and had the manager open me an account. Only one Robert Frobisher on their lists, I’m quite sure.

Best news of all: started composing on my own account again.

Sincerely,
R.F.

ZEDELGHEM
16TH—VIII—1931

Sixsmith,

Summer has taken a sensuous turn: Ayrs’s wife and I are lovers. Don’t alarm yourself! Only in the carnal sense. One night last week she came to my room, locked the door behind her, and without a word passing between us, disrobed. Don’t wish to brag, but her visit didn’t take me by surprise. In fact, I’d left the door ajar for her. Really, Sixsmith, you should try to enjoy lovemaking in total silence. All that ballyhooing transmutes into bliss if you’ll only seal your lips.

When one unlocks a woman’s body, her box of confidences also spills. (You should try ’em yourself one time, women I mean.) Might this be connected to their hopelessness at cards? After the Act, I am happier just lying still, but Jocasta talked, impulsively, as if to bury our big black secret under littler gray ones. Learnt Ayrs contracted his syphilis at a bordello in Copenhagen in 1915, during an extended separation, and has not pleasured his wife since that year; after Eva’s birth, the doctor told Jocasta she could never conceive another child. She is v. selective about her occasional affairs but unapologetic about her right to conduct same. She insisted that she still loves Ayrs. I grunted, dubiously. That love loves fidelity, she riposted, is a myth woven by men from their insecurities.

Talked about Eva too. She worries that she was so busy instilling a sense of propriety into her daughter, they never became friends, and now, it seems, that horse has bolted. Dozed through these trivial tragedies, but shall be more careful around Danes in future and Danish bordellos in particular.

J. wanted a second bout, as if to glue herself to me. Did not object. She has an equestrienne’s body, more spring than you normally get in a mature woman, and more technique than many a ten-shilling mount I’ve ridden. One suspects there stretches back a long line of youthful stallions invited to forage in her manger. Indeed, just as I nodded off for the last time she said, “Debussy once spent a week at Zedelghem, before the war. He slept in this very bed, if I’m not mistaken.” A minor chord in her tone suggested she was with him. Not impossible. Anything in a skirt, that’s what I heard about Claude, and he
was
a Frenchman.