Lanark_ a life in 4 books - Alasdair Gray [186]
“Not much. Who are these horsemen?”
“Nimrod, Imhotep, Tsin-Shi Hwang and Augustus, early presidents of the council. Of course the titles were different then.” “Why the wigs and armour?”
“An eighteenth-century convention—the mural was painted then. The men facing them are former directors of the institute: Prometheus, Pythagoras, Aquinas and Descartes. The figure on the throne is the first Lord Monboddo. He was an insignificant legislator and an unimportant philosopher, but when council and institute combined he was a member of both, which made him symbolically useful. He knew Adam Smith.”
“But what is the institute? What is the council?
“The council is a political structure to lift men nearer Heaven. The institute is a conspiracy of thinkers to bring the light of Heaven down to mankind. They’ve sometimes been distinct organizations and have even quarrelled, though never for long. The last great reconciliation happened during the Age of Reason, and two world wars have only united us more firmly.”
“But what is this heavenly light? If you mean the sun, why doesn’t it shine here?”
“Oh, in recent years the heavenly light has never been confused with an actual sun. It is a metaphor, a symbol we no longer need. Since the collapse of feudalism we’ve left long-term goals to our enemies. They’re misleading. Society develops faster without them. If you look closely into the dome, you’ll see that though the artist painted a sun in the centre it’s almost hidden by the first Monboddo’s crown. Stand up, here comes the twenty-ninth.”
A tall man in a pale grey suit was crossing the smooth marble floor accompanied by three men in dark suits. A herald in medieval tabard marched in front with a sword on a velvet cushion; another came behind carrying a coloured silk robe. The whole party was advancing briskly to the throne when Munro stepped into the path and bowed saying, “Hector Munro, my lord.”
Monboddo had a long narrow face with a thin, high-bridged nose. His hair was pale yellow and his eyes grey behind gold-rimmed spectacles, yet his voice was richly, resonantly masculine. He said, “Yes, I know. I never forget a face. Well?”
“This man and woman have applied for relocation.”
Munro handed his portfolio to someone at Monboddo’s side, who pulled out a document and read it. Monboddo glanced from Lanark to Rima.
“Relocation? Extraordinary. Who’s going to take them?” “Unthank is keen.”
“Well, if they understand the dangers, let them go. Let them go. Is that paper in order, Wilkins?”
“In perfect order, sir.”
Wilkins held out the document at an angle supported by the portfolio. Monboddo glanced at it and made snatching movements with his right hand until Munro placed a pen between the fingers. He was going to sign when Lanark shouted, “Stop!” Monboddo looked at him with raised eyebrows. Lanark turned on Munro and cried, “You know we don’t want to return to Unthank! There’s no sunlight in Unthank! I asked for a town with sunlight!”
“A man with your reputation can’t be allowed to pick and choose.”
Monboddo said, “Has his chief given him a poor report?”
“A very poor report.”
There was a silence in which Lanark felt something vital being filched from him. He said fiercely, “If that report was written by Ozenfant it ought not to count. We dislike each other.”
Munro murmured, “It is written by Ozenfant.”
Monboddo touched his brow with a fingertip. Wilkins murmured, “The dragonmaster. A strong energy man.”
“I know, I know. I never forget a name. An abominable musician but an excellent administrator. Here’s your pen, Munro. Uxbridge, give me that cape, will you?”
A herald placed a heavy green cloak lined with crimson silk round Monboddo’s shoulders and helped him adjust the folds. Monboddo said,