The Ecliptic

On an island as exposed as Heybeliada, the rain did not fall, it rioted. The wind carried it across the lawns of Portmantle in shivers, churning up the dirt-soil in the flowerbeds, bullying the pines until their topmost branches cowered. It had strength like no rain I had ever encountered, a swell, a rage, a constancy. And the provost’s dog knew better than to go out in it. She lay on the front steps, one paw below her snout, observing the havoc being wreaked upon the grounds—in better weather, she could have been out there, digging and rolling, but instead she was obliged to keep me company on the portico. ‘I don’t know what you’re whimpering about,’ I told her. ‘We’re both waiting.’

The provost had left us, momentarily, to make a phone call in his study. His little cup of Türk kahvesi was still steaming on the wicker table and the last bar on the heater was just firing up. He must only have been gone a few minutes, but I could not shake the feeling that the entire morning was draining off into the sluice, and that he would not be coming back to resume our discussion at all. We had hardly begun talking before Ender had arrived in the doorway, mumbling something in Turkish; the provost had checked his pocket watch, holding it close to his good eye, and excused himself. ‘Don’t go anywhere,’ he had said. ‘This won’t take a moment.’

I knew that he had returned to Portmantle in the night because his dog’s unmistakable yapping had awoken me. For such a small animal, she had the shrillest bark, a yelp that rose and dropped away like an aggravated hiccup. I had gone up to the mansion just after dawn to catch the provost on his coffee break. No matter what the season, he always took his coffee outdoors, in that spot of quietude before the guests emerged for breakfast and the day moved into gear. This was the surest way to get his full attention without having to go through the rigmarole of arranging an official appointment.

The sight of the rain had almost kept me in my studio, but I had unfurled the hood from my collar and braved the worst of it. I had gone no further than a few yards before my shoes began to squelch. At the mansion, I had found the provost’s wax jacket hanging in the lobby and his green umbrella touch-dry in the stand, so I knew for sure that he was home. Next thing, the old dog had scurried into view, followed by two very ponderous feet descending the staircase. I could not have mistaken those Ottoman slippers or the flimsy bamboo rod as it clacked against the banister posts. ‘Is that Knell, up with the lark?’ the provost had said, reaching the hallway.

He was such a tall man that when he walked under the lampshade it swayed mildly in his wake and the closeness of the light burnished his forehead. He had a bulk of grey-white hair that sat upon his crown, aslant, and two deep runnels flanked his mouth like designs worked into leather. We guessed that he was no younger than sixty, though he had the smooth-skinned hands of someone half that age. He was stone-blind in his left eye and he compensated for this with the use of the cane and the help of Nazar, a mongrel stray that he had trained into an apathetic guide-dog. There was an educated air about him that often edged towards the pompous, but he was much too deferent to the residents and their talents to ever be accused of conceitedness. For the sake of formality—and because his name was held back from us—we addressed him as ‘Provost’ or ‘sir’, and every time we did, his features twitched a little.

‘Step out with me,’ he had said. ‘Gülcan’s bringing my coffee. If I’m lucky, she’ll read my grounds and tell me I’m going to live a long and happy life.’

We had taken our places on the creaking wicker furniture: he upon the cushioned swing-seat at the east wing of the portico, with his enormous legs awkwardly crossed, and I on a low chair opposite. The dog had circled several times before settling at his heels. ‘So—what’s on your mind?’

He had rubbed the pale dog-hairs from his trousers. ‘You only come to see me this early when you’ve got a bone to pick. That’s a good phrase, isn’t it? Bone to pick.’

‘Yes, sir, it is.’ I had steeled myself, not wanting to waste time. ‘There are a couple of things, actually, that I thought you should know about.’

‘Are you listening to this, Nazar?’ He had reached to pat the dog. ‘Didn’t I tell you we should’ve stayed in bed today? The complaints are coming in already.’ He had leaned back, smiling. ‘Go on. Let’s take them one at a time.’

‘Yes, I heard about that.’ He had steepled his fingers and pressed them to his lips. Then he had caught sight of Gülcan arriving behind me and his focus had shifted. He had spoken to her in Turkish and she had said something back, laughing as she handed him the dainty white cup and saucer, and by the time they were finished conversing the provost appeared to have forgotten the thread of our discussion. ‘I don’t know what else you expect me to say.’

‘Well, for a start, I think you might have underestimated the amount of supervision he needs. Last night, I found him sleeping in my closet. He was completely nude.’

‘I see.’ He had deliberated on this information, rocking in the seat. ‘Rest assured, I’ll be paying a visit to the boy today. It was always my intention to introduce myself this afternoon. If he has caused you any bother in my absence, I can only offer you my apologies, Knell, and my gratitude. I hope it hasn’t been too much of a distraction.’

The provost was known for the stubbornness of his diplomacy, and I had anticipated this type of response. ‘It’s not that he’s a bother. Not in the least. I’m just concerned for him, that’s all. He needs more help than I can give him. He’s suffering quite badly, I think, and I don’t know if things are working out very well for him here.’

‘We talked a bit last night, about dreams he was having. Did you know about those?’

‘Really, Knell, you mustn’t feel it’s your job to counsel him. I’m back now, and I’ll see to it that he’s adequately looked after.’

‘You should have told us. I mean, if we’d known, we could’ve made things easier for him.’

‘There is nothing you or anyone could have done. I’ll be straight with you: I wasn’t told how much the dreams affected him, but I am fully in the picture now. I have spoken again, rather seriously, with his sponsor this morning, and I can assure you that we have everything under control. I must say, I’m surprised that you’d expect me to discuss the boy’s private information. He may be young, but he’s entitled to exactly the same courtesies as everyone else under this roof. Would you like it if I talked to Gluck about your difficulties, or Crozier?’

‘Oh. Him. No, of course not.’ In all my time at the refuge, I had never found the provost’s even-handedness so deeply aggravating. ‘Still, sir, you have to admit that his behaviour is a concern.’

He had glowered at me then. ‘I thought if anything would be a concern, it would be MacKinney’s situation.’

‘I see.’ He had bent to ruffle the dog’s ears and nuzzle her head. ‘Stay in bed, I said. Have a lie-in, I said. But you wouldn’t listen, would you, scamp? Now look at the trouble you’ve got us into.’ When he looked up again, his smile had vanished. ‘Knell, don’t worry. There is nothing the matter with the boy. His dreams are part of his creative process—that’s all you need to know. Frankly, I’m only entertaining this conversation because you have his best interests at heart, but you must allow me to handle it beyond this point.’ The water had kept on clubbing the roof above our heads, battering the mansion walls. ‘Goodness. This rain.’ The provost had turned to admire it. ‘Doesn’t sound like this on the mainland, you know. It has a different kind of music altogether. Makes the heart beat stronger, coming home to rain like this.’

We had sat together quietly, listening to the noise—all those tiny impacts accreting—until Ender had appeared in the doorway to inform the provost about the phone call. ‘Telefon’ was the only word that I had been able to interpret from their exchange. The provost had sighed, placed his cup on the table, and stood up. He had told Nazar to stay and guard me. ‘Watch out for this one, she bites,’ he had said.

Now, the breakfast bell was clanging in the mess hall and even the old dog was getting restless, eyeing the doorway every time she heard a footstep.

He presided over the refuge the way an auditor haunts an office building, removed from us yet always in our midst. We knew very little about him, in fact, and relied solely on what we had gleaned from our sponsors’ explications. They said he was the son of a Turkish envoy, though Quickman claimed he had been told ‘ambassador to France’, and MacKinney insisted it was ‘political attaché’. They said that he had held a number of accountancy positions within firms across Europe (this much was consistent with all our sponsors’ stories) and that the role as provost had been bestowed upon him after the death of his wife to a lengthy illness (accounts diverged as to which disease she had suffered from: sickle-cell anaemia or leukaemia). They said that he was schooled in Switzerland, England, and America, and that his grasp of many languages would be clear to us when we arrived (it was). They said he dabbled in essay writing: some papers on English and Turkish literature had been published in journals (this was reasonable, given his tendency towards the poetic). They said he composed accounting textbooks and received significant royalties from them periodically (we had seen no evidence of these texts, but there was no reason to doubt they existed, and he did seem particularly pleased each time Ender retrieved the mail from the post office box in town).

According to our sponsors, the provostship was determined by a board of trustees. The board comprised one retired provost and five former residents, and there was a strict recruitment process, tailored to find a certain type of candidate: childless, unmarried, comfortable with isolation, passionate about the arts, respectful of artists but not creative in his own right. The provost’s role demanded resoluteness, fairness, and stoicism. It was his job to maintain regular contact with the trustee board and to uphold responsibility for admissions, departures, budgeting, bookkeeping, as well as the daily oversight of Portmantle’s operations and its limited staff. In return for all this, he was afforded the most resplendent view of Heybeliada from his penthouse window, three good meals a day, the company of so-called brilliant minds, and a permanent escape from the demands of mainland living. We were not told how many provosts had gone before him, but Pettifer judged the mansion to be late nineteenth century, and so, by extrapolation, we assumed no more than ten.

Pale smoke was spuming now from all the studio flues, clotting the rain. A couple of residents began to appear at their doorways in pyjamas. Another came strolling up the path towards the mansion in a bright yellow poncho. I believed he was a Frenchman, though he may have been a French-speaking Belgian or a Swiss, and his name was either Anderson or Sanderson or neither. He was handsome but incredibly short. (One afternoon last spring, he had forced us all to watch a preview of ‘a little work in progress’, which had involved him sitting on the lawn, topless, tying blades of grass to his stomach hair to form a kind of umbilical cord, which he then wrapped around his throat. Immediately afterwards, he had distributed pamphlets with three pages of typewritten text explaining the meaning behind the performance and its title: L’enfance des autres. Quickman had skimmed through it and remarked, ‘I think this is one of those works that is better viewed posthumously.’)

As the poncho neared the front steps, Nazar began to spasm; she reared her head and bayed. The poncho halted. The rain slapped its big yellow hood. Nazar got on all fours, yapping, yapping, yapping, and the poncho waved its arms and called to me: ‘Hey, why don’t you do something about this dog, uh? Crazy animal!’ I was about to get up, but then the provost strode into the portico, clattering his cane on the floorboards, and he took the dog by her collar, hauling her back. ‘Calm down, Nazar, you’ll give yourself a stroke, carrying on like that.’ She quietened. ‘There’s a good girl. Save your energy.’

The poncho hurried up the steps and into the house, thanking the provost on his way past: ‘Merci, Monsieur. Je ne sais pas pourquoi votre chien me déteste autant. Mais je suis content que vous soyez de retour.’

‘Le jaune la rend de mauvaise humeur,’ said the provost. He resumed his position on the swing-seat. ‘Sorry to keep you. It never fails to astound me how much work piles up at this place in my absence. So many things to attend to.’ Dredging his coffee in one gulp, he turned the cup over on the saucer and watched the dark grounds oozing out. ‘You were asking about MacKinney?’

‘Then I recommend you move on swiftly.’ He prodded the upturned cup with his finger. ‘Don’t test me on this.’

I paused, heeding his tone. ‘Did you manage to resolve anything with Mac’s situation?’

‘No, things are rather bleak on that front, I’m sad to report. I can’t discuss specifics—don’t ask me to get into details, because I’m already well outside my remit—but I’ve had several meetings regarding MacKinney in the past few days. The upshot is that she will be leaving us.’

I had been prepared for this outcome, of course, but I had not expected the numbness I would feel when I heard it confirmed. ‘When?’

‘You know she isn’t anywhere near finished. If you make her leave now, her whole stay has been for nothing. You do see that, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I understand. And it’s regrettable.’ He lifted the cup, leaving a knoll of coffee grounds on the saucer. For a good few moments, he studied the streaky remnants on the inside rim. ‘I argued her case strongly with the trustee board. A bit too strongly—they weren’t pleased with me at all. The trouble is, there have been precedents. Not in my time as provost—I had to look them up in the archives—but they’re precedents nonetheless, and everyone must be treated the same. I don’t like to enforce protocol, as MacKinney well knows, but I have no option in her case.’ He thrust the cup in my direction. ‘What does that look like to you, some kind of battleship?’ His finger was pointed at a few dark rivulets on the porcelain, but I could see no shapes, no auguries in them at all, just the trickledown mess of spilled coffee. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll ask Gülcan.’

‘I’ve done everything in my power as provost. It’s a great shame to force her out, but my duty is to Portmantle. This place will still be here—God willing—long after MacKinney or the two of us are in the ground. That’s what I have to consider.’

‘You’re putting a cap on how long we can be here. If our sponsors die, that’s it, time’s up. Doesn’t matter if we’re finished or not, doesn’t matter if we’re still struggling. It’s going to change the way we work. You might as well start putting clocks up on the walls.’

He looked at me, his good eye half on the rain. ‘I said I wouldn’t discuss specifics.’ He rose quickly, carrying his cup. ‘Come on, Naz.’ The dog stayed where she was.

‘MacKinney’s case is an anomaly. That’s all I can tell you.’ He slapped the side of his shoe with his cane. ‘Nazar, come on now. Breakfast.’ The dog followed. ‘Please make an appointment next time,’ he told me.

Customarily, a notice was pinned to the bulletin board outside the mess hall to announce a resident’s departure. The provost would often include a quote to inflect the notice with a degree of sentiment (something like, ‘His high endeavours are an inward light that makes the path before him always bright’) but some guests left without any such kindnesses.

DEPARTURE OF TENGALLON

ON THURSDAY WE MUST SAY FAREWELL TO THE POET, TENGALLON, WHO HAS COMPLETED HIS PROJECT AND RETURNS TO THE MAINLAND WITH OUR BEST WISHES. A POETRY READING IN THE LOUNGE WILL FOLLOW THIS EVENING’S DINNER. CONGRATULATIONS, TENGALLON!

—PROVOST

The four of us paid no attention to arrivals, but departures were a different matter. It could be depressing to watch guests leaving while our own work remained unfinished. So we took a particular interest in the provost’s notices when they sprang up, because they kept us attuned to the prospect (however distant) of our own departures. We imagined how our announcements might be worded when the time finally came:

[. . .] SHE LEAVES HAVING DEDICTATED HER LONG TENURE TO PERFECTING A WORK OF RESONANCE AND PROFUNDITY. THAT SHE OVERCAME A DEVASTATING CRISIS OF FAITH TO ACHIEVE THIS IS A TESTAMENT TO HER RESOLVE AND INDUSTRY. IF, AS RUSKIN SAID, ‘ALL GREAT AND BEAUTIFUL WORK HAS COME OF FIRST GAZING WITHOUT SHRINKING INTO THE DARKNESS,’ THEN SHE HAS GAZED LONG ENOUGH AND NEED GAZE NO MORE. A FIREWORKS DISPLAY WILL FOLLOW THIS EVENING’S DINNER.

—PROVOST

We held these dreamed-up notices in our minds, tinkered with the phrasing daily, sharing them in moments of self-doubt. Like our jetons, they were gestures to the future. They kept us striving, grafting, exploring, when no end was in sight. We worked hard every day to ensure that the truth would reflect our fantasies by the time we came to leave. So finding MacKinney’s actual notice on the bulletin board that morning felt like sabotage.

DEPARTURE OF MACKINNEY

IT IS WITH GREAT JOY THAT I ANNOUNCE THE DEPARTURE OF A TRUE FRIEND OF PORTMANTLE: THE PLAYWRIGHT MACKINNEY. SHE LEAVES US FOR THE MAINLAND TOMORROW, HAVING BROUGHT TO TERM HER NEW STAGE PLAY: ‘ALL THINGS AT ONCE’. MACKINNEY HAS OPTED TO FORGO HER READING IN THE LOUNGE THIS EVENING, BUT I LOOK FORWARD TO SEEING YOU ALL AT DINNER TO WISH HER BON VOYAGE. ‘SINCE FATE INSISTS ON SECRECY, I HAVE NO ARGUMENTS TO BRING — I QUARREL NOT WITH DESTINY . . .’ CONGRATULATIONS, MACKINNEY!

—PROVOST

A few of the short-termers were huddled around it, in discussion. I nudged them aside to get a closer look. I read it four times, stunned by the phrasing of it at first, then nauseated by it. I thought of the provost in his study, winding the paper into his typewriter, arching his fingers to punch out every last untruthful letter. There was no mention of Mac’s sponsor, no hint of anything irregular.

‘Great. That makes everything so much better. Excuse me—’ I pushed past him.

‘It’s going to be strange for you,’ he said as I went by. ‘You’re the only woman left. There’s Gülcan, I suppose, but she doesn’t really count. And Nazar.’ He tried to grab my arm, or I thought he did—I swung round to glare at him, but he was only reaching inside his sleeve for a handkerchief. ‘What’s the matter?’ he said, wiping his nose.

Everything was normal about the mess hall except for the fact that MacKinney was not there. Our table by the window was empty. The foil was still wrapped around the milk jug spout. The cutlery lay unmoved. Ender was preparing the juices near the serving pass. I asked if he had seen her but he stroked his moustache and shook his head. ‘I don’t think she has come yet. See, nobody touches the muesli.’

I went back out to the landing. Gluck was still there, studying the provost’s note. He did not apologise for his earlier remark. ‘I’ve been thinking more about this quote. Not Matthew Arnold. I think it’s part of an old villanelle, but I can’t recall the author. I’ll look it up for you.’

‘If you really want to help me, tear it down.’ I could not stand the thought of Quickman and Pettifer discovering the news on a bulletin board—no warning, no context. The shock of it would play hell with Tif’s old heart. And the more I was forced to stare at it, the more it had the look of some crass letter of eviction.

‘But how will I check the quote!’ Gluck called after me. ‘I haven’t written it down!’

Mac’s door was either stuck or locked when I got to her room. At first, she did not respond to my knocking, but soon her voice came through, muffled by the oak: ‘Who is it?’

‘You’ll be gone by then. Let me in.’ I slid the provost’s notice under the door and waited.

Footsteps approached. I heard the locks turn and the door hinged back. MacKinney peered out at me. Without her glasses, her face seemed flatter, older, and there was an abraded quality to the skin about her eyes and cheeks, a dull red tension. There was a cigarette fuming in her mouth, and the ashy scent of it was wondrous. It belonged to faraway places: the front steps of buildings in Paddington, the grandstand at Kempton, the snug at The State Bar, my parents’ bedroom—everywhere I had known in my life beyond Portmantle. She blew the smoke brazenly through the doorway. ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she said. ‘Did I save any for Quickman, right? Well, let’s just see how well he behaves today.’ She moved her hair to show a couple more tucked behind her ears on each side. ‘He’s going to wet himself.’

‘Ages,’ she said, dragging, exhaling. ‘I was waiting for a special occasion, but there’s not much point in that now, is there? They’re a bit stale.’ She bent to pick up the notice, scanned it for an instant, then stepped aside, holding the door open. ‘I wish he hadn’t mentioned the title of the play. I’m still undecided. What do you think of it? All Things at Once.’

Her room was shadowed and airless. The curtains were shut, the bed unmade. Her wardrobe was gutted and her suitcase packed. On the bureau, her typewriter was stowed in its brown leather box with the label: PROPERTY OF PORTMANTLE. ‘Oh, I get it,’ she said. ‘You’re mad at me for not being mad.’ She perched tiredly on the foot of the bed. ‘Well, I thought it was quite sweet, what he wrote about me.’

‘There are some true bits. And what did you expect? A ten-page explanation?’ She drew on her cigarette, rubbing her fingertips. ‘At least he’s sending me off with some poetry. I quarrel not with destiny. Rather poignant, I’d say.’

I could not understand her cheerfulness. ‘We can fight this, you know. The four of us.’

‘Oh, sure. A few cartons of ayran to the face ought to do it. You go for Ender, I’ll take out the provost. Q and Tif can dig our foxholes.’

She laughed and wagged her hand dismissively. As she got up, a line of ash fell onto the front of her gown and she just smudged it into the fabric. ‘It’s funny to think I’m not going to be MacKinney any longer. I’ve been sorting out her last will and testament. Would you like your inheritance now, or do you want to wait until I’m out of here?’

‘I’m not letting you talk that way. You might’ve given up on this place but I don’t have to be happy about it.’

She ignored me. At the bureau, she dumped her cigarette in a cup and reorganised a stack of books, choosing one from near the bottom. ‘No, I think I’d better give it to you now . . . Chances are, you’ve read it, but you definitely won’t have this edition—it’s as rare as they come.’

It was a clothbound copy of Captains Courageous by Rudyard Kipling. The fading blue cover was wrapped in polythene. ‘Sadly for you, I inscribed it,’ she said. ‘That might knock a few quid off the value when you come to sell it.’ On the inside cover, she had written:

To Knell, who was someone else before I knew her, and will be when I’m gone. Your great friend, MacKinney xx

I felt the urge to cry. It rose through my whole body, starting at my toes. ‘I can’t accept this,’ I said.

‘Just say thank you. That’s all you have to do. And think of me when you look at it.’

She came towards me, shaking her head. ‘I’m afraid our time is up, old girl. It’s really happening.’

‘Accept it, Knell. I’ve been expelled.’ She tried to make me smile with this, but I could not. The provost’s note was in her hand, and she pushed it into mine, closing my fist over it. ‘Look, do you know how many plays I’ve written in my life? Thirty-six. Know how many of those were actually any good? One. One! If I had a market stall, I’d be in penury by now. But it’s amazing how far one decent effort can carry you, if you let it—it’s taken me further than I had any right to go. I’m tired of retracing my own footsteps for a hint of who I used to be. It’s undignified.’

She released my hand and went back to the bed, neatening the covers. ‘Fact is, I just can’t stick around here any more, pretending that number thirty-seven is going to magically surpass what I’ve achieved before, because, deep down, I know it won’t. How could it? I’ve already written the best play I’ll ever write. I was twenty-three years old and utterly miserable when I wrote it, but that was easily my brightest moment. You never saw it, did you? I wish you had—that production was the most exciting thing I’ve ever been involved in.’ She stopped for a moment, tightening the cord on her gown. ‘It wasn’t even about anything, not really. Just a family going about their days. A few flawed people in a household, making mistakes with each other. No grand ideas, just ordinary life. My childhood, I suppose. It was quite a special thing. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Once your best story’s told, it can’t be told again. It makes you, then it ruins you.’

The bedclothes were now smooth as a tabletop. She started on the pillows, plumping them, one at a time. ‘Well, at least now I can stop trying to be original. And I can see my girls again. That’ll be nice. I’ve neglected them horribly.’

‘Maybe not. But if I had thirty-six children instead, I’d be a whole lot happier.’ She dropped her gown and hooked it on the bedpost. The skin about her clavicle was freckled and pinched, but her body was so slender under her nightdress, and she stood there with the easy poise of a much younger woman, confident of her beauty, or at least oblivious to it. ‘Go and put that thing back on the board, would you? If you’re worried about Q and Tif, don’t be. It’s better they think I’m going off with a finished play—for their own sake.’ She went into her bathroom and I heard the taps running.

‘You could just do a few scenes. I could play Willa. Q could be Christopher.’ The idea made me uncomfortable, but I would have done anything for MacKinney at that time. And I thought it would give the four of us a chance to spend her final day rehearsing together, instead of being stuck alone in our lodgings, contending with our projects. ‘You deserve a proper send-off like the others. I’m not letting you leave without one.’

She came to the threshold, a towel around her middle. ‘I’d prefer to just go quietly into the night, if it’s all the same to you.’

The shower continued to run. Rafts of steam began to flood the space behind her. ‘Q would never do it, anyway,’ she said.

‘Of course he would. You’ve got cigarettes, remember. We could even give Tif a role.’

I looked at the rumpled notice in my hand. ‘I’ll amend it. Or write an appendix. See, you’re thinking about it. That means you want to.’

‘I suppose it wouldn’t be too awful.’ She went off again into the bathroom. ‘There are one or two scenes we could make something out of, with a bit of rehearsing.’ Craning her head around the door, she said, ‘Tif’s got the wrong kind of voice for it, though. He’ll only ham it up, and I don’t want to look stupid.’ She closed the door. I heard the shower curtain skittering on its rail.

Once the notion was in my mind, I could not get rid of it. I put the Kipling on the bed and went to the bureau to unpack the typewriter. But I could find no blank paper in the drawers. The room was so dingy, in fact, that the innards of the desk seemed cavernous.

When I turned on the lamp, the bulb popped, startled me. I went to open the curtains. They were the same heavy velvet drapes that adorned the windows all over the mansion, hung on brass loops that were difficult to shift—there was a knack to it, a sideways whipping action. As they parted, the teeming of the rain became louder, more encompassing. And perhaps it was something about this noise and the splatter of Mac’s shower, along with the sudden adjustment to the light, that made me lose my senses for an instant; but as I looked out through the misted panes, I saw an enormous stretch of open water where the grounds of Portmantle should have been, a swaying sea that reached up to the sides of the mansion, as though the house itself were an island and MacKinney’s windows were the coastline.

It was only there for a blink and then it was gone. Everything returned at once: the lawns, the trees, the lodgings, the surrounding sights of Heybeliada. I rubbed my temples, scrutinised the pattern on the wallpaper. Black spots waned in my vision. I had not eaten breakfast yet and felt a little faint. It was tiredness, a touch of vertigo—nothing more.

There was just enough daylight to help me find what I needed in Mac’s bureau. A box of goldenrod paper was buried in the bottom drawer, beneath a heap of manila folders. I spooled one sheet into the typewriter. It was not difficult to replicate the provost’s formal tone, though my typing was very unpractised. I was so slow that the page was still scrolled in the machine when Mac came out of the bathroom, towelling her hair. ‘What are you writing?’ she said.

‘An advertisement.’ I hit the last full stop and lifted out the paper, handing it to her. ‘Leave it to me. We’ll start rehearsals after lunch.’

ADDENDUM TO PREVIOUS

I AM PLEASED TO CONFIRM THAT, SUBSEQUENT TO FURTHER DISCUSSION WITH MACKINNEY, A STAGED READING FROM HER NEW PLAY WILL NOW FOLLOW THIS EVENING’S DINNER. PLEASE ASSEMBLE QUIETLY IN THE LOUNGE. FRESH SALEP WILL BE SERVED.

—PROVOST