He stopped but the sound continued for seconds, dying away slowly.
He turned to her and she could see a glint of moisture in his dead eye. “This,” he said, “is where I come to forget myself and the world. This is my place of meditation.”
“It’s extraordinary. The effect of the light is almost impossible to believe.”
“Yes. You see, Constance, the great horror of my life is that I can see only in black and white. Color has been denied to me since… the Event.”
She inclined her head. The Event, she knew, referred to the tragic accident of his childhood that left him blind in one eye — among other things.
“I’ve clung to the memory of color. But when I enter here, in this monochromatic light, I can somehow glimpse the color that I so desperately miss. I can see, almost out of the corner of my vision as it were, ephemeral flashes of color.”
“But how?”
He spread his hands. “These panes are all ground and polished from the mineral called obsidian. Volcanic glass. Obsidian has some singular properties when it interacts with light. In the past, I once made a careful and special study of the effects of light and sound on the human body — and this is one of the results.”
Constance looked around again. The morning sun was hitting one side of the temple, the light diffusing in, cool and gray, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. The opposite side of the temple was dark, but not black. Neither pure white nor pure black was present in the room — everything was in infinite gradations of gray.
“So this is your obsidian chamber.”
“Obsidian chamber… you might call it that. Yes, you could very well call it that.”
“What do you call it?”
“My Tholos.”
“Tholos. A circular Greek temple.”
“Precisely. This one is based on the dimensions of the small Tholos of Delphi.”
He fell silent, and Constance was content to simply stand and absorb the remarkable serenity, the beautiful simplicity, of the space. It was silent, and she felt herself falling into the most peculiar reverie, a dream-like state of nothingness, her sense of self dissolving.
“Let us go.”
She took a deep breath, returning to reality, and in a moment found herself outside, blinking in the bright light, overwhelmed by the tidal wave of color that engulfed her.
“Shall we continue the tour?”
Constance looked at him. “I… feel a little disoriented. I’d like to return to the library and rest. Later, if you don’t mind, I’d like to explore on my own.”
“Of course,” Diogenes replied, spreading his hands. “The island is yours, my dear.”
44
Diogenes, resting in his second-floor sitting room, heard Constance quietly descend the back stairs, open the rear door, and walk across the veranda. She moved very lightly, but his hearing was unnaturally acute, and he was able to follow her movements by sound alone. He rose and looked out the window, and a moment later saw her walking along the pathway to the south end of the island.
She was, he understood, in many ways like a wild animaclass="underline" a tiger, perhaps, or a mustang. The taming of such an animal had to proceed with infinite patience, gentleness, and kindness. And as with the taming of a tiger by her handler, the forcing of any issue could be fatal. He was still amazed he had conquered her, at least in part, coaxed her out of the Pendergast mansion, where she had lived almost the entirety of her long life, and succeeded in bringing her down here. It was the fulfilment of what were now his dearest dreams, his most cherished fantasies. But the taming wasn’t complete by any means. Now was the most delicate time — the point where, at the slightest thing, the animal might bolt.
The most important point with wild animals was to give them their freedom. Never corner or cage one. The taming was imposed from within, not without. It was a seduction, not a conquest. Constance would willingly weave her own bonds, her own restraints, and impose them on herself — that was the only way it would work. He did, of course, have the ultimate lure — the arcanum. When she began to feel its rejuvenating effects… that, he hoped, would be the turning point.
Now that she was out of the house, he turned to the platter Gurumarra had brought him, on which was placed a single letter that had arrived at the post office box he maintained in Key West. Taking up a mother-of-pearl letter opener, he neatly slit open the larger, remailing-service envelope and removed the smaller envelope inside. This he slit open in turn and removed a single page of cheap paper. The letter was written in a tiny, precise, spiky hand. There was no salutation, he was glad to see, nor signature at the bottom, nor return address — but he knew very well who it was from.
I have taken care of everything for you. Everything. It all came off exactly as planned. You needn’t feel any concern about the assignment you gave me, as I have accomplished everything you asked me to do, leaving no loose ends. Just a firmer touch than you’d authorized, that’s all. I will go into the details when we meet, which I hope will be as soon as possible.
When? Where? I am so anxious to tell you everything. Please let me know when we can meet.
Diogenes read the letter twice, a frown marring his face. The importuning tone of the letter was concerning, and it only reinforced an uneasy feeling he’d had for some time. He rose, taking the letter and envelope to the small tiled fireplace, tore it into pieces, struck a match, and set it to an edge of the paper. He stood, watching, as the pieces curled up and were consumed. When it was done he took a poker, stirred the ashes once, and then again.
Constance strolled along the sandy path through the mangroves, which fell away, opening up to a meadow on the southern end of the island. She had long since passed by the “gardener’s cottage,” Mr. Gurumarra’s bungalow, tucked away in a grove of sand pines. It was a beautiful meadow, fringed by low dunes and palm trees, terminating in a sweep of white beach that ended in a curving spit at the key’s southern tip. She could see some structures set amid the waving grass, clustered around a thick-limbed, half-dead gumbo-limbo tree.
They were old Victorian outbuildings, constructed of red brick, weathered and crumbling. One had a smokestack that went up perhaps twenty feet, choked in vines. Curious, she followed the path toward them. The first and largest building, the one with the smokestack, had an old sign set in the brick façade, much faded, in which she could make out the word DYNAMO. She approached a shattered window frame to look inside, and a group of swallows flew out the broken door with much noise. Peering in, she could see the remains of machinery, draped in vines. This, she realized, must have been the old power plant for the island, now long abandoned. Beyond that stood three rows of sparkling new solar panels, and next to that a new windowless building with a metal door.
Curious, she went to the building and tried the knob, found it unlocked, and opened it. Inside was a single room full of racks of batteries with thick bundles of wires — the island’s new source of power.
Backing out, she closed the door. There was another small brick building nearby, very old, with a green copper-sheathed door. A slanting roof led into the ground — this door led to some subterranean chamber. She went over to it. Painted on the door was the word CISTERN. She tried it and found it locked.
Putting her ear to the keyhole, she listened and heard the faint hum of machinery and the distant sound of running water.