Aurorarama - Jean-Christophe Valtat [3]
The first time he had met with Mason over this greenhouse business, Brentford had felt something uncanny, as if the officer were a slightly older mirror image of himself—a possible Brentford Orsini who so far had not been allowed to happen, in spite of the prophecy, which he had heard in his youth from the mouth of an old fortune-teller, that he would spend or end his life among men in uniforms. (“I suppose she spoke of nuthouse wardens,” as his friend Gabriel d’Allier always said, in a joke that had become rather tired.)
This apparent kinship went beyond their common tall frame, short-trimmed hair, and small, silver-sprinkled sideburns, even beyond a similar decency of demeanour that could sometimes border on a defiant stiffness. It was more the moral meaning of these hieroglyphs that Brentford could relate to: Mason was dutiful, determined, dependable, sound without being sententious, brave without being a daredevil, had a sense of honour without any vanity, and could even convincingly convey the impression that he found some civilians worthy interlocutors. He was, in many ways, the epitome of that bizarre, ill-understood breed of the human species usually known as “soldiers.”
But if he was careful never to let the warrior out of the bag in public meetings, Mason also revealed some deep-seated traits that Brentford found a little harder to cope with. The officer had at times, in his sun-dried, cold-bitten, weather-beaten face, the stare of a man who had been once or twice splattered with the brains of a best friend, or who had himself plunged a few inches of solid steel in a total stranger’s throat. If he was polite enough to make one believe that he thought his job was the “dirty” kind that “someone had to do,” one could feel that that he was prepared to do it to the bitter end. Probably, his conscience would draw the line somewhere, but Brentford was not too curious to know where that would be. And he could presume that, were he to become the enemy, Mason’s way of showing his respect would be to leave him no second chance.
So far, there had been no cause for alarm. Though officially taking orders from the Council of Seven, Mason had been clever enough not to meddle in the ongoing internal strife that pitted the Council against the Arctic Administration, to which Brentford belonged. In a sense, the captain-general relished the isolation of Frobisher Fortress, and would rather be among his men than playing at “poletics.”
Impeccably attired as usual in his grey and light blue battle-dress uniform, he welcomed Brentford in a courteous yet business-like way, thanking him for the wedding invitation and congratulating him on the happy event.
“I hope you will be able to make it to the banquet,” said Brentford, sitting down.
“I hope so, believe me,” answered Mason, with a noncommittal bow.
Brentford actually did not care that much if he came or not and had no intention, no more than Mason had, of discussing his oncoming wedding. He was, for one thing, unsure of how the bride came across socially and did not especially wish to dwell on the matter.
“The Inuit delegation has not yet arrived?” he asked instead, though he knew what the answer would be.
“I do not know if the notion of being on time has any meaning for them,” said Mason, wincing, as if he had not sent an aerosled to pick them up from Flagler Fjord and bring them back to the fortress. Brentford pretended he had not heard this typical remark and quickly changed the subject again.
“I see the Greenhouse is well on its way.”
“We’ll be ready for the spring, don’t worry,” Mason assured him, almost dismissively. Brentford’s plan settled the question of the food supply without involving any road to watch over and protect, but Mason had yet to develop an interest in discussing the positive effects of Pleasanton Blue glass on tomato plants. Looking out the window, his hands clenched behind his back, he