Helliconia Summer - Brian W. Aldiss [521]
This was an area of small craftsmen – silversmiths, watchmakers, bookbinders, and artists of various kinds. To one side of the street stood a small theatre where extraordinary plays were produced, plays which could not fill the theatres in the centre of town: plays trafficking in magic and science, fantasies dealing with both possible and impossible things (for both sorts were much alike), tragedies dealing with broken teacups, comedies dealing with wholesale slaughter. Also satires. Irony and satire were things the authorities could neither understand nor abide. So the theatre was often closed. It was closed at present, and the street looked the drabber for it.
In South Court lived an old painter who had painted scenery for the theatre and porcelain for the factory whose wares Odim exported. Jheserabhay was old now, but he still had a sure hand with plates and tureens; equally important, he had often given work to the ample Odim family. Odim valued him, despite his sharp tongue, and had brought him a farewell present.
A phagor let Odim into the house. There were many phagors in South Court. Uskuti in general had a marked aversion to the ancipital kind, whereas artistic people seemed to delight in them, perversely enjoying the immobility and sudden movements of the creatures. Odim himself disliked their sickly milky stench, and passed as quickly as possible into the presence of Jheserabhay.
Jheserabhay sat wrapped in an old-fashioned keedrant, feet up on a sofa, close to a portable iron stove. Beside him rested a picture album. He rose slowly to welcome Odim. Odim sat on a velvet chair facing him, and Gagrim stood behind the chair, clutching the bag.
The old painter shook his head gloomily when he heard Odim’s news.
‘Well, it’s a bad time for Koriantura and no mistake. I’ve never known worse. It’s a poor thing, Odim, that you should be forced to leave because things are so difficult. But then, you never really belonged here, did you – you and your family.’
Odim made no gesture. He said slowly, without thinking, ‘Yes, I do belong here, and your words amaze me. I was born here, within this very mile, and my father before me. This is my home as much as yours, Jhessie.’
‘I thought you were from Kuj-Juvec?’
‘Originally my family was from Kuj-Juvec, yes, and proud of it. But I am both a Sibornalese and a Korianturan, first and foremost.’
‘Why are you leaving then? Where are you going? Don’t look so offended. Have a cup of tea. A veronikane?’
Odim soothed his beard. ‘The new edicts make it impossible to stay. I have a large family, and I must do the best I possibly can for them.’
‘Oh, yes, yes, so you must. You have a very large family, don’t you? I’m against that sort of thing myself. Never married. No relations. Always stuck to my art. I’ve been my own master.’
Narrowing his eyes, Odim said, ‘It’s not only Kuj-Juveci families which get large. We’re not primitive, you know.’
‘My dear old friend, you are sensitive today. I was levelling no accusations. Live and let live. Where are you going?’
‘That I would rather not say. News gets about, whispers become shouts.’
The artist grunted. ‘I suppose you’re going back to Kuj-Juvec.’
‘Since I have never in my life been there, I cannot go back there.’
‘Someone was telling me that your house is full of murals of that part of the world. I hear they are rather fine.’
‘Yes, yes, old but fine. By a great artist who never made a name for himself. But it is my house no more. I had to sell it, lock, stock, and barrel.’
‘Well then … I hope you got a good price?’
Odim had been forced to accept a miserable price, but he rationed himself to one word: ‘Tolerable.’
‘I suppose I shall miss you, though I’ve got out of the habit of seeing people. I hardly