Aurorarama - Jean-Christophe Valtat [55]
The dome itself, supported by white pillars, was of jet-black jasper encrusted with diamond stars and silver filigree work that drew a map of the night skies centred on Polaris and the Great Bear. A motto ran around its rim in both Greek and English versions: OVER THE WHOLE SEA TO THE ENDS OF THE EARTH AND TO THE SOURCES OF NIGHT AND TO THE UNFOLDINGS OF HEAVEN AND TO THE ANCIENT GARDEN OF PHOEBUS.
Between the pillars, toward the rear, stood twelve tall marble statues of polar explorers, their eyes fixed firmly on the fountain, their stone fingers pointing toward it. Their pedestals were ornate with episodes that somewhat belied the noble demeanour of the heroes: Barents agonizing, surrounded by his men; the abandoned Henry Hudson adrift in his small craft; the discovery by Rae of the infamous Franklin’s expedition lifeboat; Hall half rising from his bed in the throes of poisoning; the starving Greely sentencing the thief Charles Buck Henry to death; Melville finding in the snow the protruding arm of De Long; Andrée frozen within the folds of his useless balloon; Dr. Svensen putting a rifle to his own head while Sverdrup ran to stop him in vain; Dr. Dedrick amputating Peary’s toes; Ross Marvin shot in the back by his Eskimo guide; Fitzhugh Green shooting his Eskimo guide in the back—these were among the many incidents recalling the sacrifices and villainies that had always accompanied the conquest as faithfully as a shadow, and all were depicted in a ghastly realism that did not exactly encourage Brentford to go to Helen’s rendezvous.
Behind those statues were mirrored doors that led to the various parts of the building. The Council Cabinet’s was opposite the entrance archway, and this was where Brentford was introduced by one of the gigantic Varangian guards of the Council of Seven’s Security Company, who wore the usual uniform of figure-eight ruff, black doublet and black and white striped pluderhosen and held a halberd in his enormous hand.
A flight of stairs led to a corridor down which an icy draught, strong as an upwind gale, was blowing, probably, thought Brentford, as a reminder of the hardships of going there. And yet, cold as he suddenly felt, he nonetheless did not hate the idea. He was, after all, as much a New Venetian as the Councillors were, and could relate rather easily to some of their notions and actions—as long, at least, as they concerned interior decoration.
As he hurried, head to wind, through the corridor, he could perceive rooms whose open doors revealed the strangest scenes, all intended to evoke memories of past events and important symbols in the dreamlike manner of a Memory palace. To the untrained eye, these scenes appeared more like a jumble of absurd props and kitschy figures. On his right, for instance, a huge stuffed seal with wings was leaving the imprint of his greasy muzzle against a snow-white sheet held by a scantily clad marble woman (oh yes, Brentford thought, this must be the Seal of the City), while on his left an automated gentleman in medieval garb repeatedly plunged a pointed flag into the heart of a supine Viking (this one left Brentford totally clueless).
The corridor ended at a huge black double door, which an usher pushed open, with an effort that was painful to behold, just enough to let Brentford wriggle himself in. This was the waiting room, if one was to judge by the mosaic clock that decorated the floor, with its black stone hands pointed toward a perpetual midnight.
Mason was already there, sitting on a sofa, impatiently tapping his fingers on a satchel. Brentford came up to him, offering a hand whose fingers the captain-general observed suspiciously. He finally got up and accepted the offer.
“I have to congratulate you,” said Brentford, whose