Dio Page 4

  IN HER APARTMENT late that evening, Claire feels herself confused and overwhelmed by conflicting emotions. Her day with Dio has been like nothing she ever expected. Not once has he aroused her pity: he is like a man in whom a flame burns. Walking with her in the streets, he has made her see the Sector as he imagines it: an archaic vision of buildings made for permanence rather than for change; of masonry set by hand, woods hand-carved and hand-polished. It is a terrifying vision, and yet she does not know why. People endure; things should pass away . . .

  In the wide cool rooms an air whispers softly. The border lights burn low around the bed, inviting sleep. Claire moves aimlessly in the outer rooms, letting her robe fall, pondering a languorous stiffness in her limbs. Her mouth is bruised with kisses. Her flesh remembers the touch of his strange hands. She is full of a delicious tiredness; she is at the floating, bodiless zenith of love, neither demanding nor regretting.

  Yet she wanders restively through the rooms, once idly evoking a gust of color and music from the wall; it fades into an echoing silence. She pauses at the door of the playroom, and looks down into the deep darkness of the diving well. To fall is a luxury like bathing in water or flame. There is a sweetness of danger in it, although the danger is unreal. Smiling, she breathes deep, stands poised, and steps out into emptiness. The gray walls hurtle upward around her: with an effort of will she withholds the pulse of strength that would support her in midair. The floor rushes nearer, the effort mounts intolerably. At the last minute she releases it; the surge buoys her up in a brief paroxysmal joy. She comes to rest, inches away from the hard stone. With her eyes dreamily closed, she rises slowly again to the top. She stretches: now she will sleep.

  CHAPTER V

  FIRST come the good days. Dio is a man transformed, a demon of energy. He overflows with ideas and projects; he works unremittingly, accomplishes prodigies. Sector Twenty is the talk of the continent, of the world. Dio builds for permanence, but, dissatisfied, he tears down what he has built and builds again. For a season all his streets are soaring, incredibly beautiful laceworks of stone; then all the ornament vanishes and his buildings shine with classical purity: the streets are full of white light that shines from the stone. Claire waits for the cycle to turn again, but Dio’s work becomes ever more massive and crude; his stone darkens. Now the streets are narrow and full of shadows; the walls frown down with heavy magnificence. He builds no more ascensor shafts; to climb in Dio’s buildings, you walk up ramps or even stairs, or ride in closed elevator cars. The people murmur, but he is still a novelty; they come from all over the planet to protest, to marvel, to complain; but they still come.

  Dio’s figure grows heavier, more commanding: his cheeks and chin, all his features thicken; his voice becomes hearty and resonant. When he enters a public room, all heads turn: he dominates any company; where his laugh booms out, the table is in a roar.

  Women hang on him by droves; drunken and triumphant, he sometimes staggers off with one while Claire watches. But only she knows the defeat, the broken words and the tears, in the sleepless watches of the night.

  There is a timeless interval when they seem to drift, without anxiety and without purpose, as if they had reached the crest of the wave. Then Dio begins to change again, swiftly and more swiftly. They are like passengers on two moving ways that have run side by side for a little distance, but now begin to separate.

  She clings to him with desperation, with a sense of vertigo. She is terrified by the massive, inexorable movement that is carrying her off: like him, she feels drawn to an unknown destination.

  Suddenly the bad days are upon them. Dio is changing under her eyes. His skin grows slack and dull; his nose arches more strongly. He trains vigorously, under Benarra’s instruction; when streaks of gray appear in his hair, he conceals them with pigments. But the lines are cutting themselves deeper around his mouth and at the corners of the eyes. All his bones grow knobby and thick. She cannot bear to look at his hands, they are thick-fingered, clumsy; they hold what they touch, and yet they seem to fumble.

  Claire sometimes surprises herself by fits of passionate weeping. She is thin; she sleeps badly and her appetite is poor. She spends most of her time in the library, pursuing the alien thoughts that alone make “it possible for her to stay in contact with Dio. One day, taking the air, she passes Katha on the street, and Katha does not recognize her.

  She halts as if struck, standing by the balustrade of the little stone bridge. The building fronts are shut faces, weeping with the leaden light that falls from the ceiling. Below her, down the long straight perspective of stair, Katha’s little dark head bobs among the crowd and is lost

  The crowds are thinning; not half as many people are here this season as before. Those who come are silent and unhappy; they do not stay long. Only a few miles away, in Sector Nineteen, the air is full of streamers and pulsing with music: the light glitters, people are hurrying and laughing. Here, all colors are gray. Every surface is amorphously rounded, as if mumbled by the sea; here a baluster is missing, here a brick has fallen; here, from a ragged alcove in the wall, a deformed statue leans out to peer at her with its malevolent terra cotta face. She shudders, averting her eyes, and moves on.

  A melancholy sound surges into the street, filling it brim- full. The silence throbs; then the sound comes again. It is the tolling of the great bell in Dio’s latest folly, the building he calls a “cathedral.” It is a vast enclosure, without beauty and without a function. No one uses it, not even Dio himself. It is an emptiness waiting to be filled. At one end, on a platform, a few candles burn. The tile floor is always gleaming, as if freshly damp; shadows are piled high along the walls. Visitors hear their footsteps echo sharply as they enter; they turn uneasily and leave again. At intervals, for no good reason, the great bell tolls.

  Suddenly Claire is thinking of the Bay of Napol, and the white gulls wheeling in the sky: the freshness, the tang of ozone, and the burning clear light.

  As she turns away, on the landing below she sees two slender figures, hand in hand: a boy and a girl, both with shocks of yellow hair. They stand isolated; the slowly moving crowd surrounds them with a changing ring of faces. A memory stirs: Claire recalls the other afternoon, the street, so different then, and the two small yellow-haired children. Now they are almost grown; in a few more years they will look like anyone else.

  A pang strikes at Claire’s heart. She thinks, If could have a child . . .

  She looks upward in a kind of incredulous wonder that there should be so much sorrow in the world. Where has it all come from? How could she have lived for so many decades without knowing of it?

  The leaden light flickers slowly and ceaselessly along the blank stone ceiling overhead.

  DIO is in his studio, tiny as an ant in the distance, where he swings beside the shoulder of the gigantic, half-carved figure. The echo of his hammer drifts down to Claire and Benarra at the doorway.

  The figure is female, seated; that is all they can distinguish as yet. The blind head broods, turned downward; there is something malign in the shapeless hunch of the back and the thick, half-defined arms. A cloud of stone dust drifts free around the tiny shape of Dio; the bitter smell of it is in the air; the white dust coats everything.

  “Dio,” says Claire into the annunciator. The chatter of the distant hammer goes on. “Dio.” After a moment the hammer stops. The screen flicks on and Dio’s white-masked face looks out at them. Only the dark eyes have life; they are hot and impatient. Hair, brows and beard are whitened; even the skin glitters white, as if the sculptor had turned to stone.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “Dio—let’s go away for a few weeks. I have such a longing to see Napol again. You know, it’s been years.”

  “You go,” says the face. In the distance, they see the small black figure hanging with its back turned to them, unmoving beside the gigantic shoulder. “I have too much to do.”

  “The rest would be good for you,” Benarra puts in. “I advise it
, Dio.”

  “I have too much to do,” the face repeats curtly. The image blinks out; the chatter of the distant hammer begins again. The black figure blurs in dust again.

  Benarra shakes his head. “No use.” They turn and walk out across the balcony, overlooking the dark reception hall. Benarra says, “I didn’t want to tell you this just yet. The Planners are going to ask Dio to resign his post this year.”

  “I’ve been afraid of it,” says Claire after a moment. “Have you told them how it will make him feel?”

  “They say the Sector will become an Avoided Place. They’re right; people already are beginning to have a feeling about it. In another few seasons they would stop coming at all.”

  Her hands are clasping each other restlessly. “Couldn’t they give it to him, for a Project, or a museum, perhaps—?” She stops; Benarra is shaking his head.

  “He’s got this to go through,” he says. “I’ve seen it coming.”

  “I know.” Her voice is flat, defeated. “I’ll help him . . . all I can.”

  “That’s just what I don’t want you to do,” Benarra says.

  She turns, startled; he is standing erect and somber against the balcony rail, with the gloomy gulf of the hall below. He says, “Claire, you’re holding him back. He dyes his hair for you, but he has only to look at himself when he comes down to the studio, to realize what he actually looks like. He despises himself . . . he’ll end hating you. You’ve got to go away now, and let him do what he has to.”

  For a moment she cannot speak; her throat aches. “What does he have to do?” she whispers.

  “He has to grow old, very DIO fast. He’s put it off as long as he can.” Benarra turns, looking out over the deserted hall. In a corner, the old cloth drapes trail on the floor. “Go to Napol, or to Timbuk. Don’t call, don’t write. You can’t help him now. He has to do this all by himself.”

  IN DJUBA she acquires a little ring made of iron, very old, shaped like a serpent that bites its own tail. It is a curiosity, a student’s thing; no one would wear it, and besides it is too small. But the cold touch of the little thing in her palm makes her shiver, to think how old it must be. Never before has she been so aware of the funnel- shaped maw of the past. It feels precarious, to be standing over such gulfs of time.

  In Winthur she takes the waters, makes a few friends. There is a lodge on the crest of Mont Blanc, new since she was last here, from which one looks across the valley of the Doire. In the clear Alpine air, the tops of the mountains are like ships, afloat in a sea of cloud. The sunlight is pure and thin, with an aching sweetness; the cries of the skiers echo up remotely.

  In Cair she meets a collector who has a curious library, full of scraps and oddments that are not to be found in the common supply. He has a baroque fancy for antiquities; some of his books are actually made of paper and bound in synthetic leather, exact copies of the originals.

  “ ‘Again, the Alfurs of Poso, in Central Celebes’, she reads aloud, “ ‘tell how the first men were supplied with their requirements direct from heaven, the Creator passing down his gifts to them by means of a rope. He first tied a stone to the rope and let it down from the sky. But the men would have none of it, and asked somewhat peevishly of what use to them was a stone. The Good God then let down a banana, which, of course, they gladly accepted and ate with relish. This was their undoing. Because you have chosen the banana,’ said the deity, ‘you shall propagate and perish like the banana, and your offspring shall step into your place . . .’ ” She closes the book. “What was a banana, Alf?”

  “A phallic symbol, my dear,” he says, stroking his beard, with a pleasant smile.

  In Prah, she is caught up briefly in a laughing horde of athletes, playing follow-my- leader: they have volplaned from Omsk to the Baltic, tobogganed down the Rose Club chute from Danz to Warsz, cycled from there to Bucur, ballooned, rocketed, leaped from precipices, run afoot all night. She accompanies them to the mountains; they stay the night in a hostel, singing, and in the morning they are away again, like a flock of swallows. Claire stands grave and still; the horde rushes past her, shining faces, arrows of color, laughs, shouts. “Claire, aren’t you coming?” . . . “Claire, what’s the matter?” . . . “Claire, come with us, we’re swimming to Linz!” But she does not answer; the bright throng passes into silence.

  Over the roof of the world, the long cloud-packs are moving swiftly, white against the deep blue. Northward is their destination; the sharp wind blows among the pines, breathing of icy fiords.

  Claire steps back into the empty forum of the hostel. Her movements are slow; she is weary of escaping. For half a decade she has never been in the same spot more than a few weeks. Never once has she looked into a news unit, or tried to call anyone she knows in Sector Twenty. She has even deliberately failed to register her whereabouts: to be registered is to expect a call, and expecting one is halfway to making one.

  But what is the use? Wherever she goes, she carries the same darkness with her.

  The phone index glows at her touch. Slowly, with unaccustomed fingers, she selects the sector, group, and name: Dio.

  The screen pulses; there is a long wait. Then the gray face of an autosec says politely, “The registrant has removed, and left no forwarding information.” Claire’s throat is dry. “How long ago did his registry stop?”

  “One moment please.” The blank face falls silent. “He was last registered three years ago, in the index of November thirty.”

  “Try central registry,” says Claire.

  “No forwarding information has been registered.”

  “I know. Try central, anyway. Try everywhere.”

  “There will be a delay for checking.” The blank face is silent a long time. Claire turns away, staring without interest at the living frieze of color which flows along the borders of the room. “Your attention please.” She turns. “Yes?”

  “The registrant does not appear in any sector registry.”

  For a moment she is numb and speechless. Then, with a gesture, she abolishes the autosec, fingers the index again: the same sector, same group; the name: Benarra.

  The screen lights: his remembered face looks out at her. “Claire! Where are you?”

  “In Cheky. Ben, I tried to call Dio, and it said there was no registry. Is he—?”

  “No. He’s still alive, Claire; he’s retreated. I want you to come here as soon as you can. Get a special; my club will pay the overs, if you’re short.”

  “No, I have a surplus. All right, I’ll come.”

  “THIS WAS MADE the season after you left,” says Benarra. The wall screen glows: it is a stereo view of the main plaza in Level Three, the Hub section: dark, unornamented buildings, like a cliff-dweller’s canyon. The streets are deserted; no face shows at the windows.

  “Changing Day,” says Benarra. “Dio had formally resigned, but he still had a day to go. Watch.”

  In the screen, one of the tall building fronts suddenly swells and crumbles at the top. Dingy smoke spurts. Like a stack of counters, the building leans down into the street, separating as it goes into individual bricks and stones. The roar comes dimly to them as the next building erupts, and then the next.

  “He did it himself,” says Benarra. “He laid all the explosive charges, didn’t tell anybody. The council was horrified. The integrators weren’t designed to handle all that rubble—it had to be amorphized and piped away in the end. They begged Dio to stop, and finally he did. He made a bargain with them, for Level One.”

  “The whole level?”

  “Yes. They gave it to him; he pointed out that it would not be for long. All the game areas and so on up there were due to be changed, anyhow; Dio’s successor merely canceled them out of the integrator.”

  She still does not understand. “Leaving nothing but the bare earth?”

  He wanted it bare. He got some seeds from collectors, and planted them. I’ve been up frequently. He actually grows cereal grain up there, and grinds it into bread.”
>
  In the screen, the canyon of the street has become a lake of dust. Benarra touches the controls; the scene shifts.

  The sky is a deep luminous blue; the level land is bare. A single small building stands up blocky and stiff; behind it there are a few trees, and the evening light glimmers on fields scored in parallel rows. A dark figure is standing motionless beside the house; at first Claire does not recognize it as human. Then it moves, turns its head. She whispers, “Is that Dio?”

  “Yes.”

  She cannot repress a moan of sorrow. The figure is too small for any details of face or body to be seen, but something in the proportions of it makes her think of one of Dio’s grotesque statues, all stony bone, hunched, shrunken. The figure turns, moving stiffly, and walks to the hut. It enters and disappears.

  She says to Benarra, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You didn’t leave any word; I couldn’t reach you.”

  “I know, but you should have told me. I didn’t know . . .”

  “Claire, what do you feel for him now? Love?”

  “I don’t know. A great pity, I think. But maybe there is love mixed up in it too. I pity him because I once loved him. But I think that much pity is love, isn’t it, Ben?”

  “Not the kind of love you and I used to know anything about,” says Benarra, with his eyes on the screen.

  HE WAS WAITING for her when she emerged from the kiosk.

  He had a face like nothing human. It was like a turtle’s face, or a lizard’s: horny and earth- colored, with bright eyes peering under the shelf of brow. His cheeks sank in; his nose jutted, and the bony shape of the teeth bulged behind the lips. His hair was white and fine, like thistledown in the sun.

  They were like strangers together, or like visitors from different planets. He showed her his grain fields, his kitchen garden, his stand of young fruit trees. In the branches, birds were fluttering and chirping. Dio was dressed in a robe of coarse weave that hung awkwardly from his bony shoulders. He had made it himself, he told her; he had also made the pottery jug from which he poured her a clear tart wine, pressed from his own grapes. The interior of the hut was clean and bare. “Of course, I get food supplements from Ben, and a few things like needles, thread. Can’t do everything, but on the whole, I haven’t done too badly.” His voice was abstracted; he seemed only half aware of her presence.