The Malacia Tapestry

‘How silly I shall look on the street with you running behind my carriage. And you even sillier, following rather like a carriage dog.’

‘I make it a rule never to run behind carriages. Let’s walk together instead. Come, we will walk in Trundles Park and see who laughs at us.’

I rose and offered my arm. She got up – and what a movement that was! La Singla could not have managed it better – and said with exquisite seriousness, ‘And I’m supposed to pay for the chocolate consumed by all and sundry?’

‘Is this not your father’s establishment? Do you insult them by trying to offer them money?’

‘You know who I am … I don’t frequent many strata of Malacian society, so I have no notion who you are.’

When I told her my name, I noted that it was unfamiliar to her, although in view of her poor opinion of players that was possibly as well.

I offered my arm again. She rested four gloved fingers upon its upper surface and said, ‘You may escort me to my carriage.’

‘We are going to walk in the park.’

‘You are presumptuous if you believe I will do anything of the sort. I could not at all afford to be seen in the park with you.’

We stood looking at each other. Close to she was startling. Hers was a face which beauty made formidable; yet there was about her mouth a kind of wistfulness which seemed to contradict the hauteur.

‘May I see you tomorrow, then, in whatever circumstances you prefer?’

She adjusted her hair and the ribbons in her hair, and put on a bonnet which an assistant brought. A smile grew about her lips.

‘You’ll be involved in battles or canticles tomorrow, won’t you?’

‘Swords and holy vows alike mean nothing to me where you’re concerned. You are so beautiful, Miss Hoytola, I’ve never seen anyone like you.’

‘You are certainly a forward young fellow – although I don’t necessarily hold that against you. But I begin a special commission – not work of any kind, naturally – tomorrow, and so shall not be at liberty.’

We moved towards the door, which a lackey opened, bowing low and hiding a glint of envy in his eye. We emerged into the mid-day street, almost empty as siesta took over Malacia.

‘What sort of commission, Miss Hoytola?’

A frown, barely rumpling the exquisite brow. ‘That’s no concern of yours. It happens to be something to please the whim of my parents, who fancy they cannot have enough portraits of me, doting things. So I am to pose a little for a mad foreigner in our employ, one Otto Bengtsohn. He’s something of an artist in his fashion.’

Although I had lingered to the best of my ability, we were at her equipage. The carriage shone like a crown with sun and polish: A highly groomed mare waited between the shafts. The powdered driver was opening a door for Armida. She was lifting her apricot skirts, preparing to climb in and be whisked away.

‘We must part here, sir. It was pleasant making your acquaintance.’

‘We shall meet again, I feel sure.’

She smiled.

The door was closed, the driver mounted behind. The whip was cracked, she waved, they were off. Stand still to act effectively; it had no application here.

As I turned, the gallery was closing for siesta, the blinds were being drawn down. I walked slowly away.

Of course I could not be in love.

Strolling down the street I ran over our brief conversation in my mind. I was far too poor for her, for Armida Hoytola. Yet she had been interested. Her friend could be Bedalar, Caylus Nortolini’s sister, whom de Lambant had mentioned. If Bedalar deigned to look at a player, then her friend might also find it fashionable. Unbidden, a picture came to my mind of my marrying Armida and walking secure in the sort of society I knew I would enjoy …

The vision passed, and I was left with her words about the commission with Bengtsohn. There lay my opportunity!

At once I turned down the expansive Exhibition Road and into the narrow alleys behind, until I found myself again in the gloom of the Court of the Dark Eye.

A group of men, all dingily dressed, stood in the darkest recesses of the court; there were women among them, old and young. They turned guiltily as I entered. One of them came forward, carrying a stout stick; it was the apprentice I had met, Bonihatch.

‘What do you want?’

‘I need to speak to Bengtsohn.’

‘We’re busy. There’s a meeting, can’t you see? Shove off, as you did before.’

But Bengstsohn moved up behind him, saying mildly, ‘It’s siesta and we talk of pigeon racing, de Chirolo. What do you wish from me? You left me abruptly enough.’

I gave him a bow. ‘My apologies for that discourtesy. I had a mission.’

‘Thus it seemed.’

‘I am interested in the work you offered me, if you would be kind enough to tell me what exactly you require.’

‘Come back this evening. I have business now. I will then talk with you.’

I looked at Bonihatch, who stood ready with his stick.

‘I may have become a monk by evening, but I’ll see what I can manage.’

Love, what a power it is! Nothing but love could have induced me to enter that dreary court three times in one day – and what dedication I showed, for the lady had revealed herself to be uncertain-tempered, vain, and I know not what else besides. Also irresistible.

How wise one feels to be a fool of love!

‘Even a fool can do this job,’ Bengtsohn said. ‘Is why All-People indicated an actor, I suppose.’

By night, moving behind smoky lanterns in intermittent shadow, Bengtsohn looked almost sinister, his sunken eyes sometimes hiding, sometimes glittering, in their sockets. His long fingers were talon-like as he wove his explanation.

‘I told how I have discovered the method to mercurise real views through the zahnoscope, so that they have become implanted on glass slides. My ambition is to tell a story by such methods. People I need, actors. A simple story to begin. Big acorns from little oaks grow. I will mercurise the actors against real or painted settings. The product will be of an extraordinary originality and cause certain consequences. You shall be one from the four characters in the simple drama. The scenes of the drama will be emblazoned on glass far more faithfully than what artist could ever depict. This will be the real image, painted by light – light, that great natural force what is free for all, rich and poor alike.’

Keen to make him look a little less inspired, I said, ‘It will only be like a stage play with the action stopped, and paralysis suddenly overtaking everyone.’

‘You players are so ephemeral, your actions sketched in the air and then gone, the whole thing forgotten when the final curtain will come down. But when you are mercurised through the zahnoscope, why, then your actions become imperishable, your drama continuous. I will not mind wagering that the drama what you will enact for me will still be viewed by connoisseurs after you yourself will have grown old and died, young Perian!’

At that, I had to laugh. He was cutting an absurd figure, stroking an old japanned magic lantern with fluted chimney as he spoke, as if he expected a genie to emerge.

‘And what is this great drama you wish me to perform? Are we to put Sophocles of Seneca on glass?’

He came closer. Then he took a turn away. Then he returned, and clutched my hands in his. Then he dropped my hands and raised his to the sky.

‘Perian, my life is beset with difficulties and hedged by enemies. Let there be trust between us, as well as business also.’