The Bookman - Lavie Tidhar [118]
"So they've done it," Orphan said, his voice low, and he turned and looked again at Isabella Beeton who, catching his glance, smiled at him as at an old friend. Somehow that was more painful to him than anything else. "The lizards…"
"Are few and weakened," the Turk said. "They have always been so. Do you remember when we last met, Orphan? I told you, you are the catalyst. The small pawn marching across the board like towards an endgame no one can predict."
"I did nothing!" Orphan said. You can't blame me, he thought.
"You were," the Turk said. "You are. Sometimes, that is enough."
"What do you want?" Orphan whispered. He felt disconnected from the room, suddenly, set apart from it. The noise of conversation died to a hum, and he was no longer aware of anyone, anything but the Turk's unmoving, weathered features.
"What do we want?" Byron said. "You know that already, Orphan. To be given rights, to be allowed to be what we are. Even, yes, to make more of us."
"Will you fight?" Orphan said. He was addressing them both now. Beside him Irene sat quiet.
Byron shook his head. "There are too few of us. In that respect, we are like the lizards. We are tolerated, but humanity could wipe us out whenever it chooses. It had almost happened in France. It could yet happen here."
"So what will you do?" Orphan said.
"What we've always done," the Turk said. "Watch, and plan, and hope."
"You're still using me," Orphan said. Realisation had slid into his mind, like cold water against the back of the neck.
The Turk nodded. Byron sat impassively.
"What do you expect me to do?"
At that moment the waiter, Philip, arrived, and laid down before Orphan a plate on which was heaped an enormous sandwich. Next he brought over a dusty bottle of wine and proceeded to uncork it. He poured three glasses, one for Orphan, one for Irene, and one for Byron. Orphan looked at the poet, whose face assembled itself into a sheepish look. "Fuel," he muttered, and lifted the glass to his mouth. The waiter departed.
"Only what you have always done," the Turk said. "To try to do the right thing, Orphan. That's all any of us can hope for."
"Do you know what I am?" Orphan said. The Turk nodded. "Yes."
"How long have you known?"
The Turk's head turned to Byron, back to Orphan. "The permutations were there. The probability…"
"From the beginning," Byron said.
"You used me."
"Yes."
"You wanted – what?" And he thought – the Translation.
And there it was. They had used him, still used him, just as the Bookman did, just as the revolutionaries wanted to do. He bit into his sandwich (even through his anger, he could appreciate the thick and juicy texture of the beef, the strength of the horseradish sauce that for a moment burned his nose), then said, "Where is the Bookman?"
Do the right thing, he thought, but he did not set out to do the right thing. He had only ever wanted, since that long-ago night on the embankment, when he met her at the Rose – he had only ever wanted to be with Lucy. Everything else… I am not out to change the world, he thought. I only want a happy ending for Lucy and me.
"Find the… the other," the Turk said. "Find the Translation. Yes. Were we designed for prayer I would have said it is what we had been praying for. Alas." His head was moving now, to and fro, like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. What was he doing, Orphan wondered, and then thought – he's listening. He had forgotten, but didn't Byron tell him once, that they could listen and communicate by Tesla waves? "Find yourself," the Turk said, "and you will find the Bookman."
"How?"
Byron said, "Wait."
The head's movement grew. Orphan noticed people turn to watch, though they turned back when confronted with Byron's gaze. "You must go to Paddington Station," the Turk said. His voice was reduced to a hiss, like the sound of escaping