The Winged Histories (28 page)

When she looks up, the maid has gone. Only Aunt Mardith’s calm dark eyes. She knew, of course. Siski hears the click of that ivory heart. Aunt Mardith touches her napkin to the corners of her lips. “You will spend the summer at Faluidhen,” she says.

Siski’s cousin Latha, Uncle Fenya’s daughter, has come from Nauve, in the Valley, where she lives with her new husband. She has not brought her husband, however; he is tied up with the estate, some sort of lawsuit, so boring, Latha laughs, it’s not worth trying to understand it. She would rather stay at Faluidhen for the season. She is accompanied by a group of merry young people, all of noble Valley families, insouciant ladies and gentlemen who travel with servants and heavy trunks and take pleasure in calling themselves “old-fashioned types.” This attempt to appear old-fashioned, the newest fashion in certain circles, involves a laughing disdain for intellectual pursuits, an emphasis on the healthful benefits of riding, dancing, and wine, and a cavalier attitude toward money matters. Lady Latha’s friends are all in debt, and she herself, early one morning in the small blue parlor adjoining the breakfast room, begs her mother, Siski’s Aunt Karalei, for six thousand droi: “Just six thousand. You can spare it easily, you’ll make that much from the little vineyard alone!”

Coming in from the garden Siski passes the open door and sees Aunt Karalei’s normally tawny face disfigured by sudden pallor. “I’ll have to ask your Aunt Mardith,” she says faintly. “
I don
’t know if we have that much—such an amount—here in the house.”

“Ask her then, if you have to get her permission,” says Latha. Turning, she notices Siski in the hall, but far from being angry she gives a roguish little smile as she pushes the door closed with her fingertips.

Latha is beautiful in a hard, expensive way, and popular, especially with the gentlemen of the party, but the obvious favorite is her husband’s young cousin, Kethina, who, though only Siski’s age, has been to seven balls and is well known in society. Lady Kethina has golden-brown eyes that sparkle as if the sun is shining in them. They are close-set and ringed with faint blue shadows, but rather than destroying their charm these flaws increase their attraction by making them seem more intense, intelligent, and sly. She has the sublime, polished, sun-touched skin of Valley women, and already she guards it carefully with unguents and heavy creams. Her talent in matters of dress, astonishing in one so young, has made her the darling of journalists from Duema to Yenith. On her first night she dashes up to Siski. “There you are! I’ve been dying to meet you. You must protect me,” she goes on, leaning close and whispering: “
Lord Feren won
’t stop following me and I cannot, I simply
cannot
bear his cow eyes any longer! Come have a drink.”

It happens like that: so easily. Kethina keeps Siski up late, scolds her, fixes her hair, tells her she’s very pretty, she mustn’t be so shy. She rubs expensive cream into Siski’s cheeks with her bony fingers, makes her go to bed with her head wrapped in waxed paper. New styles of make-up are tried out at Kethina’s dressing table. Kethina stands back, frowning critically at her subject, her head on one side. “No,” she announces, “blue is wrong for you, we’ll have to try pink.” She dabs her brush in a jar of antimony with quick, expert little jabs.

Afterward, in defiance of Aunt Karalei, they smoke cigarettes on the balcony. Curls of smoke drift slowly toward the moon. They sit with their knees drawn up in the pale balloons of their long nightgowns, looking over the garden, the hedges, and the fields. Siski throws herself into the brilliance exuded by her new friend, the atmosphere of intrigue and whispering closeness. She will not stop to think. She will live, as others live, as Tav is living, and even Dasya, far away.

Faluidhen begins to seem like a house in a novel: a thin romance full of elegant heartache and jasmine perfume. At dinner Siski drinks wine and Uncle Fenya asks her seriously if anyone in Tevlas is selling old porcelain. “
I don
’t know,” she says with a laugh, and whispers to Kethina: “How should I?” In her hair she wears a great fleshy lily from the conservatory. Her dress, pale pink, seems to be breathing heavily, having just escaped with its life in the afternoon when she and Kethina tore off its sleeves. Surreptitiously she smells the wine: its bouquet is light and sweet, buoyant, they call it the Wine of the White Bees. Wearing borrowed pearls and her amethyst ring, she begins to feel warm, then incandescent, drinking in light and heat.

A house in a novel. Morhon is seated across from her, his beard and spectacles wreathed in a sparkling fog of adoration. Beside her sits Halor of Ur-Amakir, and farther down the table Ermali of Eilam: Kestenyi gentlemen invited for her sake. “We thought we ought to have some more eastern influence,” Grandmother bubbled at kebma, introducing them over a plate of lamb jelly. And at first Siski was nervous, unsmiling, almost unwilling to talk to them, afraid of what they might know about her family. The debts, the land sold, and then the humiliating new scandal—her sister’s running off to join the army. But later, flushed with wine, she hears herself laughing about these very troubles, and everyone laughs with her, full of admiration. “This fiery Kestenyi,” they say as she speaks callously of everyone she loves. She beckons for more wine, ignoring her grandmother’s frown. “A desert thorn,” they say. And she knows by the looks of the men in the room that she could not have planned better had she intended from the beginning to seduce them.

Seduce. Certain that she has done well, rejoicing in her success, she feels the death of something inside her radiant body, a death at which she rejoices further, lifting her glass, watching through the window the shadows deepening in the garden. Death, this death, is sweet. Her cutlery glitters in her hands, the anxious breath of the footman warms the back of her neck. She feels the opening of a thousand doors, laughs, touches a young man’s fingers as he hands her a plate of olives. Quick language of the eye. His face a blur, it does not matter who he is. She and Kethina, seated at opposite ends of the table, keep up a scintillating flow of chatter. After dinner, everyone runs out into the garden.

Night, moonlight, distance, nightingales, everywhere this tremor in the darkness. And they follow the nightingales, laughing from tree to tree. Over the wall now, stumbling. Someone shrieks, it must be Latha, she is frightened of the ram with the yellow face. “He’s somewhere here,” she cries. Ermali of Eilam carries the lantern for a joke, because he comes from the city of lamps. But where is the ram? “There,” says Ermali, holding Siski’s elbow. And she pretends not to see the gleam on the slope of the hill. Because it is pleasant to feel herself alone in the darkness with an unknown youth, she turns, she asks him, “Where?” Her cheek strikes gently against his shoulder, against the delightful creamy cotton shirt, subtly heated by his skin.

Ermali, Ermali of Eilam, the Lamplit City. A younger son, without prospects, spoilt, indolent, in debt with every shopkeeper in Nauve. Proud of his horses, his skill as a rider, his boots stamped with the maker’s name, the breadth of his shoulders, the insolence of his wit. Surely beneath his brash demeanor some marvelous creature slumbers: when he raises the lamp it brings out a mineral glow in the depths of his eyes. Then he lowers the lamp and takes her arm. The light abandons his eyes, leaving them blank as the beads on a curtain. Then the kiss.

He sets down the lamp: it’s a signal, she thinks wildly, someone will see them. Oh, if only Kethina would see them, how amusing it would be! These are the thoughts she entertains while a pair of hands with eager fingers wanders over the pink terrain of her bodice. At last he surfaces, tormented by the intricacy of the hooks. “Let’s go to the summer house, it’s just behind those trees.” And she feels herself becoming, with triumph, with glee, with a kind of delirium, the dangerous girl of a novel, the one who loves no one.

Certainly he adores her. And then it’s warm, there’s so much light from the moon and stars, she feels so pretty in her pink gown. At the summer house—a phrase, like “midnight supper,” that breathes romance—she finds it delightful that he has to force the latch.

“Shh,” she hisses, glancing about as the old wood cracks like fireworks, “someone will hear you, do you want to cause a scandal?” A breath of leaf mold, dust, the door ajar. Stepping inside they stumble over the scattered limbs of dismembered chairs.

He catches her wrist. But now she does not laugh. In the old round building there is a coolness, a mysterious distillation of the past, that pricks the hairs on the back of her neck. They have lost the lantern, but the moonlight is so bright she can make out the lichen on the windows. “
No, I don
’t want to sit down,” she says. Her body tingles with gooseflesh. Surely now he should speak, should tell her mellifluously of herself. No, he removes his coat, he throws it over the torn cretonne of the bench, he turns and helps her through the mess on the floor. A moment so charged with misery that she hurries to get it over with, embracing him, seeking the mushroom flavor of flesh. Oh love, love, happiness. And the clanging of an inaudible bell. And now the struggle, the irritation, the fatigue.

Seven years, seven years in the west. She remembers them now, in the ruined temple, with the
Dreved Histories
open on her knee. It began that summer at Faluidhen and it lasted seven years and she never saw Dasya, she never met him even once. She never went back to Faluidhen either, she spent all her time in the Valley, despite Aunt Mardith’s letters that followed her everywhere smelling of lilac powder, letters hinting that this or that lordship was coming to stay at Faluidhen and wouldn’t Siski like to visit her grandmother? No, she would not go back. She drowned herself in the homes of the west. The sumptuous fragrances, the exotic flowers, the wines. Gambling at omi to buy new clothes and borrowing when she lost and selling her jewelry and replacing it with stylish baubles of glass. Always afraid that the secret would be discovered, that someone would whisper, “Her jewels are paste.” Entering ballrooms brazenly, smiling in worthless gems. And promising herself, next time I win I’ll buy the emeralds back, but she never bought them and now they are gone forever. The gowns too, and the beautiful shoes, all sold to pay her debts, for she was always in debt despite the generosity of her lovers, the one who introduced her to bolma and bought it for her in pearl-edged boxes, the one who acquired a suite for her at the Jonquil. Remember those lovers, the one who ate bolma, she thinks of him, remembers him, he was from the south, she met him on holiday after she left Berevias, in the city of Ur-Brome where the glazed canals lapped at the steps with a sensuous lassitude and the bridges were cloaked in mist. They danced every night, the music was wonderful, she and Kethina drank teiva in pineapple juice, afterward they almost fell asleep going home in the boat, in the slow, sweet, soundless, miraculous movement of the boat on the lamplit canal, they could still hear music for the Evmeni never sleep. Never, never. And she tried never to sleep, except in the long afternoons. And she had gowns made from the bright pink and orange fabrics of the south. And as if to complete the experience of that charming sojourn she kissed the Evmeni prince with the shapely, close-cropped head and soft-gazing bloodshot eyes. And really, he was so kind. He called her
waloe
, a funny-sounding word; it meant sweetheart. At his mother’s house when she went to explore the library he called her gently, “
Waloe
,” and coming back to the parlor she heard the old lady say testily: “
Doesn
’t she have a name?” That was the sort of thing she would laugh over later with Kethina and with her cousin Afiana who had also come down for the winter, the three of them at a café with wine and cigarettes and egg sandwiches and the endless coffee they drank to keep up their strength. Afiana dark-cheeked and splendid in a gown of white taffeta with dots of black velvet; she made everyone look at them. She too had a trophy, he drove a fine carriage and wore a silk cravat and they traded salacious stories of the bedroom. Kethina’s brittle laugh. She was faithful to her fiancé, afraid of losing him, and pretended to amuse herself with the study of architecture. “Your oily prince,” she said, crinkling her nose. And that was unkind of her, for he treated her graciously and sent bolma wrapped in banana leaves to her hotel. Bolma, the whole city smelled of it, the old men in the cafés used to put a few grains of it in their tobacco and the pink smoke would drift over the water, redolent of coastal flowers, of sweat, of the prince’s estate where Siski gazed through the wrought-iron fence at the distant forest. That was where it began to end, that trip to his country estate: the place was neglected, overgrown, he hadn’t told her there was no plumbing. No servants either, and they were alone. There was one half-wild horse which he tried to ride to impress her, jerking the reins and trampling the long grass. He waxed sentimental about the crumbling house, the home of his people, he said, it was stupid, he wanted to marry her and she almost laughed out loud. She promised to write but she never did and his letter stamped with gilt dolphins made her giggle when she read it in Bain, in bed with another man.

In Bain, yes, for Dasya had gone to the Lelevai and that left the city open to her with its theaters, shops, gardens, and promenades. And how grand it was, almost overwhelming, everything of the highest quality, clothes, carriages, music, even the conversation at dinner. And so expensive, it made her feel faint when she bought her first gown and shawl. And Lord Danros was friendly, good-humored, and drove a smart tam with a roof of fox-colored leather. In his circle he was the dependable one, he arranged all the parties and races, he had a charming laugh, she envied another girl who was dancing with him. And then, he was staying for only three weeks, what harm was there in a brief romance?—but he didn’t travel as planned to join his friends at Sinidre, he stayed, she lived with him at his hotel, when her aunts visited she pretended she lived there alone, she hid his clothes and shaving things at the back of the wardrobe. A rainy winter, and tears. And Kethina said with a patronizing air, “We’re no longer young, you’d do better to make it official.” For she herself was married now, to a peaked young man with seventy thousand droi whom she bullied into wearing fashionable clothes. To make it official, to marry him. Why not, thought Siski, lying on the enormous couch upholstered in mink in the style of Farnus the Bold. They were a public couple, everyone thought they looked charming together, she so slender, he broad-shouldered, short and stocky as a quarryman. It was said the family had Kalak blood. But it was a very old family, very distinguished, the mother wore jewels that dated back to Ideiri times. In their mansion near the Kelevain this grand lady moved through the faded galleries, walking stiffly with her rheumatic hip. “I’d like to introduce you to her,” Danros told Siski firmly, almost trembling because of the terror that filled him at the thought of his family. When it came to the family name, the estate, he lost all his lightheartedness, became craven, serious, combing his hair at the mirror. “What are you doing?” she laughed. For he always left his hair in curls. And he snapped, “For the love of peace get dressed, we’re going to be late.” The evening was not a success, though he had inspected her costume, removed her big lily, insisted she change into a more modest gown. The house was full of people, everyone knew each other, she stood in a corner and watched them brush past, glancing at her and exchanging knowing grimaces. None of the ladies spoke to her. She met her hostess for just a moment and suffered, her head upright, the intolerable scorn of those black eyes. “You will excuse me my dear,” the pale old lady said sarcastically, “I find it very taxing to meet new people.” She was eating a sugared biscuit and there was powdered sugar caked on her lips and scattered in the generous folds of her gown. Afterward in the carriage Siski’s lover wore a false smile and patted her hand. “I thought you did very well, you managed Mother beautifully. She doesn’t see many people,” he went on, laughing nervously, “especially foreigners, it was strange to her to have a Nain in the house.” To make it official, to marry him. His racing papers, his caution, his mediocrity. All the old Valley families whose snobbery was almost inconceivable, who considered her grandparents’ marriage the greatest catastrophe since the marriage of Princess Talomi to a Brogyar, welcomed her for his sake. She was not comfortable in those great old houses full of gilt ornaments and mirrors, but she was proud. She thought: I am here, even I. Spreading her skirts on some knobbed, contorted, extremely precious couch, fanning an air that smelled of roses and old lace. And smiling, always smiling. For she had forgotten how to discover what she felt. It was enough to sit in these rooms, talk to old ladies, in the evening to stand on a terrace so ancient the tiles were cracking and then to dance, to dance with her lover in a ballroom. For he danced well, and they looked very well together. And when it grew too much, this life, there was music and wine and cards being played in a back parlor. She always presumed on her beauty, her wit, the fact that he must be delighted to possess her, a man so ordinary despite his glorious name. And when she had drunk enough she would think with a quiver of energy, a flick of her fan, why I can do anything I like. But their quarrels were dreadful. They quarreled in antechambers, in the carriage, all over their hotel suite. He said that people were laughing at him. He was proud, it was his weakness, it made him cringe when people sneered at her because of her mixed blood. And when she would not behave herself, as he put it, when she gambled, he became incensed, livid, he swore, he was an entirely different man. In the Garden of Plums he said: “Perhaps we should stop.” He said it to frighten her and she suddenly saw with great clarity the birds, the trees, the sky. “Yes,” she said. And afterward she went out to the Isle of Ban where the trees were putting out sticky reddish buds like watermelon sweets. How delightful to walk alone in the park in spring, to feel the soft fluttering of her scarf, the whispering undulations of her organza frock. She wore a little jacket of lavender tweed, it was still cool, she nodded gracefully to acquaintances beneath the acacia trees. Open to everything: breezes, perfumes, desire. The lure of the possible. She met an acquaintance at the gate of the park and he took her to a café. When he mentioned Lord Danros she couldn’t resist, she murmured: “I’m afraid that’
s over.
” And saw the tropical green of his eyes.