Authors: Christopher Priest
The return journey to Questiur took more than eight days. Every day my watch appeared to lose or gain time – one day it gained four hours, or lost eight. I was not sure which.
We had to change ships several times, a nuisance, a delay and a vexation. Our baggage and musical instruments were often examined by officials. With the concerts behind us all we wanted was to go home. For part of the journey I stayed below-decks, annoyed and sulky because of the maddeningly slow progress.
One day, one ship, it was intolerable – the ship had been wired up with loudspeakers on every deck and in every companionway. From the moment we boarded they were playing popular music from which there was no hope of escape. At first, for a few minutes, I was intrigued. I wanted to learn something of the Archipelagian musical popular culture, which was for me a novelty, but it soon became tiresome, unavoidable. Then they played a track I instantly recognized – it was from
Pilota Marret
. And Ante’s screeching electric guitar shattered any remaining peace of mind. As that long day passed with agonizing slowness, one track after another from his wretched record was played. Played at me, or so it felt. I spent most of that day on the aft boat deck, as far away from the sound as possible, letting the sea wind bluster about me.
At other times, on other ships, I stood or sat on the open decks. I knew this might be my last chance to take in the unique ambience of the Archipelago. I was watching, watching, thinking about colours and winds and seabirds and mountains and light and waves, and the secret codes of music they all somehow imparted to me.
The weather gradually cooled.
Every change of ship meant that we had to disembark and briefly enter the island as transit passengers. The grudging, pedantic methods of the officials were no better than they had been anywhere else, but to us the process was simply pointless. We produced our documents, our visas, our travel passes, our staves – all were routinely examined, and the staves were dipped into the mysterious scanning machines.
We noticed the attendant group of young people at every stop, but by this time I was no longer intrigued by them and barely registered their presence.
My stave never elicited any response from either officials or scanning machines. None of the officials remarked on that, or anything else. Always the cool, unexplained transaction: the stave handed over, the few seconds of silent examination, the insertion into the machine, the stave returned. It remained unmarked, apparently not changed in any way or officially approved. Mine was no different from anyone else’s. We all submitted to the perplexing procedure. My stave was beginning to look slightly travel-worn, but the smooth surface of the main wooden shaft remained unblemished.
On the eighth day I was standing at the rail of the ship we had boarded that morning. I was cold and miserable. Most of the clothes I had brought with me were lightweight, what I had thought would be suitable for the warmer south, so all I could do to ward off the cold was put on an extra outer layer, another shirt, a jacket. I felt bulky and unhappy. A bitter wind was blowing. All the islands I could see from where I was standing looked windswept and barren. Never more had I wanted this long journey to be over.
One of the orchestra’s second violinists walked across and joined me at the rail.
‘Have you noticed that?’ he said, pointing directly ahead of the ship.
I saw what I thought at first was another large island. It was low on the horizon, spreading across it indistinctly. I could see rocky peaks, but not much more.
‘I think we’re almost there.’
‘Glaund?’
I was surprised. I had not expected we would arrive before late in the afternoon. I looked at my watch, a habit, but it was a long time since it had worked properly. Every day it gained or lost time.
I continued to stare ahead as the ship bore us gradually nearer. The land became a more distinct sight. The iron-grey mountains were what drew the eye, and I could see that most of the higher peaks were covered in snow. Lower slopes were dark and unclear to see.
Soon the coastal plain was visible, or to be more accurate it was possible to see where the coastal plain lay. A miasma of fog or mist or pollution ran from the sea, where it merged indistinguishably, back as far as the foothills of the mountain range. Nothing beneath the fog could be discerned.
It induced a strange mix of feelings in me. This was home: my country, my parents, Alynna, friends and colleagues, most of my memories. My work and reputation were based in Glaund, but I had been away in the islands. I yearned to be home but in truth I wanted little of it.
We were sailing ever closer to my dark and damaged country and I wanted the ship to slow down, veer away, turn back.
One by one, other tour members were coming up from below, standing around me at the rail, watching as the boat drew us near, manoeuvring to line up on a dark smudge of town. We knew it must be Glaund City, or at least its port, Questiur. A few people commented, but there was not much to say.
Soon there was no mistaking where we were headed as the mountains behind the town took on a familiar aspect and we could make out, through the smothering murk, large buildings we recognized in Glaund City. The voice of one of the crew crackled out through the public address system: we would be berthing in fifteen minutes, all passengers should collect their belongings and move to the gate number they had been assigned when boarding the ship …
So for the last time we prepared to disembark. For me at least it entirely lacked the feelings of surprise, anticipation, excited pleasure that had been the feature of so many arrivals while we were in the islands. We all clambered about below-decks, pushing in and out of our cabins, collecting our baggage, what souvenirs we had bought, what instruments we could carry, trying to locate the gates of disembarkation.
One of the sailors opened the metal gate to which I had been assigned, so I was able to watch the concrete quays sliding slowly past, feel again the chill from the mountains, breathe once more the smell of industry, engines, chimney discharge, the odours of millions of people, the output of their workaday lives.
I was wearing on my back the holdall that Msr Axxon had handed out so long ago.
‘We won’t be needing that any more,’ someone said, behind me. He said he had left his behind somewhere. I had already decided to keep my own holdall – it would be a reminder of being away.
I could see the open quay, with no sign of a Shelterate building, no small group of casually dressed young people. Once again I was in the world of bare functionality, the unattractive place where I had been born.
The ship came to a gradual halt, sidling in to the quayside. Sirens blew, men on the quay shouted up to the crew on the bridge of the ship. Ropes were secured. The vessel lurched in a familiar way as it ground against the cushioned bulk of the quay. I was standing in a small group by the hatch and we jostled against each other.
A gangplank was being swung across from the shore to the hatch where we stood. With the other musicians I picked up my heavy luggage. But no one moved. The gangplank remained aloft, hanging on its chains. I could see along the wharf that a second gangplank was aloft, also waiting to be lowered.
A detachment of troops had marched on to the quay and they were dispersing to take up positions against the places where the gangplanks would be. They stood in a disorderly way, carrying their weapons. They looked young and nervous, probably recently drafted. An elite squad had clearly not been sent to meet us. Several of the soldiers were staring up at the ship as if they had not been so close to one as large as this before.
A couple of non-commissioned officers appeared – one of them shouted at the troops, while the other strode along the quay blowing on a whistle. The gangplanks moved again, lowered slowly towards the side of the ship. I did not want to be the first ashore, the first to be halted or questioned by the army, so I hung back, but soon I was on the gangplank, feeling it wobble and lurch beneath me.
It was a homecoming but not one I wanted. I was still full of my dreams, the plans, the hopes, but for now they were to be buried beneath the suspicions of the ruling junta which had sent these troops to find out where we had been, what we had been doing, what we had seen, who we might have met, and perhaps also what we now wanted.
I stood on the quay, my baggage on the ground beside me. While I waited to be singled out for the next questioning, I checked my watch against a huge clock on the wall of the wharf. Since I woke up on the ship that morning it appeared to have lost another seven and a quarter hours. Or maybe it had gained four and three-quarters.
The air smelled of soot, of something acidic, of something I did not wish to breathe. I did not want to be there at all.
It was strange to be walking on solid ground again after more than a week at sea. Now that I was in the town of Questiur, buildings on every side and away from the coast, the air was not as icy cold as it had felt while I waited on the quay. I was laden with my luggage: the holdall and my violin case were strapped to my back, I had one large bag in each hand. I had no idea of the date and only an approximate idea of the time. Late afternoon? It was gloomy in the city but that was often the case under Glaund’s familiarly leaden sky.
The weather was concerning me. We had sailed away to the islands as winter was about to break and we were absent on the tour for about two months. At the back of my mind, as I revelled in the hot and gentle airs of the islands, I had sometimes had the thought that we could not avoid returning to Glaund during its worst weather profile. Once winter set in we normally suffered several freezing months, usually with dirty old snow on the ground and new snow falling regularly. This weather – a dank, pollution-rich mist, stiff with the residue of smoke and waste materials, but still above freezing temperature – was more like what we had to suffer before and after the worst of winter.
I came to a subway station and was glad to catch a train to the main rail terminus. I had to squeeze into the compartment, pushing myself and my bulky luggage against the people already crushed inside. I looked around at the faces. There was no mistaking which town I was in. Those fixed, tolerant, patient faces, putting up with life, carrying on. No eye contact, no signs of happiness. Everyone ignored me, even those whose bodies were pressed against mine, whose faces shadowed my own.
Warnings about trains delayed by the fog greeted me at the main station, a familiar problem in Glaund City, but while I was in Questiur the fog had not seemed too thick. I could see it lowering heavily under the arched roof, though, and felt a familiar sense of resignation about being delayed yet again. However, I was fortunate. An earlier train, delayed by the weather, was still held back in the station. Darkness was falling now. I bought a single ticket, hurried across the vast central concourse to the platform. Grey-blue smoke from the noisily idling engines of the waiting trains billowed up into the murk. I lurched along the platform with my heavy load of luggage and found a row of empty seats in a central carriage. In spite of the chill weather I was perspiring with the effort and my anxiety to catch this train. I made myself comfortable, my bags and violin case stowed overhead, and after a few moments, amid the noise of the station and the train doors intermittently slamming as other people boarded, I began to doze.
I was dimly aware of the train shuddering and swaying but it was only a while later that I woke up completely. It was dark outside, with few lights showing. The train halted soon after this and I recognized the station name. I was already more than half the distance home. I tidied my clothes after the earlier rush to get the train, made sure my baggage was secure, and when we finally halted in my own station I was ready for the final stretch. I wished I had had time to phone ahead to Alynna, but it was too late for that. I found a rank of taxis in the station yard so I took the first one and gave the driver the address. Five minutes later I was outside my home.
All the windows were shuttered.
No light showed. I felt a chill in my heart. I went through into the shared entrance hallway.
Stupidly, I pressed the bell-push, and heard the familiar chime inside. There was no noise or movement from within. I scanned the window by the door for any sign of life, then I used my key and it turned at the first attempt. The door would not open. I used the second key on the deadlock, the one we never had need for when we were at home, and after this the door swung open. It brushed against a pile of unopened mail that had accumulated.
I stepped into the darkened hall, dragging my luggage after me, and slammed the door. Alynna was not there and as I hurried around the unlighted rooms it seemed she had not been in the apartment for many weeks. I looked for her in the dark, frightened, feeling desperate. I called her name, fearing everything: an accident or illness, a break-in, perhaps worst of all a departure of some kind, an angry exit. None of the lights worked, but then I went to the fuse box and threw the master switch.
I renewed my search, in less of a panic but fearing more. The furniture was all in place, the windows were closed and locked, the whole flat felt airless but clean. My studio was intact and my piano was locked with the stool parked neatly against the pedals. Papers I did not remember lay on my desk, many of them still in unopened envelopes.
The place was chilling me. There was no food in the kitchen but the cutlery and crockery had been washed and put away. The refrigerator door hung open, revealing more unlighted emptiness.
I switched on the heating and was reassured by the sound of the boiler coming to life. With the apartment gradually becoming liveable again I made a third search, meticulously, trying to discover what had happened.
There was no trace of Alynna at all. Her clothes had disappeared from the closet, her various ornaments and books had been removed, the room she used as a studio was empty. Even the carpet had gone. I looked for something she might have left, to explain to me why she had moved out. A forwarding address, perhaps, or a note. But nothing.