Piranesi(32)

I forget. I forget. Yesterday I could not think of the word for lamp-post. This morning I thought that one of the statues spoke to me. I passed some time (about half an hour I think) talking to it. I am LOSING MY MIND. How horrible, how terrible to be in this dreadful place and MAD. I am DETERMINED TO KILL him before this happens. Before I forget why I HATE HIM.

I sighed when I unravelled this. I took three envelopes the Other gave me once. In the first I placed the scraps that I had succeeded in putting together. On the outside of the envelope I carefully wrote a copy of the two transcriptions. In the second envelope I placed some scraps that fitted together, making fragments of sentences. In the third envelope I placed the scraps I had not managed to fit to any others.

A problem

ENTRY FOR THE SECOND DAY OF THE NINTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS

One overriding problem concerns me at the moment: whether or not to ask the Other about Stanley Ovenden, Sylvia D’Agostino, poor James Ritter and Maurizio Giussani. The Prophet called the Other ‘Ketterley’. In the entry about the disappearance of Maurizio Giussani the name ‘Ketterley’ appears in close proximity to the names D’Agostino and Ovenden, and to Giussani itself. From this I conclude that the Other knew these people. I long to know more of them and several times it has been on the tip of my tongue to ask him. But always at the last moment I have hesitated. Supposing he said: Where did you hear of these people? Who told you?, I would not know what to say. He must not know that I have spoken to the Prophet. He must not know about the entries in my Journal.

He is full of suspicion. He thinks of nothing but the approach of 16. Two months ago he declared his intention to go to the One-Hundred-and-Ninety-Second Western Hall and perform the ritual, which he believes will summon the Great and Secret Knowledge, but at present all that is forgotten.

Lemon

ENTRY FOR THE FIFTH DAY OF THE NINTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS

This morning I was on my way from the Third Northern Hall to the Sixteenth Vestibule. I passed out of the First Northern Hall and into the First Vestibule. I took a step or two, then stopped.

Something had just happened. What was it? What had just happened?

I took a couple of steps back into the Doorway and breathed in. There it was again! A scent. A perfume of lemons, geranium leaves, hyacinths and narcissi.

It was quite strong in this one spot. Someone – a person wearing a beautiful perfume – had stood for a while in the Doorway, perhaps looking out at the Long Vista of Receding Halls. I returned to the First Northern Hall but could find no trace of it there. I went back to the First Vestibule and passed southwards along the Wall under the looming Statue of a Minotaur. Yes, the scent was discernible here too. I traced the person’s path as far as a point between the Doorway to the First Western Hall and the Doorway to the Corridor leading to the First South-Western Hall. There I lost it.

Who was the person who had passed this way? Not the Other. I knew the perfume he wore: a spicy scent of coriander, rose and sandalwood. The Prophet? I remembered his perfume very well. Again, quite different – violet had been the dominant note, with hints of cloves, blackcurrant and rose.

No, this was someone new.

16 had come. 16 was here.

My heart started beating faster. I looked around the Vestibule. The great space was darkened by the velvet Shadows of the Minotaurs with splinters of golden Light between. 16 did not step out from a hiding place to begin making me mad. Yet he had been there and perhaps no more than an hour before.

It was surprising to me that someone like 16, someone so wedded to Destruction and Madness, should wear a perfume so lovely, so redolent of Sunshine and Happiness. But then I told Myself that I was foolish to think like that. Treat this as a warning, I said. Be on your guard. 16 will not wear his ill intentions in his face. It is very likely he will be pleasing to the eyes. His manners will be friendly and insinuating. That is how he intends to destroy you.

More people to kill

ENTRY FOR THE SEVENTH DAY OF THE NINTH MONTH IN THE YEAR THE ALBATROSS CAME TO THE SOUTH-WESTERN HALLS

This morning I told the Other about the perfume in the First Vestibule. To my surprise he took the news quite calmly.

‘Yes, well, I’m beginning to think that it’s better to get it over with,’ he said, ‘rather than hanging about, waiting for it to happen. And besides, perhaps it isn’t such a bad thing after all.’

‘But I thought you said that 16 is a great threat to us,’ I said. ‘I thought you said that he threatens your safety and my sanity?’

‘That’s true.’

‘Then how can it possibly be good if he comes here?’

‘Because the threat to us is so great that our only option is to eliminate 16 entirely.’

‘How do we do that?’

For an answer, the Other put two fingers to his head in imitation of a gun and made the sound: Boom!

I was stunned. ‘I do not think that I could kill someone however wicked they are,’ I said. ‘Even the wicked deserve Life. Or if they do not, then let the House take it from them. Not me.’

‘You’re probably right,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure I could kill someone with my hands.’ He examined his own thoughtfully, spreading the fingers and turning them over. ‘Though it would be interesting to try. Tell you what. I’ll get a gun. That’ll make it easier, whichever of us has to do it. Which reminds me, there’s a possibility – a small possibility – that someone else might come here. If you ever see an old man …’