At half-past two I thanked Boorman for the brandy, and though the others tried to talk me into staying I said goodnight and walked back down the corridor.
Sometime later, already curled up in bed, I thought I heard a person crash to the floor outside my room. There was a snort of laughter, then someone said, Quiet! I didn’t really wake up, though, and the next thing I knew, the sun was slanting through the window — I must have forgotten to draw the curtains — and a maid was standing at the foot of my bed. She was sorry if she had startled me, she said, but she had knocked on the door — she had knocked twice, in fact — and there had been no reply.
That morning I decided to go and listen to Frank Bland, since his event immediately preceded mine on the programme. He arrived ten minutes late, his face drained of colour, his hands shaking as he fumbled among his papers. He had called his lecture ‘Power and Energy: A Study of the Nature of our Borders’, and though he lost his thread several times during the next half-hour he held my attention throughout since he was elaborating on what Vishram had talked about during our recent lunch together. The path taken by our borders had sometimes been determined by roads or rivers, Bland said, and sometimes by the boundaries of a country, a borough or a parish, but ancient ley lines had also played a part. To its immense excitement, the committee responsible for drawing up the borders had discovered that certain ley lines could have an adverse effect on the health of the people who lived within their sphere of influence. For centuries mankind had attempted to dissipate the hostile energy of these black streams, as they were known — there were a number of methods: the driving of iron stakes into the ground, the encircling of one’s property with copper wire, the judicious placement of chips of jasper, amethyst, quartz or flint — but the architects of the Rearrangement had decided to harness it instead, to make it work in their favour. They had drawn directly and quite deliberately on the land’s innate psychic strength, using spiritual power to reinforce political will. Maybe that helped to explain why so many phlegmatics believed that it could be fatal to cross a border, that certain borders could maim or even kill — unless, of course, one wore a copper suit or filled one’s pockets with the appropriate crystals. Bland ended his talk by wishing those of us who had come from elsewhere a safe and pleasant journey home, and the ripple of amusement provoked by this remark shaded into warm applause as he thanked us for listening and began to gather up his notes.
I was just rising to my feet, preparing to move towards the podium, when Josephine Cox appeared at the microphone, Bland’s last slide — a glowing chunk of amethyst — still showing on the screen behind her.
‘I’ve got an important announcement to make,’ she said.
I slowly sank back down into my seat.
‘Mr Bland has been speaking of the possible dangers involved in crossing a border,’ she said. ‘What he doesn’t know is that he’s about to experience those dangers for himself — as we all are, in fact.’
She paused, seeming to relish our bewilderment.
‘As you know,’ she continued, ‘today is Rearrangement Day. To mark the occasion, we have planned a special trip for you.’ She consulted her watch. ‘In just under three hours you will be flying to the city of Congreve, in the Yellow Quarter.’
She was now speaking into an intense silence.
Once in Congreve, we would be attending a grand firework display, she told us, and since fireworks were something the cholerics understood better than anybody else, it ought to be an unforgettable experience. Afterwards, a banquet would be hosted by the Mayor.
‘Visas have been procured,’ she said, ‘and transport has been arranged. We’ve chartered a small plane, which will be leaving Aquaville at three o’clock. All you have to do is pack an overnight bag. Be back in the lobby no later than one-thirty.’
As she stepped away from the microphone, everyone in the lecture hall began to talk at once. It seemed I would not be delivering my paper after all. I slid my notes back into my briefcase, then I glanced at Charlie Boorman, who happened to be next to me. He raised both his eyebrows. I expressed surprise that the phlegmatics had been able to put together something so dramatic, so ambitious. He nodded in agreement, then leaned forwards and spoke to Rinaldi, who was sitting in the row in front of us. What I was actually thinking was that I had more or less adapted to life in the Blue Quarter, and that I didn’t relish the notion of being plunged into yet another unfamiliar environment. Certainly it was the last thing I’d expected. Rinaldi turned to face me, as if he had just read my mind. There was an aspect of the phlegmatic disposition, he said, which we had either forgotten or overlooked. It was the most flexible, the most whimsical, of the humours — the most feminine, one might almost say. He didn’t think an idea like this was particularly uncharacteristic, though he would be astonished, he added, if everything went smoothly.
‘I think I’d better go and pack,’ Boorman said.
I went to have a word with Josephine, who had been surrounded by the more anxious and excitable of the delegates. Her eyes glittered, and her frizzy hair appeared to have filled with static. She had pulled off a kind of public-relations coup. This was likely to be the most talked-about conference in years.
‘Will we be safe?’ one of the delegates was asking.
Josephine turned to him. ‘Well, there has been some rioting —’
‘Rioting?’ The delegate’s eyes widened.
‘During the last few days,’ Josephine went on, ‘but it’s mostly in the north, apparently. In any case, they often riot at this time of year. It’s practically seasonal.’ She permitted herself a small, vague smile, as though contemplating the behaviour of a wayward but cherished son.
When I was finally able to talk to her, she apologised for the seemingly impromptu and high-handed cancelling of my lecture. She had been determined to retain the element of surprise, she said. She hoped I didn’t hold it against her. I would now be speaking on Thursday morning. It would be the last event on the programme, and everyone was very much looking forward to my contribution.
I took the lift to the seventh floor. They had already made up my room, a new chocolate mouth smiling at me slyly from the pillow. I opened my suitcase and started packing. After a while, though, I found my eyes returning to the mural. As usual, I scanned the blue-black water for the man who had fallen overboard. As usual, it yielded nothing. Then my gaze lifted an inch or two, and I noticed a stretch of barren coast beyond the rowing-boats. A small figure stood on the shoreline, looking out to sea. Was that him? Had he actually managed to reach dry land? Or had that figure been on the beach the whole time? I rose to my feet and moved towards the wall. Up close, the figure turned back into a smudge of darkish paint. It might have been driftwood, or a rock, or a heap of kelp abandoned by the tide. A lone siren spiralled up into the air outside my window. Still staring at the mural, I had an abrupt and pronounced sense of opportunity, as if there was something I ought to be doing, as if I ought to be exploiting the situation to my advantage. What, though? How?
I was looking round the room, hoping an answer would come to me, when the phone rang. I picked up the receiver. It was one-thirty, the receptionist informed me, and the delegates were about to depart for the airport.
‘Please ask them to wait,’ I said. ‘I’ll be right down.’