The Malacia Tapestry Read Online Free Page B

performances. What a thousand shames that I should have arrived at the highest pitch of my art to find no chance to exhibit it to those who would appreciate it.
    As I scowled to myself, a figure close by said, ‘Why, Master de Chirolo, you look to bear the cares of the old wooden world on your shoulders!’
    Sidling up to me was the gaunt figure of Piebald Pete, so known because of the tufts of black hair which survived on his head among the white. He was the fantoccini man; the large, striped frame stood behind him, its red-plush curtains drawn together.
    â€˜I haven’t a care in the world, Pete. I was merely acting out a drama in my head, as your marionettes act it out in their box. How’s the world treating you?’
    I should not have asked him. He spread wide his hands in despair and raised his black-and-white eyebrows in accusation to heaven. ‘You see what I’m reduced to – playing in the streets to urchins, me , me who once was invited into the greatest houses of the state. My dancing figures were always in demand – and my little Turk who walked the tightrope and chopped off a princess’s head. The ladies liked that. And all carved out of rosewood with eyes and mouths that moved. The best fantoccini figures in the land.’
    â€˜I remember your Turk. What’s changed?’
    â€˜Fashion. Taste. That’s a change the Supreme Council can’t prevent, any more than they can prevent night turning into day. Only a year back I had a man to carry the frame, and a good man he was. Now I must hump the frame everywhere myself.’
    â€˜Times have been easier.’
    â€˜We used to do great business with evening soirées. That’s all but gone now. I’ve had the honour of appearing at the Renardo Palace more than once, before the young duke, and before foreign emissaries in the Blue Hall of the Palace of the Bishops Elect – very proper, and no seduction scenes there, though they applauded the Execution and insisted on an encore. I’ve been paid in ten or more currencies. But the demand’s dropped away now, truly, and I shall go somewhere else where the fantoccini art is still appreciated.’
    â€˜Byzantium?’
    â€˜No, Byzantium’s a dust-heap now, they say, the streets are paved with the bones of old fantoccini men – and of course the Ottoman at the gate, as ever. I’ll go to Tuscady, or far Igara where they say there’s gold and style and enthusiasm. Why not come with me? It could be the ideal place for out-of-work actors.’
    â€˜All too busy, Pete. I’ve only just come from Kemperer’s – you know how he makes you sweat – and now I must hurry to see Master Bengtsohn, who beseeches something from me.’
    Piebald Pete dropped one of his eyebrows by several centimetres, lowered his voice by about the same amount, and said, ‘If I was you, Master Perian, I’d stay clear of Otto Bengtsohn, who’s a troublemaker, as you may well know.’
    I could not help laughing at his expression. ‘I swear I am innocent!’
    â€˜None of us is innocent if someone thinks us guilty. Poor men should be grateful for what they get from the rich, and not go abusing them or plotting their destruction.’
    â€˜You’re saying that Bengtsohn –’
    â€˜I’m not saying anything, am I?’ Looking round, he raised his voice again as if he hoped the whole bubbling market would hear it. ‘What I’m saying is that we owe a lot to the rich of the state, us poor ones. They could do without us, but we could hardly do without them, could we?’
    The subject plainly made Pete and everyone nearby uncomfortable; I moved on. Perhaps I would visit Bengtsohn.
    As I walked down a side-alley towards Exhibition Street, I recalled that Piebald Pete had performed in my father’s house on one occasion, long ago. My mother had been alive then, and my sister Katarina and I little