She guided Oneofthewilliams past the clashing wave of hacking men and out; out of the beginnings of the Possession Wars and into the Vorrh to heal the wounds of yesterday, today and tomorrow.
Charlotte smelt the coffee when she awoke; indeed, it might have been its bitter warmth which quaffed her dreams. She slipped on a yellow robe and opened the door to the Frenchman’s room; he was already awake, and seated at the breakfast table. He had never been known to stir before noon. Slightly unsettled, she joined him at the table, an empty cup in her hesitant hand, her eyes never leaving his excited expression. He smiled.
‘A beautiful morning, Charlotte!’
‘Yes,’ she said, noticing for the first time that thick shafts of light divided the room, motes of dust swimming expressively in their beams, giving the simultaneous impressions of animation and stillness.
‘Did I tell you last night that today I go to the Vorrh?’ he asked. ‘Seil Kor is coming for me this morning.’ It was the first time he had used his new friend’s name; previously, he had referred to him as a ‘native’, a ‘black’, or, on occasion, as his ‘black prince’.
She was unmoved by the name, and unsurprised he had endowed his young guide with the same moniker as a character from his Impressions of Africa. She had never seriously undertaken to read any of his books, poems or essays; only the letters he addressed to her. It was not part of her duties. She knew that it would ruin their relationship to hold an opinion on his works: she was merely a woman, and they both preferred it that way. However, she had once flipped through the pages of the African Book. She had found it confused and obscure. No doubt it was art, for she knew him to be a man of dangerous appetites and total selfishness. That was what made the smiling man before her such a disconcerting sight.
‘I have packed my bag for a three-day expedition,’ he said.
Her shock at discovering that he knew where the luggage was kept was augmented by the revelation that he was capable of packing it. ‘I shall take the Smith & Wesson, the one with the pearl grips, and leave you the Colt, the Mannlicher and the Cloverleaf, for your protection. May I borrow your Derringer for my little journey?’
‘Why, of course,’ she replied, ‘anything you wish.’
They always travelled with a small armoury, ostensibly for the pleasure of target shooting, but always with the excuse of protection. He was an excellent shot, and had enjoyed teaching her how to handle and fire his collection of pistols. The guns also gave her some confidence against the ‘street visitors’ he often brought home or sent the chauffeur to find. His taste ran hard into the criminal and the lower manual labourer. They were easy to find and would fulfil all of his sexual morbidities, but they were tricky to get rid of afterwards, difficult to scrape off the shoe. Countless times, she had returned home to find some half-naked urchin or dockyard worker going through her belongings, ejected from the Frenchman’s bedroom after the brutality, so that he might drown and wallow in the true depth of his debasement. Countless times, she had been forced to haggle over the price of flesh. The currency of usury had become part of her vocabulary; she dealt with it efficiently and from a distance. Some small fold of her enjoyed talking to the exotic underclass about the most intimate actions of vice. She felt like an ornithologist, or an entomologist, viewing horrid little wonders through the wrong end of a perfect telescope. But she could not abide the blackmailers, those who went too far and allowed greed to ooze out with the secretions of their bodies. There had been many hushed-up cases, many insidious threats to expose his obsessions. She had brokered them all. Sometimes she was forced to enlist the support of the chauffeur, who liked to wrap metal chains around his fist when dealing with the stubborn.
‘Are you going alone with Seil Kor?’ she asked cautiously.
‘Oh, yes,’ he said, in a theatrically disinterested way. ‘He is not to be one of my ‘paramours’,’ he added, a trace of the old acid leaking back into his speech. ‘He is a friend and noble person of these regions – I would very much like to introduce you.’
‘Thank you,’ she replied, ‘I would like that. Don’t forget this.’ She handed him a tiny, delicate package of folded tissue paper containing the cheap, silver-plated crucifix that her first love had given to her at the age of thirteen.
On the steps of the hotel, the light was blinding. He wore his Eskimo spectacles and pith helmet, with a costume that needed at least fifteen native bearers to maintain it. Childlike, he gripped his suitcase and strained through the brightness to see his friend in the whirling, dusty clouds of passers-by. Charlotte stood beside him, arms folded and trepidation rising.
‘There!’ he cried. ‘By the tree, he is waving!’
She could barely distinguish a single figure, just a mass of activity in the luminous dust. The Frenchman stepped down the stairs and into the throng, motioning to Charlotte to join him, but the dust was unbearable, and she put her hand over her mouth, averting her face from the onslaught. He reached Seil Kor across the street and tried to explain about meeting Charlotte, but she was lost in the crowd and his guide was anxious to depart. He gave in to the unfolding events and they made their way out of the throng – their journey to the Vorrh had begun.
Seil Kor took the Frenchman to his home, far across town in the old quarter. From there to the station was only ten minutes’ walk, he promised.
‘Why do we go to your house first?’ he asked.
‘To change,’ Seil Kor said, without emphasis.
‘But this is my exploring costume,’ whined the Frenchman, who was beginning to be irritated by the modification of his plans.
‘Trust me, master, it is better for you to melt into the crowd, become one of us. This way you will see more, and get closer to the heart of the forest. We have to travel for a whole day on the train, and I want you to be comfortable.’
They walked down a high, mud-walled street that changed its curve every fifteen paces or so. Alleyways led off at frequent intervals, and there was a sense of a great populace concealed behind the twisting façade. They turned again, stepping into a long, straight street with two ancient, wooden doors set into its crumbling surface. Seil Kor hammered on the first door and, moments later, the second one opened.
They stepped into a broad, sand-coloured courtyard with a square well and a palm tree dominating its luxurious simplicity. A small, grinning boy stepped from behind the gate and closed them in. Seil Kor clapped his hands loudly above his head, and the doors of the low, long building that occupied one side of the enclosure opened. Vividly dressed women emerged carrying a carpet, a squat folding table and brass and copper bowls of fruit and sweetmeats. In a quick flurry, it was all set up under the shade of the tree, and the Frenchman was shown to the guest seat at its centre. The women brought piles of native robes and Arabic-style headgear for the dandy to try on. He liked this game, and once he got over his essential stiffness, became completely engaged in his transformation. He loved to dress up, and had often donned the national costume of the countries he had visited before. But it had never felt this real before, and his guide had never been so gracious, so encouraging. He tried on many different styles and colours, spinning and giggling as the women and the boy applauded. He bowed. They all bubbled over in this pantomime of innocence. Carefree and conceited, he thought to add a dash to his apparel and dug the pistol out of his case, sticking it jauntily in his belt. The party froze. Seil Kor raised his hands and the women covered their eyes.