The Ecliptic (42 page)

‘She’s a bit exhausted,’ MacKinney said contritely. ‘I ought to take her back now.’

‘Yes, she does look quite run down.’

‘I’m fine,’ I said. She tried to walk me forwards, but I resisted. There was plenty enough strength in me yet. ‘I’m sure their sudden change of heart has nothing to
do with dumping the boy out there.’

‘
Knell
,’ Mac said.

A wen of rain dripped from the provost’s brow. ‘The trustees aren’t infallible. They’ve acknowledged their mistake, and I don’t think we should be asking questions
if the outcome is the right one in the end, do you?’

I felt Mac pulling at my elbow again.

The provost turned his back on us, resting his cane upon his shoulder. ‘I suggest you try to get some rest now,
both
of you,’ he called, treading the path.
‘Provost’s orders.’

There was little sense in sleeping. But, with everyone convening in the mess hall under the pretence of mourning, I did not want to be around the mansion until lights-out. So I
took a shower and changed my clothes again (everything I wore seemed to be possessed by memories) and then I cleared my studio, washed up my equipment and organised my materials. Afterwards, I made
a cup of tea and sat down on the couch to take the weight off, and I must have leaned my head back a degree too far, because I woke up in lamplight with the teacup full and cold. I was out of
kindling for the stove and could not light it. There was plenty in the mansion stores, I knew, and Ender would replenish my stocks come morning. But the rain had left the evening damp and rheumy on
the lungs; I needed to stay warm.

Ender had a room on the ground floor—not much more than a storage space with a single bed and bathroom fixtures screened off behind muslin. His door was closed when I got there, and he did
not respond when I knocked. Upstairs, there was movement on the landing, and I went up to see if he was in the mess hall or the kitchen. But there was only Lindo, the Spaniard, and a few of his
short-term friends. They were playing shove ha’penny on our table and making quite a din. When Lindo spotted me, he gestured for the group to quieten. ‘Is everything OK?’ he
asked. The other heads turned. I barely recognised their faces: gormless, spongy, self-amused.

‘Looking for Ender,’ I said. ‘What are you doing on our table?’

The Spaniard shrugged. ‘The game requires it.’ He held my gaze, unflinching. ‘Ender is not here. We have not seen him. Should I tell him you were looking?’

The serving pass was shuttered and the kitchen door was closed. ‘No, that’s all right,’ I said. Lindo nodded and returned to his shove ha’penny. For a short while, I
dawdled on the landing, expecting Ender to emerge from a stairwell or a corridor, but he did not. In fact, the mansion was curiously still, as though Gülcan’s special supper had left
everyone so sedated they had all retired to bed.

Quickman’s room was at the near end of the hallway, separated from MacKinney’s by the landing and the library. I rarely disturbed him in his own space. Of the four of us, he was the
most guarded about his lodging and it was simpler just to wait for his appearance every mealtime than try to lure him out—if he was absent at lunch or dinner, we assumed that he was in a
solitary mood. But I was feeling less in thrall to Quickman’s need for privacy than usual. I went to knock for him.

It took no time at all for him to answer. My knuckles were hardly off the wood. He peeked out through the gap, lifting his chin at me. ‘Thought it might be you,’ he said, and let the
door hang open. His room had changed since my last visit: generally less cluttered, but something else, too. Quickman must have sensed me trying to work it out, because he thumbed towards his desk
and said, ‘Used to be under the window, if that’s what’s bothering you.’

‘Tired of the scenery already?’ I said.

‘It helps to change your view every now and again, I’ve found.’ He went to sit down in his swivel-chair, a high-backed rosewood thing with metal casters and a few turned
spindles missing (his hands reached back into the space where they should have been). ‘And I get distracted by the birds. If you stare at them for long enough, they develop personalities. Now
I can’t look up in case I see myself in the mirror. One glimpse of this face is like a dose of salts.’

‘Yes, I’ve often thought so.’

He almost smiled. There was subdued light about the place, like some rare-book shop. A lamp was poised over the empty surface of his desk. ‘You’re not working?’ I asked.

‘I never write and entertain at once,’ he said. ‘I’m not Gertrude bloody Stein.’

The last time I had ventured into Quickman’s room, seasons before, I had seen a stack of pages on his bedside cabinet: handwritten, curling, weighed down by some dull brass ornament. The
stack had been thick as a breezeblock. The same papers were still there, except the ream was just a quarter of the size, and a pot of
ayran
rested on it with its cap peeled back. ‘I
was trying to find Ender,’ I said. ‘Didn’t want to interrupt you.’

‘Well, I don’t know where the old man is, but I’m glad you stopped by.’ Using his heels, he swung the chair round and shuffled to a set of drawers. From the topmost, he
pulled out a bundle of cloth. ‘I’ve not been able to concentrate all day. I tried to sleep but I don’t think I’ve been this restless since the war.’

‘You were in the war?’ It surprised me that Q had volunteered this information, though I had always assumed he would have served in some capacity. There was a forlorn silence that
belonged to men his age, in which you could detect reverberations of experiences too bewildering to relay.

He inhaled, nodding. ‘I was indeed. The Sappers. Saw a bit of action out in Nijmegen, and then got shot in the foot. Shot
myself
in the foot, quite literally. So don’t be
staring at me all misty-eyed or anything. I’m no war hero
.
’ Wheeling himself back to the desk, he set the bundle down and unfolded the fabric. It was a T-shirt, pale blue, with
crusted marks about the armpits. And, inside it, were the boy’s index cards. The entire block of them, jointed with tape. Some of the ink was smudged here and there, but the Japanese was
still legible.

‘Where’d you get those?’ I said, stepping forward.

Quickman stared down at them. ‘I took them from his table before you brought the provost.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve been wondering that myself. A sense of duty, I suppose. Even though—’ He broke off, drawing his pipe out of his pocket, biting on it. ‘Even though I hardly
knew the lad. But, God, I don’t know, Knell. Once you’ve held somebody in your arms like that, someone as young as him, so dead, you just—it does things to you. I had this awful
feeling, as if I’d failed him somehow. And then I saw the cards and, that was it. I took them.’

Under Quickman’s desk light, the boy’s scrawled notes seemed like preserved exhibits. I still did not know what they meant. ‘Did you translate them yet?’ I asked.

‘Some of them,’ Q said.

‘And?’

‘They’re extremely odd. Not dissimilar to the boy himself, in all honesty.’ He picked up the cards and turned back through them. ‘These ones, for example. They read like
advertising copy. Some sort of public health notice from the United Fruit Company—I’m not joking. I’ve translated to the best of my ability, but still, there’s something
awkward about the language. See what you make of it.’ He slid open the drawer of his desk and brought out a yellow notepad with his own writings in pencil. And removing his pipe, he read:

‘
How to add life to your years
—dot, dot, dot—
and years to your life
—exclamation mark.
You’ve probably noticed it among your own acquaintances.
Some people at sixty or even seventy seem to be doing more, and having more fun at it, than others who are fifty, or even forty—
exclamation mark
. Chances are, if you could look
closer into their lives, you’d learn a few things. They chose the right parents.
Open bracket:
Heredity
—possibly
lineage,
that word, not sure—
has
something to do with it.
Close bracket.
They find joy in their work.
Open bracket:
That has a lot to do with it.
Close bracket.
You might discover that the people who
live longest and enjoy life most are people who eat enough of the right kind of foods. For a properly balanced diet, medical scientists
—possibly just
doctors
there, but
medical scientists
seems more correct—
medical scientists can literally slow up the ageing process.
Slow up. Sounds very American, doesn’t it? Hang on. Lost my place
now . . .
That means plenty of proteins—the building blocks that keep your body in a state of good repair. Vitamins and minerals—the protective foods that keep your eyes shining,
your hair and skin in good condition—
dot, dot, dot—
and your whole outlook on life brighter. Energy foods—the fuels your body has to burn to give you vigour and
enthusiasm.
’ Q widened his eyes. ‘I’m not sure you need to hear the rest.’

‘Is that all of it?’ I said.

‘No, there’s more. Plenty more.’ He leafed through his notepad, clearing his throat. ‘
That is not to say you have to eat a lot. In fact, as we grow older, we need
less food. The important thing is to eat a wide variety of the right foods. For instance, take a banana. Take it—
exclamation mark
—peel it, eat it—
exclamation
mark
. It’s satisfying and nourishing. Vitamins and minerals are there in well-balanced supply and wholesome natural sugars to give you energy. Slice a banana into a bowl and pour milk on
it
—dot, dot, dot—
you’re adding proteins to keep your body in good repair, as well as consuming
—don’t know what that word is
—and
bone-building
—possibly
bone
-
growing,
there—
calcium. Easy to fix.
Again, that’s quite American.
Easy to fix. Easy to eat. Easy to digest. In
fact, doctors often recommend bananas in cases of severe digestive disturbances. And you don’t have to feel very hungry—
open bracket
—or even be very old—
close
bracket
—to enjoy this simple treat—
exclamation mark
.
And then the tagline:
United Fruit Company. For health, eat and enjoy a plentiful variety of the right
foods.
’ Quickman tossed the notepad aside and clamped down on his pipe again. ‘If you can tell me what any of this relates to, I’d be very glad to know. Because I’ve
spent the past few hours working on all that and it still baffles me. I mean, who the heck
was
this lad, anyway, if this was the nonsense filling his head?’

I did not have the answers for him. ‘All I know is that we didn’t do enough for him while he was here.’

Q said nothing.

‘Have you translated any more?’

He sighed. ‘About half of them. There’s an ad for Cadillac and the
Encyclopaedia Britannica
, and one for Zenith hearing aids. I’m officially bemused.’

‘Please keep at it,’ I said. ‘They’re all that’s left.’

‘I will.’ He scratched his beard, leaning back. ‘Any distraction at the moment is a welcome one. Except—’ He straightened up, swivelling to catch my eye.
‘They’re not quite
all
that’s left. I mean, he came here with a bagful, didn’t he? There must be other things in his lodging we can save.’

Fullerton’s window was boarded with plywood. ‘Just for now,’ Ender said. ‘I can order tomorrow some glass.’ He unlocked the door for me, flipped on
the wall-switch. A stark fluorescent haze brightened the studio. I tried not to look towards the threshold of the bathroom, where my last sighting of the boy was still imprinted in the space like
some trick of the light. There was a stink of Ajax in the air. The concrete floor had been mopped dry and the boy’s bed had been stripped. His guitar was stored above the wardrobe.
‘What’s wrong with the lamps?’ I asked, seeing they were all unplugged.

‘For safeness,’ Ender said. ‘We have to test.’

The boy had a large drafting table, similar to Pettifer’s, though his was tilted at a sharper angle against the wall. There were no sentimental images from home tacked up on the plaster
behind it, no inspiring prints or clippings, as you might have found in other studios. The materials on his workbench were quite meagre: a few coloured pens and pencils; a pot of red ink, a pot of
blue; a graphite stick and blotting tissues. ‘I will come back soon, yes?’ Ender said.