The Smell of Telescopes (23 page)

“I need you, ’Lin! I won’t let you burn.”

A misguided attempt at rescue, for these amplified words fanned the inferno to make a tropical midsummer in the auditorium, and the teak was released from the cage of homesickness. Since carved by the carpenter in Panama it had resented the cold latitudes, dreaming of hot monsoons. Now it assumed it had one, with the temperature and moisture, and so it grew faster and faster to reclaim all that lost time. The holes in the helmet sealed themselves up, and the man inside suffocated. The ghoul span away in disgust and Linopolis crumbled to ash around the Swede, drying him as it dispersed, until he was alone on the Alpine plain. A month later, his skeleton fell apart within the suit, skull rattling down the hollow left thigh like a landlord’s knock. In the autumn, Morgan came to harvest the armour, claiming it for a figurehead.

The Haunted Womb

It was on our wedding night that my bride revealed that she was infected with her lover’s ghost. I knew something was amiss, but I’d never anticipated a paranormal problem. Undaunted by her pronouncement, I made yet another attempt at completing our nuptials. I failed once more; and I guessed I would continue to fail indefinitely. There was nothing I could do other than weep, while she soothed my brow and finally slipped out of bed to make a pot of tea. 

In her absence, I examined the apparatus of my defused ardour. Pale and shrivelled, it trembled with fright; my words of condolence couldn’t rouse it from its abject state. Emily had ruined me with her infidelity. No longer a man, I reflected on this reversal of my fortunes, from power to infirmity, rapture to misery, in a single evening. In the deeps of my discarded trousers, a pocket watch chimed twelve; it was time to consider divorce, and I did so.

But what could I tell the solicitor? After a traditional service in a gothic church, clever speeches from a selection of guests at a sumptuous reception and dancing on a floor made slippery with spilled champagne, I had become a genuine groom, frightfully eager to consummate my marriage. My passion was unbearable; I caught my bride and rushed out of the hotel with her, to the disgust of the manager, a doleful chap who believed that the only permissible delights are made from gelatine. We fell into the hired car and I accelerated to Yorkshire.

Hidden in the tangle of rutted lanes which net the landscape around the town of Coxwold, a furnished cottage awaited. Hoisting my bride over the threshold, flinging her on the quilt, I unsheathed her body from her dress with my teeth, hurting my fillings on the gold lamé butterflies. A pair of satin knickers was removed like the crust of a pie; I licked the filling and found it to my taste. Emily giggled. The rising moon cast a beam through a window to spotlight my pride. Events moved rapidly. How shall I put the matter delicately? I rose and plunged, in accordance with nature, but the instant I passed through her conjugal gates, something punctured my zeal. Pulling out, I regarded the physical truth of my deflated lust, an object covered in goosebumps. Every hair in the vicinity had turned white with fright. It looked as if my manhood had seen an apparition. When I suggested this to my wife, she responded that it probably had.

Cupid’s arrow had become a boomerang!

While I brooded over these terrible scenes, Emily returned from the kitchen with a brimming saucer and a napkin. I lapped the liquid with my tongue and she dabbed at the corners of my eyes. Minutes passed before I felt safe enough to berate her.

“I’m awfully disappointed by this affair.”

“These things happen, Joseph. You knew I was a feisty girl when you proposed. Redheads crave variety.”

“But what was the scoundrel’s name?”

She shrugged and sighed deeply. “It happened in Spain on a business trip. There was an imposing gentleman in a café in Toledo. He approached my table and offered to buy me a drink. His appearance was exotic and in the sleeve of his gown he kept fritillaries, dozens of them. They seemed to obey his command. When he made them form the figure of a heart in the air between us, I was captivated.”

I howled. Emily is a lepidopterist and easy to lead astray with the right kind of insect. Indeed, it was the moths in my empty wallet during a restaurant meal, rather than my personality, which won her for me when we started dating, six months ago.

“Seduced by a conjuror! What happened next?”

“He took me to a discreet hotel. The Pensión Lumbreras.”

I chewed my lip, but my teeth were too blunt to draw blood. I vowed to see a dentist soon. “And then?”

“The usual outcome. But he was less robust than I’d assumed. At the critical moment, he had a fatal heart-attack. Instead of flying off into the air, his soul took a wrong turn and entered my uterus, where it has taken residence. I hoped it would make no difference to our relationship but it evidently has. We’ll never be able to make love with a phantom in my womb; it’ll haunt your member.” Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with sympathy. Emily’s mistake affected her no less than me. Forgiveness was not only appropriate but necessary. My duty was to practise tolerance.

“Are you willing to consider an exorcist?”

She frowned. “Do they still exist? I thought the church discouraged its staff from dabbling in magic.”

“Well, we’re in Yorkshire now. I bet I can find a local vicar ready to take on the job. Shall we try?”

She nodded imperceptibly and I requested the telephone directory. I flicked the pages of the book, found the number of a pastor who lived in Coxwold and dialled him up—it took quite a long time to rouse him from his slumber. After listening to my feverish explanations, he became very excited and promised to come over as quickly as possible. There was some sort of electrical discharge rife on the lines; I winced and dropped the receiver as it stung my cheekbone.

I cradled my bride while we waited. I felt my lust returning, but I was too scared to touch her. I thought I detected the bell of a bicycle, far away on the frozen wind. A storm was gathering; my hair rose on end, green sparks dancing on my fringe.

Pastor Rowlands arrived within the hour. A man with lashes too long for his puritan eyes, I can’t say his presence was comforting. A chilly, brooding aura seemed to envelop him, an air of musty antiquity, as if he slept on a shelf in the basement of an unvisited museum. The tips of his fingers, when you looked at them askance, seemed to glow like irradiated worms. I’m convinced he cycled all the way to our cottage without lamps. He didn’t appear to need external illumination. When he talked, I was sure he used more than one tongue.

“Yes, there’s definitely a spectre in the vicinity. Show me to your wife, Mr Pickhill. It’s a most awkward place for a haunting, though I’ve had others nearly as troublesome.”

“Have you? Can you furnish examples?”

“I’m not here for small talk, but I’ll briefly mention the time the clock of Salisbury cathedral was possessed by the spirit of a sundial. A most unfortunate event in winter.”

“An evil hob-gnomon, was it?”

I guided him to Emily, who was draped in a blanket. Pastor Rowlands raised his arms in embarrassment. “Keep it on. I can examine you through the material. But please silence your husband.”

She lifted a stern finger and I sealed my mouth.

Kneeling, the exorcist placed an ear to Emily’s womb. He tapped the blanket and rolled his eyes violently.

“How utterly fabulous! It’s one for the record books.”

“Can you cure the infection?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No, because it’s not a disease. The soul of her deceased lover has made her pregnant.”

“I beg your pardon?” I spluttered. “But how?”

“The spirit has simply joined with an egg and is growing naturally. There’s nothing to cure, Mr Pickhill, except the miracle of life itself. By the end of the year, you’ll have an addition to your family. Allow me to be first to offer congratulations.”

Emily blushed, but for my sake she repressed her smiles. “A phantom pregnancy for real! A stroke of luck.”

“I can’t tell at this stage whether it’s a boy or girl,” the pastor confessed. “But it’s going to be big.”

I simmered with rage. “Boy or girl? Boil or ghoul, more like! Don’t you realise what you’re saying? My wife is carrying another man’s spook! Do you expect me to put up with that?”

“An unhelpful attitude, Mr Pickhill. Are you jealous?”

I persuaded him, without much difficulty, that I was. We were at an impasse. Studying my wife’s expression, I realised a termination was out of the question. But there had to be an alternative. What if we could find a surrogate mother willing to carry the child instead? I’d read that the operation was feasible, though for souls the process might be different. I announced: “How about a transplant?”

“I’m not able to assist you there. The spirit must be coaxed out in its own tongue. My Spanish is very weak. Besides, the church is reluctant to involve itself in psychic surgery.”

“Help me arrange it or I’ll kill myself! That’ll be a bigger sin on your conscience. I’m serious, pastor.”

Emily nodded at the exorcist. She knew me well enough to appreciate the difference between my hollow threats and those more solid than stale coffins. With her support, I knew I’d get my own way. The pastor snorted and regarded his glinting fingernails.

“Well, it’s a little drastic, but I know one man who can transplant the phantom to another womb. He’s had plenty of experience with peculiar cases. As long as you can pay his ludicrous fees, I’ll inform him of your circumstances. If he agrees to see you, expect him to visit in a week or two. But I advise against it.”

“He sounds just the fellow! Why must we wait so long?”

“He’s based in Madrid. His name is Doctor José de los Rios and I’ve heard a great many strange stories about him. It’s no good travelling to Spain for a consultation; he uses foreign cases as an excuse for a holiday. He’ll expect you to wine and dine him for the length of his stay as well as put him up for free. He may even linger after your problem is solved. He is, though, the most noble man in his profession—mainly because he happens to be the only one! Apart from that, keep an eye on your wallets when he leaves. His fingers are like hornets.”

“You mean his touch stings pockets? Surely any risk is worth it for the chance to consummate my marriage?”

“I’ll take your word for that, Mr Pickhill...”

I prevailed upon the exorcist to contact Dr de los Rios right away. He pouted and grumbled but finally promised to send him a note outlining the details of our predicament. There was nothing left for me to do, except grit my aching molars for a fortnight. The pastor left and the darkness jumped into his absence. Dawn hardly helped my mood, which was a combination of fury and forbearance. Emily took her treacherous womb back to bed and I sat at the window cursing hedges. The occasional butterfly, rising from a clump of hyacinths, fanned my hatred with garish efficiency. Several times I was on the point of waking Emily to condemn her, but I restrained the urge.

We maintained an uneasy alliance over the following days. Each time I brought up the subject of infidelity, she reminded me that I was ugly. We were deadlocked. Her fickleness, my visage; both were equally horrid. To freshen this stalemate, we cuddled at frequent intervals, oscillating between compassion and revulsion—good practise for any married couple. Emily sauntered around the garden in the sun but quickly grew exhausted. Pregnancy had borrowed the springiness from her ankles, refusing to give it back, but her appetite remained conventional. At the end of the first week, I burned her wedding-dress in the grate, while she was asleep, and the gold lamé decorations spiralled across the room in shimmering clouds to mock my chin and singe my eyebrows.

Pastor Rowlands was a regular guest at our cottage, offering solace and wisdom at bargain prices. His arrival was usually preceded by bursts of icy flame on the horizon. He unnerved us both, though I was delighted with the way he chased horrid shadows into hiding. I never really wanted to associate with ghosts; such close proximity to one altered the entire aspect of the furnishings, turning rooms into chambers of menace. It was easier to bear with the exorcist at sparkling hand. He seemed content in the vicinity of my wife, sitting on the sofa next to her, while I took a position at a safer distance. He promised me that contact with Dr de los Rios had been established, but he was unable to give a definite date for his advent. He sermonised on patience.

Two weeks passed in this state of anguished expectancy. Probably an optical illusion, but my bride seemed to have a definite swelling in her midriff. I fought back my natural paternal reflexes; to betray myself by valuing her condition was an unbearable temptation. I abandoned all hope of ever regaining my virility. The doctor still had not materialised and no amount of imprecation could loosen the pastor’s tongue as to where he might be. Finally, at the end of the third week, there was a violent rap on the door. I opened it and a dapper gentleman, portly but not awkward, bowed elegantly before pushing inside.

I retreated as he explored the room, altering the angles of objects and rearranging ornaments. He was dressed in a flamboyant style, antique cane grasped in one hand as he poked among the papers in my bureau. Then he was fiddling with the radio, losing the station I had found with such difficulty. I viewed his waistcoat, with its amethyst buttons and dragon motif, in a kind of numbed astonishment. In his other hand, he carried a wooden box of exquisite workmanship which he laid on the mantelpiece. He briefly surveyed the kitchen and bedroom before returning to confront me with the results of his investigation.

“Ah, so this is a typical English residence?”

The question confused me. “Well, yes, I suppose so, but most people don’t live in them.” Aware I had contradicted myself, I began stuttering my way deeper into absurdity. “They have cottages elsewhere like this or different which are quite as typical.”

“Your wife blends well with the décor, but you are anomalous. Tweed suit and spats would be preferable, though your head catches reflections in an unfortunate way. I have a patent medicine for your stammer. Pay me later, if you like. I’m very thirsty.”

Emily was more composed. “Dr de los Rios, I presume?”

“One and the same, Señora. Now where’s the wine?”

Carefully testing the chairs with his hand, he selected the most comfortable and pulled it close to the fire. He removed his boots and rested his heels on the warm hearth, wriggling his toes in ecstasy.

I hastened to fetch a bottle of 1985 Le Montrachet from the Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, a top white burgundy. Following the pastor’s advice I had stocked up on all kinds of expensive consumables, travelling daily to a delicatessen in Coxwold. I poured the nectar and our saviour gently pushed his nose into the rising fumes.

“A little young for me. Do you have anything else?”

My jaw slackened, but I procured an alternative, a cobwebbed bottle of Château Latour 1961. After a careful sip, he exhaled despondently. “I still rate sherry as the finest wine.”