In Partial Disgrace (35 page)

“How well you put it,” the Princess laughed, her absentminded expression dissolving for a moment.

“And the problem with superiority,” Mother mused, “is how to show it without being unfaithful.”

“Ah, yes,” the Princess cawed. “I may love my country,
mais mon cul est international
!”

The ladies’ frank talk was interrupted by coarse shouts across the water. On the towpath on the far bank, thirty pairs of horses, interspersed by an odd brace of water buffalo, were towing a ship upriver, the craft itself still concealed around the bend. Preceding the ship in a dugout canoe rowed by four men, the pilot called out to the driver managing the straining animals on the bank, and while ropes twanged, horses whinnied and zillions of frogs and birds began to scream, he cursed them through a speaking tube: “Heave, you cuntbitten crawdons, you dodipal shit-a-beds, heave on!” Just then, around the bend appeared a small three-masted frigate, Count Zich’s
Penelope III
, green sails lashed to her mast, its twenty-four rowers straining furiously at their portholes. At such moments Ainoha loathed the river, a ditch of universal filth and violence beside which sat women deflecting the desperate glances of men looking up from work of which they had little comprehension except its difficulty, and no aim but to escape it in their arms.

“Heave, you ninny lobocks, heave you turdy membertoons!”

As few boats were worth towing on the arduous journey up the Mze, no passengers were ever carried on these return trips upstream, only the most profitable cartage. Generally, the ships were abandoned downstream, broken up at Therapeia, and sold for scrap. Through her opera glasses, which she was never without, even in the water, Ainoha could make out the bulky cargo lashed to the deck between the leering sailors. It was an Astingi theater set. The
Penelope III
carried the sky, the earth, a bower of roses, a dungeon, a town’s spires, many swords and spears, as well as the sun, the moon, and a great sheet of winking stars—Astingi props, being towed against all the forces of history and nature.

The horses stepped in the wake of the others like a caravan of camels. The drivers ran among them, keeping the towropes from entanglement, alternating lashings with gifts of oats. The towpath often disappeared and the horses went up to their bellies in the foaming muddy water. The sailors, dressed in Venetian garb, ran to and fro on the deck, bidding sweet farewell, saluting, and finally gesturing obscenely toward the two unblushing, unmoved women on the foggy shore.

In the half-hour it took for the
Penelope III
to pass, the Pilot was the only man on the river whose back was to the women. Ainoha saw the captain on the fo’c’s’le, his spyglass trained upon her. She raised her glasses to the bluffs, where Father and the Professor strode back and forth, occasionally waving their arms at each other, totally absorbed in Project Topsy. She could see the hair in their ears and the sweat on their brows.

“It’s almost as if they’re dancing,” the Princess said.

Across the river, below a rocky ledge wetted with streams, Ainoha could also make out an Astingi squadron emerging from a dark wood of unlimbed beeches. They were in ceremonial warrior garb, carrying lances of cornel tipped with iron, and burnished quivers stuffed with blue lead darts. Their glossy golden mounts wore purple saddlecloths and golden snoods with golden bits clamped between their teeth, and both horse and rider wore pliant twisted strands of gold upon their upper chests. But as this vanguard cleared the wood and descended upon a large bald, the Field of Mars, striplings practicing horsemanship appeared on either flank, like birds driven inland from the sea. They rode barechested, their pantaloons held up by suspenders of their mothers’ hair, skulls smartly slicked beneath wolfskin caps, one foot roughly booted, the other bare. The commanders cracked their whips as they weaved left and right, and behind each, two files of six boys rode in open columns. The columns cantered left and right, wheeled, and with their lances lowered, charged one another, alternating parades and counter-marches, retreats and skirmishes. The Field of Mars was white with bones, and on its distant reaches one might still come across the skeleton of a horse, its ribs plunged with the skeleton of its rider, surrounded by an iron hedge of spears. Fertilized with blood and ashes, the earth sprouted giant nasturtiums and violets which would make the best dog giddy, even faint. Horses got the bends, cattle bloated and toppled over. Bees locked their feet in clouds over gargantuan lilies; even the butterflies were punch-drunk. But now this field was sere.

This was no patrol but a mimicry of combat, and its seriousness was sealed when Mother saw the Shaman himself, never before present during maneuvers, observing from the edge of the wood astride a huge stallion with white pasterns and a snowy blaze across his forehead. He alone was dressed simply, no military decorations nor an ounce of gold, his white beard flashing down his raspberry tunic into his lap, and armed only with a cello. The Astingi were on the move to enlist new gods.

Topsy was salivating and the Professor was perspiring. Father’s hands were moving slowly, doing a bit of detached minor surgery upon the air.

“I believe she is beginning to understand,” the Professor said.

“One can understand a great deal and change very little,” Father said absently. “You can’t change ability, but you can change attitude.”

“But she is behaving, no?”

“For the time being, perhaps. You must learn to listen to those who won’t answer.”

“And then, dear friend?”

“And then you must make sure that
your
silence is perfectly understood. And then to make your cold silence, warm.”

“Either you are a genius or the worst charlatan, Councilor.”

“Ah, no,” Felix said quietly, tugging upon an invisible leash as if he were fly-fishing, “hardly a genius. I just know how things
are
, you see. I don’t know why.”

“These are certainly all new theories to me,” the Professor said brightly, “if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Selves don’t need theories. I mean, dear friend, where do you think we are? Athens?” Father snapped out scathingly. “What is needed is a new tone, a new tempo. Something beyond irony and hyperbole.” He glowered out over the darkening river. “Something
dead-on
.”

“Yes, something scientific,” the Professor rubbed his hands. “
Eine unsägliche diagnose
(an unspeakable diagnosis).”

“Not quite,” Father sighed. “A proper science would be critical and humorous, as slippery and sardonic as art. If there’s an idea involved, it’s just this: if the nutcase is to be taken off your hands, she must know there will be no
next
physician!”

He had drawn abreast of his students. “Now, remove the cord, but not the collar.” And they walked on, Topsy in perfect step, her eyes never leaving their knees.

“Tell me Herr Doktor, what is the longest distance in the world?”

The Professor shrugged, preparing himself for the joke.

“To move a man from his intellect to his brain.”

“Surely this is not so difficult as you make it out.”

“You still are much too interested in unveiling hypocrisy. The point is to pass on a certain tolerance so that authority becomes affordable. A stern but benevolent ally can
create
courage!”

Topsy had stopped, raised a rear leg, squatted tremulously, and micturated.

“Ah, what a wonderful specimen,” the Professor guffawed.

“Sarcasm is fine, if you use it no more often than a polka in a symphony. Now, by yourselves then.”

The two moved diagonally in something of a clumsy gambol.

“Much better, comrade. We have made some progress today.”

The Professor was flushed, stammering. “And what is down the road, Councilor—the next lesson?”

“It will be a long journey, Professor, and it is still possible that in the future, spoiled and incurious, she will become everything we hate. The next steps, in order, one on each visit, will be the
Col Pugno
(With the Fist), the
Ruhevoll
(Serenity), the
Mordent Coraggio
(Caustic Courage), the
Trotta Sentimento
(Heartfelt Trot), and finally, with luck, the
Adagio Religioso
.”

“This last,” the Professor snorted dismissively, “is either
schmonzes
(nonsense) or
schrecklich
(frightening).”

“Life is not a ‘Society for Obvious or Underlying Jewish Themes,’ my dearest friend. But my oath to you is that you will experience it by honorable means, if possible. If not, not.”

At this point Topsy wrapped her front legs firmly about Father’s knee and began to deliriously hump away upon his be-putteed leg. Father glanced down knowingly, and for the first time I can recall in a training session, fairly shouted, “Phui!”

She slipped to the ground in the idol-like attitude of the sphinx, paws extended, head elevated, thighs pressed close to her body, her bestial eyes narrowing to mere slits.

“Now
there’s
a command for you!” the Professor beamed. “Forget the damn music—
that’s
the one I want to master.”

Father had looked away. “Ah, friend, it takes a great many
phui
s to make a religion or a work or art.”

The Professor and Topsy had turned toward the river. The wind had picked up, swirling the grass into viridian pockets. Gray Siberian crows, blown in from the steppe, settled about them unconcerned. A crane walked up and passed them by, looking at them over its shoulder like an old gentleman going to the mailbox.

“Relax. Never an angry gesture. Not so constricted . . .
Nicht eilen
(do not hurry), not so close to the body . . .
Bedächtig
(deliberately) not too quickly, give her time,
feierlich langsam doch nicht schleppen
. . . Come out of your bag. If you are tense to begin with, you’ll have nothing left. Stay within yourself. That’s better . . . Now,
narrante
!”

The chapel promontory was suddenly cupped with gusts of wind. Squirrels raced hysterically about its mullions as skylarks fell twittering aimlessly in descent, ceasing their song only a few inches from the ground. Inside, Waterlily was warming up, but she was no longer singing to herself, as she often did. This was a performance.

Waterlily, to her credit, was apparently trying to wrench the Art Song from its culmination of bad history and bad poetry, those recitals solemnly progressing through four centuries and five languages, a trial for all concerned. She was also experimenting with a form of
voix mixte
, at once guttural and falsetto, combining both head and chest registers, so that each vowel had two rates of vibration. It gave quite a special and eerie effect, suitable for the songs which feature children dying in your arms, but seemed a bit overwrought when glowing sunsets, woeful monks, singing larks, overgrown churchyards, or maidens fishing from a bridge were invoked, and all in all it was best that only I could hear her. Sufficiently resonated, she began that afternoon’s recital with a strange Cannonian water rhapsody, as if she were standing alone in the bend of the all-time resonant piano which was Semper Vero.

Eagles were now floating downriver from the upcountry, routing the owls from turrets of the chapel, then walking back and forth on the roof, preening their skulls, their wings folded behind their backs. These heraldic birds—austere, aloof, ill-tempered gentlemen—had little intelligence and no plasticity, their flat heads all inexorable lever, all beak, all pupil. The Astingi abominated the eagle above all things, not only because they carried away their lambs, billykids, and even small foals, but because every empire had adopted them as their symbol of authority. They were the antithesis of the Astingi warrior aesthetic—a beast of prey, aristocracy turned pointless and cruel—which is why every Astingi entourage was brought up in the rear by an eagle trudging on a chain, fed on grub worms and corn gruel, and why Astingi flutes are made from the largest bone of the wing.

The two men breasted the ridge and gazed across the river at the two women sitting, almost classical figures in the light mist. The
Penelope III
was concealed from them by the angle of the cliff.

“Look,” the Professor said, “their breasts are shaking.”

“Laughing at us, no doubt,” Father replied. “Women are more attuned to reality. That’s why they get hysterical.”

The Professor scowled. Topsy was gazing up at him, blinking nervously like her mistress. “Such beseeching!” he groaned.

“You must put up with this and more,” Father intoned. “We may be witnessing the poorest performance ever given by a dog. Everything depends upon the master’s glance.”

“But she’s
so
narcissistic.”

“No one can stand unconditional love for long, good friend. Bounce it back to her. Accept her damage. The suffering cannot end prematurely. Your only command to her is this: use your strength.
Molto sentimento d’affeto
. One must be tender even with the women one has lost.”

The Professor turned back from the river. The cord had tightened inadvertently.

“Pull on her that way, and the only thing you’d be able to predict is where she won’t be.”

“You contradict my every move!”

“Don’t you see, my friend? It’s like playing an instrument. Get the midrange right, and everything else will follow.
Più tosto presto
spiccato
. We walk as between two rivers.”

“Very well, Topsy.” The Professor swallowed his gruffness. “Let us ply the bloody golden mean,” and she waddled through the grass approvingly.

“And stop seeing events as if they were always in a drama,” Felix barked.

The frigate was now directly beneath them, its oars tearing at the water like an uncoordinated centipede. Sailors scurried in the rigging and swore amongst the stacked scenery. But on the main hatch, strewn with pebbles and potted palms, a hodgepodge of a play was being rehearsed to no one’s apparent notice. The Astingi vowels floated up: