“The Index Vocabulum Prohibitorum. The list of all the words we’re forbidden to say out loud. All those that have to do with . . . you know.” Ambrose indicated to Ophelia to lean closer so he could whisper in her ear. “The war.”
Ophelia’s every muscle tensed. So, the taboos imposed by God also held sway on Babel.
“I daresay you meant the old statue, at the entrance to the Memorial,” Ambrose continued, his tone lighter, as he got his chair moving again. “It’s as ancient as the site.”
“And how does one get to it?”
“In a birdtrain, mademoiselle.” Before she could even ask what a birdtrain was, he went on: “But if you want to visit the Memorial or get your bag back, first you’ll have to get changed. You won’t be allowed entrance anywhere in that outfit.”
“I don’t understand,” Ophelia said, frowning. “In what way is my dress a problem?”
Ambrose burst out laughing. “I invite you to my place, mademoiselle! There are two or three things I must explain to you.”
Ambrose’s residence bore no resemblance to what Ophelia would have expected the home of a whaxi driver to be like. The wheelchair moved along a portico, between the columns of which shimmered pools of water lilies. The further into the residence they went, the more distant became the sounds and smells of the street. A squad of mannequins, in servant livery, approached and opened up the high doors of the property to them. The cool of the interior prompted a sigh of relief from Ophelia; the nape of her neck, uncovered by her new haircut, was burning hot.
She stepped down from the running board and looked, nonplussed, around the atrium. Statues and automatons, marble tables and telephonic equipment, climbing plants and electric lamps all rubbed shoulders in a singular marriage of antique refinement and modern technology. This place on its own epitomized the anachronistic character of the whole city.
“Is this where you live?”
“Me and my father. Mainly me, in fact. My father isn’t often at home.” As he said this he indicated a full-length portrait that had pride of place on the largest wall. It depicted a man with long white hair and small, rose-tinted spectacles, through which eyes full of mischief sparkled.
“That’s Lazarus, the famous ark-trotter,” exclaimed Ophelia. “That man is your father? I met him once.”
“I’m not surprised. Everyone knows my father and my father knows everyone.”
She noticed that there was more melancholy than pride in the smile Ambrose directed at the painting. It couldn’t be easy to find one’s place in a life as full as that father’s. “And you have no other relatives here?”
“Neither family nor friends. None that isn’t an automaton, at least.”
Ophelia observed the mechanical butlers, who were busy removing the parasol, rather ineptly, from the wheelchair. She tried to imagine herself growing up in the midst of these faceless bodies, whose stomachs occasionally let out a “CONSTANCY IS THE FOUNDATION OF VIRTUES,” or a “BREAD ALWAYS FALLS ON THE BUTTERED SIDE.”
“I told my father that the sayings weren’t that effective,” Ambrose sighed, “but he’s as stubborn as a dromedary.”
“He’s the inventor of the city’s automatons?” Ophelia asked, amazed. “I knew he marketed them, but I didn’t realize he’d created them.”
“He’s one of the powerless, but he’s no less of a genius. My father owes his status as a citizen solely to his own merit.”
“Your family must be very important.”
Ambrose frowned, as though struggling to understand Ophelia. “It’s my father who’s important, and even then, he’s far from being as important as the Lords of LUX. But why would I, myself, be? I haven’t succeeded in finding my usefulness to the city. I’m just a kept man.”
He had uttered the last two words with a shame that made it pretty clear how degrading it was. He sped off in his wheelchair, between the inner columns, and, with forced gusto, continued to speak without pausing for breath, as though hoping to fill the great empty spaces of his home with his voice:
“Before being a whaxi driver, I tried all kinds of little jobs, and each one ended in failure. I’m not a manual person, you see. Even using a typewriter seems awfully tricky to me. I often tell myself that, had I been a Son of Pollux, I would have at least had a heightened sense at my disposal. If, here and now, a good fairy asked me what I’d like to be, I’d reply without hesitation: a Visionary! It must be fascinating to see microbes with the naked eye, don’t you think? Or then an Acoustic. It’s extraordinary all that can be learnt about the world around us merely with ultrasound. Even being an Olfactory, a Tactile, or a Gustatory wouldn’t have displeased me, but no, I had to end up with my hands the wrong way round. My father is forever telling me that my mere existence makes me someone of great importance to the city. He’s certainly the only one to think so.”
As Ophelia followed Ambrose, somewhat dazed by his chattering, she found it increasingly hard to understand this society in which throwing a stranger off a tram was approved of, providing for the needs of one’s child wasn’t, and no one cared if a young lady went alone to the home of a young man. It seemed to her that neither the Pole nor Anima nor her guidebooks had really prepared her for Babel. This world followed rules that were totally different from those she knew.
This feeling changed to certainty when Ambrose led her into an elegant dressing room and opened the carved shutters of the closets, adapted to wheelchair height. All the clothes, neatly folded, were as white as those he was wearing.
“What you must understand, Mademoiselle Eulalia, is that here, people are exactly what they appear to be. Just as we have a civil code and a penal code, we have a very strict dress code. My father and I, for example, are legally obliged to wear white. It’s the non-color of those without powers. Are you one of them?”
“Er . . . I’m an Animist. Of the eighth degree,” added Ophelia, thinking of the false identity papers she’d lost.
“Of the eighth degree? With a family power that’s so diluted, you can wear white, too. You’re slight, but I’m not very big, either. My clothes will be almost your size.”
“Because it will be less shocking for me to wear men’s clothing?”
Ambrose, who was unfolding a long, white tunic, looked up at Ophelia, startled, before cracking a half-smile. “Forgive me, I’m not like my father, who knows the customs of the other arks. We don’t differentiate between the sexes here. I infer that, where you’re from, men don’t wear clothing like yours?”
Ophelia had to stop herself from imagining Thorn in a little gray dress. “No, indeed.”
“That’s interesting. However, Mademoiselle Eulalia, the main problem with your dress is that its style doesn’t feature in our dress code. Not respecting that code in public is seen as an act of provocation. Which is, of course, greatly disapproved of.”