The Ecliptic (16 page)

She came to the threshold, a towel around her middle. ‘I’d prefer to just go quietly into the night, if it’s all the same to you.’

‘Definitely not.’

The shower continued to run. Rafts of steam began to flood the space behind her. ‘Q would never do it, anyway,’ she said.

‘Of course he would. You’ve got cigarettes, remember. We could even give Tif a role.’

‘But I’ve already told the provost no.’

I looked at the rumpled notice in my hand. ‘I’ll amend it. Or write an appendix. See, you’re thinking about it. That means you want to.’

‘I suppose it wouldn’t be too awful.’ She went off again into the bathroom. ‘There are one or two scenes we could make something out of, with a bit of rehearsing.’
Craning her head around the door, she said, ‘Tif’s got the wrong kind of voice for it, though. He’ll only ham it up, and I don’t want to look stupid.’ She closed the
door. I heard the shower curtain skittering on its rail.

‘What about Fullerton?’ I shouted, but she did not receive me. ‘Mac?’

Once the notion was in my mind, I could not get rid of it. I put the Kipling on the bed and went to the bureau to unpack the typewriter. But I could find no blank paper in the drawers. The room
was so dingy, in fact, that the innards of the desk seemed cavernous.

When I turned on the lamp, the bulb popped, startled me. I went to open the curtains. They were the same heavy velvet drapes that adorned the windows all over the mansion, hung on brass loops
that were difficult to shift—there was a knack to it, a sideways whipping action. As they parted, the teeming of the rain became louder, more encompassing. And perhaps it was something about
this noise and the splatter of Mac’s shower, along with the sudden adjustment to the light, that made me lose my senses for an instant; but as I looked out through the misted panes, I saw an
enormous stretch of open water where the grounds of Portmantle should have been, a swaying sea that reached up to the sides of the mansion, as though the house itself were an island and
MacKinney’s windows were the coastline.

It was only there for a blink and then it was gone. Everything returned at once: the lawns, the trees, the lodgings, the surrounding sights of Heybeliada. I rubbed my temples, scrutinised the
pattern on the wallpaper. Black spots waned in my vision. I had not eaten breakfast yet and felt a little faint. It was tiredness, a touch of vertigo—nothing more.

There was just enough daylight to help me find what I needed in Mac’s bureau. A box of goldenrod paper was buried in the bottom drawer, beneath a heap of manila folders. I spooled one
sheet into the typewriter. It was not difficult to replicate the provost’s formal tone, though my typing was very unpractised. I was so slow that the page was still scrolled in the machine
when Mac came out of the bathroom, towelling her hair. ‘What are you writing?’ she said.

‘An advertisement.’ I hit the last full stop and lifted out the paper, handing it to her. ‘Leave it to me. We’ll start rehearsals after lunch.’

Quickman had a very particular way of eating a pomegranate. He would slice an opening into its base with a sharp knife, score its rind into eight simple sections, then wrestle
the whole fruit over a bowl, working out every wine-dark seed with his fingers, until all that remained was a limp carcass. The complete procedure took less time than it took the rest of us to peel
an orange. And when pomegranate season came round each summer, I would sit and watch him honing this technique every morning, aware that I was gleaning something of the workings of his brain. It
occurred to me that he approached conversations the same way: nimbly separating all the vital pips and casting aside the worthless dregs while you were speaking.

He took in the news of MacKinney’s departure with an attitude of calm, leaning on his fists as he read the provost’s notice. The mess hall was nearly full, the rain’s attack
upon the windows like the crackle of a phonograph. He did not question the facts of the message, just thanked me for showing it to him. Then he said, ‘She kept that pretty quiet. I had no
idea she was so close to finishing.’ I told him that I had known about it for a few days; I was not sure that he believed me. ‘The provost’s quote is a bit puzzling,
though,’ he said. ‘Not his usual syrupy fare, is it?’ He gave the note back to me. ‘Still, it accounts for her gruffness lately. All that bud-dying up to the Spaniard. Hah.
The whole thing’s starting to make sense.’ He grazed his fingernails across his cheeks. ‘Well, no point feeling sorry for ourselves, I suppose. I’m proud of her. She’s
bloody well earned it.’

‘This place without Mac, though,’ I said. ‘Doesn’t seem right.’

‘Best to focus on the positives.’

‘I’m trying. It’s not easy.’

‘Does Tif know yet?’

‘He’s still in his studio.’

‘We ought to wake him up. He won’t want to hear this from someone else. Let me finish eating and we’ll go.’

I decided I should have something in my stomach, too, given my odd vision in Mac’s room. I sat and drank two glasses of whole milk while Q ate the last of his eggs. When I explained my
plan to stage a reading, he was surprisingly enthusiastic; I did not even have to tell him about the cigarettes. ‘Count me in,’ he said, ‘provided I can stay in my chair for the
duration. Proper acting is beyond me, but I think I can handle reading aloud.’

‘I thought I’d have to bully you into it.’

‘You know I’d give Mac a kidney if I had to. And besides, I’m dying to see what she’s been working on. Are we going to give Tif a part?’

‘I think she had someone quieter in mind.’

‘Shame. He’ll be keen.’

‘That’s sort of the problem.’

‘Oh, let him try at least. Exuberance is no bad thing. It’s Mac’s farewell—he’ll want to be involved.’

‘I suppose.’

‘Come on then. Drink up.’

We borrowed the provost’s umbrella. Quickman and I were of similar height, and although the lime-green canopy covered us evenly, the puddles on the path were almost ankle-deep and our
trousers were soon drenched.

Pettifer’s lodging stood some fifty or sixty yards from mine, behind the southernmost face of the mansion, in a clutch of slightly larger studio huts the provost reserved for architects
and print-makers. Only two of these studios were presently occupied (Crozier had the other), and Pettifer’s was on the downward slope towards the boundary fence, which made for a slippery
descent. The jutting roots of lindens nearly tripped us twice. The waist-high scrub nicked our hands as we brushed through it. By the time we reached Pettifer’s walkway, we were in the
foulest mood.

Quickman thudded his fist on the door and it swung back. He called, ‘Tif, you big lump, we’re coming in! We’re soaked!’ and went right inside, collapsing the umbrella and
tossing it to the floor. He marched through the studio with the self-assurance of a man in his own household, going straight up to the dresser to fetch me a towel. I took off my shoes, wrung out my
socks, rolled up the hems of my trousers. He did the same, then went to put more coke in the stove—it appeared to have been quite recently ignited. There was a very welcome warmth about the
studio, in fact: lamps were glowing in every corner, the walls were covered in sketches and charts, and the spread of unwashed clothes about the room was so profuse that I felt completely
enveloped.

Pettifer was just a snoring shape under the blankets. He slept on his front, as though strapped to a knife-thrower’s wheel, his arms stretched out, his feet hooked over the mattress. The
rise and fall of his breaths was both pacific and unpleasant. Quickman went to bring him round, slapping his toes. ‘Rise and shine. We’ve got some news for you.’

I put my shoes and socks beside the stove.

Pettifer groaned. ‘This better be an emergency. Can’t you see I’m working?’

His drafting table was set up under the window but there was nothing on it. I assumed that he had placed it there so he could take inspiration from the view into the woods. He always said that
it was the job of an architect to absorb and reinterpret nature. ‘The truest measure of a building,’ he once told me, ‘is how quietly it recedes into the past. And nothing is
quieter than a tree, or a mountain, or a mulberry bush, or—you get the point.’ The adjacent wall was loosely collaged with pencil drawings. All of them depicted a doorway of some kind.
There were too many shapes and sizes to count; some were basic, some more ornamented; there was one, drawn deftly on a slip of elephant paper, that looked like a portcullis, and another, rendered
in ink, that showed two squat pillars with the structure of pine cones. I rarely called on Pettifer at his lodging because the extent of his productivity always left me feeling insecure. But I
could see now that most of the drawings on the wall had been there a very long time. The only project that had developed since my last visit was the model ship he had started building last winter.
It was now a fully formed vessel with balsa masts and fabric sails and even a tiny crow’s nest. He kept it dry-docked on the top of his plan chest on a precarious wooden stand, which led me
to suspect the drawers below were not in use.

‘You’d work all day if we let you,’ Quickman said.

Pettifer did not open his eyes. He spoke into the pillow: ‘Go away.’

‘MacKinney’s leaving tomorrow.’

‘Piss off, Q. I need my sleep.’

‘Did you hear what I said? Mac is
leaving.
’

‘I heard you. Ha bloody ha.’

‘Tell him, Knell.’

The coke was crackling nicely in the stove. I warmed my feet against the grate. ‘He’s not kidding. She’s taking the ferry, first thing.’

Pettifer was quiet. After a moment, he levered himself upright, yawning. ‘If I find out this is a joke, I’ll skin the bloody pair of you.’

I brought over the provost’s notice and he snatched at it, screwing up his face as he read. He lay on his side, still holding the message. ‘Well, isn’t this just a perfect way
to start the day.’

‘Be happy for her,’ Quickman said. ‘It’s a huge achievement.’

‘I’m elated.’

‘Clearly.’

‘I’m so elated I’m distraught.’

I went and sat on the bed. ‘Chin up, Tif, you’re not the only one who’s going to miss her. We’re putting on a reading tonight. I was hoping you’d help
out.’

Pettifer dropped the note and rolled onto his front. ‘That’s a terrible idea.’

‘Why?’

‘Have you ever seen me act? Mac would look foolish, and I would look foolish, and everything would turn out badly for all concerned.’ He turned his head away. ‘You two do what
you like. Just keep me out of it.’

‘It isn’t acting, it’s reading,’ I said. ‘Don’t be a pain. We’re going to need a few copies of the script typed up—at least help us with
that.’

Quickman made a throat-cutting gesture, but it was too late.

‘I’m a woeful typist,’ said Pettifer. ‘If you want the truth, I’m useless in every respect. But especially—most spectacularly—in the field of
architecture, which is a bit of a handicap for an architect, I think you’ll agree.’ He took the pillow out from under his cheek and covered his whole head with it. ‘My God. I
can’t believe Mac’s actually finished. You realise this means she’s better than us, don’t you? We’re never getting out of here. I’m going to be working on this
stupid building till they put me in a box.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ Quickman said. ‘I knew you’d see the bright side.’

‘Go away.’

‘It could be worse,’ I said. ‘You’d have seen it up on the bulletin board if we hadn’t told you.’

‘Go. Away.’

Quickman retrieved his shoes, stepping into them barefooted. ‘Come on, Knell. This was a mistake.’ He draped his wet socks on the back of a chair and collected the umbrella.
‘Let him stew in his self-pity for a while. We’ll try again at lunchtime.’

Pettifer lifted his arm. ‘Finally, some sense.’

It was easy to forgive his selfishness. The end of Tif’s project was so far off that every departure bruised his confidence, brought on a panic that made him thorny and humourless for
days. We had never had to say farewell to anyone as consequential as MacKinney before, so I could not blame him for wanting to stay in bed. If there had not been the consolation of knowing
Mac’s project was unfinished, I might well have behaved the same way. Looking about his studio now, I could see the remains of so much labour, so much pursuit, but no coherence. How many
sketches of doorways could a man draw before he settled on the perfect form? How long could he keep on prospecting the same dry patch of land before it collapsed beneath him?

I knew that Pettifer worked harder at his craft than any of us. From his very first day at Portmantle—when Mac and I had watched him lumbering through the gate with a plan-tube strapped
across his chest—he had been toiling at the same project. He had told us all about it on his second night. ‘They’re building a new cathedral in Manchester,’ he had said.
‘I’m sorting out the drawings.’ What we came to understand later, over the course of so many seasons in his company, was that he had already won the commission. There had been an
exhausting competition between him and four other architects and his initial concept had impressed the Archbishop most. It had been a thrilling time in his career—‘the very
pinnacle’. But, a week before construction was due to start, Pettifer had noticed a serious flaw in the design.