‘I see you’re a regular,’ I observed once our food had arrived.
He didn’t look up from the wood pigeon that he was preparing to dissect. ‘They make an exceptional crème brûlée,’ he said. ‘It’s a weakness of mine.’
‘I didn’t know you had any weaknesses.’
He laid down his knife and fork, then pressed his napkin to his mouth. Above the folds of crisp white linen, his eyes were amused, benevolent, and ever so slightly long-suffering.
‘There’s a conference in three weeks’ time,’ he said. ‘We’re thinking of sending you along.’
‘It’s been a while since I attended a conference. I always seem to be too busy.’
‘It’s in the Blue Quarter,’ Vishram added casually.
I reached for the mineral water and poured myself another glass. I was aware of having to concentrate on every movement I made, no matter how small or insignificant it might seem. My lungs felt oddly shallow.
‘The Blue Quarter,’ I said.
Vishram smiled faintly. ‘You would miss Rearrangement Day,’ he went on, ‘but they’ll probably organise some kind of celebration over there.’ Lowering his eyes, he brushed a few breadcrumbs from the tablecloth with the backs of his fingers. ‘Though with phlegmatics, of course, one can never be too sure.’
I watched the bubbles rising in my glass. What was being proposed was both a privilege and an affirmation of the Department’s faith in me — not many were trusted with a visit to another part of the divided kingdom — and, though I had thought the opportunity might present itself at some point, I certainly hadn’t expected it so soon.
The Blue Quarter.
The words glowed inside my head, buzzing sleepily like neon. I was breathing a little easier now. Was I supposed to feel like this? What was I supposed to feel like? I glanced at Vishram, but his deceptively blank gaze was fixed on one of the more sinuous waitresses as she threaded her way among the tables.
From a political standpoint, the Blue Quarter had always been a laughing-stock. The past fifteen years had seen thirteen different administrations, each one a coalition, the result being that even decisions taken at the highest levels were constantly reversed and nothing ever got done. As for the citizens themselves, they were reputed to be gentle and unflappable, if a little slow. They had a mystical side as well, by all accounts. In ancient times, the Druid would have been phlegmatic. So would the witch. But in the end I preferred not to generalise, and despite the fact that my job required me to group people together I somehow knew the reality of the Blue Quarter would be more subtle and complex than I’d been led to believe.
‘I would need a thorough briefing,’ I said at last.
Vishram’s eyes reverted to my face, and I thought I saw the shadow of something perverse swimming in their dark-brown depths, but then it was gone and there was only receptivity — the composed, indulgent look of someone who spends his life listening to problems and dispensing advice.
‘Of course. But you’d be willing to go?’
I looked at him. Was this a trick question?
‘Some people don’t trust themselves,’ Vishram said. ‘They think they’d be tempted in some way — or altered. What’s more, there’s the old superstition about the border-crossing itself, that one might be mysteriously depleted by the experience, that one might lose a part of oneself — that one might suffer injury or harm.’
Vishram directed his gaze towards the windows. Compared to the room in which we sat, with its intimate lighting and its clandestine atmosphere, the trees in the middle of the square seemed wan, over-exposed.
‘It always reminds me of how primitive people were said to feel about being photographed,’ he went on. ‘They thought their souls were being stolen.’
I leaned back in my chair.
‘But you’re not worried about any of that,’ Vishram said.
It was more of an assertion than an enquiry, and I just held his gaze and smiled.
He nodded. ‘Aquaville,’ he said. ‘It’s supposed to be a magical city. The canals, the Turkish baths, the water-taxis … Apparently they have an indoor ocean too. You can go surfing half a mile below the surface of the earth.’
I examined Vishram closely for a moment — his manicured fingernails, his elegant yet portly physique. ‘You’ve never been surfing, have you?’
He appeared to place a cough inside his fist.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I thought not.’
That night I cycled over to Sonya’s place on the south side of the river. I had met her in a park in June, at the evening performance of an opera. She had walked up to me at the interval, her beauty as classic and unforced as the single string of pearls she was wearing and the slingbacks that she carried carelessly in her left hand. We knew someone in common, she said. A professor at the university. When she put her glass of wine down, the shape of her fingers showed in the condensation. That, oddly, was the decisive moment. Looking at that glass, I could imagine exactly how we might touch each other. I asked if I could see her again, and she wrote her phone number on the back of my programme. Within a few days, we had met twice, and on our third date, after dinner at a jazz club, she took me back to her flat and we made love. Like everybody else I had been close to, she believed I was a quality engineer — whatever that is, as she would always add with a crooked smile. I thought at first that she might be a journalist, or even an actress — with her olive skin and dark-brown hair she resembled a famous film star of the previous century — but she worked at the Public Library, in the rare books department. She didn’t make much money. I was happy to help her with her everyday expenses, though — buying clothes, paying bills, and so on. Since we both valued our independence, we had kept our own flats, but we tried to see each other at least two or three times a week. She had been married once, when she was in her early-twenties, but she’d had no children. Since she was older than I was, almost thirty-seven, I sometimes wondered what kind of future she imagined for herself, but she had given me no indication that she was dissatisfied with the way things were going. I didn’t find it difficult to picture the children we might have together — skinny, dark-eyed, with a laughter as rich and rare as hers.
I waited until we were settled in her living-room with a bottle of chilled white wine, then I told her my news. ‘Sonya, they want me to go to a conference next month. It’s in the Blue Quarter.’
She reached for her wine and drank. It was another humid night, and all the windows were open. The murmur of voices floated up from the other flats that gave on to the light-well.
‘Is that why you sounded so strange when I spoke to you last night?’ she said.
‘No. I didn’t know about it then.’
A shriek of laughter came from somewhere below.
Sonya was staring down into her glass. I had wanted her to be excited for me — after all, to be chosen for such a trip was an honour, whatever your profession — and her muted reaction caught me off guard.