Salamander by Thomas Wharton

Author:Thomas Wharton [Wharton, Thomas]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
ISBN: 978-1-55199-444-4
Publisher: McClelland & Stewart
Published: 2002-03-05T05:00:00+00:00

Now, as if by magic, the forbidden inner regions of the palace were opened to them. Led by a solemn doorwarden shouldering a gold mace, Flood and Pica passed through the flock of whispering clerks in the outer reception hall and across a parade ground open to the sky, where a group of janissaries stood around in idle conversation, grooming their horses. At the gate of the inner seraglio the guards ordered them to remove their buckled shoes and put on green felt slippers. Here, where absolute silence reigned, they were led through a succession of anterooms and connecting corridors to the Hall of the Divan, an oblong vault of dull stone hung with black brocades, weakly illuminated through a deep skylight in the roof. At the door, Selim appeared and leaned towards Flood, speaking in a whisper.

– Remember to bow. Often.

As they proceeded down the length of the hall, led by the doorwarden, courtiers in robes of dark red and brown drifted like dispersing mourners out of their path.

The plump ruler of Alexandria lay on his side on a cushioned cedar sofa, already half-mummified in wet cloths soaked with some bitter-smelling embrocation. At the doorwarden’s whispered announcement, he raised a many-ringed finger to signal that the printer should approach.

Flood stepped forward, and Pica shrank back behind him.

– And the boy, the doorwarden said.

Pica came out from behind Flood. The pasha studied her for a long time, then whispered to Selim, who bowed so low to reach his master’s ear that Flood wondered if he would manage to right himself again.

– We have seen your book, the pasha breathed in French. We thank you for it.

Flood caught sight of Selim’s frantic grimace, remembered that he was supposed to bow, and did so, emptied of fear and desire. In the old man’s half-throttled wisp of a voice he had heard the weary effort to remain interested in the world, in anything, no matter how trivial, as if life might be clung to by the thread of mere curiosity. But beyond all of this ceremony, the end was still coming. The end that could best be delayed by making each day so very like one’s last that to survive it seemed a miraculous reprieve.

Hold back death by dying every day.

Flood felt himself drained of everything but the cold certainty that the Count’s final riddle would remain unsolved. He glanced at Pica, saw the frightened determination in her eyes, and looked away. Why had he brought her here? The world as it truly was, a broken labyrinth of unfinished stories, would continue to baffle them, lead them astray, and at last turn their hopes to dust, as it had done to everything he had ever worked towards. The pasha alone had seen this truth clearly, that it was better to welcome oblivion than to go on deceiving oneself.

Flood forced himself to take the next few steps forward. It barely concerned him any longer to wonder how their offering would be received, and he stood as if bereft of will as Selim bent to receive another whispered command.

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