Glawen sighed. “At the moment I don’t much care one way or the other.”
“Your father would not want you to be passive.”
“True. I will look into the situation.”
“Until your affairs are in order, you shall be my guest here at Wook House. Kirdy will be unhappy and Ticia may well pretend not to see you, but pay her no heed; it is her way of calling attention to herself. Otherwise, you will find us congenial.”
Chapter IX, Part 3
In the morning Glawen took breakfast alone in the rooms Bodwyn Wook had put at his disposal, then set off down Wansey Way, under a sky full of small scudding clouds: fugitives from a tremendous storm, now five hundred miles out to sea, but advancing inexorably toward the coast. At Beach Road, Glawen turned north and proceeded to the airport, where he found Chilke sitting in his office drinking tea. Chilke looked up in surprise. “I thought you were dead! That was the rumor that came to my ears.”
“I’m alive. It’s my father who seems to be dead.”
“That is the general assumption. I don’t know any more than you already know.” Chilke brought out a map. “He flew on a standard patrol: northeast over Pandora Plain, past the Mahadions, around Lake Garnet, north to the ocean, then along the Marmion Foreshore and back down the coast: at least, that was the course that went into his autopilot.”
Glawen asked further questions, but Chilke had nothing to add except speculations and suspicions. “Under almost any circumstances we should have heard the distress signal, if only a single yelp. We heard nothing, and nothing registered on the monitor. We found no wreckage. That’s all I know for sure. What about you? What has happened to cause such pessimistic rumors? You look pale but strong.”
“I’ve been exercising in a cave.” Glawen told Chilke of his adventures, then brought out the photograph he had taken from Zaa’s desk. “What do you make of this?”
Chilke studied the photograph with care. “Those are stern-looking ladies. Unless my eyes deceive me, I see my old friend Madame Zigonie, who still owes me money.”
“Which is she?”
“This one, third from the left, When I knew her she wore her hair longer, or it might have been a wig. Who are these ladies?”
“Members of a philosophical cult. They call themselves Monomantics. This one here is Sibil, who was in charge out at Thurben Island. This one is the Ordene Zaa, who fell in love with me - I guess you would call it that. I escaped by climbing down a rope of torn bed sheets, and I’m truly glad to be home: such as it is.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Namour is now a Clattuc and I’m a collateral. You have more status than I do.”
“It makes one wonder,” said Chilke.
Glawen returned to Wook House. He went to the library and spent the rest of the morning cogitating and making notes. Bodwyn Wook came past. He patted Glawen’s shoulder. “I am happy to see you taking some rest. You have been through a great deal and now you need time to readjust! Doze on! No one will disturb you until lunchtime.”
Glawen looked up indignantly. “I am awake; in fact, I am thinking.”
Bodwyn Wook laughed indulgently. “Surely, in Zab Zonk’s tomb you must have thought your fill, to the point of repletion!”
“These are different thoughts, and rather more interesting. But I have something to show you.” Glawen produced the photograph.
Bodwyn Wook’s eyes suddenly became sharp as skewers. “Where did you get this?”
“At Pogan’s Point, from the Ordene’s desk.” Glawen pointed to a face. “This is Zaa. And this is Sibil.”
“Why did you not show me this before?”
“I wanted to see if Chilke could identify his ‘Madame Zigonie.’ Then I would have something to show you.”
“And could he? But let me guess. It was this lady here.”
“Right! How did you know?”
“At one time she was known as Smonny - which is to say, Simonetta, Spanchetta’s little sister.”
Glawen studied the faces with new interest. “Now that you mention it, I can see a resemblance.”
“If you will allow me, I will take charge of this photograph,” said Bodwyn Wook. “Let us say nothing about it to anyone. I will instruct Chilke along these lines. It is most intriguing information.”
“Namour must know.”
Bodwyn Wook settled into a chair beside Glawen. “One day we will catch Namour out in one of his peccadillos, and then all his precious secrets will be revealed in full dimension, in glowing color, fresh and vivid!”
“Namour will be careful to give you no such opportunity.”
“That has been true so far. Incidentally, I had a few words with Drusilla this morning, and she confirms Floreste’s guilt with eager protestations of virtue.” Bodwyn Wook squinted down at the papers in front of Glawen. “What are all these notes and lists?”
“They represent points still obscure to me: mysteries, if you like.”
Bodwyn Wook peered down at the notes. “So many? I thought that we had wiped the slate clean of mysteries.”
“For one thing, I am puzzled by Floreste’s easy connection with the Monomantics. I want to put some questions to him.”
“Hmm. If you wish to question Floreste, why not? It will be good practice for you, if nothing else. I spoke with him this morning, but learned nothing. He is master of a tantalizing opacity, which at last becomes unendurable. You will fare no better.”
“Unless he takes me lightly and becomes careless.”
“Possible. Be prepared to deal with a saintly martyr, whose only crime is artistic expression. I pointed out the virulence of his deeds, but he only laughed gently, as if he knew better than I. The folk of Araminta Station had never truly appreciated his great genius, so he assured me. He considers himself a ‘citizen of the universe.’ Araminta Station is a turgid little backwater, with a stupid and incestuous social system, which rewards its fools and blunderers and forces its talented folk to fulfill themselves elsewhere. These are his words, not mine, and of course they contain a leavening of half-truths.
“In any event - and for an instant we catch a glimpse of the naked and unadorned Floreste - what has Araminta Station done for him? Where are his official honors and high rank, his wealth and private mansion! How is his great genius rewarded? In a patter of applause for his marvelous productions and the patronage of the Fine Arts Committee. I pointed out that he was basically no more than a skillful public entertainer, and it was not our way to sanctify or ennoble such folk. He said no more, but clearly he has no love for either the Conservancy or the Charter or Araminta Station.”
“I wonder why he should want to build his new Orpheum here?”
“Where else? The situation is ideal. Why not put the question to Floreste? From sheer perversity he will evade a direct answer. He is impervious.”
Glawen leaned back in his chair. “As I sat here thinking - dozing, as you put it - I realized that Floreste must have accumulated a large sum of money. Do you know where this money is kept?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. It is on deposit at the Bank of Mircea in Soumjiana.”
“I have decided to bring a civil suit against Floreste. My chances of a large settlement seem to be good - especially if the case is tried in the High Court here at the Station, which would have the jurisdiction.”
“Hah!” cried Bodwyn Wook. “You have mastered that dastardly Clattuc art of attacking your enemy in his most sensitive parts! Even in the very shadow of doom, Floreste will suffer agonies if his money is threatened.”
“This was my own thinking. How would I institute such a suit?”
“Wilfred Offaw will draw up the papers this very day, and Floreste’s money will be impounded as if it were encased in durastrang and guarded by a hundred Gray Helmets.”
“Floreste should be disconcerted, at the very least.”
“Beyond a doubt. When do you wish to question him? Anytime is suitable; Floreste has no engagements elsewhere.”
“This afternoon will do well enough.”
“I will mention to Marcus that you are to be assisted in every way.”
Immediately after lunch Glawen wrapped himself in a cloak and walked leaning against the blustering wind to the ponderous old jail across the river from the Orpheum. In the front office he was searched by Marcus Diffin, the jailer. “I will not apologize, since I pass no one without a search, including Bodwyn Wook himself, and it was he who gave the orders. And what, may I ask, is this parcel?”
“It is what it seems to be. If I need it, I’ll give you a signal.”
Glawen entered the chamber, and stood for a moment with his back to the door. Floreste sat in a wooden armchair at a rough plank table, his attention fixed upon a small white flower in a slender blue vase. The intensity of his gaze suggested mystical inversion, or perhaps he merely hoped that Glawen might notice his preoccupation and tiptoe abashed from the cell. Anything was possible, thought Glawen. After a moment he said gently; “Let me know as soon as I may conveniently break into your meditation.”
Without so much as shifting his gaze, Floreste made a gesture of weary resignation. “Speak! I have no choice but to listen. My only hope is hope itself. I look everywhere, but I find it only as a symbol expressed by this little flower, so brave and winsome!”
“It is indeed a nice flower,” said Glawen. He pulled up a chair and seated himself across the table from Floreste. “I want to ask you a few questions, which I hope that you will answer.”
“I am not in an expansive mood. I doubt if you will be gratified by my answers.”
“From sheer curiosity: how long have you known Zaa? I refer, of course, to the Ordene at Pogan’s Point.”
“Names mean nothing to me,” said Floreste. “I have known thousands of folk, of every ilk and description. Some I might recall, for their style of being, or a certain flair which sets them apart from all other Gaeans. Others are like footprints in last year’s sand: dismal creatures best forgotten.”
“In which category do you place the Ordene Zaa?”
“These finicky little classifications are both pointless and tiresome.”
“Perhaps you will tell me this: how and why did Zaa, a woman of intelligence, become involved in Monomantics?”
Floreste gave a cool chuckle. “A fact is a fact, is it not? Things are as they are, and that is enough for the man of deeds.”
“As a dramatist, are you not concerned for motivations?”
“Only as a dramatist. Empathies, sympathies - by such means the insecure try to rationalize their murky and frightening universes.”
“That is an interesting point of view.”
“So it is. I have now said all I care to say and you may leave.”
Glawen pretended not to hear the suggestion. “The day is probably not too young for a glass of wine; I suppose that you feel as I do on the subject, since we are both men of cultivated taste.”
Floreste darted Glawen a haughty glance. “Do you think to gain my favor with such footling tactics? I want none of your wine, early or late.”
“I expected that you would take this position,” said Glawen, “I brought no wine.”
“Bah,” muttered Floreste. “Your prattle is both inane and insipid. Did you hear me correctly? I gave you permission to leave.”
“Just as you like. But I have not told you the news!”
“I am not interested in news. I only wish to live out my days in peace.”
“Even when the news concerns you?”
Floreste looked down at the white flower. He shook his head and sighed. “Grace and gentility: goodbye: no doubt forever. I am embroiled in vulgarity against my will.” He looked Glawen up and down as if seeing him for the first time. “Well - why not? The wise man, as he travels through life, enjoys the scenery to either side, since he knows he will not come this way again. The road ahead winds back and forth, over the hills and far away, and who knows where it leads?”
“Sometimes it is easy to guess,” said Glawen. “As, for instance, in your own case.”
Floreste, jumping to his feet, marched back and forth across the room, arms clasped behind his back. Glawen watched in silence. Floreste returned to his chair. “These are dismal times. I will drink wine.”
“It’s all the same with me,” said Glawen. “I came prepared for either contingency.” He went to the door and rapped on the panel. Marcus Diffin opened the shutter to the peephole. “What do you want?”
“My parcel.”
“I must pour it into a synthan container and supply synthan cups. Criminals are not allowed the use of glass.”
“Don’t call me a criminal!” roared Floreste. “I am a dramatic artist! There is a notable difference!”
“If you say so, sir. Here is the wine. Drink with joy.”
“What an idiot!” stormed Floreste. “Still - what does it matter? The wise man rejoices in each fleeting instant! Pour the wine with a loose hand!”
“It is a sad affair,” said Glawen. “Your termination will bring tears to many an eye.”
“Including my own. It is shameful to treat me so.”
“What of your grotesque crimes? You deserve much worse.”
“Nonsense! Those so-called crimes were a means to an end: small coins spent to buy a great prize. They are finished and forgotten. But now - think of it, if you will! I am obliged to dance a part, all unwilling in this macabre ballet you call justice – and to what end? Who benefits? Certainly not I. Far better to put all this foolishness aside and start afresh, like the urbane gentlemen we are!”
“I must ask my father’s views on the subject - if ever I see him again. He has disappeared; were you aware of this?”
“I heard talk to this effect.”
“What has happened to him? Do you know?”
Floreste drained the cup at a gulp. “Why should I tell you, even if I knew? It is by your act that I am here, counting off the minutes of my life.”
“It might be considered a generous act.”
“Generosity, is it?” Floreste filled his cup from the synthan flask. “All my life I have been generous! Have I been ennobled, or in any way rewarded? I am still listed as a far collateral. Meanwhile I have given of my genius with both hands! I am giving my personal fortune to the new Orpheum, even though I will never see the splendid reality. But I will still give! It shall be my memorial, and folk down the ages will speak my name with awe!”