Adjusting her ear buds, Mélisande
Bramante started her iPod and settled back on her favourite bench
under the overarching branches of an old fruit tree, the bruised
shadows of the summer having diminished to mere latticework in the
declining light of autumn. One of her stable of University squirrels made its
way over to her. She reached into her lunch and drew out a small
brown bag of peanuts, in the shell, and tossed one lightly towards it
and watched its dexterous little fingers handle the nut and its
little teeth nibble away at the protective shell—one of her simple
pleasures. Their world didn't offer much room for diversification of
character—their goals in life were fairly circumscribed, though
their skills at dissembling and hiding food gave them scope for
creativity—but she could discern subtle differences in their
demeanour. She had given three of them names, March Hare, Mad
Hatter, and Dormouse.
It was the latter who was before her nibbling on the brittle shell.
As she bit into her hummus, tomato and
pickle sandwich, the block piano chords of one of her favourite songs
played in her ears, Ashley Chambliss’s A Little More of You.
She closed her eyes with the
pleasure of the song and the anticipation of the artist's next song,
Iron Hands, which was
to follow. Listening,
she realised, perhaps for the first time, that the right hand chord
remained constant, while the left hand went up and down a few notes
on the scale, slowly like footsteps up a flight of stairs, and then
down; the base notes made her think of Sisyphus and his stone, and
the right hand, timelessness, infinity. Her visualisation of stairs,
a miniature Escher-like interior that was at once an exterior, roused
an old memory of a recurring nightmare she had had as a child; she
would be climbing a staircase, a staircase without supporting walls,
and upon reaching a narrow landing, she would drop to her knees
clutching the edges of the structure, vertigo within her, nothingness
without. She discovered later that she would descend the stairs from her
bedroom, still asleep, and find her Mother in the living room and
curl up beside her on the chesterfield. And her Mother would lead her
back to bed. After months of this behaviour of sleepwalking, her
Mother had told her about her nightly visits. Mélisande, even at the
age of seven, had been embarrassed. She had revealed the nightmare. A
pill was prescribed by the family doctor. The nightmares ceased.
She often used to
wonder if her Mother missed her somnambulant visits.
She opened her eyes
and breathed deeply. It had been an odd morning what with the fog
finally dissipating and that shelf collapsing. Thankfully the
swoon-worthy hunk who had caused it had helped her put everything
back. Such nice hands she thought.
She finished the
triangle of sandwich and wiped her lips and hands before taking out
of her purse a half read paperback copy of Sarah Caudwell's The
Sibyl in Her Grave, and within it, like a bookmark, a small
envelope addressed to her from her friend Sophie, a reference
librarian at the McLennan Library. She wondered if it was an
invitation to a bibliographic bash or possibly a send-off for a
septuagenarian librarian named Marion. Sophie was always organising
some get together or other. She could see the windows of the library
from her bench and wondered why Sophie hadn't just dropped it off by
hand. Opening it she found a card with an image of a young woman
flying on a magic carpet made of an open book, and within, a hand
written note and a piece of paper, folded and taped shut. She read
Sophie's message in the card:
Dear Mélisande,
I know this is odd, but I thought
this would be the best way to handle it.
I recently had a request to find the
obituary of an old McGill English professor, a Professor Petherway,
and I came across the unusual name of Loveridge in the same obits.
Since it's an unusual name, I thought it must have had a connection
to Pavor. I want to give you the information but I also want to
give you the opportunity to refuse it, or give it to Pavor and then
proceed from there. I know this must sound strange, but I know how
much you love him and how long you've been waiting for him to commit.
All my love,
Sophie
P.S. If you read the information,
let me take you to lunch.
Mélisande held the
folded paper in her lap while her imagination conjured up episodic
possibilities similar to the Wilkie Collins novel she had been
reading. Was she going to read about the death of Pavor Loveridge?
Was she in love with someone who took over his life? An impostor? A
twin? A fake Pavor?
With
her thumb nail, she cut the tape holding the folded paper together.
She hesitated while she listened to the sound of leaves scuttling
along the sidewalk nearby, like the sound of rats beneath her in the
depths of the city's subterranean world. Rats. Where had she read the
story of about a usurper of an 11th
century archpiscopal seat who, having refused food to the starving
poor during a famine, had fallen sick in his island castle on the
Rhine only to be eaten by rats? A cautionary tale. Karma. Alacrity
and Karma on a Yacht off Palmyra.
She would have to read more of Pavor's book. Pavor. She held the
photocopy paper in her hands and slowly unfolded it.
She had waited
long enough.
It was an old obituary from the Montreal
Gazette. The death of
Victoria Loveridge and her daughter Tamara, beloved wife and daughter
of Pavor Kristof Loveridge . . . . the
remaining words were mere marks on a page, hieroglyphics. Her hands
shook, the envelope fell to the grass.
The Dormouse,
awaiting another peanut, scampered close to investigate. Picking up
the envelope, he sniffed it, turned it round in his hands, and then
let it drop. He looked up, confused, uncertain, unsure.
She didn't need to
read more.
She looked down to
see the Dormouse sniffing the ground. She picked up the bag of
peanuts and emptied them unto the grass, an overwhelming bounty for
the poor thing, like a pile of prehistoric bones for an unwitting
archaeologist. The mother lode. Winter was around the corner. She never
knew if her favourite squirrels would make it through to Spring.
Dormouse would have a better chance of it now.
Back at her desk,
she withdrew an old-fashioned buff card catalogue from her supply of
now obsolete card stock, and placed it in her typewriter and began to
catalogue Pavor's book of poetry. The card would be filed in a
special drawer devoted to Pavor's work. The other thirty-five drawers
of the oak filing cabinet she had at home were devoted to all the
books she had read, catalogued by author, with the date of completion
and occasional comments and page numbers annotated in pencil on the
back. Life is long, but catalogue cards are thin. She didn't worry
about running out of filing space. Thirty-six drawers, she thought, were sufficient for the most edacious of readers.
She slipped the finished card inside the book and put it back in her purse. She was doubtful she could read the book just now. Perhaps ever.
*
After
breakfast, Declan and Harry had left Jerome to his own devices, and
he'd planned to further explore the maze but his shoes had been
taken, ostensibly to be dried. He'd returned to his room, used the
facilities, maundered over Rossetti, avoided the journal, and looked
out the window until boredom had led him downstairs to browse the
library to pass the time until Thaddeus would find him and escort him
to Lucrezia for another sitting.
As he
neared the open door to the library, he glimpsed Lucrezia coming out
of a room. At first he thought it was Declan's office, but he
realised it was in the adjacent corner. She closed the door and
pushed a book back with her foot, a book in the middle on the bottom
shelf, and then left by the door to the drawing room. He stood still
as if struck with catalepsy. At once he thought he should go in
search of his shoes and forget what he had just seen, but no sooner
had the thought passed his mind, than he found himself in the library
approaching what he believed to be another sham door. But it was
genuine. The shelf section contained real books, not just the facade
of spines. Bound sets of French and Italian classics. Some German
authors as well. He bent down and pulled out the middle book, a
three-quarter bound volume with gilt lettering on red, entitled The
Dark Room – Strand. He wondered if it was an old novel from the
Strand Magazine, but whatever it was or had been, it was now a
sham book, for there was a click and the shelf section sprang
open to reveal a groove on the side to pull it further. The weight of
the door must have been exceedingly heavy, but it easily glided open
and pocket ceiling lights came on. He hesitated. It was another room
of very old books, perhaps ten feet by ten feet. An intoxicating
odour of ageing leather, paper and ink enveloped him as he slipped in
sideways. An oak pedestal in the middle of the small room was the
only furnishing other that the rich diversity of leather bound
volumes. On a shelf under the pedestal he noticed a slim volume with
'Catalogue' in gilt letters on the spine. He lifted it up to the
inclined reading platform and opened it up to the title page.
The
Dark Room
A
Catalogue of Esoterica
From
the Collection of D. G. K., a Gentleman.
by
Duncan
Strand
Montreal:
Grange Stuart Books
1988
He
looked around at the gilt titles shimmering in the low light. A thick
dark leather volume entitled Disquisitionum Magicarum with the
date 1657 at the bottom of the spine caught his eye. Books by
Freytag, 1710, Thyrseus, 1600, Pererius, 1598. Other names from the
shadows between the raised bands, Roger Bacon, Paracelsus, Basil
Valentine, Agrippa, Francis Barrett, Pseudo-Hermes, Helvetius, Lull,
Dee, Bruno, Fludd, Maier, Vaughan, Flamel, van Helmont, Sendivogius,
von Mynsicht. They must be books from the old Castlebourne estate he
thought. Nothing unusual. People collected all sorts of odd books. A
floorboard creaked, or so he thought. Careful not to make a noise, he
slowly turned around and was startled by a dark oval of polished
stone held in place by a filigree of ironwork on the back of the
door, and upon it, his reflection, his dark semblance, like an aura,
or the shadow of guilt.
After
waiting moments that seemed endless, he took a deep breath and braved
the opening. No one was there. He closed the door and pushed the book
back in place and was sitting on a couch with the first volume of
Godwin's Caleb Williams when Thaddeus found him.
© ralph patrick mackay
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