Aurorarama - Jean-Christophe Valtat [76]
“I can see you are your father’s son. But the days of Pineapples and Plums are long dead and gone. Welcome to Scarcity City, Mr. Arkansky.”
“My father was a great man, a visionary, but he had not the time to fully develop his plans. The Council, as becomes the living memory of New Venice, has not forgotten them, and that is why they have searched and found me. Pineapples and Plums, for all its virtues, was mainly a local resource. And psylicates are too precious to be simply wasted on those useless Boreal Bohemians. The Council seems to think that exporting is very much the future. Imagine the fortune we could make out of it. Importing more down-to-earth food would be then quite easy, I suppose.”
“You have no notion of the costs of importing food here.”
“I’m rather well informed on the current situation. I have for instance read an interesting book, lately, A Blast or something … You probably do not know it,” Arkansky Jr. added, with a wink that Brentford pretended not to notice. “I’m quoting from memory and I don’t imagine you would have a copy here to check the exact wording, but I seem to remember that it said that in New Venice, the real wealth was the imaginal wealth, the generosity of dreams, the ever springing fountain of the inner eye, coming from sensory deprivation in the night and in the snow, a culture of fata morgana and aurora borealis. Well, that is exactly what I am aiming for, Mr. Orsini.”
“I never said it was for sale,” Brentford answered too quickly.
“Oh? You did not write the book, by any chance?”
Damn, thought Brentford, placing mental hands over his mouth.
“That’s lesson two. Always watch what the other hand is doing.” Arkansky was smiling wickedly, very happy with himself. “You see, if the Council were to learn your passion for les belles-lettres, you might have to resign for good.”
Brentford tried to look relaxed.
“As little as I know them, I still think they would need more proof than a magician’s word.”
“Let us make this a footnote to lesson one. A proof is what people will believe. Every night, I see people whose will to be deceived is matched only by my will to deceive them. This is precisely why they come and see magicians. And this is why my ballot box trick makes special sense, even if you did not like it, as I noticed.”
“But I thought the blackmail was about Ms. Springfield,” said Brentford, who did not feel like discussing poletics.
“We are coming to that,” Arkansky kept on. “The Greenhouse is one thing. Much to my surprise, and to my displeasure, I must add, I have other matters to discuss with you.”
Arkansky sat back in the armchair, lost in thought for a while, seeming even a bit nervous, though Brentford could not see why, for he had all the cards in his hands. The magician finally spoke.
“How did you like the show, Mr. Orsini?”
“Would you be fishing for compliments, by any chance?”
“Ha! As an artist, I make a living out of compliments. So they are always welcome, I suppose. But let me rephrase my question. Did you think there was anything special in the show tonight?”
“I found everything rather impressive, I admit.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you seemed to have been especially, shall we say … troubled by the walking ghost.”
“I was not the only one, I suppose. It is a powerful illusion,” Brentford said diffidently. He still failed to see how any of this could involve Sybil.
“But you are the only one she made a sign to.”
“Because you made it so, I suppose.”
Arkansky leaned toward Brentford.
“Mr. Orsini. Have I, since this conversation began, given you the impression that I deserve to be spoken to as if I were some sort of dimwit?”
“Not really,” admitted Brentford, regretfully.
“Well, then. Let us behave accordingly, if you don’t mind.”
He took a deep breath and went on.
“Who is this girl?”
“Which one? The Princess? The Ghost?”
“The Ghost or God knows what it is.”
“I do not have the slightest idea.”
“You are sure you have never seen her before? Because she had seen you before.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Arkansky got up,