Tremble (49 page)

Her ebony hair was swept up to reveal a deliciously long neck and rather large unadorned ears. These appeared to be her only flaw and, like the deliberate fault woven into a Persian carpet, merely displayed her other perfections to greater advantage. Her cheeks were flushed and Alistair was convinced he could see the outline of a love rose—the imprint of teeth just visible—fading from her neck. Again he wondered about her relationship with the Jewish statesman.

He pushed his scribbled notes toward her.

“It is a ballad, a narrative explaining the actions within the mural.”

“Now tell me something I do not already know.” She smiled and leaned toward him, perfectly aware that by doing so she revealed more of her breasts. Alistair, cursing his impetuous hormones, crossed his legs and examined the document in a vain attempt to control the dancing hieroglyphics his own words had suddenly transformed into.

“Well, madam,” he played for time, “the text appears to be an
instruction manual divided into four stanzas. As you will observe, the…the…” He struggled for an appropriate word that would not be deemed disrespectful, “…revelry is in fact a narration itself. We see the same thirteen participants throughout the mural, each time engaged in an entirely different set of actions. As far as I can tell, there are four separate dances or choreographs to the…”

“Orgy, Mr. Sizzlehorn. We are adults; I think we may speak plainly.”

“Quite; orgy. So the four stanzas are a means of explanation for the different stages.”

“And you have translated the first, I see?”

“I have begun, although there is some confusion as to the exact translation for each of the participants. For example, the first line may be translated both as scholar or preacher, although the word
purity
in relation to this particular individual is entirely unambiguous. In contrast, the use of
girl
or
young woman
here suggests an individual who is not chaste because it could be translated both as wife or female slave.”

“You mean to say there is a prescriptive aspect to the description of the individuals involved?”

“Indeed. The first stanza is a general summary of the…orgy and its intention; the next three appear to give specific instructions, including the astrological timing of the event, which seems to be of paramount importance. This is linked to the placement of Jupiter, the planet, and to the geometric symbolism of the positioning of the figures, which is extraordinary because the mural itself is an illusion.”

“In what way, Mr. Sizzlehorn?”

“Well, at first glance one believes oneself to be viewing a chaos of wild abandonment, of spontaneous desires, but in fact it is anything but. Rather it is a highly coordinated and extremely controlled sequence of poses.”

“Therein lies Eros.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t follow…”

“You are young, Mr. Sizzlehorn, and the young are romantic. They believe in the natural impulses, in the unfettered spontaneity of love. But believe me, when one has a wealth of experience a certain jadedness sets in, and one finds oneself searching for sophistication, for a civilization of desire. Refinement and restriction become erotic.”

“But what of the heart?” Alistair couldn’t refrain from blurting out,
strangely worried for the soul of the woman standing before him. She smiled in a bemused fashion; a less generous person might have called it condescending.

“Mr. Sizzlehorn, I am rich, very rich, and the very rich are very different. We leave matters of the heart to the lower classes, because
we
can afford to.”

A chill swept over the archaeologist as, for a fleeting moment, he caught a glimpse of how she might observe him through such a prism. The view was not pretty.

“But back to the task at hand. Please translate for me the final two lines of the first stanza, which I believe might contain the overall conclusion.” She waited, her face impassive.

“Lord of the Harvest, make the dance
(
orgy
?)
complete / And immortal joy, eternal youth, shall be thy wealth,”
he read aloud as undramatically as he could.

“Then it is
fatum
. You must transcribe the last three stanzas as accurately as possible so the real dance can begin.”

“The real dance, Lady Whistle?”

“The reenactment, Mr. Sizzlehorn. The reenactment.”

As January exhaled its frosty breath, giving way to the slightly more hopeful month of February, Alistair finished the sketching of ten objects: three small bronzes, three plates with erotic scenes painted upon them, one hand mirror, two lamps (the wick emerging from the tip of the phallus), and one Hellenistic herm with the obligatory erection. Each drawing took several days and at the end of each week he visited Lady Whistle’s townhouse to hand his work over to Toby. The valet would then gleefully fill in the blank areas McPhee had insisted upon. The first time he saw Toby sketching in an enormous phallus with dismaying expertise, the archaeologist had protested, shocked that Lady Whistle should be so flippant regarding the explicit commands of his employer.

“Dr. McPhee was most adamant,” he exclaimed. “He assured me that if the depictions were literal they would never be exhibited at the museum. He was concerned about their impact upon the Christian soul, Lady Whistle.”

The aristocrat merely laughed.

“Does the Christian soul lack the facility for Eros, sir? I think not. And as Eros lives within the body, as does the soul, I would argue that both are God-given and thereby equally deserve celebration.”

“Perhaps. But do you not want the catalogue to be displayed?”

“Naturally. And one day it shall be, in all its full glory, to be looked upon by eyes far less prejudiced and more enlightened than our own. Besides, to allow such omissions is to undermine the intention of the objects themselves.”

“But what shall I say to Dr. McPhee?” Alistair’s heart sank; in his mind’s eye he could already see his diminutive employer imploding with rage.

“Say nothing. I shall tell him I am keeping each completed drawing to be bound in a set, and when he wishes to look upon it I shall have a plethora of excuses to take us into eternity.”

“But that would be a lie, my lady.”

“Not a lie but a strategy. You would do well to learn the craft, Alistair,” she retorted, her black eyes shining. The archaeologist couldn’t help but grow heady at her use of his Christian name.

He had also finished the translation of a second stanza and was working on the third. The second verse sat beneath a scenario in which thirteen participants were arranged in a star formation, fornicating in ways Alistair had never imagined possible. Several times he had to turn the scroll upside down to work out which organ was entering which orifice—always keeping in mind McPhee’s instruction to maintain a scientific perspective at all times.

There were six chimeras of goat and human—three female, three male—and six humans. The thirteenth figure was an enigma. Alistair had studied the bearded youthful figure over and over. He was the only fully clad person in the entire mural and the archaeologist couldn’t work out whether he was victim or victor, priest or god. The figure had a feminine beauty, even bearded, and wore a wreath of vine leaves. He was the pivotal element in each tableau. Alistair could only assume that it was Dionysus himself. Whatever the case, it was clear that the thirteenth figure was an observer of the orgy, not a participant—that was, until the fourth tableau.

One evening Lady Whistle joined him in the study. Demurely dressed in gray jersey, her hair coiled in a fine net, she came armed with tracing paper and a set of fine pencils wrapped in a roll of linen.

“Please excuse my intrusion, Mr. Sizzlehorn. I have an astrological intuition I wish to act upon. I hope I will not disturb you.”

Disturb him? She distracted him to the point of despair, he thought, trying hard not to stare at her ankles or bosom.

“Of course not, my lady,” he replied curtly as she settled herself on the other side of the desk and pulled the drawing of the first tableau toward her.

Alistair watched surreptitiously as she placed the tracing paper over the figures sprawled in a starfish configuration, a tangle of vaginal, oral, and anal stimulation. She traced their outlines then, with a ruler, joined them with straight lines. A set of points began to emerge.

Fascinated, Alistair abandoned all pretense of his own work and watched as she reached up to the bookcase and pulled down a large manual entitled
Astrological and Astral Formations of the Northern Skies
. She opened it to an entry marked Jupiter in the sign of Sagittarius in the fifth house. It showed an illustration of the placement of the planets joined by a series of lines. Carefully she placed the tracing over it. The orgiastic formation almost exactly matched the placement of the stars. Shaken, Alistair dropped his pen.

“As I thought,” Lady Whistle murmured, “the mural is a depiction of a spring rite. The thirteenth figure is the young Dionysus,
Dendrites
, a manifestation that translates as tree-youth—to burst into leaf or blossom—a representation of the spring equinox. Now, I wager that if I trace the next three segments of the mural they will move progressively closer to the exact position of the first day of the astrological year.”

Carefully her hand, its long pale fingers grasped around the pencil, sketched in the figures. She had the dispassion of a mathematician, Alistair noted, marveling at the scientific precision she displayed as she bit her lower lip in concentration.

The tracing of the fourth segment proved to be not quite a match for the correct star formation. Alistair looked at the fourth stanza, which he had just finished translating. A hypothesis that had been forming in his subconsciousness suddenly articulated itself.

“There’s a fifth segment missing. I’m sure of it!” he blurted out.

“A fifth section of the mural?” Lady Whistle asked cautiously.

“And with it the fifth stanza. Look carefully…” His excitement caused him to dispense with the etiquette of formal address.

He pointed to the outer edge of the scroll. On close inspection the margin between it and the fourth tableau did seem unnaturally wide. Lady Whistle followed his gesture but did not appear as perturbed by the idea as Alistair imagined she would be.

“This is wishful thinking,” she said. “The priest, who is the embodiment of Dionysus, is seduced in the fourth stanza. There is nowhere further for the narrative to go.”

“Perhaps, but something seems incomplete in the verse. Besides, shouldn’t the final position of the figures match the transition from the old year into the new?”

For the first time in their acquaintance Lady Whistle looked anxious, a mere glimmer before she resumed her usual unfathomable demeanor.

“I suspect the discrepancy results from the shifting of the skies since the second century
A.D
. Believe me, if there were a missing fifth tableau and stanza, I would know.”

A twitch pulled at her lower eyelid and instinctively Alistair sensed she was lying. She pulled his notes toward her.

“This is the translation of the fourth stanza?”

“Indeed, my lady. Completed a moment before you entered the room.” He gazed again at the transcription—it certainly sounded final, but he was sure there was something still to come.

She walked around the desk and stood behind him, her proximity eclipsing him like a dangerous proposition.

“In that case your task is almost done.”

He could feel her breath teasing his ear. “What is it like to stare at these figures night after night? Does it not excite you, Mr. Sizzlehorn?”

Alistair breathed in sharply, sensing a trap.

“Naturally, Lady Whistle: I am a man. But I view the mural as a work of art, as a metaphor not an actuality.”