The Malacia Tapestry (18 page)

The old man threw up his hands and wagged his beard in de Lambant's face. ‘Spare me your needs! Every one of those designs aged me by a lifetime. Nor has Thiepol, for all his airs, yet paid me, confound him. My eyesight's too bad for any more work of that order. My hand shakes too much. My back aches too much. Besides, my wife is ill and I must care for her, poor old woman. My foreman has deserted me and gone to work in Ragusa. No, no, I could not possibly attempt … Besides, when would you require them by?'

He needed some persuasion. Before de Lambant had signed his bond on the deal and paid a token in advance, the old craftsman had to show us the treasures of his workshop. Holding his vessels up to the light, we admired the beautiful miniatures on which this crock of a man worked, their tiny figures incised on glass, glowing with colour, infused with art.

Bledlore's wife appeared at one juncture, clutching a soiled robe up to her throat. She made an odd contrast with the sublime beings, the ever-youthful gods, that Bledlore conjured up in his translucent medium.

‘Ah, what accomplishment!' de Lambant said afterwards. We had left the warehouse and strolled over Bishops Bridge to the meadows where gipsies and showmen held their festival fair beyond the city. ‘You saw that last azure vase with its vignette? No gods, just two children sporting by an ancient hovel, with a hurdy-gurdy man playing in the background? What could be more beautiful in such small compass? Why has no one bought it?'

‘It was beautiful. And isn't perfection greater for being so small?'

‘Why not? Smallness is greater for being perfect.'

‘Otto Bengtsohn would approve that particular scene of low life more than all the gods and goddesses … Bledlore confirmed what I have heard rumoured, that he studies everything from life. The broomstick is copied from an actual broomstick in his niece's yard, the hurdy-gurdy belongs to an old musician living over by the flea-market, and no doubt the two urchins are running ragged-assed round the city gates even now.'

We paused by an ash grove, where an aged casque-body worked, drawing up water from the river. The bony plates along its spine had been sawn off. An oriental sat on its back calling softly to it. We strolled on.

‘What a decadent age we live in! Giovanni Bledlore is the last of the grand masters, and scarcely recognized except by a few cognoscenti!'

‘Such as ourselves, de Lambant!'

‘Such as ourselves, de Chirolo! And the odd connoisseur in Saville, who doesn't pay up. People appreciate merit only on a pretentious scale. Write a history of the universe and it will be applauded, however shoddy, however steeped in errors factual or grammatical; yet paint a tiny perfect landscape on your thumb and nobody will cheer.'

‘Just as they still fail to cheer our tiny talents.' We laughed, cheering each other.

A pleasant warbling filled the air. A flute-seller was moving towards us, bearing a tray of flutes and playing one of them as he came. We circled him. I snatched an instrument and played a quick echo to his own charming tune, ‘When the Quiet Air Hath Waked'.

‘Flutes would be no better if they could be heard half-a-dozen valleys off – you're not suggesting that Bledlore should take to monstrous frescoes in his dotage, to get his name better known?' I asked.

‘I'm condemning the general taste, not Bledlore's. He has found perfection because he has first found his correct scale. Twenty sequins per glass! – He should demand ten times as much! Not that father won't grouse at twenty, even for Smarana.'

We stopped by the marionette stall to watch both the puppets and their childish audience.

‘The real reward of an artist is his ability, not the applause it earns him.'

We ceased being philosophical to watch the play with its little unreflecting spectators. Robber Man came on with red-masked eyes and tried to break into Banker Man's big safe. Banker Man, fat and crafty, caught him at it. Robber Man socked him with his sack. Banker Man pretended geniality, asked to see how much money Robber Man could get into sack. Robber Man, despite warning cries from the children in front, climbed obligingly into safe. Banker Man slammed safe shut, laughed, went for Militia Man. Met Devil-Jaw Man instead. Children roared with merriment, open and honest, as Devil-Jaw Man closed multitudinous teeth round Banker Man's nose. Magician descended, trapped Devil-Jaw Man in golden hoop. During fracas, Banker's Lady, dressed for the kill, entered to take cash from safe. Released and was walloped by Robber Man. And so on. Continuous entertainment.

Two cool girls near us in gowns that hovered between innocence and indecency exchanged comments. She to her: ‘Disastrous low-brow hokum! I can't think how we laughed at it last year!'

She to her: ‘Hokum maybe, Armida, but brilliant Theatre!'

De Lambant and I had propped ourselves against the stones of a fallen arch to watch the show. He now said loudly to me, ‘Be warned by that sweet female exchange, de Chirolo! Enjoyment in youth gives way to carping criticism in old age.'

At this the girls no longer feigned that they had not noticed us; we no longer pretended that we had not recognized them. We hurried to take Armida's and Bedalar's hands. They ran to take ours, with tales of how they had dodged their chaperons in the market and were furious at having to wait so long for us. It was almost a luxury to have them dressing us down, so pretty a contrast did they make.

Bedalar was the more stocky with her generous figure and plumper face. Her eyes were a mysterious grey, her manner in general was more flirtatious than her friend's; a certain amount of fluttering eyelids was accomplished even in ordinary conversation. The effect was pleasing – it certainly pleased de Lambant. By contrast, my Armida was quieter in manner, and held me with a steady gaze from her golden eyes, which seemed almost to blaze in the sunlight. She had the same wonderful configuration of face which never left my mind's eye, the features seeming to arrange themselves about her nose, although it was by no means prominent. In her dark hair she wore a coil of golden metal which allowed the locks to flow free behind.

‘What fun to hear a couple of brainless gallants like you discussing the just rewards of merit,' she said.

‘We are artists, and not brainless. And you two are our just rewards of merit.'

‘It was instructive for you to hear our sage remarks,' added de Lambant.

‘I'd rather go to my maid for instruction,' Bedalar said, flightily.

‘Your maid could instruct me in any art she wished, if she were half as pretty as you, my darling,' said de Lambant.

I said, ‘She could instruct me in nothing, if you two ladies were present to take the lesson. You would find me an ardent pupil.'

There was a burst of applause – not for my wit, of course, but for the marionettes which the little audience cheered heartily.

The play was ended. The Banker's Lady had run off with the Magician, who proved to be a prince in disguise; the Banker had rewarded the Militia Man; the Joker had had his way with Bettini, the Banker's Daughter; and the Devil-Jaw Man had devoured the Robber Man. The puppet-man appeared from his striped box and it was, as I suspected, my friend Piebald Pete. I remembered his squeaky voices from long ago. He nodded to me before running round with his pewter plate to gather as many coins as possible from the fast-disappearing audience. I borrowed a small coin from Armida and dropped it in his plate.

‘You do not believe that your reward should be ability or applause alone, Pete.'

He touched his forehead. ‘Thanks, Masters. I need a little fuel as well as flattery for my performance. Come back to this same spot this evening, when I do my proper show with the little Turk who walks the tightrope and chops off the princess's head. Then you'll see
real
artistry.'

‘And Perian will strive to bring real money, not borrowed,' laughed de Lambant.

We strolled on, de Lambant taking Bedalar's arm and I managing to get between the girls so that I could have hold of them both; to which manoeuvre no one ventured to object. The stalls detained us a long while. It was typical of my golden fortune that I should win a sum of money at a lottery game and put myself in funds again.

As the afternoon wore on the girls talked about going home. De Lambant and I managed to persuade them that during festival time nobody would be likely to notice their absence, most of the population being engaged in sleeping off the excess of the previous night.

‘Besides, we still have some talk to talk,' said de Lambant. ‘We were saying that this was a decadent age. And then you two beauties sprang into view. Pure coincidence, doubtless.'

‘Aren't all ages decadent?' Bedalar asked.

But Armida said, ‘This is a creative age. There are some advances on the artistic front, as Bengtsohn's amazing process of mercurization proves. But arts flourish in decadent times. Nobody would claim that the Turks are decadent because they are so warlike. Don't people often say “decadent” when they really mean “peaceful”?'

I could not resist saying, ‘But the Turks
are
now decadent. The great days of the Ottoman Empire ended with the death of Suleiman. Since then, a line of weak and vicious Sultans has succeeded him. The armies are corrupt; Tvrtko himself, drawn up outside our gates, does not attack, as a commander in his position unfailingly would have done, a century or more ago.'

‘What a military strategist you are!' exclaimed Bedalar – with sincerity rather than sarcasm, for she squeezed my arm.

‘Since he's been playing General Gerald, there's been no holding him in that direction,' said Armida.

‘Or in any other direction,' said de Lambant.

The girls laughed so prettily – we were ready to laugh at any nonsense – that their bosoms shook like fresh-boiled dumplings.

‘I just hope you're not trying to accuse me of inconstancy,' I said.

‘There's much to be said in favour of inconstancy, or at least against constancy – which, like a surly porter, drives a lot of useful intelligence from the door,' de Lambant replied.

It was well said; yet I noted that Armida did not exactly smile over-much, as if recalling that I had tried to drive my intelligence through Letitia's door.

We were walking by the little river Vokoban, near an old, ruined windmill which marked the limits of the fair. A flighted woman came by overhead from the direction of the city. Like many of her kind, she wore long ribbons in her hair which trailed out behind her. She was young and naked. The sight of her passing in the sunlight was pleasing. As she fluttered down to alight behind the windmill we heard the beat of her wings.

‘They're so free,' Bedalar observed. ‘Can't we fly up into the mountains?'

No sooner suggested than arranged. The flighted people kept a basket-work tower on the perimeter of the fair, where one or two persons could be flown short distances in sedans. We all climbed the tower, which creaked like an old courtesan's stays at every step. Emerging at the top, Armida and I climbed into one of the light sedans and de Lambant and Bedalar into another. Four stalwart flighted men heaved us into the air, while another four attended to our friends.

‘Oh, Perian, it feels so unsafe! Will they drop us?'

‘It's safer than my hydrogenous balloon.' The fliers had harnesses round their shoulders attached to the carriage, as well as good earnest expressions on their red faces. All the same, I had to admit that there were reasons other than affection for the grasp which Armida threw about me. Her grip prevented me from trembling.

Our sedan was born flappingly just above the heads of the crowd. The afternoon was wearing on. The crowd was thickening, the scene at the stalls becoming more animated, the smell of spitted meats stronger. After dusk would come the gayest time, when the throngs arrived, when flares were lit and masks donned, and Eastern dancers gyrated on scented stages.

The fair fell away behind us, wing-beat by wing-beat. Vineyards lay below, their grapes clustering in the serried bushes. We threaded our way through a grove of slender birches. Ahead lay another stretch of river, gurgling to itself as it churned over rock. Beyond were some last vineyards and the swelling early hills of the Vokobans.

‘Let's be set down here,' cried Armida, but de Lambant shouted excitedly from the other carriage, ‘No, no, further on! I know a little nest ahead, free from interruptions.'

So amid great flailing of wings, we sailed up slopes bright with camomile to a wide, mossy ledge with a cliff behind. The flighted men set us down on the ledge. They released the sedans, falling on the grass panting and sweating, and fanning themselves with curled wingtips. Soon they rose, collected their pay, and flew off slowly in the direction of the fair.

We stood and watched them go. Guy and I embraced the girls and all four of us capered about in delight at our newly acquired solitude.

My impulse was to pour out my love to Armida, only the occasion was one more for gaiety than solemnity. So I took her hand and we ran laughing to examine our stronghold, cached from the eyes of the world.

Climbing up huge fragments of rock on which all manner of faces and limbs had been carved, we gained a view of the countryside over which we had been lifted.

Malacia depended for its existence on trade and agriculture. Evidence of the latter lay before us in the vineyards, their geometrical rows wheeling towards the river. All that we could see was bathed in the sane light of afternoon. Instinctively, Armida and I clutched each other, feeling ourselves part of fruitful processes.

Our coign of vantage also commanded a distant view of the fair-booths, the Toi, spanned by its bridges, and the city. Malacia's fortifications, towers and grand buildings lay in a haze as if it were more dream than actuality. A glint of gold came from the Bucintoro.

Beyond the town to the right, where the ground rose again, we could even see the foothills that hid Tvrtko's encampment. Once a day Ottoman cannon bombarded the city, but it remained a half-hearted bombardment; ammunition was short. At this hour the enemy showed no sign of life.