Fearless’s voice was so sonorous that, even without raising it, he seemed to be roaring every sentence. Ophelia wondered, not without some apprehension, what he was driving at.
“I’ve done a whole load of experiments on echoes,” he continued, unperturbed. “Have you ever seen duplicated images on a photograph? Have you ever heard your own words continually returning to you through a telephone receiver? I have. Countless times. And yet I’ve never been able to understand what an echo is, and what conditions trigger it. I have, however, made a vrrraiment interesting discovery.”
He had adopted a confidential tone, but his voice, unsuited to whispering, carried absolutely everywhere.
“For a few years now, the frequency of these phenomena has increased exponentially. There are more and more echoes, more and more often, in more and more places. Would it interest you to know my conclusion on the subject?”
Ophelia nodded her head stiffly. In truth, she was having all the trouble in the world following what Fearless was saying: the bench was shaking due to the quaking of Blaise, who couldn’t tear his eyes away from the saber-toothed tiger. If she was scared, he was petrified.
“I deduced that it was the entire universe endeavoring to send us a message,” Fearless declared, bombastically. “A vital message. An urgent message.” He then tapped his temple, theatrically, and put on a fearsome voice: “‘Think for yourself, you stupid little man, instead of foolishly repeating what you hear!’”
His throat then let out a laugh that reverberated throughout the surrounding catacombs. Ophelia was awestruck. How could such a puny body produce such an explosion of sound?
The next moment, Fearless had returned to being serious and was scrutinizing his two guests without the slightest congeniality. “Eulalia, eighth-degree Animist, recently admitted to the conservatoire of the Good Family as an apprentice Forerunner,” he recited, half-heartedly. “Blaise, third-class Olfactory, assistant at the Memorial of Babel,” he continued. “Don’t ask me how I know this. The only question worth asking, here and now, is: what on earth are two lambs like you doing in the wild beasts’ den?”
Matching gesture to words, Fearless laid a hand on the enormous head of the tiger. The mighty purr that ensued made Blaise’s cheeks turn the same gray as his hair.
Ophelia’s heart was also in her boots. The wild beast’s size was so out of proportion to that of the dressing room, she found herself obliged to tuck her feet under the bench so as not to tread on its tail. In her mind, she ran through all the possible replies that came to her, but none seemed wise.
“I also knew Mother Hildegarde.”
Fearless barely batted an eyelid. “Vrrraiment? Is that name supposed to mean something to me?”
Ophelia glanced at the photographs lined up on the radio console. Had she been on the wrong track? Were the oranges and the polka-dot dress mere coincidences?
A blink of an eye later, she understood her mistake. “Maybe not that name, but that’s what she called herself where I met her. Meredith Hildegarde. Her real name must have had a more Arkadian ring to it. She had three passions: architecture, cigars, and oranges.”
“Doña Mercedes Imelda. A remarkable woman.” Fearless had said these words without flinching, but without hesitating, either. He reached over to the console and grabbed one of the frames. “This young demoiselle beside Doña Imelda,” he said, placing his finger on the other woman, “is my great-grandmother. I knew her less well than I would have liked, but she made a mark on my childhood. She, like Doña Imelda, was a free spirit such as one no longer encounters. One must admit, they still knew how to have a laugh in those days! There were already killjoys to teach you to speak proper and walk straight, but not like today. Not like today.” He put the frame back in its place, and then drilled his penetrating gaze into Ophelia’s glasses. “My great-grandmother left us half a century ago. At a vrrraiment great age. I therefore have my doubts that you ever knew Doña Imelda in person, lambkin.”
Ophelia clenched her fists. “I grant you that I’m small, but I’m definitely no lamb. Listen,” she insisted, seeing Fearless break into a mocking smile. “Mother Hildegarde was, without doubt, a very old lady, but she had a constitution of iron and a mind of steel. She would even still be alive if . . . if she hadn’t . . . ”
Ophelia couldn’t say it. That body sucked down into her pocket, the dislocating of limbs, the cracking of vertebrae . . . It was impossible for her to evoke that memory without seizing up. It was her emotion, even more than her words, that seemed to make Fearless decide to swallow his skepticism.
“Do you know why the orange is a vrrraiment important fruit?”
She hadn’t expected that particular question. “Er . . . it cures scurvy?”
“It’s a very ancient legend,” said Fearless, crossing his legs on his radio transmitter. “I heard it from my great-grandmother, who herself heard it from her distant ancestors. The story goes that the angels were living in the gardens of Knowledge, while humans were groveling in the dark caves of Ignorance. And that’s how it remained for millennia. One day, however, a man—or a woman, depending on the version of the story—entered, by accident, the gardens of Knowledge. A poor peasant, lost and famished. He saw golden apples. He picked one. Barely had he taken a bite out of it than his mind opened. Suddenly, he became aware of his ignorance, of the ignorance in which all his fellow humans were kept. He stole other golden apples, distributed them to the men and women, and, together, they emerged from the caves of Ignorance to discover the world. ‘Golden apples,’” continued Fearless, after a long, dramatic pause, “is the name our ancestors gave to oranges. And that’s why it a vrrraiment important fruit. That’s why people such as Doña Imelda and I have made it our rallying sign. It’s the symbol of all those who want to free themselves from the ignorance in which we’re forcibly kept. Between you and me, mademoiselle, I can see no difference between the angels of the legend and the Lords of LUX.”
He had spat out that last word with such loathing that his tiger snarled and let out a growl that made Blaise fall off the bench.
Ophelia wondered to what extent Fearless was aware of the existence of God, as Mother Hildegarde had been. The question almost slipped out when she suddenly remembered why she was there. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, of what was being said at that very moment, in that dressing room, that she would be able to hide from Mediana, if the latter decided to delve into her memory.
With resolve, she unwound the turban that was hiding her face and looked Fearless straight in the eye. “You wanted to know the reason for our presence in your cabaret. The truth is that I was asked to have a good look and listen around it. I give you my word that Mr. Blaise has nothing to do with any of this. I therefore suggest to you that we stop our exchange right now and each go our own way. In fact,” Ophelia added, as an afterthought, “you should look for a new address for your cabaret.”