The Library of Forgotten Books (7 page)

Eventually Faulkner speaks, louder, without turning: “So, was it you? Did you kill her?”

Behind them stands the cadaverous man, Victor Jackson. He holds a gun.

Jackson laughs: “So, Laurence, what do you reckon? You want to come back in, or not?”

Laurence and Faulkner slowly turn.

“Sure,” Laurence says, “I want to come back, Victor. I want to come back and let you guys in the service work me over. I can’t wait.”

Two women, arm in arm, all floral dresses, each holding an umbrella to keep off the sun, come around the deck, take a look at the scene. “Oh, my god.” They scamper back.

“It’s war, Laurence,” says Victor Jackson. “It’s war between us and the Chinese, and you’re a traitor. Who knows what you told. We’re going to find out one way or another.”

Faulkner steps forward.

“Whoa there.” Victor points the gun at Faulkner. “And you...I know all about you, boy. Remember what I told you about life, about it being nasty...and short. Don’t shorten it now.”

“Well, you’re an educated man, Victor. Me, I’m kinda uneducated. But I still know what’s right. I still know you killed my China Doll. And I always thought you were just a crooked cop. But I guess the cops weren’t really your first priority, were they?”

“Well, maybe I killed her and maybe I didn’t.”

“If it wasn’t you it was someone like you: some faceless man; some trained killer.”

“Now you’re sounding like the commies yourself. So, Laurence, you going to come in, or am I going to have to kill you here?”

“You’re going to have to kill me here.”

“Righto.”

A shot goes off and all three of them stand there, as the smoke slowly curls from Victor’s gun. Everything seems silent after the explosive noise of the gunfire.

Faulkner leaps and reaches out as Victor turns the gun in what seems an agonisingly slow movement. Christ, thinks Faulkner, I’m not going to make it. Another shot goes off, but Faulkner lashes out and strikes something. The gun clatters on the ground and Faulkner crashes into Victor and then rolls clumsily on the deck.

By the time he’s up, Victor is already at the gun, bending over. Like a bear, Faulkner stumbles forward and stomps. There’s a crack and Victor groans as he pulls his hand away from the gun which is still under Faulkner’s foot.

Victor lashes out with a fist, but Faulkner, still stumbling out of control, is already past him and the blow glances off his shoulder. He turns and the two of them, both searching for breath, stare momentarily at each other. A coldness has come over Victor’s eyes, now squinting and rat-like.

Above them clouds cover the sun and everything seems grey and cold. Faulkner feels something soft on his face. He touches it and finds it’s wet. It has started, ever so gently, to rain.

I always seem to be in the rain, he thinks, at the precise moment that Victor charges him, his body low, and Faulkner, with the deftest of little moves, an almost inconsequential flick, takes Victor’s hand, twists his own body, and sends Victor flying over the railing and into the sea. Victor’s body hits the water with a crash and the prow pushes past him. An arm is raised in the churning water, and then a half-submerged head, which courses along the side of the boat and is caught up in the churning wheel. The body, like a wet rag, is picked up and suspended by one of the wheel’s great blades, which spins rapidly, the body just a fleck of colour, and strikes the water with a splash. And then there’s silence.

“You’re quite a number yourself,” Faulkner says to himself. Faulkner looks to the sky which is now black and bruised. He turns back to Laurence. There’s no blood to be seen, but Faulkner knows it can’t be good. He steps over and Laurence is coughing and wheezing and his pale complexion seems whiter with the death-sheen that Faulkner recognises.

“Looks like I’m gonna get there before you,” says Laurence and coughs again. “Look after yourself, son. If it makes you feel better, she really liked you.”

Faulkner nods as he looks down. “I wonder why,” he says.

“You know why,” says Laurence but Faulkner can’t stand the discussion and doesn’t reply. A moment later Laurence closes his eyes, his body starts shaking uncontrollably, as if he is having some kind of fit, his breath rattles like a train over a bridge, and then he stops breathing altogether. Above them the heavens open and the rain becomes a torrential downpour of cold, cold water. Laurence’s face is terribly old and lined around the eyes, as if there are canyons on his face.

The clack-clack-clack rolls out over the land as the train, a great mechanical beast, rattles on. In a carriage Faulkner leans back, the bottle of Chinese dream-dust on a white-clothed table before him. He rocks gently with the motion of the train. The rattle reminds him momentarily of something which he pushes from his mind. In front of him lies a paper. “Heavy Defeat on Chinese Coast” and “Labour Party refuses to end war”.

From the window Faulkner can see the great inland sea, glistening in the midday light. Everything is painted in brilliant kaleidoscopic colour: tall red and yellow flowers emerge from swamps, the grass-lands are a deep and luscious green, the sea water a light aqua, darkened only by the shadows of schools of fish moving restlessly beneath.

Three giant lizards, eight-metre long goannas, drink at the edges of the sea; one of them cranes its neck to peer at the passing train before returning to the water.

Around the curve of the coast the Inneminkan Metropolis rises, a hundred futuristic spires gleaming in the sun. Between them what looks like kilometres of industrial works—great arrangements of interlaced piping and tanks—runs along the shore.

The lush Australian heartland, centre of industry, thinks Faulkner. What a strange country this would have been, without the inland sea: just a far-off hell, dry and dusty, the big nowhere. But there’s no plenty here for me. Oh no. No inland pleasure-garden will satisfy me. Not now, not after all that’s happened. There’s only one place for me, and that’s to go back.

Faulkner leans forward, pours a small pile of dream-dust into his hands, and sniffs it. Slowly he places his head down onto the table before him, and closes his eyes, and he slowly slowly fades to the past where he dances with Lucy in the middle of a room, a band playing
Smoke Gets In Your Eyes
behind them. Chinese lanterns throw a warm glow on the wooden floorboards. Lucy’s red dress, with golden dragons on it, shimmers in the light. Even Faulkner’s suit seems sharp and clean. The forms of other dancers are silhouettes moving softly around them.

“You’re quite a number,” says Faulkner.

“Don’t make me throw you again.”

“Well, I always like it when you’ve got me on my back.”

“You know who wears the pants in this relationship.”

“Definitely a number.”

“What’s on tomorrow?”

“Let’s not talk about tomorrow. Let’s just have tonight. You and me and tonight.”

And the world descends back into darkness, like a ship sinking slowly beneath the waters.

TALES OF CAELI-AMUR

Lovers in Caeli-Amur

 Anton Moreau stepped from his carriage, dressed in his finest suit, his long sleeves puffing out from beneath his jacket, and held his breath in anticipation. House Arbor had always held the most famous balls in Caeli-Amur. The Directors constantly tried to outdo each other in opulent decoration, sumptuous food, and extravagant entertainment. And this would be the night of Anton’s greatest triumph.

He passed along the wide street, where bulb-trees lined the sides like marshals standing to attention, and drifted with other guests through the gates of Director Lefebvre’s mansion. As with most House Arbor buildings, the walls were covered with
Toxicodendron
Didion,
which reached out ominously towards the passersby, green fronds waving, hoping to wrap the guests in their deadly embrace. Sometimes when the
Toxicodendron
was cut back, the skeletons of thieves were found hanging within the vines’ wiry branches.

The gardens of Lefebvre’s mansion were immaculately sculpted, with olive trees lining the walls. On the front lawns the guests—men in bright red coats, women in grandiose dresses—watched as jugglers tossed burning sticks in the air, contortionists squeezed their way through impossible frames, and sleight-of-hand magicians sat next to thaumaturgists, daring the crowd to decide who was the real and who the fake. Arbor was obsessed with appearances, with fronts, with displays.

Anton walked into a grand entrance hall with great staircases, its floor a massive mosaic depicting an augurer, her hair wild and matted, as she overlooked the rugged and dry mountains to the west of Caeli-Amur. The design was in the manner of the ancients, and there were frescoes—painted in emerald greens and solar reds—on the walls.

Guests conversed excitedly as they examined each other and each new patron who entered the mansion. A woman in a corner pointed towards him and whispered to a friend, for Anton himself was part of the entertainment. For Lefebvre, Anton’s presence was a display of exoticism and excitement, allowing the respectable gentlemen and ladies of the House to return from the ball whispering to each other about the gratificationist-assassin who believed that true life could only be found in the attainment of immediate pleasure.

As he crossed the floor, Anton felt someone grasp his forearm roughly.

Madame Demoul, her face set coldly like a statue’s, looked up at him. “You bastard.”

“So nice to see you,” said Anton pleasantly. He would have to get rid of her quickly, before she made a scene.

“I’m just like the rest of them, aren’t I? You seduce us and then throw us away when you’re sick of us.” She spat the words out, her head craned forward.

Anton looked around and smiled at other guests. Chatter echoed around the hall, concealing his conversation. “Jeana, you were always special. The months we had together—you remember how we embraced. How could you say that was not real? But we were forced to stop. You know that. Your husband, he suspected.”

“I’ll have you killed. I’ll have your throat cut in your sleep.”

Anton leaned in and touched her hand briefly. “I loved you.”

Madame Demoul seemed to shrink, and her eyes filled with tears. “Please come back to me. Please...”

Anton smiled at more guests as they passed by. “Send me a message at café
La Tazia
. Perhaps enough time has passed.”

Madame Demoul looked at the floor. “I can’t. You’ll hurt me again. I’m just one of your whores.”

Anton nodded slowly. “As you wish.”

Madame Demoul’s face was wracked with emotion. “I will, I will send you a note...”

“Now go, before anyone suspects.” Anton spoke with authority.

Madame Demoul turned and hurried away. Hopefully the pathetic creature would leave him alone for the rest of the night.

Anton continued on into the ballroom, where couples danced in intricate patterns, circling each other like parts of a great machine. On a stage along one wall sat a small orchestra, playing a sophisticated minuet.

Across the room stood a delicate and childlike woman, her golden ringlets piled on her head in a great tower, a beauty spot painted on one cheek. She talked to two other gowned ladies, one of whom apparently said something humorous, for the delicate woman threw her head back and laughed gaily. Her mouth smiling slightly, revealing white but slightly crooked teeth, she glanced across the room, and Anton caught her eye. He struck that half-smile that he knew made him look devilish, and for several seconds she held his gaze.

There she is, thought Anton: my conquest for the night.

A servant requested his presence with Director Lefebvre himself. The man passed Anton a note: “Be prepared.”

As he began to follow, Anton looked back at the woman. This time she smiled devilishly at him but then broke eye contact as if he bored her.

Anton smiled to himself. It seemed this would be a challenge.

Lefebvre dominated the smoking room the way he dominated everything. As was befitting a Director of House Arbor, he sat, tall and grey-haired, his nose straight, his eyes impenetrable.

Behind Lefebvre stood his cold-faced adjutant, Jean-Paul, while a number of Officiates lounged in chaise longues, their attention directed towards him subtly: here the feet angled in his direction, there the head.

“Ah my trusted colleagues, let me introduce you to the gratificationist, Anton Moreau.”

An Officiate whom Anton had already met—a man called Villiers with a greasy sheen to his skin—stood up. “Please, take a seat.” He ushered Anton to a chaise longue and turned to Lefebvre. “I must say Director, what a wonderful collection of entertainments you have provided this evening.”

A young, fresh-faced Officiate, who seemed to have a permanent smirk, looked at Anton. “So Moreau, is it true you’ve dedicated your life to the search for pleasure?”

 “That is something of an exaggeration—no one can seek pleasure solely. There are a great number of other things that one must consider. The point is to turn those other things to the service of pleasure. One acquires money—but what for?”

Lefebvre spoke and the room fell silent. “Loyalty, for example. Anton has always been faithful, hasn’t he, Jean-Paul?”

Lefebvre’s adjutant nodded silently. There was something about Jean-Paul that unnerved Anton. He could not imagine the adjutant enjoying anything at all. The man was a House fanatic: drawn from the impoverished countryside, narrow-minded and brutal. There was something mechanical about him.

When Lefebvre spoke again, the room filled with tension. “It’s a precious commodity, is it not? What do you think, Villiers?”

Villiers’ skin acquired a slicker sheen and the other Officiates looked on with anxious curiosity—something was happening.

“I could not agree more.” Villiers turned back to Anton, and changed the subject. “But I wanted to ask Moreau something. I understand that gratificationists seek escape in Lika-flowers and other such drugs.”

These were not real philosophers, thought Anton. They did not seek to uncover the truth beneath appearances. They were pragmatists—petty men concerned with the day-to-day running of the House. But Lefebvre had already indicated to him that he was not solely here for a discussion. He was here for work. “What I seek by such experiences is not escape from the world, but an even greater experience of it. I seek new and ever more intense cognizance of things.”

“And what pleasures do you seek
tonight
?” The young man smiled lasciviously.

“Why, whatever pleasures
offer themselves
.” Anton turned his hands up, smiling.

Lefebvre spoke slowly, fixing Villiers with his eyes. “And what do you think, Villiers, of the rumours that there are Technis agents in our midst?”

Villiers looked at Lefebvre and his face twitched. “They are...surely rumours.” Silence now hung like a mist in the room and Villiers looked from Officiate to Officiate for affirmation. When none was forthcoming he glanced at Lefebvre. “Surely you don’t think...”

Lefebvre nodded to Anton and then at Villiers who, seeing the gesture, blurted out, “No!”

In a blur, Anton had somersaulted onto the floor in front of Villiers. His hands emerged from beneath his coat clutching stilettos. In an instant he stood up, just as Villiers himself did. For a moment Anton and the Officiate stood eye to eye before Anton plunged his knives beneath the man’s ribs. Villiers’ eyes bulged and he grabbed Anton’s forearms and held them tight as his face contorted. His body shuddered and he dropped to his knees. Anton watched as the man’s eyelids fluttered and his eyes slowly became flat surfaces without depth. When he was gone, Anton laid him gently face forward on the floor.

The still smirking young Officiate looked from Anton to Lefebvre. “As Villiers himself said, what a wonderful collection of entertainment you have provided tonight, Director.”

Anton was relieved when he left the smoking room. It had been an unwelcome distraction; he had other business to pursue. He entered the ballroom. Leaning against the wall with her bird-like husband was Madame Demoul. She smiled at him and looked at her feet.

Anton turned away and saw
her
: he wove between the dancers until he came close to the childlike woman. One of her friends looked quickly at him and back to her friend. Without acknowledging the other ladies, he stepped forward and asked, “Would the lady like to dance?”

A slight surprised smile appeared on her face. Without waiting for a reply, Anton took her hand and led her towards the dancing.

“Might I ask your name?” she said.

“I think it should remain a mystery, don’t you?” The band began a piece comprised of plucked violins, violas and cellos that rose and fell in a soft staccato march. Anton and the woman carved out little paths for themselves, joining up, moving in formation with the others, and rejoining. Each time they came together Anton broke into his half-smile.

“Stop it,” she said.

“Why, whatever can you mean?” he said.

“I’ll have you know I’m happily married.”

“Then you’re perfect,” he said.

“You rascal.”

“And to whom are you so very happily married?”

“Why, to the Director himself,” she said.

Anton smiled, though he felt the fear rushing through his body: waves that started in his chest and coursed down his legs and arms. He breathed steadily to calm himself. “Perhaps we should go somewhere where we can...talk now.”

Her eyes were wide and sparkling, and she looked at him as if mesmerised.

“Now.” Anton spoke calmly and assertively, brooking no opposition.

She walked slowly from the room, nodding to guests as they greeted her. Anton followed her to the wide passageway that led back to the entrance hall. His heart beat rapidly, as if it were a ferret rushing around in its cage. She opened a servants’ door, camouflaged by the wall’s decorations, passed through it and closed it behind her. Anton leaned against the wall and looked back at the ball. A couple passed by, smiling politely at him, and entered the ballroom. As long as Lefebvre or one of his loyal officiates did not spy him, things would be fine.

Turning quickly, he slipped through the servants’ door.

In a narrow corridor, she stood, her eyes still alive with excitement. She spoke softly, “I know who you are. I have heard stories about you.”

He grabbed her by the arms and thrust her against the wall. Surprised by the action, she stood like a frightened animal, breathing heavily. He leaned in so that his lips brushed her hair and his breath hovered against her skin.

She took his hand and led him to a rickety flight of stairs and up to the second floor of the mansion. They passed along a long corridor to the great doors at its end. “What’s in here?”

“His study,” she said and leaned in to whisper in his ear. “I’m not allowed in.”

Anton hesitated, then opened the door.

“No,” she said.

But Anton led her inside and lifted her onto the great desk that dominated the room. He brushed aside the Director’s papers and the quills. “What have you done to me?” Anton said playfully. He kissed her and felt the softness of her lips. He kissed her on her cheek and along her neck and shoulder, her ringlets brushing against his face. He ran his lips along the top of her breasts, bared by the décolleté neckline. He hitched her dress up, and ran his finger up her white stockinged legs. She threw her head back and closed her eyes.

He pulled a glinting stiletto from the sheath hidden around his waist. She drew a sudden intake of breath.

He pressed a finger to her lips to silence her and cut though the front of her undergarments with the blade, without taking his eyes from hers. Her mouth opened slightly, revealing her delightfully crooked white teeth.

A moment later, he was inside her and she wrapped her arms around him tightly, as if she might lose him. “My philosopher,” she said. “My assassin.”

All the while, he looked over her shoulder at the Director’s papers, strewn across the dark wood.

When it was done, he said, “Perhaps you should leave alone and I should follow you down.” He waited in the study for five minutes and then breezed out confidently.

Later in the night, as the guests were leaving, he leaned up against the wall next to her.

“You look familiar,” she said.

Anton drew an excited breath. He felt himself to be dancing on some invisible precipice that might crumble beneath his feet at any moment. “Near the Southern Gate lies Hotel du Cirque. It is not far from here. It has the most charming atmosphere. Perhaps you would like me to show it to you.”

“I’m free in two days time,” she said.

“Until then, Eliana.”

“How is it that you know my name?”

Anton half-smiled and blew air at her cheek. “Until then.”

His mind still alight with traces of excitement and risk, Anton walked from the mansion and onto the street. As he passed the wall, as if to reaffirm his daring, and to feel the exhilaration of earlier in the night, he purposely walked close to the
Toxicodendron
Didion
. A vine whipped out and wrapped around his wrist, pulling him towards the rest of the heaving plant. He pulled a stiletto, cut the vine and stepped back. His wrist was already inflamed and itchy. He looked back at the vine, thinking how easy it would be to become trapped.