What Lot's Wife Saw (6 page)

Thus, I cannot know what the others have included in their letters or in what order you’ll read them. In addition, I am not in a position to know how the others will choose to present the facts and I admit that I have grave reservations about the objectivity and honesty of most of them. The fact is, all six of us are responsible, equally to blame but equally innocent and equally terrified.

On Thursday, 20th of August, the date of arrival of the Correspondence Ship, Judge Bateau and I, who are charged with the responsibility of delivering the Green Box and signing the certificate of authenticity, were obliged to be in the port from eight o’clock in the evening. The regulations covering the transportation and authentication are complex and exacting. In all the years that I have served as private secretary to the Governor, we have never once deviated from procedure, no error or omission was ever noted and the safety and integrity of the Box and its contents were never in doubt.

Since early afternoon, an east wind was blowing that Thursday. The wind tower’s bells had alerted us that the fumes would be blowing in from the saltworks. I rushed out of the house as soon as I heard them, fearing that a thickening fog might prevent me from reaching the port on time. I took my position on the quay at seven-twenty, having been pursued by the fog that had nearly covered the houses. At eight the curfew for the cyclists had taken effect and by eight-thirty it extended to pedestrians as well.

Judge Bateau appeared at a quarter to nine, having found his way by following the phosphorescent line etched into the pavement, connecting the Palace to the port. It’d been designed for the safe transportation of the Green Box on foggy nights. He’d been in a foul mood since, like a common labourer, he’d been forced to abandon his tavern to lug the Governor’s Box around, as if the Seventy-Five couldn’t have devised a more respectable method of communication with Bera than exchanging secret letters like lovers. When he’s drunk, Bateau forgets that such talk is punishable by dismissal and banishment from the Colony.

“In the age of electronic technology we carry boxes of wretched paper! Think about it, Siccouane, apply your rodent’s brain to the facts and add a dash of deviousness. You will conclude that the Seventy-Five purposely keep the Colony mired in antiquity: no electricity, no telephones, no decent fuel, because how else could they have imposed such an autocratic form of administration, such an exorbitant price for the salt and all the petty charades we have to perform! This air is pure poison. Twenty years I’ve been here and never have I had the pleasure of a single flower in my garden, or cat on my armchair, or bird on my windowsill or even a spider on my wall. Nothing survives. When the fog finally lifts it will reveal our corpses.”

I had to be continuously on my guard since Bateau is wily and tries to induce you into reactionary conversations so that you commit yourself and then you’re his for the taking, signed, sealed and delivered. Anyway, the salt isn’t a mortal danger to humans because a particular component of the violet salt is compatible with our DNA. This is why, in the civilised world, it’s called “human salt” which, as Montenegro has confided to me, is totally appropriate because the rim and maw of the crater take the lives of miners.

I’d drawn away from the intoxicated Bateau and had told him to stop plaguing me with his nonsense. If he had any questions about the effects of the fumes, then he should consult the relevant pamphlets that Dr Fabrizio handed out at the Infirmary.

“Oh, I have great faith in Dr Fabrizio – he can’t even diagnose flu properly. Which is precisely why they posted him to the Infirmary. What real doctor would accept to run that masquerade?” He looked with disgust at his gown. “You could ask, what real judge would agree to sit on my bench? Court? How ridiculous! First they execute Suez Mamelukes and after the fact, they get me to fill out their charge sheets.”

He grabbed me by the lapels of my redingote and shoved his face so near mine that I could almost make out the different types of alcohol that had contributed to his state.

“Another thing you should know, Siccouane, is that leprosy didn’t just appear out of nowhere; they planted it to seal our borders, to give the guards the right to shoot on sight because the Mamelukes have wised up and they are running a contraband salt trade. The Seventy-Five are losing their grip, I’m telling you, it won’t be long before the Consortium collapses and that will mean the end of the monopoly. That would really please me because the salt belongs to everyone, just like misery. Three whole continents went into mourning so that that damned violet pus could burst from the earth and make all civilisation go crazy – way beyond anything that opium ever managed.”

I started counting in my head – one, two, three –
don’t listen to him, Siccouane
– four, five, six –
won’t anyone shut him up?

“… I’m telling you, Siccouane, I’m going to die of melancholy. I can no longer remember the colour of grass. The only thing that lives in this dead earth is the salt underground. I stick my ear to the floor all night and listen to its rasp as it eats away at the foundations and makes its way towards the surface. Soon, it’ll eat through the floorboards and consume us in our beds. If it’s truly compatible with our DNA, if it shares anything whatsoever with us, then it must definitely be a man-eater.”

He covered his face with his hands, cursing at himself. “Stupid idiot, fool.” I admit that for a moment I felt sorry for him. He seemed so tortured, so alone, perhaps even more than I am.

“… They’ve even snatched my child, the gangsters – my little girl. What did she ever do to them, the comfort of my twilight years? All day she irons Regina’s underwear so I get to see her only on her days off and even then, with her eye constantly on the clock. What father can take that kind of thing?”

Then it dawned on me that he was dangling a hook cleverly hidden by the wriggling bait. I redoubled my efforts to measure my words because this Judge is danger incarnate. His crocodile tears about Bianca, his daughter, his profitable investment, had given him away. I reminded him that we were on duty and he ought to get a grip of himself so that he could verify the authenticity of the Green Box by palpating the special indentations on its sides. In the state he was in, I very much doubted that he could find the indentations – if he could find the Box at all.

The Judge had been offended. He gave me a sharp poke in the ribs as he slurred, “I really don’t think you have the right to speak to me in that tone,” and he thrust his chest out so that I could better see the Purple Star, proof positive of the Governor’s favour, a mark of distinction that I, a mere Secretary, lack. I suppressed my emotions. Bera had handed out five of these Purple Stars, to the other authors of the letters which you will read, elevating them to a kind of “courtier”, and it has gone to their heads. He had obviously been trying to create a core of an aristocratic class in the newly founded Colony which would inspire others, but had only managed to corrupt the recipients themselves. Wearers of the Stars are entitled to a villa in Hesperides, household staff, a box at the Opera and a seat at the Governor’s table, subject to invitation, of course. I find it extraordinary that Lady Regina, his wife, was included in the select five, as there is no imaginable reason why she deserved the decoration. To honour the other four or to demean her? It’s difficult to decipher the Governor’s machinations. Twenty years I’ve served him, twenty years he’s left me speechless.

We heard the hoarse siren of the ship and the creaking sound of the ship’s cables stretching. The tow-boatmen were signalling to the winch operators by waving their phosphorescent oars in the air to indicate adjustments necessary. The oars are long and pointed like poles and they are used to propel the boat by jabbing them into the surface and pushing, much like a gondolier. The boats have no keel, they are flat-bottomed like a raft because of the water’s density. As one gets closer to the saltworks, where the underground salt-bearing stream pours into the sea, the water becomes even more dense, like jelly.

After the delay of berthing, the ship’s gangway was lowered. Captain Cortez had disembarked first to scrutinise our faces and satisfy himself that we were present as the regulations demand. We shook hands. Cortez is an experienced captain of the Consortium and he’s always entrusted with one of the Correspondence Ships. His hollow cheeks and his glass right eye terrify you, but mind you’re not fooled by that false eye – it sees more than the real one. He introduced us to Lieutenant Richmond, a slim lad that seemed feverish. Cortez added that the youth would be the fourth member of our procession because the First Mate had been laid low with diarrhoea. A virus had invaded the ship and all the men were on their backs. Richmond had not yet attained the rank the regulations stipulated for this procedure, but Cortez had growled that he had no other officers on their legs and that carrying is hardly a demanding task. He would prefer to exhaust the young Lieutenant, who was looking obviously sick, and protect his First Mate for the return journey. We had no choice but to accept the substitution.

So, we climbed on board and went to the Captain’s cabin. Using the key that only the Private Secretary of the Governor possesses, I unlocked the strongroom, entered the combination and pulled open the heavy door. The Green Box lay undisturbed, exactly where it had been placed in Paris. We lifted it together and lowered it carefully to the quay. Using rope and allowing us each a metre slack, Cortez tied us together around the Box to ensure that we wouldn’t get lost in the fog and jeopardise the delivery. Cortez and Bateau had been tied in front and Richmond and I in the rear. The Lieutenant threw up twice along the way. One of these times, he’d soiled Cortez’s shoes, for which he’d received a sudden punch on the nose. I consoled him, sotto voce, telling him to wash his face and get a drink of water once we reach the Palace, but that under no circumstances could we interrupt the procession. The Lieutenant further ingratiated himself with us by suffering a bout of violent hiccups that threw us all off our stride. Walking as carefully as we could along the phosphorescent line but bumping constantly into each other and the Box, we managed to reach the Palace. We entered the Governor’s office and placed the Box so that its indentations slotted firmly into its special stand. The Judge and I signed the certificate of authenticity and I locked the office door. We waited in the anteroom for further instructions.

Bianca showed up about ten minutes later, sent by Lady Regina. She instructed us all to leave because the Governor was resting and would have no need for our services, a pronouncement that had especially pleased Bateau as it would expedite his reunification with his bottle. Cortez, after handing Bianca a stack of European newspapers for the Governor, had immediately left for his ship. Richmond appeared reluctant to follow the Captain and so accepted with gratitude Bateau’s invitation to accompany him to a tavern.

I’d remained alone in the anteroom, burning from the need to see the Governor. In a scant two weeks we’d be celebrating the Colony’s twentieth anniversary and the famous tenor Regoleone was to perform at the Opera. He’d be coming out specifically for this occasion from Vienna. We’d been expecting him any day at the Colony but as yet no arrangements had been made for his reception and lodgings. The Governor had insisted on delaying the necessary signatures, had given me no detailed instructions as yet and this constant postponing had caused a series of problems. So, I made it clear that I had to see Bera, if only for five minutes. Bianca had been unmoved and insisted drearily that I depart. But I’m the Governor’s private secretary and I wasn’t going to be denied by a mere maid, so I made the mistake of raising my voice. Bianca burst into tears. Bianca cries with the slightest provocation, she’s in a constant state of fright and it hadn’t really been the tone of my voice, but that was how Lady Regina had chosen to see it. She had just appeared on the landing and she motioned her maid away.

“Do you find it difficult to obey such a simple order, Honoured Secretary?”

Her use of my honorific was meant to demean me – I have realised that she only speaks like that when she can’t stand someone. I removed my hat and apologised for raising the tone of my voice, but it was imperative for me to see the Governor.

“My husband is resting. I am just relaying his wishes. Will you leave or shall I have you thrown out?”

I obeyed with great annoyance. The Lady had no right to treat me like that, it’s not in our contracts, and it’s certainly beyond my comprehension why the Governor allows his coddled court to treat me as if I were their lackey. I was making my way across the gardens, it must have been ten to ten, when I looked up to see Governor Bera sitting in the wicker armchair on his balcony, idly staring. He was wearing his pyjamas and playing absent-mindedly with the key that hung from his neck. I bid him goodnight from afar but I didn’t get any response.

Colonist’s File No.:
09156577

Place of Birth:
Rome, Italy

Position:
Surgeon General, Head of Infirmary

Administrative Level:
B1

Adopted Name:
Niccolo Fabrizio

… And I hadn’t even been informed about all that had happened at the Palace on the night of Thursday, 20th of August. It came as no surprise since, in spite of my being the Governor’s personal physician, Desert rarely keeps me in the picture about his health, preferring instead to divulge all to Priest Montenegro, her confessor – her confessor, my foot! In fact, the whole Colony is buzzing about her carrying on with a man of the cloth, and perhaps Bera has displayed an admirable tolerance, but I, as a devout Christian and decent human being, am appalled and object.

I hope I’m not infringing on any of the Consortium’s rights by calling the Governor’s wife “Desert” instead of Lady Regina since everybody, including Bera, calls her that because she is hot and barren like the desert, so I don’t feel the need to stick to formalities in this letter. I bet the others will, however, two-faced hypocrites that they are. My only consolation is that you, in your infinite wisdom, will be able to tell apart the sheep from those just wearing fleece and the honest from the deceitful. I submit, with confidence, to your judgement.