The Gradual Read online

  In a moment Jih said, ‘I wasn’t born in this part of the world. I come from Goorn, which is not at all like this area of the Archipelago.’

  ‘How is it different?’

  ‘Goorn is in the north, close to the arctic circle. In the Hetta group of islands?’ Her rising inflection seemed to suggest that we might know where she meant, but I shook my head. It was another fragment of information about the Archipelago, another name to add to the others, which I seized on. Goorn – it sounded uninviting. The word did not resonate. ‘Goorn has a long winter,’ Jih went on. ‘Only a few weeks of summer. The sea is frozen for nearly half the year. The island is mountainous and the northern coast has many fjords. It’s not like the islands here. I love this heat, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes – but I had no idea there were parts of the Archipelago where the sea froze. I thought the islands were tropical, or sub-tropical.’

  ‘Not all of them.’

  ‘What can you tell me about Wesler?’

  ‘I have some photos in my cabin of the main town, where you’ll be staying. It’s called Wesler Haven. I’ll bring the photos tomorrow but by then we will probably be about to disembark. I have the hotel bookings confirmed for everyone, so there should be no problem with those. The venue where you will be playing is called the Palacio Hall. Wesler lies to the south, so it’s likely to be warmer than here.’

  ‘Is it tropical?’ one of the others asked.

  ‘Not exactly – I mean, I’m not sure. It’s my first time too.’

  She went on to tell us that after we had finished in Wesler we would be on another ship heading towards the west, no longer moving so directly into the south. Many of the islands in the equatorial regions were uninhabited, or undeveloped, she told us. Msr Axxon and his team knew the effect a humid climate could have on some musical instruments so we would be avoiding the hottest places.

  That night, alone in my cabin and waiting for sleep, I replayed memories of the day: the scenery I had viewed from the ship’s deck, and also the general experience, novel to me, of being on a ship, living a marine life, responding to the subtle movements as we navigated our course. I had already grown to love the slow, repeated rhythms of a big ship sailing on a calm sea, the gentle rocking, the sense that the boat was, in some way I could not define, alive. And of course the islands themselves, visible on all sides, an interminable variety of shapes and sizes, the endless passing show whose sights seduced me and whose scents drifted somehow across the quiet waves towards me.

  Sleep was failing me. I had not wanted another extended drinking session in the saloon so I had come sober to my bunk, because that was how I slept most of the time when I was living at home, but everything was different on a ship. I was in a ferment of excitement, even when I tried to relax, to still the thrill. As the long night went on I began to realize something about the experience that was perhaps a warning.

  Until I started out on this voyage the Midway Sea and the Dream Archipelago had been hidden, their existence more psychic than physical. Before, they had spoken to me in imagined sounds and tones. I felt they were a part of a system of secrecy – why were there no books or maps, or none that might easily be found? Why should the government of my country try to deny their existence?

  The islands formed a pattern, a format, a structure in the way I understood structure: movements or parts that while being single and separate made up a whole. Islands, I had thought, would be like a sonata: my beloved Dianme becoming in effect an allegro introduction to the Archipelago, Chlam an andante variation on the theme, Herrin a rondo finale.

  But this was academic music. Real music was about heart, passion. I had presumed to think of the islands as individual notes, groups of islands as bars or chords, a transit of the islands a kind of harmonic progression, the entirety of the Archipelago an immense and unwritten symphony waiting to be made coherent. Perhaps it was, but that I would never know. Even if I were to spend my life discovering islands by shape alone, by their practical existence, it would be like trying to understand a five-movement choral symphony from three or four semiquavers spotted at random.

  Music emerges from within – it is not composed by the fingers pressing the keys of a piano, or bowing the strings of a violin, or the lips pursing against the mouthpiece of a flute, or even by the scratching of a pen across the staves of manuscript paper. That sort of music was suddenly irrelevant to me. I knew that my task was to understand the island music, how to detect it, sense it, feel it.

  So it became a night of having to re-evaluate. Perhaps I slept for short periods – there were moments when I was more alert than at others. I felt restless the whole time. At one point I was pulled into full consciousness by a soft, mechanical sound coming from somewhere within the cabin. I sat up, switched on the little lamp mounted on the shelf beside my pillow, and in the cone of light that flooded out I looked around to try to see the source.

  The hands of one of the two chronometers were slowly turning back. I sat up: it was Kema Vaqt, the keeper of ship time. The hands described a reverse arc of more than a full hour, then halted. A moment later, Mutlaq Vaqt, absolute time, moved more quickly in a forward direction. When both clock faces showed the same time, no further adjustments were made, from whichever central point in the ship they came.

  I turned off the light and resumed my efforts to sleep.

  Because of my restlessness I was fully awake soon after sunrise. I did not want to run the risk of missing any more briefings from the crew, so I showered and dressed, then went up on deck. I was still curious to find out what I could about our route, our various destinations. I glanced at my watch as I left the cabin, hoping I would not be late for breakfast again. My watch was consistent with Kema Vaqt. It was several hours behind Mutlaq Vaqt.

  Even as I walked along the companionway towards the dining saloon I could see that the ship was moving slowly. Through saloon windows I glimpsed cranes and winches, tall warehouses and the superstructure of other ships. The ship’s engine made a deeper grinding noise and I saw that we were sidling towards a concrete berth.

  By the time I had finished breakfast the ship had completed docking and everyone was preparing to disembark. It seemed that yet again I was later than all the others. As I quickly packed my bag in my cabin I checked my watch against the chronometers. They were out of agreement again, one behind the other, or maybe the opposite. My wristwatch showed yet another time, running slow compared with them both. I wound it fully, reset it to Mutlaq Vaqt, then finished my packing and joined the throng by the gangway.

  16

  We moved down from the ship, crossed the broad concourse next to where we had berthed, and were herded towards a long, low building set back in its own compound. We all had to carry our baggage, suffering under the relentless sun. As we reached the gate into the compound we were held up because we were admitted only one by one.

  The building had a fairly imposing doorway, with two brick pillars on either side. Above, there was a large metal sign, written in demotic, but underneath it said:

  WESLER SHELTERATE SERVICE

  HAVENIC BUREAU

  A flag was flying above this: a white ground, rimmed with dark blue, and with the symbols of a large graphical star and a tree set in the middle.

  We shuffled forward slowly, sweltering in the heat. Few of us said anything, but one or two people were complaining about the delay. I saw Jih moving quickly around the edges of our small crowd, a clipboard pressed to her chest. She was wearing a large, shading hat, but even so looked uncomfortably hot. I was finding the humid air difficult to breathe, and I realized that the ship with its air-conditioned saloons and cabins, and its breezy open decks, had not prepared us for what the conditions might be on land.

  Eventually, I reached the gate. Beyond it there was a small area, largely grassed, and with a bed of huge, exotic leafy plants standing at the centre. Along one side, set back from the path, there was a canopied shelter, with a long bench and a few extra seats set in the sha
de. Here sat or sprawled a group of seven young people of both sexes. They took no apparent interest in our crowd as we moved slowly through the garden, although most of them were looking vaguely in our direction. They were all dressed casually, and in two or three cases minimally. They all wore broad-brimmed hats, light shirts, sunglasses, sandals.

  I stared at them, wondering who they were and why they were waiting there. One of the young men noticed my stare and immediately looked back, but I suppose he then intuited that I was only mildly curious so he glanced away again. Before I reached the doorway into the building, one of the young women also looked directly at me, as if in surprise. I made a noncommittal, neutrally intended smile of greeting, but she did not respond and looked away again. I noticed she had a long-bladed knife dangling from her wrist by a silver chain. She swept it behind her so that I could no longer see it.

  Then I was inside the building where it was cooler, if not cool. Here our passports and entry visas were examined slowly, and we were all questioned individually about the purpose of our visit. By this time, Jih had also entered the building and was standing next to the counter, watching and listening. I wondered why everyone was being put through the same aimless grilling, and also why Msr Axxon or Jih herself had not managed to spare us this. However, we were in no position to argue, and anyway it was soon over.

  Outside the building two large buses were waiting to transport us to the hotel. The refrigerated air inside the vehicle was a calming pleasure.

  17

  So began our few weeks’ tour of the islands, performing, working and travelling. Most of the concert selections for the tour were from the classic repertoire, but a few modern pieces were also included, to showcase some of what was being written in Glaund at the present time. Two of my better short works were among them. The musical director had chosen my Concerto for Piano and Orchestra in E flat major from a few years back, and a more recent piece, an orchestral fantasia called March of the Soulful Women.

  The concerto was scheduled to be performed only once, at our final appearance, with a brilliant young pianist called Cea Weller. She was not on the tour with us at present because she was an islander who lived on Temmil, where our last concert would take place. None of us had performed with her but her records were available in Glaund. A period of rehearsal would be required before her performance but her reputation as a virtuoso was formidable.

  The March, my fantasia, had a twenty-four bar cadenza for solo violin, which I had been invited to perform myself in one of the concerts. The piece was inspired by a demonstration against the war in Glaund City, by the women of Glaund. Unsurprisingly, in view of its political nature, the choice of this music had been controversial because of the Neutrality Covenant which governed the islands. Msr Axxon himself had declared it was unsuitable for an island audience, but I had vigorously defended it. It was of course profoundly anti-war. It was against all war, not just the war in which we were involved. In any event the music really mattered to me because Alynna had been one of the peaceful protesters. Finally, after a delay of about a week, everyone had agreed the March should be included. It was to be performed several times as a short introductory piece, with myself as soloist scheduled for one concert late in the tour, on an island called Eger.

  Otherwise, my actual musical contribution was more or less as it had been planned at the outset. Most of my work was carried out away from the public view. On all the islands, starting with Wesler, I went to schools, colleges and music studios, met and worked with many young or developing musicians, listened to what they were playing or writing, commented, encouraged, praised. I was always positive and expansive in my remarks.

  It was not false. I was genuinely impressed by the quality of the young players and composers. Much of their music was more traditional, lyrical and romantic than the music we wrote and played in Glaund, which was heavily influenced by the militaristic mood that had prevailed for most of my life. For me it was an enjoyable novelty to hear sea sagas, celebrations of sporting victories, love songs, epic tales of bravery, fantasias, folk dances.

  We carried on through the Archipelago. I had brashly assumed it would look and feel much the same everywhere, but there was an endless variety of islands and a huge range of cultural differences.

  I tried to keep notes, I took many photographs, but in the end the sheer pressure and complication of constantly relocating from one island to the next overcame me. I was soon content to find a seat somewhere on the shaded deck of whichever boat I happened to be on, and idly observe the lovely islands as we sailed slowly past.

  As for the ships: the air-conditioned luxury of that first ship from Questiur was rarely to be enjoyed again. Many of the later ferries we boarded were, to say the least, uncomfortable. One was practically unseaworthy and I dreaded a storm might blow up. I was convinced the vessel was a death-trap. Most of the boats were old, noisy or unclean. Some had no food or drink available. On one ship I had to share a cabin with three other men – on another ferry there were no cabins at all and we passed a long night on the open deck. One or two of the ships, though, were reasonably modern and comfortable.

  I was also surprised by the degree of bureaucracy in the Archipelago. The people of the islands were easy-going, generous, uncritical, amiable, languid. However, the keepers of their gates were a different matter. I had noticed a certain official thoroughness as we entered Wesler, but as we left that first island we experienced what turned out to be a regular aggravation, almost a routine of intrusive questions, examination of papers and occasional body searches.

  18

  It was fortunate that Msr Axxon had warned us before we departed. Everyone was carrying, or had brought, the little pack we were given at the last briefing meeting. It turned out to be necessary.

  By the time we were about to depart from Wesler the orchestra members had largely freed themselves, ourselves, of the collective tour mentality. We headed singly or in small groups to the port on our last morning in Wesler Haven. I myself wandered alone through the narrow streets to the harbour. There was a small queue ahead of me – I recognized everyone there.

  Once again I saw the group of informally dressed young people waiting around outside the Shelterate building, but they were not in the same place as before. They were now on the town side of the building, where we had to line up for our exit visas to be checked. They were watching us again but it was casual and not intrusive or intimidating. They seemed to be waiting for us to approach them but I could not imagine what it would be for. They were not apparently selling anything, for instance.

  Inside the building I approached a vacant part of the segmented counter, placed my baggage in sight. I took from the holdall the documents I carried – the same ones, of course, that had been examined a few days earlier on arrival. The official, a woman, took these documents and spread them on the table in front of her. Leaning forward on her hands she read them slowly, touching each sheet with the fingers of one hand, turning it over to examine the other side – usually blank – then turning it back and reading it again. I waited silently. Along the counter some of my colleagues were standing as I was, not at all understanding what was behind this.

  Finally, she said, ‘What is your name?’

  I told her, even though it appeared prominently on every single sheet of paper before her.

  ‘What was the purpose of your visit to Wesler, Msr Sussken?’

  I was certain that everyone who had passed through before me must have been asked the question. I said, calmly, ‘I am a member of an orchestra on a cultural tour. The same as everyone else.’

  ‘I am not asking everyone else, Msr Sussken. What sort of cultural tour would you describe it as?’

  ‘We gave a series of classical concerts at the Palacio Hall here in Wesler Haven.’

  ‘What music did you perform?’

  ‘Do you require the type, or the names of the pieces?’

  ‘What music did you perform?’

  And so went the
questions for several minutes. Her tone was mechanical, uninflected, persistent. I felt threatened by her questions, and as the minutes went by I started to feel irritated, but at the same time, rather oddly, I felt sorry for her. She had to work in this unventilated shed all day, a noisy and comfortless place, questioning strangers about their reasons for travel. I kept my replies factual and brief. At no point in the interrogation did the woman look directly at me but kept her head bent down, as she appeared to keep comparing my answers to the documents.

  Finally the questions came to an end, with some enquiries about our next planned destination – fortunately, we had been reminded the evening before that the island of Manlayl was to be our next stop. I was always strong on impressions, weak on practical details, so I was glad I had been told.

  ‘Manlayl,’ I said, not even being sure how to pronounce the name. It seemed not to matter. She slowly picked up my papers. These included the itinerary, where the names of all the islands we were going to visit were printed prominently. She slid them one by one under the plate of a franking machine before handing everything back to me.

  She did then look up at me, and I saw her face clearly for the first time.

  ‘Your stave, Msr Sussken.’

  ‘My what?’

  ‘You are required to carry a stave when travelling between islands. I wish to register it.’

  I remembered it then, lying half-forgotten under everything else. I pulled it out and handed it over, realizing as I did so that there was nothing on it that identified it as mine. Should I have written my name on it? Had anyone else done that?

  She held the rod in both hands, looked closely at it, rotated it lightly in her fingers. Then she turned away from me and stepped across to a machine painted a dull ochrous colour, mounted on a shelf behind her. It looked as if it had been in use for many years. She pushed the end of the stave against an aperture and the whole wooden rod slid down inside. There was a short wait, the stick was sucked down a little more by something mechanical inside, an indicator light came on and went off, and then the stave popped up and free of the socket. She handed it back to me.