What Lot's Wife Saw (8 page)

It was obvious that I had been delaying to somehow put off my punishment, to try and conceive of any way to reduce its severity, but, in truth, I couldn’t escape it. The Seventy-Five were sure to order me to leave the Colony. The Governor’s widow doesn’t retire gracefully with a pension, she gets fired. Bera had explained that to me so that I wouldn’t dream of his death. I would have to surrender all the keys of the Palace, all my clothes, my jewellery, my stockings, my combs, all the multitude of things that defined my existence. Everything had been bought with the Consortium’s money and belonged to it, because it never gave, it only lent. My only possession was my body, and quite naked at that, and I used to make it available to Montenegro at nights to give myself the illusion of ownership. Along with me, the other Purple Stars bearers would also lose their privileges, and that, at least, brought me some satisfaction. I wasn’t alone in this nightmare.

Siccouane had been the first arrival and had tiptoed into the room as if he was walking in a minefield. Siccouane knew he was expendable because even though he had no Star, the fate of the Personal Secretary was irrevocably linked with that of the Governor. He didn’t ask us anything, perhaps because he wouldn’t believe anything we said anyway. He removed his hat and began muttering to himself that at ten to ten the previous night, as he had been leaving the Palace, he had seen the Governor sitting on his veranda in his pyjamas, idly fingering the key at his neck. At ten to ten the Governor had been alive and getting ready for bed. In front of us the ceremonial uniform was buttoned to perfection, there was no crease in his trousers, his patent leather boots shone and the peacock-feathered cap adorned his head. These gave his death an incongruous formality and raised questions that no one had yet dared voice.

Since Siccouane had seen him on the veranda at night, I’d not been the last one to see Bera alive, and that came as no surprise. Our bedrooms were distant from each other, we met at his invitation only; sometimes weeks would go by without me seeing him, especially since we used separate staircases and different passageways of the Palace and generally spent a good deal of time in our rooms. We’d shared a roof but not a life. He’d been distant, inscrutable, unpredictable, both as a ruler and as a husband. In the twenty years of our marriage, I’d never understood his moods, known what he had been thinking or could guess what his next move or utterance would be. Every cell of his body had been dedicated to the Seventy-Five. Nothing of his had ever belonged to me, there’d been nothing that he’d done on my account, no bit of himself had ever been offered to me. I couldn’t guess why he’d married me, just as I couldn’t now guess why he’d died. Had he been ill? I hadn’t noticed any sign of it.

Next to join us was Judge Bateau, gown covered in dust, eyes glazed from alcohol and hands that shook. Captain Drake was with him as the two had met on the way here. Bateau stared at the corpse and clenched his fists. “That’s all we needed! That’s all we needed!” he repeated, as if scolding the deceased for surprising us like that. He pointed at the ceremonial uniform and asked who’d dressed him up. I explained that that was just as I’d found him at dawn. The suit had just been tailored for him to wear at the anniversary reception in two weeks. Perhaps he’d removed it from its cellophane wrapping to try it on. The wardrobe doors were shut, however, and the whole room was in impeccable order: there were no clothes flung about or shoes on the floor. His pyjamas were folded away in the drawer, his slippers on their rack and the bed made and unruffled. And there was that ghastly smile on his hateful mouth, frozen and mocking. Bera rarely smiled, if he’d ever smiled at all. If someone had asked me what I’d found most odd about the death scene, it wouldn’t have been the clothes or the undisturbed bed he was lying on, or even the fact of his death, but that smile.

Captain Drake was moving up and down the room, totally at a loss, stomping about with his gangly limbs and twirling his handlebar moustache. Without his master’s prompts he was notorious for not being able to think for himself. Searching for guidance, he looked at each of us in turn, decided that we were unworthy so turned inwards for inspiration. His face went puce from the effort but still he found nothing to say. He seemed to be preparing to salute the corpse, due to the uniform one presumes, but he changed his mind, brought his heels together and abandoned the effort. He couldn’t tear his eyes off the dead body, as if hoping to find the last orders printed there.

In truth, none of us knew what we should do. Bera had been the first Governor of the Colony, the only one it had known to date and the first one it would bury. We weren’t aware of any appropriate procedures, how to announce the death, for example, or what consequences we should prepare for, or how succession is arranged, or what we should be doing in the meantime. The only certainty, unfortunately, was that with the arrival of a replacement, we would be handing in our Stars and the keys to our villas and looking on as our successors were appointed. It was imperative for the names of the “favoured” to change to protect the Governor from his court and the likelihood that the gradual corruption of power would lead them to undermine his work or even have designs on his life. Being totally dependent on the Governor and sharing his fate ensured their deep devotion to his person and his success. The Seventy-Five leave nothing to chance. For the same reason his wife is not protected. I would be buried with him just like a Pharaoh’s consort.

Captain Drake asked in a funereal tone of voice whether we’re supposed to hand in our Stars on our own initiative. Judge Bateau covered his with his hand.

“I’m not handing anything in. I’ve paid a very high price for this Star. My beloved Clara died in childbirth to satisfy the Governor’s wishes for the child to be born here. The Consortium owes me and has not yet paid in full. They’ll have to drag my dead body from my villa.”

Secretary Siccouane was standing very still, small and wizened as he was, wrapped in his threadbare redingote, which he surely must sleep in, and waiting patiently for the exclamations of shock and horror to subside before venturing with his ratty squeak. “We must think of a way to defend our interests in the face of the imminent change, which may well not be so favourable for us.”

The words of that treacherous little secretary immediately put us on our guard. He’d used the plural to imply that we were partners in this, although no one in the room trusted him – with the possible exception of the deceased; yet another reason for us not to trust him. In any case, we couldn’t envision gaining the favour of the new Governor if we didn’t know who he’d be. Presumably he’d be sent from the Consortium’s head office, and that meant Paris.

Siccouane innocently studied his fingertips, as if he were seeing them for the first time. “We can at least plan a few constructive moves since we’re here at the moment and the new Governor is not even on his way to the Colony. At least we have a time advantage. Let’s capitalise on that head start.”

“Your baseness is an insult to the deceased,” Captain Drake interjected angrily.

“And your hypocrisy is an insult to my intelligence, Captain. Or should I call you ‘former Captain’?” countered the Secretary sibilantly.

“Of course I’m worried about my future, Siccouane …”

“Well then, can we stop posturing and see what we can do to improve our destiny!”

All this time, we could hear the servants briskly coming and going, airing the rooms, dragging furniture, snapping open sheets, puffing up pillows. The noise intruded on our consciousness and sowed the seeds of panic, as if they might barge into the room and demand our Stars.

Bateau suggested that I announce to the staff that the Governor was indisposed, so as to gain some time until we could agree on our next move. I refused to go out of the room and leave them alone with the dead body – I didn’t trust them and wouldn’t budge before I’d heard a definitive diagnosis from Dr Fabrizio’s lips. Siccouane went and locked the door so that no one could mistakenly blunder in. Outside this door the Governor was still alive and as long as everyone believed that, I was still Queen of the Castle; Siccouane was still Secretary; Bateau the Presiding Judge; Drake, Captain of the Guards; and Montenegro, High Priest of the Metropolis. We could continue living the dream for a few moments longer.

It wasn’t long before Dr Fabrizio joined us. To cover up his alarm, he pretended to have been slighted because he’d been the last one to be informed. He declared that it had been weeks since he had last been alone with the Governor, as if anyone was blaming him for his death. He wore his stethoscope and pretended to examine the body. Even if he’d been blind he would’ve known at once that Bera was dead, but Fabrizio continued his pantomime while trying to decide what stance he should take. He asked me some exasperating questions, increasing everyone’s discomfort, about Bera’s recent bowel movements, his dietary habits, the quality of his sleep, his disposition. Montenegro interrupted the ridiculous interrogation and asked to learn the time of death. Fabrizio snapped that it must’ve been between midnight and four in the morning. He also offered eagerly that at that time he’d been asleep and hadn’t left his villa the whole night, nor had he gone to the Infirmary in the morning. Instead, he’d been on his veranda reading the
Amateur Gardener
, July edition, when Bianca had come for him. Markella, his housekeeper, could confirm every word. We advised him that rather than give us his explanations, he could look forward to boring the Seventy-Five with them.

“What was the exact cause of death, Fabrizio?” Bateau was anxious to find out.

“What do you expect me to answer with mere palpations? We need a coroner’s investigation.”

“Maybe, but there isn’t a single one in the Colony,” Siccouane observed.

“Do you suspect murder?” asked Drake.

Dr Fabrizio, with the air of discovering something that had crossed no one’s mind before, said that the body’s clothes raised a few question marks. If death had been due to natural causes he would’ve been wearing pyjamas, and he would’ve been found in a sleeping position. Instead, Bera had his hands crossed over his chest as if arranged in a coffin, and was wearing the proper ceremonial uniform for his funeral. Whoever killed him had a macabre sense of humour.

Captain Drake drew his gun and shouted that nobody would leave the room until this had been cleared up. But the room contained only those who fervently wished the Governor alive and had nothing to gain from his demise – quite the opposite; they were all facing ruin. We were forced to spell it out to him since his thick skull takes some penetrating.

Drake seemed confused. He scratched his perspiring face and wondered whether the Governor had died at the hands of the Suez Mamelukes. Priest Montenegro couldn’t stop himself any longer and burst out laughing. He added sarcastically, “Good Lord, you’ll be blaming the cyclists next!”

“It’s far more likely that my rivals at the Infirmary killed him to make me look bad,” Fabrizio said guiltily, feeling a failure as the Governor’s medical shield. “I’ve seen the way they look at my Purple Star.”

Siccouane repeated that by far our most important preoccupation at this moment is to try and make the best of this bleak situation and the murderer – if one exists – will be found by the Parisian High Command. Anyone irritating the Seventy-Five will be swatted wherever he might try to hide, and killing precious Bera, flesh of their flesh, would definitely merit that.

“We’ll be accused of failing to protect him, Fabrizio,” Bateau worried.

“That was Drake’s responsibility. I don’t carry arms or command guards.”

“Yes, but as his doctor you should’ve kept a far more careful watch over his health.”

“You mean his wife should’ve, and kept me informed. Not summoned me as an afterthought.”

“His wife rarely saw him,” I complained. “The only one who was with him day and night was Secretary Siccouane. He should’ve seen the warning signs.”

We’d been talking very quietly, almost whispering, for all the time we’d been heaping blame on one another. Imprisoned in the dead man’s room, we were incapable of even one constructive plan, or of predicting what tomorrow would bring, or of walking out of that room and facing a Colony without Bera. One hour had gone by, full of suspicion, dark implications and accusations. Siccouane, who’d kept his ear stuck to the door, had heard enough to report that the staff were beginning to wonder why the Governor had not appeared with his breakfast getting cold in the dining room. Time was beginning to encroach on us and we had to come to some decision soon and start acting on it.

We found it difficult to agree on the best way to announce the tragic event. We considered confidentially informing the higher-ranking executives of the saltworks, the port, the mines and perhaps the Bank manager who issues the payment cheques. We rejected that idea because we weren’t in a position to support the news with detailed directives or guidelines, nor did we have the means of enforcement. High-ranking executives are resentful and hungry for power and lesser ones angry and rebellious. The announcement of the Governor’s death would explode like a bomb and blow the Colony sky high. Drake, who can see Suez Mamelukes pursuing him even in his sleep, warned that hordes of the desert beetles might just be waiting for such a confusion to invade and butcher us all. So, there were the six of us, with the privilege and the curse of knowing that the Governor was dead and with no idea of how to handle the knowledge.

Meanwhile, Dr Fabrizio was worried that the body would begin to smell, as the temperature in the room was over forty degrees. Human decomposition is forbidden in the Colony because it poisons the salt and the deceased must be immediately cremated. Despite that fact, no one in the room was in a hurry to bid Bera farewell and spread the word of his demise. Drake suggested that to keep the smell from betraying us while we conferred, we should bring up ice from the kitchens and cover him. The servants would definitely suspect that something was amiss if they saw us lugging ice into the room so we agreed to clear the upper floors and kitchens. I ventured out the door and ordered all the staff to gather in the basement and wait for my further instructions there. The servants abandoned the half-made beds, dropped the brooms and dustpans, left the pans unscoured and the laundry unrinsed. The corridors emptied and silence reigned, without, however, improving the rate of generation of fresh ideas.