The Malacia Tapestry

  'Dying for love may be highly regarded in the animal kingdom, as in the human. I'm duty bound to go and see him. He sent me a letter full of complaints when I made my balloon ascent. He is rather ill.'

  'Fathers are generally ill in my experience. Forget the old fool. Did you ever long to kill a devil-jaw, de Chirolo?'

  'What I wish is somehow to encompass all things possible in the world. That doesn't include slaying a devil-jaw. By the bones, perhaps I'm more like my father than I imagined. He also seeks to encompass —'

  'Spare me your parents. I have my own, you know. Look, we'll lunch with Gersaint — he's bound to get us hopelessly drunk — unless any better sport presents itself.'

  'I'd better go to my father first. He becomes upset if I'm drunk.'

  'Of course he does. Old men do. It's one reason for getting drunk.'

  'You're right, but I'd better go nevertheless. I haven't been to see him for long enough.'

  'Think of Gersaint's board, Gersaint's cellar, postpone your decision — preferably for a week or two. With any luck, your old chap may have shuffled off his mortal coil by then. See this pavilion — let's eye some paintings; it's stacked with queer junk. Sporting pictures, too.'

  We were never far from the music of water. The old duke's father had employed Malacia's great engineer, Argenteuil, to design fountains, sluices and waterfalls to punctuate the streams within his grounds. To these light noises was added the sound of strings as we reached the marble stairs leading to an art pavilion. This pavilion was built in the Khmer manner with curling eaves.

  At the foot of the stairs, four gardeners with a barrow were labouring in the earth, planting a line of exotic trees. One of the four was a willowy lad; I suspected him of being the Hautebouy who had played an accidental role in my affairs.

  At the top of the stairs, among bronze monsters from the East, two women stood playing musical instruments, a girl with a mandoline and an older woman with a viol. They were executing a lively forlana, six-in-a-measure, a relic of earlier times whose tune they gaily tossed to one another.

  A velvet-clad man in saffron hose leaned against a column, idly listening. His was a heavy, awkward figure. He wore a plumed hat and animal mask, and was tapping his foot to the music. He paid no attention to us as we approached.

  One of the women was well in the toils of time, her hair white and her skin flecked with rust marks. Although her hands on the strings were nimble, her wattle hung like a lizard's and the lines of her mouth had begun to collapse.

  Her companion was scarcely more than a girl, but well-built for all that, with golden hair piled on her head — though there was artifice in its colour. To her face she had applied rouge and powder which, in the bright sunshine, was the least pleasing thing about her. It made her skin lifeless. She would be one of the duke's courtesans, to judge by her manner and dress. She eyed us challengingly as we came abreast, without ceasing her playing. Her eyes were haughty and cold. She played to the man in the animal mask.

  This striking courtesan wore a gown of shimmering white silk, slightly soiled about its hem, from under which one softly-shod foot looked out. About her throat was a lace collar; a low-buttoning, russet jacket adorned her elegant bosom. This was not day attire, even at the court of a duke. I dismissed her for all her beauty, turning instead to the paintings ranged under the low colonnade. Caylus paused to eye her and take in her melody, so I went ahead of him, stepping into cool shade.

  All the time the man in the animal mask paid no heed to us.

  The dukes of Renardo had collected many exotic objects during their conquests and travels. The most treasured objects adorned the palace, the least adorned the pavilions.

  Since our company was to perform the comedy of Fablo and Albrizzi at Smarana's wedding, I needed a costume for my part. My hope was that I should find inspiration for one among the duke's pictures.

  Contrast had been the foremost quality in the mind of the genius who built the mock-Khmer pavilion, perched on its artificial hill. He had so contrived the perspectives of his columns and courts that one vista looked towards the steps where the women played, and the pastoral scenes beyond them; while the opposed vista took in at once the ruin of an old palace, with ferns sprouting from its crumbling pediments, and the baroque splendours of the ducal residence. With these two contrasting reminders of nature and art, one turned readily to their echoes in the canvases ornamenting the walls.

  'Look at all this beauty! I said. The amount of construction in the least of these pictures… How dearly I love art and drama and opera and music, and all those great things which offer amalgams of our living world and the creator's private world! So wonderful it is, even if this is a decadent age…'

  My head was still full of our beautiful time on the mountain near Heyst, of the conversations we had there, as well as the loving.

  Also, I have to confess, I always tried to impress Caylus a little. He was such a scoundrel, with his chatter of bulls and mating devil-jaws.

  'We live in a dualist universe, but the creator's world is a special, privileged version —'

  'Oh, don't go on, de Chirolo,' Caylus said. 'You'll be bragging next that you read books.'

  'I leave that to my father. He writes them. Music and painting and of course the play, all the edifices of art —'

  'Hush! You'll shit yourself!'

  He placed a hand on my shoulder, humming the air plucked out by the mandoline below. He gazed without exertion at the pictures, while obviously thinking of something else.

  'A pretty little painted creature with the mandoline, and no mistake… She'd make sweeter music than comes from wooden instruments. She looked boldly at me. You couldn't help noticing.'

  'Who's the fellow hiding behind the wolf-mask? A favourite of Renardo's, I suppose?'

  'What's she to him? Deuce take it, a pretty little painted creature, no mistake.'

  I was looking at the canvases.

  'What do you think of this "Landscape in Arcadia", Caylus? See that perfect little background behind the huntresses…' I indicated the mythical scene before me, but he scarcely gave it a glance.

  'Too misty for my taste! Founder's bones, if I could get her to one side… my rooms are near. She'd surely need no persuasion, once that fop disappears. A man has a duty to pay his tribute to Venus every day.'

  'My duty to my father…'

  'Come, Perian, we'll stroll upstairs, where the older pictures are. Tell me not about your precious father again.'

  'I was telling your sister the other day —'

  'Let's leave my precious sister out of the account too, if you don't mind.'

  The keeper of the pavilion who was lolling on the stairs, feeding titbits to a small pied dog, jumped up and bowed low as we passed. On the upper floor, the paintings were fewer while the views were finer than those below. It was pleasant here and the dance air still reached our ears. But Caylus remained discontented. He loitered at a low casement, looking down.

  'Come and see this delineation of an outdoor concert,' I called to him. 'By a forgotten artist. How poignant the stances of the musicians as they earn an hour's attention from the court! And what words could describe that tender colour — though it's faded — and the mistiness so perfectly expressing a dream of youth and happiness… the freshness of those clouds in the background, the clarity of the foreground with its grouped figures…'

  'Mmmm… Perhaps I should go down and kick the buttocks of that fellow in the wolf-mask.'

  'True to nature, yet more true… The tableau living still, its creator long since dust… "One who seduced us to thinking life jolly…" Only relegated to this pavilion by a damp stain in one corner. Who executed such a sweet design? How long ago, and in what country? The fashions are not of Malacia… This gallant here, look, Caylus, in the grand green coat…'

  I ceased. I had found the costume I needed. The cut of the grand green coat was unfamiliar yet not unfashionable, stylish yet not too pretentious — and not without humorous exagger
ation, as befitted the character of Albrizzi.

  The gallant in the canvas wore a white wig. His features were youthful. The coat was tailored of damask with silver buttons. It hung long, shaped in at the waist and then ample, with ample pockets, and terminated just below the knee, to reveal breeches and elegant hose from which ribbons depended. It had wide cuffs and was embellished deeply with silver braid. Beneath the coat could be seen a waistcoat of brocade, decorated with landscapes done in — I surmised — petit-point. A white tie tight to the throat completed the ensemble. That was it! — Albrizzi to the life! I would send Kemperer's tailor to copy it.

  'Caylus, my morning's labour bears fruit!' I said. 'There's no calling this fine gentleman back to life to establish who he was, but his costume shall be restored in time for Smarana's festivities.'

  Caylus sprawled half out of the window, unheeding. I went and gazed over his shoulder. The two women stood there, still playing their forlana on the sunny stairs; the courtesan with the golden hair was singing.

  Something there disquieted me. When I searched for a reason, I realized that the girl's perfume had drifted up. A trace of it had reached me as we passed her. It was the same distinctive patchouli that Armida wore.

  The fop with the wolf-mask was making off down the steps. Suddenly I thought I recognized him — the walk mainly, but also the figure. Although costumes and circumstances were opposed, this was the man from the Supreme Court, the sinister black figure who had been in Hoytola's gallery.

  I watched as he disappeared into the grove. I could not be sure it was he. Yet just to recall that sinister figure made me uncomfortable.

  'She's alone now,' said Caylus. 'Look at her lovely hands!'

  Indeed, they were fine; so supple that the fingers became an integral part of the music, as they plucked out notes with a light tortoise-shell plectrum. From where we stood looking down, I could note the unusual design of the plectrum. It had two little horns on one side, as if fashioned in the likeness of a satyr. The touch seemed characteristic of the girl, for whom I felt distaste, I knew not why.

  'Perian, I'm going down to her before another rival appears!' said Caylus. He sprawled at the casement regarding me, smiling as he pulled at his little beard. 'I declare I'm out of my mind about her already!' He patted his codpiece to show where he kept his mind.

  'Caylus —' I wished to tell him that my feelings warned me the girl was somehow dangerous; yet why should my distrust of her be important to him? And what had I against her, save that she allowed herself in sunlight with a painted face, and smelt like Armida? He misinterpreted my hesitation.

  'Don't say it! Let me leave you alone with your art! You're going to visit your father in any case…'

  Still smiling, he turned and commenced down the stairs, thumbs in pockets. As he went, he called over one shoulder, 'I'll be in my rooms for a siesta this afternoon. Come along if you care to, and we'll play some cards — unless I have good fortune at this other game!'

  For a while I stood at the top of the stairs and chewed my lip.

  Glancing out of the window, I saw the woman with the mandoline turn to watch Caylus approach, although he was concealed from my view. I noted again her brazen glance and her fingers on the plectrum. Then I also went downstairs and out at the opposite door without a backward look.

  There were worse things to do than see my father.

  Beyond the grounds of the Renardo palace the grand avenue with its acacias petered out in a maze of alleys, through which I picked my course. At this hour of morning there were few people about, though women could be glimpsed working in the rooms close on either side. From the nearby canalside I heard a barrel-organ; the tune it played, 'This Sweet Perspective', was one familiar to me from childhood.

  I came on a wider avenue. Beyond it was the street of the goldsmiths. At the far end my father's house stood behind tall tiled walls.

  Beppolo, our old servant, eventually let me in and closed the creaking gates. Doves took wing and clattered away to the streets. Familiar scents surrounded me. I walked through the side courtyard, cool in shadow, noticing how overgrown it had become, and how shaggy were the bushes of laurel on either hand, which had once been so neatly clipped. The stable was deserted; no hounds frisked as in bygone years. Our carriage had long been sold. Those few windows of the house which were not shuttered looked down expressionlessly.

  At the other end of the court the green door stood open. I went through it, to be enfolded by the silence of the house. I looked in at what we had called the Garden Room as I passed; the light through the jalousie revealed it only in monochrome, its informal furniture pushed to one side, neglected.

  My father would be in his study at this hour — or at any other hour, for that matter. I hesitated before his door, studying the cabalistic signs painted on its panels, listening for sounds from within. I fingered my amulet. Then I tapped and entered.

  So recently had I come from the sunlit outside world that I failed to see the figure standing in the shadow of an alcove, poring over a manuscript. He turned slowly and raptly, and I made out the lineaments of my father. Negotiating a way across the lumbered room, I took his hand in my hands.

  'It's a long time since you came to see me, my boy. It's so dark in here! Didn't you know I have been unwell with the colic?'

  'I had your note, father, and came as soon as I could manage. Did Katarina visit you? Are you better now?'

  'If it isn't the colic, it's the stone. If it isn't the stone, it's the spleen, or the ague. You know I am never better. Your sister rarely bothers to come round here. I can eat nothing. At least I am not afflicted by the plague, which I hear gathers strength in the markets. Why don't the Ottomans go away? Malacia has its share of earthly woes, to be sure.'

  'Why complain? Plague's always about — it is part of life, just as darkness seems part of yours. Caylus tells me there are reports of the Turks leaving. Let me open a shutter! How can you see to read in this twilight?'

  He went before me, spreading his hands to bar my way.

  'Whether horse-flesh doesn't spread the plague is a question some scholar should look into. How can I think when the light is hurting my eyes? What does that good-for-nothing Caylus know about military matters? And what's all this about the Turks? Why aren't you working? Idleness spells mischief always.'

  'I have worked all morning, Father. And Caylus is well connected.'

  'And what have you to show for it? So you came as soon as you could, did you?… Katie did stick her head in here once — without her fly-by-night husband, naturally. Do you know what I have found out this very morning?' He extended an arm with one grand, faltering gesture towards his shelves and the folios of Pythagoras, Solomon and Hermes lying open there, together with many ancient histories in an ancient heap. 'I have at last discovered what a maati is composed of, beloved by Philip of Macedon.'

  'Father, leave your books! Let's go to eat together at Truna's as we used to do — you look starved. I'll call a litter for you from the square.' As he leaned against his table by the window, I noticed with sorrow how thin he had become. He needed meat.

  'Do you attend me? A maati is not just any delicacy but a specific one, first introduced into Athens at the time of the Macedonian Empire. Besides, you can't afford a litter. Philip was assassinated during a wedding feast, as you know. I have unearthed references in a treatise which claims that maati was a dish beloved of the Thessalians. As you are aware, the Thessalians have a reputation for being the most sumptuous of all Greek peoples.'

  'I suppose you'd come with me to Truna's if we could eat a maati there?'

  'Do you mark what I say? All you think about's food! I have made a contribution to learning this day, and you want to eat at Truna's. Caylus is just as bad. You won't always be young, you know! You won't always be able to dine at Truna's.' He looked angry. His hands shook, and he wiped his brow with the hem of his cloak. For an instant he closed his eyes tightly, as if in pain.

  'I often can't afford to eat
at Truna's.'

  I saw how pale his skin was. It glistened. Skirting his books, I placed a hand on his shoulder and said, 'You need a cup of wine, Father. Sit down. Let me ring for the housekeeper. Later, I'll fetch Katie over.'

  'No, no, I'll not disturb the woman — she may be busy. And don't trouble Katie. So you worked all morning, did you? And what did you achieve?' He brushed his hair back shakily from his forehead. 'Katie will be busy too, make sure of that.'

  'I was intending to tell you. De Lambant's sister, Smarana, is to marry in less than a month, and we are to perform a comedy for the nuptials. I shall play the chief role of Albrizzi, and this morning, after days of search, I discovered —'

  'Truna's? Why do you suddenly mention him? Old Truna is dead this twelvemonth, and his tavern sold. That shows how often you come to visit your father. You prattle on about performing comedies and all the time Truna is one with historic personages!'

  'Father, Philip of the Macedonians was assassinated, yet people are still marrying. Come down the street with me and enjoy the bustle of humanity as you used to do — it may set your mind on more cheerful things.'

  'They're still playing Albrizzi, are they? By the bones of Desport, that farce was old forty years ago, when I first saw it! What's a more cheerful thing than maati? They had good actors in those days. Why should you think I would enjoy being jostled in the alleys, with my calculus troubling me?'

  I moved over to the shuttered window and peered into our inner court, where an ornamental Triton no longer blew a fountain from his conch. Times had truly changed since my mother's death. Once there had been peacocks strutting among her lavender beds.

  'We shall insert topical matter into the play, Father, as no doubt they did in your young day. If not the tavern and not the street, then at least take a turn in the garden. The air's so stale here.'

  'No, no, the air's pure in here, guaranteed so. All sorts of illnesses lurk outside. I don't even let Beppolo enter now, for fear he contaminates the place. When you get old, you have to take care of yourself. No one else will do it for you.'