Watson, Ian - Novel 16 (15 page)

 
          
‘One
thing I didn’t discover is what happens to a bride when her year is up.’

 
          
‘Who
knows?’ she said airily. ‘I wonder what would happen if that little scroll of
ours was found in the possession of the god’s fiancee?’

 
          
‘That
sounds dangerous.’

 
          
‘Danger,
the piquant sauce! I’m a bride-to-be as well.’ She mused.

 
          
He
seized a silver comb and ripped at his hair with it. At least he could untangle
something.

 
          
‘What
would happen? Speculate!’

 
          
‘The
fiancee would protest her innocence,’ he said. ‘She would swear the thing had
been planted.’

 
          
‘Ah,
by whom? By whom but you? You with your jealous lustful motive, which was so
transparent to dear, perceptive Mori. Yet how would she know your identity if
she didn’t already know all about the scroll, and had kept silent? Unwisely!
You and her, you and her, both unwisely. I
think
that King Alexander’s men don’t usually have recourse to torture. They prefer
to cross-examine using Aristotle’s syllogisms rather than fire and rope and water
and ingenious mechanical devices. But as to Marduk’s men . . . well, this is an
oriental city, of refinement. I have heard tales.’

           
Alex said cautiously, ‘You wouldn’t
want to place
yourself
in the way of
torture.’

 
          
‘Perhaps
my social position guards me.’

 
          
‘I’m
sure that dear, exquisite Moriel isn’t equally protected. He was fined heavily
the other day. Or so he said.’

 
          
‘Or
so he said,’ she echoed, amused.

 
          
‘You
aren’t seriously suggesting sabotaging the marriage of Marduk?’

 
          
Her
eyes opened innocently wide. ‘But that is precisely your true desire, Alex. To
disrupt this marriage. To make it not take place. Correct me if I’m wrong.’
Alex swallowed. ‘That would disrupt the renewal of the city; damage
prosperity.’

           
‘Oh what a loyal true patriot you
are, suddenly. Admirable!’

 
          
‘By
the way, Moriel said you would reimburse me seven shekels I had to send him to
grease our investigation. Can I have the money, please?’

 
          
‘I
don’t carry cash. Bills are sent to my home.’ ‘Maybe I’d better call there.’

           
She laughed joyously. ‘You are
beautiful.’

 
          
Little
more of substance occurred, except that Thessany promised to call personally
at Between The Skin Shops three days later, of an afternoon, to report progress
following the bribe. Moriel himself kept out of the way apart from darting in
to rebuke Alex, then straight out again - after which a seemingly repentant
Thessany made her promise, with which Alex had to be satisfied, and depart.

 
          
Three
days. Teased and tormented, Alex wandered hither and thither. At times he felt
possessed by Thessany and Moriel, by the unknown Shazar, by the fate of
Deborah, by the intrigue. At other times he felt lost and adrift. He took all
meals at the inn on credit, the better to harbour his resources; though his
eventual bill was running up invisibly. Gupta observed his comings and goings
with beady interest.

 
          
One
afternoon, in the Etemenanki district, he happened upon a small marketplace.
Stalls were vending linseed and sesame oil, pistachios and almonds, cumin and
coriander, garlic and onions. In the midst of the little piazza an ashen man
lay on a reed mat with a pillow under his head.

 
          
As
Alex passed by, the man croaked, ‘Halt!’ He did not stick up his skinny hand
for alms.

 
          
‘Why?’
asked Alex.

 
          
The
man started to speak but instead coughed violently, which brought unwelcome
temporary colour to his face. ‘You must ask me what is the matter,’ he sighed.

 
          
‘Too
true,’ agreed a fat woman who was in charge of strings of onions. ‘That’s the
law.’

 
          
‘Okay.
What’s the matter?’

 
          
‘A
terrible pain, about here.’ The man touched his upper chest. ‘It comes and
goes. It’s as if I breathed in a nest of asps which sting when they’re
disturbed. It’s worst in the early morning.’

 
          
‘Have
you
been sick like that?’ the fat
woman demanded. ‘If so, what remedies did you take?’

 
          
Alex
bowed his head. This was abominable. The man was seriously ill, and here he was
lying in the street asking for diagnosis and therapy from any passing stranger.
Unless he was only pretending to be ill . . .

 
          
‘I
can’t help you. I’m sorry.’

 
          
The
onion woman advanced on Alex. ‘Me sister-inlaw got completely cured in her
bowels when a Greek fellow like you told her what to take - here, on this very
spot! You Greeks are hot on medicine, aren’t you? Asclepius and all that?’

           
‘I’m not a physician. Maybe that
other fellow was.’ ‘The people are their own physicians.’ The woman shrugged.
‘Very well. Pass by.’

           
Pass by? Maybe Alex ought to sit
down here in this marketplace and declare himself ill? Of heartache, turmoil,
divisions within - a kind of emotional cancer as so ably diagnosed by
Euripides, first dramatist of the divided heart.

 
          
Yet
perversely he found himself almost relishing the prospect of a further turn of
whichever screw.

 
          
That
evening, which was the evening before Thes- sany’s promised visit, Gupta
remarked to Alex over dinner, ‘You’re looking peaky. You need perking up.’ Just
as though the dining room was the marketplace and Gupta was the passer-by.

 
          
‘What
do you prescribe?’

           
‘I suggest a visit to a strip show.’

           
‘What, Kamberchanian’s?’

           
‘No, no. I’ve heard of a much more
interesting parlour. It’s quite close. It specializes in, ha ha, metaphysical
striptease.’

 
          
‘As
opposed to plain physical striptease? Do you have to
pretend
they take their clothes off?’

 
          
‘The
ladies’ garments are shed. But their act strips the audience - to their souls.
You’ll see.’

 
          
‘Okay,
I’ll see.’

           
So Peaky and Perky set out, with a
lantern apiece, to search for enlightenment down the dark rustly streets where
cats and rats were abroad scavenging the fish-heads and other offal of the day.

 
          
Lanterns
outside the parlour illuminated the sign of a dancing woman shedding veils. A
couple of tipsy Macedonian soldiers stumbled through the open doorway on the
heels of other shady figures.

           
‘Here we are: the House of the
Veil.’

 
          
‘From
the sublime to the ridiculous,’ said Alex.

 
          
‘Sublime?’

 
          
‘Not
long ago I saw one of Euripides’ finest tragedies.’

 
          
‘Regard
this as the satyr play, the caper that caps a tragedy trio. Or would do so, if
modern audiences weren’t so bloody lazy.’

 
          
‘I
didn’t know Indians were experts on Greek drama.’

 
          
‘Why
not? King Alexander brought us many things. Take the howdah, for instance - the
castle on the elephant. Alexander invented it.’

 
          
‘Personally?’

 
          
‘Remarkable
man. Pity he’s dying.’

 
          
The
king had been dying for the past five years. He must be a waxwork, a dummy.

 
          
They
parted with a quarter-shekel apiece to the doorkeeper, with whom they left
their lanterns, and followed the soldiers to a large chamber within. A raised
wooden stage, which was lamplit, was hung with an assortment of curtains
dangling apparently at random. In front of the stage a female flautist sat on a
stool, tootling to entertain the crowd who jostled in the rest of the room, in
comparative darkness. The air was heady with incense smoke drifting from clay
pots on either side of the stage.

 
          
After
a while a buxom, dark-gowned woman with her hair in braids bustled onstage.

 
          
‘Good
evening, gentlemen and gentlemen! Staunch fellows of mature experience, and
beardless striplings alike! Not to mention any dissembling lady, wearing man’s
attire, who appreciates the female body!’

 
          
One
of the soldiers burst out laughing raucously.

 
          
The
stage-madam’s voice changed key to low and sombre, accompanied downward by the
flute, which accomplished some unusually deep bass notes.

           
‘Tonight my girls will dance the
Dance of Death, the Descent into Hell, where all is stripped away.’

 
          
‘Good!’
shouted the other soldier.

 
          
‘Afterwards,
who knows what?’

 
          
‘We
do!’ the soldiers chorused.

 
          
The
madam withdrew; the performance commenced. A completely naked black girl of
fifteen or sixteen stepped crouchingly from behind a curtain. The flute wailed
like a newborn infant. Nimbly the girl began to prance about, plucking lacy
black garments from behind different curtains and donning them. Expecting
events in the reverse order — from dressed to nude - the surprised audience had
neither cheered nor whistled. Soon black lace was dense upon the girl. By arching
her feet while she danced she seemed to grow taller, to maturity. Upon her
head, at last, she poised a sparkling crown.

 
          
A
second naked girl leapt forth. She was whiteskinned but her skin was cunningly
painted with black bones so that she seemed to be merely a dancing skeleton.
Her motions were awkward and angular, disjointed, yet she pursued the black
girl around the stage, stripping first her crown, then each of her garments
from her. With each theft, the black girl escaped more slowly. Tears - or sweat
- ran down the victim’s face - out of her hair - solidifying, puckering into
grooves and wrinkles, just like wax hardening: and as each lace veil was pulled
away and as more of the black girl’s skin became visible, she no longer seemed
young at all. She was as wizened as a dried-up prune. When her last garment was
stolen away she was an old woman who hobbled slowly, tired and bent with
withered dugs. As the skeleton-dancer seized and drew her captive behind a
heavy curtain, the flute wailed weakly.

 
          
After
an awkward moment of silence and shuffling, the audience applauded. The two
girls bounced back on stage ever so briefly, to bow. No longer was the black
girl antique.

 
          
‘Oh,
very neat!’ said Gupta. ‘I must learn that trick with the clothes. The clingy
fabric that wrinkles like old skin.’

 
          
‘It
was all just a trick?’

 
          
‘Assisted
by cunning stance and gestures.’

 
          
The
madam bustled back onstage. ‘Thank you, perceptive audience! Next, you will
behold the journey through the five gates of hell.’

 
          
At
that moment Alex himself entered the first gate of hell. He patted his purse,
and it wasn’t there.