The sounds of rioting outside the window were almost drowned by
the clatter of machinery within. Monsieur Duval's power-looms
pumped and pounded, steam spurting from pressurized pipes as warp
and weft were bound together, meshing into one exquisite whole, a
tapestry of the immaterial. Where spools of cotton should have
been stood the medium, Madam Jaurès, and young Christos the Greek,
his face suffused with the energy of genius as he drew swift,
exotic melodies from his violin.
"They've set fire to the bank," Henri said, fingering his dog
collar as he glanced nervously out the window.
"Good for them," Edouard replied, sipping from a
crystal-cut glass of absinthe.
"The old structures must be smashed, the boundaries torn down,
for truth and beauty to triumph. Let Paris burn, as long as Christos fiddles."
"Will it work if he cannot be heard?" Duval asked.
The industrialist stood apart from the young artists, as if
fearful of being consumed by the charisma that had lured him into
their plans.
"Of course!" Edouard exclaimed, waving his glass. "Why would we
need to hear his music when we can see it?"
He pointed to the cage that surrounded the musician, a funnel
of precisely focused wires. From its mouth, a near-invisible
strand stretched out, vibrating, towards the loom, like a slither
of hot air sliced from a summer's day. Another thread, glowing
moonlight white, joined it from the glass bottle that encased
Madam Jaurès, becoming weft to the music's warp. Where they met,
in the rattling heart of the loom, a sheet was forming. It
gleamed like quick-silver as it rode into the air, twisting and
soaring on a wind no-one could feel.
A whiff of smoke drifted in through a loose window. Edouard
breathed deeply, feeling freedom fill his lungs, the joy and
determination of the unrestrained mob. He poured more
absinthe, passed Duval a glass.
"It is almost time," he said. "Let the borders fall. Let art
and industry become one. Let our souls touch the beyond."
Knocking back his drink, he cast the glass to the floor,
watching it shatter into shards of light. Then he was running down
rusted iron steps, across the factory floor, Henri in his wake.
They grabbed the end of the shining cloth. It was almost
impossible to hold, writhing in and through their hands.
It felt
like sunrise and birdsong on their fingertips, too pure and
wonderful to contain. But they dragged it across the room, more
cloth emerging behind them as Christos played and the medium
twitched and frothed, channeling the will of the spirits. They
bound the corners to the brass pipe-organ that loomed against the
east wall. At once, the pipes began to hum, a sweet harmony
that rose to the rafters, scattering dust into the air.
"Pray!" Edouard exclaimed. "Pray like you mean it!"
Henri sank to his knees, rosary in one hand, a half-empty
bottle clutched in the other for comfort, his lips twitching. His
breath seemed to coalesce into tiny spots of light, settling like
dew on the sheet. Edouard grabbed a brush and tray of paints,
this miracle becoming his canvas as he sketched graceful curves of
soothing colour across its surface, even as it began to fade.
Above their heads, a fog was forming, seeping from the
apertures of the pipes. Maxine, Duval's assistant, burst
into the room.
"The King," she exclaimed, "The King has fled, and
. . ."
Her words trailed off as she stared at the thing emerging from
the fog, its wings fluttering and face radiant. It soared down
onto the canvas, became at one with it as the machinery ceased
clattering, all eyes turning to gaze in wonder.
Edouard felt as though his soul had been kissed.
"Please," he whispered, "Just one minute of beauty. For
everyone."
The angel smiled and lifted into the air, rising through the
roof. The noise outside the window stopped, and for sixty
seconds no sound was heard in Paris but the ticking of pocket
watches.
Then Edouard felt the moment of rapture fade.
Outside, the shrieks and smashing began once more as cavalry
charged the barricades.
He took a long pull on the bottle of absinthe and lit a
cigarette.
"I grant them the purest epiphany, and still they return to old
habits. What must an artist do to shake men from their rut?"
He shook his head.
"What now?" Henri asked.
Edouard shrugged. "How can my art ever again match this moment? We have created serenity in the heart of the human storm, and seen
that our public does not
care. What point in continuing? I shall become a baker instead, or
maybe a carpenter, work out my remaining decades in fruitful
labor."
He paused, staring at the burning tip of the cigarette, the
smoke coiling from its fiery point.
"Unless . . ." he murmured, glancing down at his paint pots, empty
of soft blues and greens. There was still plenty of red.
I grin split his face.
"Tell me, Henri, what do you know about demons?"