The Smell of Telescopes (34 page)

“The flying chap above? Friend of yours?”

“Simon Magus. A rival to Christ and the original Beast 666. I think he had a dispute with Crowley over the title. Played that trick once too often. Fell to his doom in Rome.”

Odette gripped my arm. “We’ll have to go round the back. Don’t care to push my way through that lot.”

The gang of hoods had erected another fire on the pavement directly in front of our door. One of the figures removed his mask and mopped his sooty brow with a voluminous sleeve. He was a coarse monk, with squashed nose and uneven tonsure, not the impressive features one associates with a chief inquisitor, who should be tall, slim and dark, with silver teeth and platinum earrings. I smirked.

“Oh come on, he’s gouty and decrepit.”

Cartaphilus growled. “Tomás de Torquemada. He has no love for Jews. I prefer your wife’s suggestion.”

He shivered beneath his woollens, the first time he had shown fear. It was infectious. We detoured down an alleyway at the side of the house and climbed a wall into our garden. A solitary light revealed that Billy was still in his room, probably snoring through the apocalypse. The back door was ajar and we pushed into the kitchen. There was laughter and the whisper of a lute. I wiped my bare feet on the doormat. Vomit had forced itself under my ingrown toenails.

Jacob Degen sat with the bishop at the table. Having cut his musket in half to carry it down the stairs, he was busy gluing it together. The barrel gouged furrows in the ceiling, another source of disbursement. No resentment at our escape glittered in their eyes. Cartaphilus joked with them in German and Langue d’oc and they nodded encouragingly. Turning to me, he identified the bishop, also a troubadour, as Folquet de Marselha, the crooning butcher of Toulouse. I was careful to give them both a wide berth, though I did offer to make a pot of tea. The Wandering Jew secured the back door and shook his head. “No time for that. Can’t you hear it? He’s reached the bottom step and is mincing out of St Jude’s.”

Far away, a hollow booming intensified.

“Hark, cobbles! His hooves are striking sparks.”

Odette was more relaxed. “What are we supposed to do now? Just wait for the slob to diabolise elsewhere?”

“He won’t leave. This city is ideal for him.”

I pouted. “Suppose you tell us the whole story?”

“As you wish. Ever heard of Origen?”

“One of the Church Fathers,” announced Odette. “Gelded himself with a bronze sickle to avoid temptation.”

“Quite right. His knackers were preserved in an Armenian chapel for the edification of infertile pilgrims. But his real claim to fame is his heresy, which maintains that God and Satan will settle their differences and become reconciled. Despite his great importance to the early Church, he was reprimanded by orthodox historians, though Eusebius speaks highly of him. The point is, his doctrine never faded. A core of followers kept it going down through the generations. At last they seized the chance to restore harmony between the kings of Heaven and Hell by inviting them to a special meal in a celestial restaurant.”

“You mean the
Stately Pleasure Dome
?”

“That’s the one. Plenty of business deals are made in the convivial surroundings of a first-class brasserie, so why not a theological truce? Anything can be sorted out over a curry, even the fate of the cosmos. It took centuries for the Origenists to save enough money, but coin by coin it accumulated. Because I owe allegiance to neither side, I was hired to wait on table. To the incalculable relief of my employers, God and Satan accepted their invitations. A date was set for the opening night and six trillion animals were slaughtered. As you know, Christian archetypes are carnivorous. They can’t abide vegetables.”

“Why was Swansea selected for the venture?”

“It’s the only neutral location in the world. Everywhere else is an enclave of Paradise or Perdition, encompassing greater or lesser aspects of one or the other. Venice, for instance, is divine, while Bucharest is infernal. This is true for every city in creation, except Swansea, which is an earthly analogue of Limbo. It’s a void. That’s why the locals were also invited to dinner. It would have been awkward to have God and Satan sitting in an empty restaurant.”

“An astounding account. But it doesn’t explain the vomit and damned souls flowing down the streets.”

“Something went wrong. At first God and Satan chatted amiably. They had a great deal in common. The beer flowed, the plates came and went in rapid succession. Conversation grew more animated. Reconciliation seemed inevitable. Then the devil clutched his hirsute abdomen. He had terrible cramps and was barely able to lurch to a window before throwing up. This restaurant was in the sky, remember, so he disgorged the entire contents of his stomach over Swansea. Ordinary sinners boil in brimstone, but the worst are swallowed by Satan the moment they enter Hell. And now they’re free again, to mess the byways!”

Odette curled a lock of auburn hair around a finger. “Did Satan eat too much or was the food poisoned?”

“Who would wish to keep good and evil at odds?”

“The Archbishop of Canterbury? To safeguard his job.”

Cartaphilus was genuinely intrigued. “If true, it’s worked. Now the devil has decided to trump God by refilling his empty guts with virtuous mortals. Instead of gathering up Judas, Zaharoff, Hitler, Stalin and the others, he’s swallowing innocents!”

I exchanged glances with my wife. “What about us?”

“You’d better do something inhuman if you want to survive. He’ll be checking every home in due course.”

“Think of an abominable crime, Donald!”

Snapping my fingers, I hissed: “The imbecilic lodger!”

Whooping in counterpoint, we bounded up the stairs and crashed into Billy’s bedroom. The student was not asleep but quaking under the quilt. My wife relied on her superior strength to drag him out, while I scooped his pet hamster from its cage on the dresser. He chuckled unconvincingly as Odette pinched him down the steps into the kitchen. Losing no time, I clutched the scissors and wielded them as a dagger, thrusting the closed blades upward into his throat, while my wife held him still in her arms. We fell back to monitor the result.

It was unexpected. As the utensil penetrated his brain, the central rivet split and the blades parted. One severed his left optic nerve, the other sliced his right. With a slight slurping sound, his eyes fell out, spinning on the carpet, unable to blink at their misfortune. We recoiled from the bulging globules of jelly.

More farce was to come. Billy remained erect, groping for his loose orbs like a blinded puppet. His hands flailed everywhere but the correct place. Finally he reached the salad bowl and felt within its confines. A gurgle of triumph erupted from his lips as he slotted the uneaten olives into his sockets. Now he turned to confront us, proudly folding his arms across his chest. But then he rubbed at his pitted vision with a knuckle and fled groaning down the hallway.

Cartaphilus draped his ugly arm over my immoral shoulders. “Let him bluster his way into the lounge at the front of the house. That is where your monstrous act might be best displayed to Satan when he passes for a check. He’ll be here before long.”

We trailed Billy and discovered him on his knees, spitting a pallid blend of blood and bile. The thunderous footsteps were much louder. With a sudden inspiration, Odette kicked him to the floor. She beckoned to me for the hamster. I threw it and she caught it with atrocious grace. Flat on his back, Billy pleaded for mercy, not for himself but his pet, as if trying to assure us that his Kalamáta peepers really could weep. My wife is rarely responsive to guile. Squatting on his ribs, she began to tread the olives into oil with the feet of the hamster. Viscous juice trickled along his despicable cheeks. It was such a pastoral scene that I fancied myself marooned on an Aegean isle.

At the suggestion of the Wandering Jew, I urged her on with obscene imprecations. “Apply more pressure to the stale fresher!” The timing was perfect. While Billy’s death-rattle was still at the back of his throat, making its way forward to his teeth, an enormous eye appeared in the bay window. It was not slitted like a goat’s but layered like a flower, dark petals within petals, inexpressibly delicate, peeling open in a morbidly fecund spring. For a harrowing minute it studied us, passing over Degen, Marselha and Cartaphilus, fixing its iridial corolliflorae on Odette and myself. The lodger twitched thrice.

A gargantuan hand pressed against the glass, a clenched fist with a raised thumb. Then Satan was off again, to harry our neighbours. Screams of terror, clash of teeth, a belch.

Cartaphilus patted my back. “Well done! You’ve passed the test. Now you are officially an evil couple.”

“Indebted to you for giving us the chance.”

“I didn’t do it for nothing. You owe me a special sight, one I have never seen before. That was the deal.”

Wasting no time, I opened my mouth and pulled back my lips. With an exclamation of disgust, the Wandering Jew squinted within. The cancerous gums on the right side of my face were in doomed contrast to the healthy examples on the left. Never had neglect been so impeccably asymmetrical, not in Egypt, Babylon, Persia, Byzantium, Sicily, Xanadu, or anywhere in the history of the aching world, not among deserts or forests, swamps or mountains, since the nailing of Jesus.

“I admit it! That’s completely original!”

Degen and Marselha tangled arms and danced a saraband, to celebrate my conversion to the accursed side.

The bishop was too ungainly for the complex rhythm and fell against his companion. Degen’s gun, held in both hands like a tightrope walker’s staff, sparked into life. A purple flash and a cloud of smoke frightened us all. A stone bullet, rounded in the rapids of an Alpine stream, burst the window and streaked upward like a rewound meteor. It punctured Simon Magus, who plummeted to the ground.

Cartaphilus shrugged. “He’s used to it already.”

Choking on the fumes, I cleared out my lungs on Billy’s corpse. The apocalypse was over. There was nothing more to do. Odette held me around the waist. “Up the wooden hill, chaps.”

Because I had endured the adventure nude, I dressed for bed, luxuriating in the weight of corduroy on my thighs. Odette dribbled peacefully by my side, slipping further beneath the quilt, only her fiery hair visible on the pillow, as if I shared my sleep with a crucified anemone. Despite my exhaustion, sundry distractions conspired to keep me awake. Embers still smouldered in the street, casting a throbbing glow through the curtains. Then there were new financial worries: two smashed windows and a damaged ceiling. Plus spiritual trauma. Few outsiders would ever credit what had happened to Swansea on this melodramatic night. The landscape has always looked like a rehearsal for Ragnarok. 

Our three guests were supposed to be sharing dead Billy’s mattress, but the Wandering Jew, true to name, was pacing the creaking floorboards of the landing. It felt different being evil. My muscles were more alive than before. A wild urge to wear a cape and brandish a swordstick nearly overwhelmed me. So too my stubble was hurrying out into a pointed beard. At last I could bear it no longer and jumped up, to crouch at the jagged pane. Genuine ideas for killing the hours until dawn were lacking. Could I replace Degen’s slashed balloon with one of Odette’s dresses, inflated from the gas cooker? Or retune Marselha’s lute to the mixolydian mode? I grumbled. These options were routine.

I was in the process of cursing all mankind when the second tempest arrived. This time the vomit which splashed the pavements and houses was golden and contained pale fluttering shapes, like winged maggots. Before I could summon Cartaphilus, he was by my side, gesturing at the arrivals with a nasal laugh. I felt betrayed.

“More denizens of Hell? An afterpuke?”

“No. George Wythe, American liberal. I spy the famed humanist, Juan de Valdés. That’s William Tubman with his glasses, cigar and wit. Alexis Tocqueville, also. She’s Isabella van Wagener, the abolitionist. Olaudah Equiano, a gentleman of similar persuasion. Henry Mayhew. Elihu Root. Is that Carl von Ossietzky over there?”

“I don’t understand. What are you telling me?”

“It’s God’s turn to be ill. These were some of the nicest people in history. You’re in profound trouble.”

Odette was surfacing from her oblivion. “Do I hear footsteps softer than those of an emaciated ostrich?”

“God’s coming to gorge on the wicked...”

And he did. In the purest corner of his stomach, near the duodenum, where the acids foam like the mouths of rabid choirboys, there is a desk and a lamp. Because I promised Odette to keep myself busy, I have chosen to record the advent of the sickness. Here it is. Degen and Marselha are up to their tricks, below the liver. We rarely speak. I am no less happy here than in Swansea. When I finish writing, I intend to study the works of Origen. The doctrine of universal restoration appeals to me. Also the pre-existence of men, elsewhere, safe.

Yet my regrets are scarce. The only part of the experience I really want to forget is our attempt to justify Billy’s murder. Odette told God that the student deserved to die, because when he broke wind in the bath he leant over to bite the bubbles. Although God acknowledged the serious nature of the charge, he did not think it warranted execution. The query that burns my bowels is this: how did my wife know? She remains reticent on the subject, like a banquet which refuses to be regurgitated. But our futures are still bonded. With enzymes.

Omophagia Ankles

Her father was a matador and her mother entertained men while he was at work. The wife imagined her lovers were bulls and that they bellowed in rage at her flapping knickers. The steel blade of her husband slid into a bull at the exact instant she was impaled on a flesh sword, or so she liked to think. When he came home, there was a meal on the wooden table and her skirts were unruffled. He chewed bread, drank wine, offered her the ear as if it was a flower. She pickled it in sherry with the others on a high shelf. Behind the jars she hid the gifts of her paramours. He suspected her affairs but was too tired to argue. Sometimes he stood on a stool and reached for the chocolate or cheese. Marina blamed the mice aloud and him, Federico, in her prayers. But she loved him all the same and bore him a beautiful daughter. 

They dwelled in the town of Espinama in Asturias, which is part of Spain purely in political terms; the culture and climate are different. From an early age the child was aware how independent her people really were. Sitting on her father’s knee in front of the fire, picking at the sequins on his waistcoat, she listened to him rant at the injustices of the local aristocrats, who had been imported from the south. The greedy Cadiz clan, out of favour with King Philip in Madrid and transferred to the remotest province, had no patience with the peasantry. The chief of the line, Ugolino, was a cruel man, but cultured and witty. He raised a castle in the foothills of the Picos de Europa and might be seen on the highest balcony at night, reading a book or hurling a goat to its doom, plainly the actions of a magician.

Federico brushed the loose spangles from his lap and sighed. “They say he can turn iron into mercury, sherry into amontillado and men into guns. What do you think, Juanita?”

The daughter shrugged. “A worthless fool.”

But the brutality of Ugolino Cadiz might not be doubted. They were soon treated to an example of his caprice. A foreign poet, Humberto von Gibbon, had been sent by the king to entertain all his nobles in strict order. He travelled with his wife and mistress, the latter always a day behind. Ugolino provided a bed and waited for the lyricist to compose a favourable ode. Humberto was not a vigorous talent and had attained his reputation more on account of tender fortune than raw ability. When six quills had been worn out, and a cistern of ink, he was ready to exhibit the result of his labours. He was invited to one of the regular parties thrown by the decadent Cadizites in a massive banqueting hall. Blinking through tiny spectacles at the deranged architecture and bizarre antics of his hosts, he recited his work.

Ugolino’s smile was very wide, but just over his dripping nose was a frown which was like a lid for his lips. And Humberto appreciated for the first time the difference between a smile and a grin. Pages spilled to the floor, and the orgy which had progressed through the spectrum of obscenity around him while he spoke was abruptly stalled by this, as if the wind of the sheaves had cooled the unnatural, almost phosphorescent lusts. A silence defined by absent giggles filled the room, in the same way as a circle of metal converts a hole into a cannon. Despite the implausible amounts of sherry he had quaffed, Ugolino was steady as he rose to his feet and extended a finger at Humberto. Gathering strewn garments and appliances of delight or torment, usually the same device, the entire Cadiz family departed, leaving the guest alone.

What happened later that night is not abundantly clear. Giving his castle to Humberto was an ironic gesture on the part of Ugolino, and in truth the structure became the poet’s prison, but it seems a needlessly expensive revenge on a harmless scribbler. Thumbscrew and strappado are reserved for those who fool with words. Against the wishes of the King, the Cadiz clan relocated to Oviedo, many miles to the west of the Picos de Europa. Then notices started to appear pasted or nailed to doors all over Espinama and the other villages nestled in that range. Ugolino was demanding a total evacuation of every mountain settlement. The mayor of Poncebos wrote a letter of protest to King Philip but the messenger who carried it was eaten by a bear. A witness saw Ugolino hurry through the forest with the animal on a leash.

Because of his stature as a sorcerer, many citizens left without a single debate on the issue. They packed enough olives and bread to last a month and set off for the provinces of Galicia or Navarra. But Marina and Federico were stubborn. They watched the trickle of neighbours turn into a flood and stood in the doorway shouting at them to stay. Juanita herself was appalled at this demonstration of fatality and despair, but she lacked words to harangue the refugees. Soon the Picos de Europa, so high they might be hammered flat into the biggest country in the world, would be empty, save for Humberto von Gibbon in his unwanted castle. It must not be allowed to pass like this without a fight! The proud people of Asturias had never bowed to despotism, however magical, keeping such precedents tethered to the future.

News arrived from Oviedo once a week, mostly unreliable gossip and speculation. Ugolino was breeding flying lizards in his dungeon; he was filling the caverns under the mountains with bags of air; he had turned the poet’s wife into a blunderbuss. Marina talked in the streets to all who would listen. Her family were going nowhere. Federico sharpened his sword, found a breastplate which had belonged to an ancestor who sailed with Cortés and took a break from killing bulls. So his wife knew acute longing in her nether lips while her upper were fulfilled. Even Juanita made a toy knife to defend her property. It was not long before Ugolino heard about the rebels in his domain. Early one morning, Federico found a letter glued to his bedroom window. His wife read it for him while he tuned his nerves with iced coffee.

“Ugolino plans to detach the Picos de Europa and set the mountains down in the sea. The bags of air will keep the range afloat and it will be a drifting exile for Humberto.”

“It is the year of our Lord, 1655, and such things no longer occur in the civilised world. What will we do without a serrated skyline? The enterprise is utterly abominable!”

“But this is Asturias, my dearest, and the King no longer cares to trouble his head with such matters. The glory of Spain is tarnished and the riches of the Indies are threatened by the buccaneers. There are so many of them: Bras de Fer and Edward Mansveldt and Pierre le Grand. Men who kill soldiers as casually as you slay bulls. A few are handsome and bold enough to love greedy women.”

“What else does the wicked tyrant say?”

“That you are invited to his secret arena in Oviedo to demonstrate your fighting talents. Defeat his champion bull and he will reverse his order and free Humberto. He will also grant us a pension. Otherwise, we must be expelled with the others.”

Federico pondered this proposal. He was in his prime as a matador, cool and quick in the dance of dust and death, a blur of colour, deadly and familiar with the raging bovine character. He did not believe for a moment that an outsider such as Ugolino could nurture an animal to best him. There would be no picadors; the note specified that. He was on his own. But duty as well as inner confidence prompted him to accept, for a man should never allow a mountain range to be pushed out to sea without trying to hold it back, rooted to the continent. He stepped outside and practised his strokes on a carpet hanging from a tree. His wife dreamed of the green islands of the Caribbean, stirring a pot of broth as if it was a chest of doubloons. It was the first time Juanita had heard about the privateers who roved the Main.

She followed her father and saw he had slaughtered the rug and was resting on his heels. His blade sparkled in the dappled shade under the leaves. As she approached him, her way was barred by a giant man with a bald head and three capes. He had come silently from nowhere. Breathing heavily, viscous sweat pouring from his peeling brow, he leaned forward until his mouth was close to the ear of Federico. But although he tried to whisper, his abrasive voice was quite audible. His presence was both startling and unconvincing, like a mixture of rare but sour wines. Then she noticed a machine on the roof of the house, a contraption with thin wings turning slowly about a middle point. Had he arrived from the sky? It was possible. Her mother once told her about a man who flew onto her from a wardrobe. Now she listened.

“Greetings, Señor. My name is Xelucha Dowson Laocoön and I hope to become the most notorious rascal in recorded history. I am collecting a clique of villains from all over time and space to assist me. There are vacancies for trespassers and squatters. If you would care to sign this contract, you may enlist at once.”

“I am a good man, not a criminal, and one sick of grandiose plots. Depart for Oviedo and open the jails, or better still knock on the door of the jailers, the Cadiz family.”

“With respect, that is inappropriate. Ugolino is the law and those who oppose him are the offenders. There is no justice above reality and no morality beyond a strong will.”

“Why should I leave with you when I have the opportunity to rescue this whole landscape? No, I will slay his pet bull and be a hero to all my relatives and even to my wife.”

Jutting his chin at a proud angle, Federico stood and stalked back into the house. The bald man, or ghoul, examined his fingernails, grime from future ages turning them into a handy representation of the phases of the moon. He yawned theatrically, rubbed an elbow, flicked his capes so they undulated up his back and cooled his spine. But his insouciance was a fraud and he could maintain it only until the matador slammed the door behind him. Then he crumbled.

“Nobody ever wants to comply!” he wailed.

Juanita walked close and tugged at the hem of the stranger’s outer cape. He turned and looked down at her, his snarl of annoyance replaced by a grimace of amusement. He bowed and stretched to pat her black hair with his clubbed fingers. Her dark brown eyes regarded him objectively. She saw an authentic monster with a hideous agenda, but one lacking the basic charisma which makes a proper devil. This was an opening for her, a chance for a spectacular career.

“I will join your cabal, if you make me your deputy. And our first campaign must be against Ugolino.”

“Hu! What an excellent joke! Run along, little lady, and knit some pretty flowers into a saucepan. Rascality and roguery are tasks for men and boys. Girls turn into nurses.”

“Prejudiced oaf! Have you not studied the world in your wanderings through the centuries? Plenty of women have excelled at crime. Mull the examples of Theodora and Antonina, who manipulated the Byzantine Empire with a cunning so low that fish swam above it. Or Countess Báthori, clean as a hatchet in her pool of blood. And the enigmatic La Santa Roja, who still smuggles weapons to escaped slaves in America. We can surpass men in every endeavour. I heard about these. But I will be the best of all, for I am Juanita Evita Zanahoria.”

The ghoul waved aside this petty objection. He reached out to rasp his thumb against her toy knife. His blood was pale and jumped from his skin like a pink flea. He groaned.

“You have injured me! The blade is real!”

“Call yourself a noxious sage? You are a weakling and a liar. I have changed my mind about aiding you. And I am no longer astonished at your embarrassing lack of accomplices.”

“Note this wink, child! You may be precocious but I am Laocoön! Of course the process of organising a transdimensional criminal fraternity is not easy. I know that. It will take much effort. Each time I visit a period in history, I must learn the language and customs. And my flying machine cannot be repaired in the past. It is a risk. No matter: I will not give up. Persuading a rascal to ally himself with me is like asking a donkey to climb a mountain. Stick and carrot must be applied together at the right locations; stick behind, carrot before. In my work, I also adopt this double trick. The body of my donkey is the total lifespan of the man I wish to employ. First I travel to his past to apply the stick and then to his future to swing the carrot. It was I who told the Cadiz family of your father’s defiance.”

“That was the stick? And you offer him an escape from the fight as a carrot? He believes he can win.”

“Then he is a fool and he will die. That is another test. My tribe of rogues must not be tainted with rash individuals. If you were male I might consider returning for you when you reach maturity, but girls are not smart with swords, despite your speech. Now I must leave. I have an appointment some centuries hence.”

He sprang away and scuttled up the walls of the stone house to the roof. He was agile enough for his age, but on the verge of stiffness, a ghoul rapidly nearing retirement. Juanita was still not fully impressed by the actual depth of his evil. She felt she could discern the bottom, that he was deluding himself with dreams which were vicious but unripe. It gave her moral faculty indigestion and she returned to the house. In the kitchen, the pulse of the machine made the concealed chocolate call out for attention, but Federico and Marina deliberately ignored it. The ceiling sagged, then it straightened. The intruder was lifting into the atmosphere like a dog which chases its tail too fast. No speck was apparent up the chimney. He must have sailed into clouds of years and decades as thick as those of vapour and hail.

The following week, they set off for Oviedo on a sturdy horse, the matador walking and leading the animal by the bridle. Federico wore his brightest waistcoat, darkest beret, boots with brass heels, and because Ugolino was not an honourable man, kept a small flintlock strapped to a wrist. If the bull fought too hard, the barrel might be inserted into a nostril without attracting the attention of the spectators. The gunshot would sound just like a snort. This was insurance rather than cheating. Besides, a Cadizite audience would not expect legality, and the absence of picador and banderilleros did not favour the tip of his sword. Still he was confident, and with Marina looking, a new occurrence, he did not know why, he believed himself capable of any feat, even if charged by a dozen mad cows from Sierra Morena.

The Picos were depopulated but not quiet, for the distant cries of Humberto on his balcony echoed down the narrow valleys. All morning and afternoon they vibrated, with a short break for a siesta, and then back to howling through the evening, so that Federico and Marina and Juanita lost all sympathy for the trapped poet. Huddled around a fire in a wood outside Amieva, they were bathed in mist from the sea, fifteen miles to the north. It should have been just clammy, but in fact had a different significance for each family member. The father felt that his own blood was already trickling down his face; the mother smelled pearls, most in the ears of romantic, nude pirates; the daughter jumped as if the coils of fog were tapping her gently on the shoulder, trying to remind her of events which had not yet happened.