The Ecliptic (5 page)

‘Trying to get rid of a few things, that’s all.’

He went about explaining his intentions for the oil drum, which caused Pettifer to push out his bottom lip and shake his head. ‘No, no, I wouldn’t recommend a drumfire unless you
have kerosene. You need to build up a little pyre of timber in the centre to direct the flames. Otherwise, things don’t burn right, and it can all get out of hand rather quickly.’

The boy stood back. ‘Just as well I don’t have any matches then.’

‘I tried to barbecue a manuscript at my editor’s house once,’ Quickman said. ‘Made a glorious mess of his lawn. There was a lot more ash than I expected. Dangerous thing
to do, really.’

Pettifer hummed in agreement. ‘Even a small fire can creep up on you if you don’t know what you’re doing.’

‘How d’you know so much about it?’ Fullerton asked.

‘My father was a scout master.’

‘That’s cool.’

‘He certainly thought so.’

‘Mine wouldn’t even take me camping,’ the boy said. ‘I still went, though.’

‘I don’t blame you.’

‘Did he let you have a jack-knife?’

‘No. But he kept one for himself.’

MacKinney looked back towards the attic lights of the mansion, yawning. The only lines that did not smooth out of her skin were the furrows round her eyes, which seemed to have the deep-set
quality of woodgrain. ‘I suppose we should start getting used to all this macho conversation, Knell. They’ll be duelling with pistols before we know it.’

‘That’s an idea,’ Quickman said.

‘Well, I’m turning in before it gets to that.’

‘What about our game?’ Tif said.

‘I’m not really in the mood. But I hope my money’s still good.’ She leaned into my ear and mumbled: ‘A scoop of French roast on Quickman. Double down if it’s
two-two.’

I nodded. ‘I’ll hold on to your winnings.’

She kissed my cheek. ‘Night, all.’

‘Night, Mac.’

I watched her traipsing off into the dark. It was not unusual for her to retire to bed this early, citing some excuse about the need to work. But she made no mention of her play at all that
night, and I assumed that she was suffering again with her insomnia. (MacKinney often joked that she would overcome these bouts of restlessness by reading back through early drafts: ‘Even in
broad daylight, I can bore myself to sleep.’)

‘What were you trying to burn, if you don’t mind my asking?’ Quickman said to the boy. ‘Hope it wasn’t anything I could smoke.’

‘Just a few things I’m not meant to have brought with me. I thought it’d be OK, but the old man said I needed to get rid of them.’

‘Ah. Been there,’ said Quickman.

‘Been there
twice
now,’ said Pettifer.

Fullerton grinned, and his face seemed unaccustomed to the strain of it. ‘It’s not a competition.’

‘Funny you should mention that,’ Quickman said. ‘We were about to start some backgammon. Ever played?’

The boy looked away. ‘Once, I think. At school. I’m more interested in poker now.’

‘Poker! That’s a bit too Hollywood for us, but Tif and I have a regular dice game every Sunday, best of five, and to be frank—’ Quickman screened his mouth to
stage-whisper. ‘He’s hopeless. I wouldn’t mind having someone else to beat.’

‘All right,’ said the boy. ‘When?’

‘Tonight.’

Pettifer coughed. ‘A bit high-stakes for beginners, isn’t it?’

‘Hardly,’ I said, cutting in. It was quite irregular for Quickman to extend an invitation and I wanted to give the boy every chance to accept.

Fullerton looked interested. ‘You lot play for money?’

‘No. Just trinkets,’ I said. ‘We don’t have much to gamble with.’

‘I nearly won that pipe of his once,’ said Pettifer. ‘Another six and it would’ve been mine. Imagine the power I could’ve wielded!’

‘It’s true,’ I said. ‘They’ve played a few epics. No one can beat Q, though.’

‘OK, count me in,’ said the boy. ‘Why not?’

‘Super! We’ll make it a triangular.’ Quickman clasped his palms and rubbed them. ‘Go and fetch the board, Tif. It’s up in my room.’ His voice was sunnier than
I had heard it in a while. ‘Knell, can we set up at yours again? We’ll need a bigger table.’

I saw an eagerness about the boy’s eyes then, too, and I realised that it was happening just like I said it would—all on its own.

Even though the world Fullerton had left was different from the one we knew, altered by a history that had taken place without us, his way into Portmantle was the same as ours.
The procedure for admission never changed. First, your sponsor had to seek the authorisation of the provost—no specifics could be shared without this prior consent. It was an inherited
knowledge, paid forward by residents of the past to the residents of the present, and if your sponsor could not adequately relay directions, you might never reach the place at all.

Any guest who checked out of the refuge with a clean record—that is to say, without having wilfully contravened any of its rules—was afforded one endorsement to pass on. This could
be bestowed upon any artist whom it was felt could benefit from the sanctuary of Portmantle. It was stressed by the provost that endorsements should only be offered to artists in the direst need.
The cost of a new resident’s tenure had to be covered by their sponsor; a fairly meagre sum, paid seasonally, but it could last for an indefinite period—such was the case for MacKinney,
Quickman, Pettifer, and me. Sponsors, therefore, had to be sure that the artists they were recommending were truly worth helping, as they could remain beholden to that financial outlay for a
permanent duration. The responsibility could not be relinquished or transferred to someone else. Because of this, we stalwarts of the place were looked upon with respect—it was assumed that
our sponsors’ long-term commitment reflected their valuation of our talents. But there were some who viewed us with a dim-eyed pity, as though we were just shadows of ourselves, washed up and
doomed to failure.

Only when the provost had accepted your sponsor’s recommendation would you be told where Portmantle was located. Only then could your sponsor offer you precise instructions, and you would
be required to commit these details to memory fast, because they could not be spoken again or written down. Only when you had made it to the Gare de Lyon in Paris were you allowed to open your
sponsor’s envelope with the provost’s passphrase. Only then could you take the night train to Lausanne, following the Simplon Orient Express line with a second-class ticket your sponsor
had paid for under his own name, his real name, through Milan and Belgrade, to the Turkish-Bulgarian border, showing your passport when you arrived at the terminus in Istanbul. Only then could you
pay your fee for the entry visa and find the cheap hotel room your sponsor had booked, and burn that passport in the bathtub, dousing it with the shower-hose before it set off the sprinklers (you
had to set fire to it early, to stop yourself from turning back later). Only then could you go out into the bright spring sun of the wide-open city and walk along the main road, past the swell of
traffic, the taxis with their rolled-down windows and their music blaring, the clattering trams, the towering mosques, until you reached the ferry port at Kabata
ş
.

Only then could you put one dull
jeton
in the turnstile slot, like your sponsor had advised, keeping another to remind you of your homeward trip every time your fingers met it in the
folds of your pocket. Only then could you walk through the barrier and wait in the muggy departures terminal with your hat on, your eyes concealed by wayfarers, fanning yourself with the newspaper
until the doors were opened to let you step onto the hulking white ship. Only then could you find a seat on the upper deck amongst the gathering hordes, right up close to the railing, to watch the
ferry push away and feel the sudden breeze upon your cheek, taste the brackish cool upon your lips, the thrill of it. Only then could you know the full splendour of the Marmara as it ebbed around
you, fathomless, agleam.

And this would be your final chance to lean back and exhale, to listen to the outcry of the seagulls following the stern, the dizzy flocks that clamoured near the deck as though escorting you.
Soon, the Turkish men would lean over the railing with
simits
held aloft; the birds would swoop to steal the bread right from their fingers, screeching; and you would come to realise the
gulls were not escorts at all, but hustlers and hangers-on, like everyone else you were sailing away from.

Only as you arrived at the first stop in Kadiköy could you undo your watchstrap and remove it, let it slide between the slats of the bench, as though you had forgotten it. Only as you
sailed by the first strange island with all its tombstone houses could you glean how far you were from the world you knew, the people you loved, the people you did not. Only when you passed the
next of them—one broad and inhabited, another just a sliver of green where nothing seemed to live but herons—could you understand how close you were to what you needed. Only then could
you see the khaki hump of Heybeliada rising in the sun-stirred haze and know that you had made it.

Only then could you stand with the giddy tourists on the lower decks as the ferryman threw a withered rope onto the dock, waiting to step off onto a foreign land but somehow feeling you were
almost home. Only then could you skirt by the Naval Academy where the uniformed cadets did their parade drills, and head south-east on Çam Limani Yolu, as you had been instructed, until the
streets became narrower, emptier, and the space between houses grew so wide that you could see the spreading forest up ahead. Only then could you lose yourself in those dry, slanting pines and
sense that you were now released from everything that had weighed on you before. Only then could you see the shoulders of a tarnished mansion surface above the treetops. Only at its gate could you
throw down your backpack, push the buzzer, watch a squinting Turk with a grey moustache and a shotgun come up to the bars, asking your name. Only then could you say you were a different person.
Only then would the old man enquire about the passphrase, so you could finally release it to the air, the meaning of the words becoming clearer as you spoke them. Only then would the gate unlock
and slide back for you in the old man’s grip. Only then would you hear him say, ‘
Portmantle’ye ho
ş
geldiniz.’

When the boy demolished Pettifer in the first game of backgammon we all cried beginner’s luck, but then they played twice more—each bout a little faster than the
one before—and it soon became clear that young Fullerton possessed a startling tactical acuity. He came away with a haul of Pettifer’s belongings: a
çay
glass, a wind-up
turtle made from camphor-wood, and a woven leather belt; and, because I had backed Tif to sweep the best of five, I was forced to surrender my last remaining pack of cinnamon gum. We assumed that
Quickman, a shrewder, more experienced and aggressive player, would prove too wily an opponent for the boy, but it did not transpire that way. Fullerton outmanoeuvred him to the tune of seven
points per game. In truth, it was barely a contest. By the time the boy was done, he had won a fountain pen, a Roman coin, and a silver lighter that once belonged to Quickman’s father,
inscribed with two faded initials. (Tif won back a pair of loafers he had previously lost to Q, and I earned a scoopful of French coffee beans from Mac, though it seemed unfair to claim my winnings
in her absence.)

‘We’ve been hustled,’ Quickman said, staring at the chequers that were left on the board. ‘That last bump-and-run was tournament stuff. What are you, regional champ?
National?’

The boy beamed back at him. ‘I swear, I’ve hardly played before.’

‘You don’t fool me.’

‘I’m just lucky, that’s all. The dice fell kindly.’

‘Rubbish. I’ve never seen so much blockading. That was all strategy.’

‘It’s a blocking game all right,’ Pettifer added, ‘but it’s deadly effective.’

The boy gave nothing away. ‘If you say so.’

‘I’d better sharpen up my end-game before we play again,’ Quickman said.