‘How can this be … Paris?’
Junk, Lasel and Garvan were standing in the shadow of the fallen Eiffel Tower. Junk was shaking his head in disbelief.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Garvan. ‘You have one of these in your world?’
‘No,’ said Junk, turning. ‘I have this in my world. This city is Paris. It’s called Paris.’ He was sure of it. He had been to Paris, his Paris, several times over the last three years. Even though the buildings were different, he recognized the layout. The river ran next to them. It was unmistakably the Seine. Though the Pont d’Iéna was missing, as was the Champ de Mars behind them and the Jardins du Trocadéro on the opposite bank. Even though Arrapia was a city compared to Corraway, it wasn’t as built up as the Paris Junk knew.
‘How?’ he said again.
‘I don’t know,’ said Garvan.
‘What do you call this?’ He waved his arms around, gesturing to everything. ‘What do you call this planet?’
‘Jorda,’ replied Garvan, rolling the r.
‘And what does Jorda mean? The word. Translate it for me.’
‘It means “ground”,’ said Garvan. ‘Ground … Or earth.’
They stood in silence until Lasel spoke:
‘Dr Otravinicus will know,’ she said in English. She too picked up languages quickly. Though she struggled to say any more and reverted to Jansian, which Garvan had to translate.
‘We need to work out how to find him,’ Garvan repeated in English. That made sense to Junk. He nodded in agreement.
*
They found a hotel for the night. Lasel paid with the money she had stolen the day before from the bookseller in Corraway. She didn’t bother explaining to Junk and Garvan how she had got the money. The place was cheap and clean and she paid for two rooms. She took one for herself, and Garvan and Junk shared the other. The place catered for people of all shapes and sizes and the beds were easily big enough to accommodate Garvan’s bulk. However, it turned out that he snored like a bulldozer, and in the end Junk took the blanket and spent the night on the balcony outside, huddled into a rickety wooden lounger.
He looked out across the city. The buildings were made of black brick and were much larger and grander than those in Corraway. The scale of the city made him feel small and insignificant. He felt confused, which made him feel alone. He didn’t have his parents to rely on. He was still only fifteen. Even he forgot that from time to time. Because he looked older, people treated him as older, but he was still a kid. The feeling of solitude overwhelmed him and he started to cry. He fought to hold back the tears but it was a losing battle. He hugged his knees and pushed his face into the blanket to muffle his sobs.
Lasel was sitting in darkness on the balcony of her room, one along from Junk’s on the floor above. She had heard Junk come out and had watched him silently. His sadness took her by surprise and she wasn’t sure what to do. Should she say something? What could she say that he would understand? Should she ignore him? Leave him to what was clearly a private moment?
Lasel had been on her own for most of her life. Her mother had left when she was a baby. She had no memory of her. Her father was an angry man. She assumed he was bitter because her mother had left, but maybe her mother had left because of his bitterness. As far as Lasel was concerned, he did the very best he could for her but unfortunately his best was rather pathetic. She was quick-witted, fast to learn new things and she too abandoned him, when she was just seven years old. She assumed this would have made him even more angry and bitter, but she had never gone back to find out. Her old home was not far from Arrapia. Just slightly north-west of the city in a small town called Dissel. Maybe she should go back and find out what had become of him.
She pushed such thoughts away. They weren’t healthy, she told herself. That was the past. Almost ten years ago. Chances were her father was dead by now, and as she had no intention of returning home, what was the point of even remembering it?
She turned her attention back to Junk to distract herself from the memories of her childhood. He was still crying. Still trying to smother the great sobs of emotion that were pulsing through him and gave no sign of stopping. She made a decision and stood up. She swung her legs over the side of the balcony and dropped, catching hold of a baluster as she went to control her descent. She lowered herself on to the balcony below and stepped across the gap between that one and Junk’s.
Junk felt a hand on him and for a moment thought it was his mother, coming to comfort him as she would when he was little. Back when life was perfect. The moment quickly passed and he was sorry to see it go. He looked up to see Lasel. She didn’t say anything and neither did Junk. He wiped his sleeve across his face. Strangely, there was no feeling of embarrassment.
Lasel picked up one corner of his blanket and slipped underneath. She curled her arms around Junk and stroked his hair. He was tense to begin with but that quickly dissipated. He relaxed into her embrace and felt safe. He didn’t question it, even to himself. There was nothing he wanted more in the world right now than the comfort of his new friend. They both closed their eyes and slept.
*
The next morning Junk, Lasel and Garvan walked through the broad streets of Arrapia, wondering how they were going to find Dr Otravinicus. They passed a bookshop and an idea occurred to Lasel. She dashed inside and returned clutching a copy of the controversial book written by Dr Sznarzel Otravinicus. There was a photograph of the man himself on the back cover. He was small and erudite-looking with a long, thin face and a pair of pince-nez perched on the end of his nose. Something about the picture sparked a memory in Junk but he couldn’t recall what it was exactly.
‘How does this help?’ he asked, and Garvan relayed the question to Lasel. She tapped the picture.
‘Harru,’ she said, pointing. Look. The photograph had been taken on a rooftop in Arrapia. Dr Otravinicus was learning against a low wall, trying to smile but not entirely succeeding. In the background was a large, ornate building that looked, to Junk, a little like a church. It had a tower with a spire at one end. It was one of the tallest buildings in Arrapia. Lasel turned and pointed. Garvan and Junk followed her finger and saw the tip of the very same spire rising up behind some buildings at the end of the street.
*
They stood outside the property with the spire and then turned their backs to it. In front of them were dozens of buildings.
‘There’s nothing to say that’s necessarily his house in the photo. Could’ve been taken anywhere,’ said Junk.
‘Have you idea different?’ asked Lasel in fractured English.
‘Nenga,’ replied Junk. They shared a smile. Lasel had been gone by the time Junk woke that morning so he had no idea how long she had spent with him, but something between them had changed. There was a link. A connection. An attraction. Junk didn’t know what it was, but he got a buzz whenever she was near him. He felt stronger just being with her. ‘Palar harru?’ He pointed to the book, hoping he had said, Can I look? He must have been close enough because Lasel held it out to him. He studied the photograph and the buildings in front of him. ‘It’s down that street,’ he said, his Jansian failing him, so Garvan translated. ‘On that side of the road.’ He waved his hand to the left side.
‘Harru … harru,’ said Lasel, taking the book from him. She pointed to a flagpole, the tip of which was visible in the photograph just behind Dr Otravinicus, at a jaunty forty-five-degree angle. They looked along the street and only one building on the left-hand side had a flagpole out front at the same angle. It meant that the photo had been taken on the rooftop of the next building along.
*
They approached the building. It was a seven-storey apartment block made from the same black brick as the rest of Arrapia. There was a large, ornate canopied entrance. So large in fact that Garvan would not have to bend down to enter.
‘What do we say to him?’ asked Junk.
‘We’ll think of something,’ said Garvan.
Junk nodded and stepped towards the door. It opened outwards before he reached it and a huge, silver-skinned man stepped out wearing a military-style greatcoat. Junk gasped and stuttered to a stop. Garvan walked into the back of him and knocked him off his feet. Junk fell to the ground and looked up. It was another Sharlem, like the man who had killed Ambeline. But not the same man.
‘Palar vestum?’ he said. A phrase Junk recognized. Can I help? He realized that the man wasn’t wearing a greatcoat; he was wearing a uniform. He was a doorman. Garvan grabbed Junk by the back of his jacket and hoicked him to his feet.
‘Carrollotu criptik sonta Vontra Otravinicus,’ said Garvan. We would like to speak to Dr Otravinicus.
‘Lanatar brask?’ asked the doorman with a plastic smile. Do you have an appointment?
‘Nenga.’ No.
The plastic smile became a plastic frown. ‘Vontra Otravinicus nenga harru ambe sonti brask.’ Dr Otravinicus never sees anyone without an appointment.
‘Papakar song brask?’ How do I make an appointment?
‘Sonta Vontra Otravinicus.’ With Dr Otravinicus.
Now Garvan was getting a little confused. ‘Papakar song brask sonta Vontra Otravinicus sonti criptik sonta Vontra Otravinicus?’ How do I make an appointment with Dr Otravinicus without speaking with Dr Otravinicus?
‘Vontra Otravinicus nenga car harru ambe.’ Dr Otravinicus doesn’t like to see anyone.
‘Palar gusk lugh?’ Can I leave a note?
‘Nenga.’ No. Garvan threw up his hands in frustration. Lasel put her hand on his arm and shook her head.
‘Chiva,’ she said. Let’s go.
‘Tub …’ said Garvan, gearing up for an argument but Lasel shook her head more firmly.
‘Chiva.’ They walked away and the doorman made a point of standing and watching until they were out of sight.
*
They found a cafe and discussed their next move. Lasel pointed out that on the plus side they were right about Dr Otravinicus living there. Now all they had to do was work out how to get to him.
Junk was a bit shaken by seeing the doorman. All he could think about was whether or not he had a tattoo of a shark’s fin and five stars on his left bicep. Was he a member of the League of Sharks? Could he lead him to Ambeline’s killer?
‘Junk!’ It was Garvan. Junk hadn’t heard him calling his name repeatedly, trying to get his attention.
‘What?’ said Junk. ‘What is it?’
‘You weren’t listening,’ said Garvan.
‘Sorry.’
‘Lasel was saying we could keep watch on Otravinicus’s building and hope he comes out, but for all we know he’s a recluse. After all the trouble he got into with the Church people, he might never come out.’
‘Maybe. Yeah,’ said Junk. ‘So what do you think we should do?’
‘We get that doorman out of the way and you sneak in,’ said Garvan.
Junk shrugged. ‘OK.’
*
The doorman had a small office adjacent to the lobby. It was big enough for a small desk and a chair and he kept his lunch in a bag on the desk. He rarely spent any time in the office as it was cramped and claustrophobic. The man who had had the job before him had been half his size. It had been fine for him. The doorman had popped into the office to get a brush to sweep up some leaves that were collecting outside when he heard the front door open. He hurried out of his office to see who was there.
He was surprised to find the lobby empty. There was a chest-high counter directly outside the door to his office. This was where he usually sat. From where he was standing he couldn’t see Lasel crouched down in front of it.
‘Occootoo?’ he called, and listened. He heard nothing. He shrugged and went back into the office. Lasel kept low and scampered for the stairs. The doorman was only gone for a moment. He returned in time to see her running up the staircase. ‘AI!’ he shouted and, dropping the broom, set off after her.
The moment he was gone, Junk hurried in and hid behind the counter. He heard Lasel and the doorman coming back down. They were arguing, or rather Lasel was arguing; the doorman hardly said anything. Junk peeked out and watched as he frogmarched her outside.
As soon as the door closed behind them, Junk raced for the stairs. They were broad with deep treads. He took them two at a time, but the muscles in his legs quickly started to burn and he had to slow down.
He stopped and looked down the stairwell to see if the doorman was coming after him. He couldn’t hear anything so thought he was probably safe.
Eventually he reached the top floor. There was only one apartment. There was no name or bell next to the door so Junk decided to just knock, but as he raised his hand, he stopped. He had realized they had made a mistake. He should have been the one to distract the doorman and Lasel should have come up here. He couldn’t speak Jansian and he was pretty sure the doctor wouldn’t speak English. How was he going to explain himself? The Room of Doors. That was all he had to say. He had heard Garvan say it when he was telling Lasel Junk’s story. What was it? Tarra dei omm? No, no, that meant ticket office. It was dei-something though. Dei Varm. That was it. Bosck dei Varm. Room of Doors. He said it to himself under his breath a couple of times to make sure it sounded right, and then he knocked and waited. And waited some more. He knocked again. He waited some more. He knocked again. After all that, Dr Otravinicus wasn’t in.
There was a window at the end of the hallway. He opened it and looked out. It was a precipitous drop but there was a ledge that went all the way to an open terrace that was outside Otravinicus’s apartment. He couldn’t leave without trying absolutely everything. Maybe Otravinicus was in but ignoring the knocking on the door, or maybe he could get into his place and find a clue to his whereabouts. He took a deep breath and stepped out.
He had to close the window behind to clear his path. The wind whistled like a yawn up here, buffeting him against the side of the building. There was nothing to hold on to. The wall was smooth. He faced it, spread his arms out and moved slowly one step at a time. The ledge was narrow, only enough room on it for his toes. He kept moving until he reached the terrace and was able to grab on to the balustrade. He slithered over the top and hugged the wide expanse of stone floor.
Once his heart had stopped pounding quite so aggressively he got to his feet. He looked around and recognized the view from the photograph on the back of Otravinicus’s book. This was the exact spot where it had been taken.
He turned to the large windows and pressed his face up against them to peer inside. Dr Otravinicus’s apartment was a tip. At first, Junk wondered if he had been robbed, but as he looked closer he realized it was accumulated mess. Clothes and magazines discarded here and there. Forgotten plates of food festering. He hoped Otravinicus wasn’t dead in there somewhere. He tried the handle and found that the door was unlocked. He hesitated, but only for a moment, before opening it and stepping inside.
The apartment smelled stale, well lived in. Something was rotting here, but it wasn’t a body.
‘Occootoo,’ Junk called out. He searched his memory for the right words and remembered them. ‘Vontra Otravinicus?’ No answer.
There was a large main room that was a kitchen at one end and a living room at the other. Three doors led off it. The first was a windowless bathroom. Empty. The second an office. Also empty. And the third was a bedroom. Empty. Now what?
Junk started to look around for a clue as to where the doctor might be, but it was pointless. He couldn’t read a word of Jansian, so even if the man’s location was writ large somewhere right in front of him, he would never know. He could either wait in the hope that the doctor would soon return or go back and rejoin Garvan and Lasel in the cafe to come up with a plan B. He decided on the latter and left through the front door, which he discovered had been unlocked all along.
*
‘Well, we could try again, I suppose,’ said Garvan. ‘If Lasel or I go this time, we’ll be able to read through his papers at least. Did you leave the door unlocked?’
‘Yes,’ said Junk. ‘Of course.’
Just then a shadow fell across the table. All three looked up to see a diminutive, bespectacled man with a long, thin face. He sat down without being asked. It was Dr Otravinicus himself.
‘I’ve been sitting three tables away all morning, listening to you a-plotting and a-planning,’ he said, oddly enough in English with a distinctive southern American accent. ‘It sounds like you have been trying very hard to find me. I must say I am intrigued to discover why.’