The Ecliptic (49 page)

The mushrooms were not dry enough to powder. A full day next to the boiler had left them white and shrunken, but I needed them to desiccate. Still, when darkness came, I
unhooked two of the driest garlands and stripped them clean. I had to try, at least, to make one batch of paint. And there was a sample on my wall, still gleaming blue, that I knew had been made in
the earliest stage of my experiments with the pigment, when I had used much damper fruitheads. Those first few nights, spent keenly testing out the possibilities of the stuff, toying with mixtures
of emulsions and pastes, had yielded one daub of shining paint that I hoped I could now replicate. The hardest part was deciphering my handwriting in the margins of the little canvas square: some
of the 7s looked like 1s, some of the 9s looked like 8s. But I was thankful to my father for instilling such a methodical streak in me that I could always bank on the lees of my work to be
accounted for.
Never bin your scraps
, he used to say, if I stood watching him repair a table leg or fit a new U-bend in the kitchen.
One day that bit of junk you threw away will be the
only thing that does the job.

Ground up in the mortar, the damp mushrooms formed a viscid blue cement. I was light-handed with the oil, following the measurements on the sample, and after some persuasion with the muller, it
became more pliable, until I had a paint as thick as clotted cream. I had the instinct to thin it out with turps, but held off, knowing one mistake would spoil the entire batch.

The radiance of the paint was a good start. And the tone seemed rich enough for what I needed. It did not take so naturally to the brush head, falling off in tiny clumps—I had to hold my
free hand underneath to catch them—but once I put the first stroke on the canvas, it cooperated. The smooth opacity of the stuff gave off the most resplendent sheen. If anything, the moister
pigment helped me realise a better outcome than I ever could have planned.

I worked it in the same way as the other paints, in sweeping, fluid gestures, and, although it sputtered out towards the end of every brush load, there was an easy slide to it across the nap in
the first motions—I could sculpt it, add textures and inflections as I dragged and shoved the bristles.

The two circles I had left to dry the night before were still vibrant, slightly shivering on the canvas. The final, thickest circle overlaid them in the middle section, creating an effect that I
had never seen before in ordinary paint: an ache that I could see and feel at once, as though it were not solely in the fabric of the thing itself but somehow part of me. I had made a simple thing
so resonant with sadness, so pure in its substance, that looking at it made me grieve. Tears rushed from my eyes and I could not wipe them fast enough: they putted on the workbench, oozed along my
neck. I felt ready to collapse with tiredness and relief. The picture showed glimmering blue circles in a void, growing in intensity as the eye passed left to right. An abstraction of a complicated
truth. A way to comprehend it.
The Ecliptic
, I would call it. The only painting I refused to sacrifice. The one real thing I ever brought into the world.

Ender was sent to get me. He must have been watching for some sign that I was up and moving, because no sooner had I got the kindling lit and fuming in the stove, he came
thumping on the door. I was in my dressing gown and halfway to the shower. He did not even wait for me to let him in. The door ripped open and he stood at the threshold with the bright afternoon
behind his back, snatching a hang-down strip of tape from the frame above him, as though it were a party streamer. When he saw that I was barely dressed, he did not apologise, just turned his head
away, covered his eyes. ‘The provoss asks for you to speak with him,’ he said. ‘He has told me to make certain you will come. So you will come now, yes?’

‘In a moment,’ I said resolutely. ‘Let me put something on.’ I took a bundle of clean clothing to the bathroom and got dressed, washing at the sink, taking more time
about it than I would usually have done. The creases of my eyes were streaked with hard white paint. My fringe was greased and gungy. After I had washed myself, a sediment of dirt clung all around
the basin.

Ender was still on the threshold when I emerged. He gave me a dismayed look and tucked his pocket watch inside his waistcoat. ‘You are too late now for lunch,’ he said. ‘But
there is
salep
and
ayran
and fruit, if you want it.’

I shook my head.

He gestured to the covered canvas leaning on my wall. ‘You are working?’ he said, lifting an eyebrow.

I replied, ‘I
was
. How cold is it out there?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Do I need a coat or not?’

‘No. There is sunshine, lots of sunshine.’

I put it on anyway. Ender huffed.

‘Let’s get this over with,’ I said.

The old man led me along the curving path instead of cutting straight across the grass as normal. He walked just a stride ahead of me and kept craning his head back, as if to check that I was
still in grasping distance. From behind, his silver hair looked impossibly dense. Sprigs of it splayed out from the pleats of his long ears and almost twinkled in the sunlight. He had a lurching
gait that seemed to pain him. As we went up the portico steps, he stopped to hold the door for me. And then, all at once, I was leading him instead, through the hall and up the stairs. I passed
Crozier and Gluck on the landing. They both said quiet hellos to me, raising their coffee cups. It was the first time I had ever been glad of the sight of them. I smiled and wished them both good
afternoon, and Gluck was so surprised that his response got caught up in his throat. ‘Yy—er, ya,’ he said. ‘You too.’ The old man was still in my wake, his nostrils
wheezing. We went up another flight, over soft carpet (I wondered how many guests before me had made this same walk of condemnation) and clipped along the corridor together until we reached the
provost’s study. ‘You wait,’ he said, rapping the wood three times.

The door drew back abruptly and we were met by Ardak. He flicked a nod at the old man but did not acknowledge me. They exchanged a few words in Turkish, then Ardak brushed past us and went off
down the hall. Inside, the provost was preparing a drink for himself at the hostess trolley by the fireplace. ‘Have a seat there, won’t you, Knell,’ he said, motioning to the
settees. ‘I’m making what I like to call an Afternoon Refresher. Can I get you one? It’s just lemonade, a dash of grenadine, crushed ice, and pomegranate seeds. If you can get
fresh mint, that makes it better, but I don’t have any.’

‘No, thank you,’ I said.

‘You’re missing out.’

The old man shut the door and loomed there like a warden. As I sat down, I noticed Gülcan in an armchair near the provost’s desk—she had been partly obscured by his gaunt frame
at the hostess trolley, but I could see her now, reclining deep into the cushions with her head back and her fingers worrying her hair. She did not look at me. Nazar was the only one who did, in
fact; lazing in a hot-bright shank of sunshine underneath the window, she rolled her pupils round to meet mine, perked up her snout, and then came stepping over. I petted her head and she settled
at my feet.

Drink in hand, the provost lowered himself onto the settee opposite. He stirred the ice with a straw. ‘I am troubled, Knell,’ he said. ‘I never thought that I would need to sit
you down for a conversation quite like this, but here we are. It’s hugely disappointing.’ He took a liberal swig of juice and gave a little noise of satisfaction. ‘Do I presume,
from your lack of an expression, that you understand where this is headed?’

‘It’s never wise to presume anything,’ I said. ‘I heard you wanted to speak to me, that’s all.’

The provost pursed his lips and nodded, though I was not sure at what. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Then let’s discuss the facts.
Onus probandi
—’ He leaned
to put his drink down on the strange glass table between us. And, just when I expected he would lean straight back, he reached into his breast pocket and removed two keys—one brass, one
silver—and snapped them on the tabletop. ‘Ender discovered these amongst your things last night at dinnertime. I apologise for the intrusion on your privacy, but these were special
circumstances.’

Nazar put her chin on my toes and whined. My heart was skittering; I could not quell it. I decided it was best to say nothing at all.

‘Obviously, I don’t need to tell you where they were missing from, or whose doors they belong to—’

Staying silent was the best strategy. Until the thing was proven beyond doubt.

‘Add to this the information I received from Gülcan yesterday,’ he went on. ‘You mustn’t blame her—she’s been so twisted up about this whole matter
she’s been quite unwell. In the end, it’s her own livelihood at stake, so you can understand why she would come to me. And then—’ The provost paused to slip a coaster
underneath his sweating glass. ‘Then there is the matter of my telephone, which I found slightly off the hook last night and could not for the life of me think why—I mean, I have to be
very precise about such things, as you know, with my eyes being the way they are, and if the receiver isn’t put back firmly, no calls can get through, which rather puts us all at risk.
Anyway, you know about all this—’ He reclined again, crossing his legs.

I tried my best to look dispassionate. ‘I didn’t even know you had a telephone,’ I said.

‘Knell, please. You have been in this room a number of times. You have seen it. You have heard it. I have spoken of it. Let’s not make this conversation any more uncomfortable than
it has to be.’ He looked down at Nazar, twitching his brow. She did not stir. ‘I have contacted the telephone company. They’re sending me a log of all my outgoing calls. It takes
a bit of time, of course, but I should have them by tomorrow. And if I see that you have made connection with anybody using this phone line, and given any details about your whereabouts to
anyone—well, that would be a serious breach, a serious breach.’

‘A serious breach of what?’ I said.

He glowered at me. ‘Of the fundamental purpose of this place. Of the honour code. Of the privacy of every artist under this roof and all the others gone before. It will not be taken
lightly by the trustees, I assure you.’

I was feeling the same cold helplessness that had come over me at art school, when I was asked to justify the ‘profane’ content of my
Deputation
mural by the board of
governors. I had not conceded my position then, so why now? ‘I think we’ll just have to wait and see what those phone records show. Because I promise you I haven’t spoken to a
soul.’ Technically this was true: I had only talked to a machine.

‘Oh dear, I really hoped you wouldn’t take this line with me,’ the provost said. He spread an arm over the back of the settee. ‘Whether the records show anything or not,
you have still broken into my study, which is a clear contravention of the rules. So, as far as I can see, you have two choices. One: that you stay with us, work here, carry on as normal. Try to
come to terms with what has happened to your friend and find that sense of purpose you’ve been searching for. Everything as it used to be.’

He lingered here to give me time to understand the gravity of my circumstance. I did not trust a single word that passed his lips.

‘If that isn’t acceptable, then I will have no option but to impose much stricter measures.’

Again, he stopped, as though anticipating a reaction. But I simply folded my arms.

‘That means you’ll be escorted off the grounds without documentation,’ he said, ‘without support to secure your route home, or any acknowledgement from this office
whatsoever. Any work you’ve made here will remain in our possession and you will forfeit any protection you might have otherwise received. In short, you’ll be entirely disowned. And,
who knows? Perhaps the police will see to it that you’re arrested for trespassing on private property. We have some very useful friends in the local force. I understand they can be quite
unforgiving on such matters in these parts. Am I being clear enough for you?’ He pitched forward for his glass and sipped at it.