The Malacia Tapestry Read online

  Although I took his arm and tried to move him on, he resisted and went up to the old man.

  'What can you tell me about my life, sire? Am I likely to get a good part in the next drama, do you think?'

  The old man, still unbending, said, 'You two will both enact roles and hate each other if you do not heed my words and turn to Minerva.'

  'Guy, you're playing the ape just by standing here! Let's go and wake Caylus and scrounge a drink off him. This old louse would turn a lifetime to tatters, given the chance.'

  Almost by force, I dragged my friend away. The skeletal man neither moved from his place nor even stared to one side as we left.

  'The old chap had a dreadful warnings to deliver,' Guy protested.

  'Old chaps always have dreadful warning to deliver, like Seemly Moleskin. Don't listen. It's their stock-in-trade. My stock-in-trade is not listening.

  The serpent on the staff

  It only makes me laugh.

  The apes that flitter

  Queerly, nearly,

  Merely

  Make me titter too.'

  'How do you manage to be so poxing cheerful at this time of morning? I feel half dead…'

  We were staggering together. I stopped so suddenly that we almost fell in a heap. Stretched out on a low stone balustrade, with one arm dangling down to the pavement, was the figure of a man. It appeared solid, but lax in death.

  'A second manifestation!' This time I did believe — and was preparing an attitude of reverence — when I saw that it was none other than Gustavus Portinari, who stirred as he heard our approach. He sat up and peered at us, yawning, picking up his guitar from his side.

  'The dawn gives you an unearthly pallor, friends. Mind you aren't mistaken for spectres. I was resting on my way home. Where did you get to? Dodging me again.'

  We went along with him, whistling. Portinari's father kept a dairy, together with a room in which one could eat simple dishes, at the west end of Stary Most, where the evening shadows of the old West Gate swung across the street. Behind their quarters was a small yard, where cows and goats were kept, and a lane winding down to the riverside.

  Portinari's parents were already up for the day when we reached the dairy. Holiday or no holiday, they had animals to milk. With much grumbling, the old man set a plate of cold meats before each of us, together with a pitcher of milk, while Portinari, when his father's back was turned, managed to filch some spirits. His mother and sister lit a fire and in no time we were fully awake and singing, much to everyone else's disgust. It was good to eat proper breakfast; not to have sung a catch or two would have been a shame. We kept the songs polite, in respect for the hour. Then we started talking about the apparition of Minerva.

  'All that stuff we learned at school is about as much good as the hermetic books,' I said, and Portinari agreed with me. De Lambant thought there was something in the old truths.

  'No, my pious friend, the old truths, as you call them, must be dead, because the civilizations that nursed them are dead. The Hellenic World sank below the horizon ten millennia ago, if you recall your history.'

  'What if so? Minerva was before that and will be long after. Some things are permanent, you know, like your pimples.'

  Hearing what we said as he staggered in with a pail of water, Portinari's father joined the debate.

  'Aye, the gods and the qualities they administer live as long as there are ages of the earth, young de Chirolo. Let me tell you, the Portinaris didn't come from these parts. We hailed from Toulouisa in the Frankish Kingdom, which is over ten days' ride on horse north of here, across the flat plains of Habsburgia. My grandparents made the journey in a cart, taking the best part of two months on the journey. I remember it well, although I was only a lad of four at the time. Four or five. And —'

  'Oh, let's go home and sleep,' I said to de Lambant. 'With something in my stomach, I shall dream well.'

  'We might dream of Minerva with nothing on, if we're lucky,' said my friend, rising with me. We shook Portinari's hand, promising to see him again in a few hours. He gave us his wide, amiable smile.

  'Bid my father farewell,' he said. Guy pretended to punch him in the stomach and he doubled up in pretended pain.

  As we reached the door, the old man said, 'I remember what I was going to tell you. Your mentioning Minerva reminded me. As I say, we Portinaris came from a long way away, virtually from another culture, as you might put it — from a rural area, too, not a city. And we had never heard of the Greek deities. All the same, we knew about the things they stood for. We had our own versions of Minervas and satyrs, the intellectual and spiritual or the luxuriant, and —'

  'I'm sure it must have been so, sir. We go now to exercise our luxuriant side in our beckoning beds, thanking you for the kindly meal, much welcome.'

  So de Lambant and I bowed ourselves out.

  Outside the day was beautiful with the rosy airs of dawn. A single layer of mist, infiltrating from the Toi, hung almost at eye level. A few smudged lights burned in houses along the way, outshone by the flaming clouds overhead. With a swish of wings, cranes flew by at chimney-top height.

  I thought of Tvrtko stirring in his sleazy tent, wondering if he recalled me superstitiously in the sky. People said in the market that the plague was gaining in the Ottoman ranks.

  'What a morning! It's good to be alive. Let's not sleep now, Perian. We can do that later. Besides, there'll be trouble if I arrive on our doorstep at this hour.'

  'Let's go down to the harbour and see the fish catch landed — I haven't watched that for ages. They may have netted a few siege-whales.'

  We fell in together, marching down the middle of the street in step. You would not have thought there was a Turk within a thousand miles.

  'And then I'll tell you what we'll do. Smarana's wedding day approaches. We'll go and find her a proper present. My father has promised to pay the bill. Not without complaint, but he has promised.'

  'He's made of money.'

  'A greater proportion's wine.'

  'What will you give your sister?'

  'After the delights of the fish market, we'll go and see old Bledlore.'

  The loft in which Letitia Zlatorog and her family lived was bad enough. Master Bledlore's studio was altogether stranger and more filthy.

  His hideaway would have seemed more appropriate to a hermit than a sought-after craftsman, being merely the empty space under the roof of an old godown. The godown had been perverted from its original use of housing Bishop's merchandise to storing fragrant timbers. Most of these timbers, as I saw when we climbed the rickety stairs, had been stored a long while and had so attracted all the woodworms in the vicinity that every inch of the building was stuffed as much with freckles as wood. Such was the activity generated by these freckles that dust hung everywhere, and the sunlight pouring through the windows turned it into golden columns.

  Panting as we reached the top of the stairs, we found ourselves on a narrow landing facing a narrow door. Its orange paint was flaking, falling like leaves beneath our feet. The single sullen word BLEDLORE was written on a card pinned to this door; so long had the card been there that the occupants of the freckles had bored through it on their way in and out of the wood beneath.

  When de Lambart knocked, a crumbling sound came forth from the panel.

  'Wish I'd brought Bedalar,' he said.

  'I wish you had.'

  'Her taste is good.'

  'I'm sure her taste is delicious.

  'You cheeky grab-skeeter, keep your lustful thoughts off Bedalar! She could exercise her taste in what to choose for Smarana. If the old blighter has anything to choose from. He's supposed to be the best glass-engraver in Malacia. I'll wager he charges a fortune. We ought to have brought Armida and Bedalar.'

  'I wouldn't expose Armida to your corrupting influence. Knock again. The old fool's probably still in bed.'

  'Or dead. We'll see the girls at the fair this morning, if they can get away. Armida'll have to put up with
my corrupting influence then.'

  'Perhaps he's got a woman in there with him. I hope the toxic effect of your personality won't be so powerful outdoors. Anyhow, Armida's totally absorbed in me. Give another knock, if the door'll stand it.'

  'I wonder what exactly you two get up to? I'd love to know. By the looks of her, Armida's a proper little stove, when she gets going.'

  I kicked him lightly. He laughed and made the wormy panel emit more crumbling noises.

  The door opened at last. There stood Master Giovanni Bledlore, dressed in ragged waistcoat and trousers, with a shawl pinned over his shoulders. He had a grey, unshaven cheek and a fierce, bright eye.

  He shuffled on to the landing, an ague-ridden figure, closing his door behind him and coughing dryly as he did so.

  'You young fellows are a nuisance to an honest craftsman. You disturb the dust, and dust spoils my colours. What do you want, coming up here? I shall have to go back and sit still for a quarter of an hour before the dust settles and I can open up my palettes again. In that time my bones will seize up.'

  'Then you should keep cleaner premises, Master Giovanni,' I said. 'Open up some windows — look at all the bluebottles trying to escape!'

  De Lambant soothed him by announcing that he had a commission.

  'I need you to make me a dozen goblets with local scenes depicted on them, such as you designed for Thiepol of Saville a twelvemonth ago. A different scene on each, all joyous, for a wedding.'

  The old man threw up his hands and wagged his beard in de Lambant's face. 'Spare me your needs! Every one of those designs aged me by a lifetime. Nor has Thiepol, for all his airs, yet paid me, confound him. My eyesight's too bad for any more work of that order. My hand shakes too much. My back aches too much. Besides, my wife is ill and I must care for her, poor old woman. My foreman has deserted me and gone to work in Ragusa. No, no, I could not possibly attempt… Besides, when would you require them by?'

  He needed some persuasion. Before de Lambant had signed his bond on the deal and paid a token in advance, the old craftsman had to show us the treasures of his workshop. Holding his vessels up to the light, we admired the beautiful miniatures on which this crock of a man worked, their tiny figures incised on glass, glowing with colour, infused with art.

  Bledlore's wife appeared at one juncture, clutching a soiled robe up to her throat. She made an odd contrast with the sublime beings, the ever-youthful gods, that Bledlore conjured up in his translucent medium.

  'Ah, what accomplishment!' de Lambant said afterwards. We had left the warehouse and strolled over Bishops Bridge to the meadows where gipsies and showmen held their festival fair beyond the city. 'You saw that last azure vase with its vignette? No gods, just two children sporting by an ancient hovel, with a hurdy-gurdy man playing in the background? What could be more beautiful in such small compass? Why has no one bought it?'

  'It was beautiful. And isn't perfection greater for being so small?'

  'Why not? Smallness is greater for being perfect.'

  'Otto Bengtsohn would approve that particular scene of low life more than all the gods and goddesses… Bledlore confirmed what I have heard rumoured, that he studies everything from life. The broomstick is copied from an actual broomstick in his niece's yard, the hurdy-gurdy belongs to an old musician living over by the flea-market, and no doubt the two urchins are running ragged-assed round the city gates even now.'

  We paused by an ash grove, where an aged casque-body worked, drawing up water from the river. The bony plates along its spine had been sawn off. An oriental sat on its back calling softly to it. We strolled on.

  'What a decadent age we live in! Giovanni Bledlore is the last of the grand masters, and scarcely recognized except by a few cognoscenti!'

  'Such as ourselves, de Lambant!'

  'Such as ourselves, de Chirolo! And the odd connoisseur in Saville, who doesn't pay up. People appreciate merit only on a pretentious scale. Write a history of the universe and it will be applauded, however shoddy, however steeped in errors factual or grammatical; yet paint a tiny perfect landscape on your thumb and nobody will cheer.'

  'Just as they still fail to cheer our tiny talents.' We laughed, cheering each other.

  A pleasant warbling filled the air. A flute-seller was moving towards us, bearing a tray of flutes and playing one of them as he came. We circled him, I snatched an instrument and played a quick echo to his own charming tune, 'When the Quiet Air Hath Waked'.

  'Flutes would be no better if they could be heard half-a-dozen valleys off — you're not suggesting that Bledlore should take to monstrous frescoes in his dotage, to get his name better known?' I asked.

  'I'm condemning the general taste, not Bledlore's. He has found perfection because he has first found his correct scale. Twenty sequins per glass! — He should demand ten times as much! Not that father won't grouse at twenty, even for Smarana.'

  We stopped by the marionette stall to watch both the puppets and their childish audience.

  'The real reward of an artist is his ability, not the applause it earns him.'

  We ceased being philosophical to watch the play with its little unreflecting spectators. Robber Man came on with red-masked eyes and tried to break into Banker Man's big safe. Banker Man, fat and crafty, caught him at it. Robber Man socked him with his sack. Banker Man pretended geniality, asked to see how much money Robber Man could get into sack. Robber Man, despite warning cries from the children in front, climbed obligingly into safe. Banker Man slammed safe shut, laughed, went for Militia Man. Met Devil-Jaw Man instead. Children roared with merriment, open and honest, as Devil-Jaw Man closed multitudinous teeth round Banker Man's nose. Magician descended, trapped Devil-Jaw Man in golden hoop. During fracas, Banker's Lady, dressed for the kill, entered to take cash from safe. Released and was walloped by Robber Man. And so on. Continuous entertainment.

  Two cool girls near us in gowns that hovered between innocence and indecency exchanged comments. She to her: 'Disastrous lowbrow hokum! I can't think how we laughed at it last year!'

  She to her: 'Hokum maybe, Armida, but brilliant Theatre!'

  De Lambant and I had propped ourselves against the stones of a fallen arch to watch the show. He now said loudly to me, 'Be warned by that sweet female exchange, de Chirolo! Enjoyment in youth gives way to carping criticism in old age.'

  At this the girls no longer feigned that they had not noticed us; we no longer pretended that we had not recognized them. We hurried to take Armida's and Bedalar's hands. They ran to take ours, with tales of how they had dodged their chaperons in the market and were furious at having to wait so long for us. It was almost a luxury to have them dressing us down, so pretty a contrast did they make.

  Bedalar was the more stocky with her generous figure and plumper face. Her eyes were a mysterious grey, her manner in general was more flirtatious than her friend's; a certain amount of fluttering eyelids was accomplished even in ordinary conversation.

  The effect was pleasing — it certainly pleased de Lambant. By contrast, my Armida was quieter in manner, and held me with a steady gaze from her golden eyes, which seemed almost to blaze in the sunlight. She had the same wonderful configuration of face which never left my mind's eye, the features seeming to arrange themselves about her nose, although it was by no means prominent. In her dark hair she wore a coil of golden metal which allowed the locks to flow free behind.

  'What fun to hear a couple of brainless gallants like you discussing the just rewards of merit,' she said.

  'We are artists, and not brainless. And you two are our just rewards of merit.'

  'It was instructive for you to hear our sage remarks,' added de Lambant.

  'I'd rather go to my maid for instruction,' Bedalar said, flightily.

  'Your maid could instruct me in any art she wished, if she were half as pretty as you, my darling,' said de Lambant.

  I said, 'She could instruct me in nothing, if you two ladies were present to take the lesson. You would find me an ardent
pupil.'

  There was a burst of applause — not for my wit, of course, but for the marionettes which the little audience cheered heartily.

  The play was ended. The Banker's Lady had run off with the Magician, who proved to be a prince in disguise; the Banker had rewarded the Militia Man; the Joker had had his way with Bettini, the Banker's Daughter; and the Devil-Jaw Man had devoured the Robber Man. The puppet-man appeared from his striped box and it was, as I suspected, my friend Piebald Pete. I remembered his squeaky voices from long ago. He nodded to me before running round with his pewter plate to gather as many coins as possible from the fast-disappearing audience. I borrowed a small coin from Armida and dropped it in his plate.

  'You do not believe that your reward should be ability or applause alone, Pete.'

  He touched his forehead. 'Thanks, Masters. I need a little fuel as well as flattery for my performance. Come back to this same spot this evening, when I do my proper show with the little Turk who walks the tightrope and chops off the princess's head. Then you'll see real artistry.'

  'And Perian will strive to bring real money, not borrowed,' laughed de Lambant.

  We strolled on, de Lambant taking Bedalar's arm and I managing to get between the girls so that I could have hold of them both; to which manoeuvre no one ventured to object. The stalls detained us a long while. It was typical of my golden fortune that I should win a sum of money at a lottery game and put myself in funds again.

  As the afternoon wore on the girls talked about going home. De Lambant and I managed to persuade them that during festival time nobody would be likely to notice their absence, most of the population being engaged in sleeping off the excesses of the previous night.

  'Besides, we still have some talk to talk,' said de Lambant. 'We were saying that this was a decadent age. And then you two beauties sprang into view. Pure coincidence, doubtless.'

  'Aren't all ages decadent?' Bedalar asked.

  But Armida said, 'This is a creative age. There are some advances on the artistic front, as Bengtsohn's amazing process of mercurization proves. But arts flourish in decadent times. Nobody would claim that the Turks are decadent because they are so warlike. Don't people often say "decadent" when they really mean "peaceful"?'