The Birth of People's Republic of Antartica, стр. 14

most certainly charitable. They held the power of goods and knowledge, and they dispensed from their holdings. Yes, they were a charitable lot. I did not understand what that truly meant then. Their benevolent might fooled me. I was a young fool, and still might be a fool, yet now I understand charity.

I add that even with all the above gray thinking, I never lost sight of the profound difference between those men of rank and my family. They were in the King’s castle as guests. Israel, Peregrine, and I were there as help. We had rights, and chances; in comparison to those of the inheritors, we were kitchen knaves.

“And lastly, my lover, my companion, my strength, my friend, the father of my child, and the man without whom none of it would have been half as much fun, my husband, Cesare Furore,” finished Charity Bentham, taking the hand of a darkly handsome man, only slightly taller than she, broad and powerful. There was final applause. The King spoke up again to introduce the next laureate.

The Benthams and Furores made ready to descend the dais by the ramp not ten feet before me. I studied them: first, a small lady whom I took as Mother Bentham, she being helped down by a very pregnant woman whom I took as one of the sisters. Then came an attendant handling a wheelchair bearing a sick-looking man who held himself as if he had had a stroke—the Reverend Increase Bentham. Two more attractive women followed close behind, both arm in arm with escorts. I noted that the Bentham family characteristic was that authoritative fix to their features, which was easily taken for haughtiness or extraordinary piety. Each sister had a prominent nose that was not her mother’s.

The Furores took the ramp. I watched Cesare Furore. He was most attractive. Thord might have opined that he was overdrawn, a theatrical profile, studied, stunning. His manner in contrast seemed casual, anything but melodramatic. He was especially affectionate toward Charity Bentham, keeping her hand close to his heart, kissing it once—all quite Mediterranean of him, as my novel-reading had taught me. Cesare Furore held his wife intimately as he reached back to take the arm of the very same tall, dark, doll-faced young woman with the swan’s neck whom I had favored earlier. This temptress was Cleopatra Furore. I was not then informed enough as to the volcanism of fate to comment: like fool father, like fool son. There is also the Bible’s talk about the sins of the father being visited upon the sons, and my passing knowledge of the Greeks reminds me of their warning: Know thyself, if you dare. The Norse have it best in my case: A man with an appetite for longing will get a stomach full of trouble.

Peregrine vaulted onto the ramp. He slammed Cesare Furore. He grabbed Charity Bentham by her shoulder, spinning her away from her husband and daughter. He shook her. He screamed at her. I could see Peregrine above me as sure as I ever saw anything. His face was twisted, as if in a great pain. He seemed aflame. It was passion. I was fixed in place, like everyone else, by the intensity of Peregrine’s attack. Charity Bentham stared at him in disbelief. It must have occurred to her that this might be the man who would end her life. Peregrine shook her harder. Her combs fell out, her braided hair flying wildly. She opened her mouth, could not speak, as Peregrine screamed the more—unintelligible things, mad words, sounds from the dark. Cesare Furore recovered first of all of us, reaching to protect his wife. Peregrine kicked him down.

The officials on the dais were slow to realize the threat. An ancient German laureate’s amplified voice initially drowned Peregrine’s ranting. That did not last. I have father’s lungs. I know what can be done when we lose control. Holding Charity Bentham like plunder, he screamed a wave of hurt and bitterness, for all to hear, to judge:

“You are my wife! You lied! You are mine! I never gave you up! That was your doing! I never agreed! They wanted it! They tricked me! Tell them! Tell the truth!”

Charity Bentham was helpless. She wailed forth tears so big that they drained all dignity from her being. She seemed in a silent terror, as if not surprised, rather as if caught in her own nightmare.

“Tell your lover who I am!” screamed Peregrine. “Tell them all! I am your husband! That paper is nothing! He doesn’t exist! Tell them or I swear I will kill you! As you’ve killed me! I am dead! Do you understand! You left me to die alone!”

By then the officials had signaled the security forces. From all directions, they converged on Peregrine. Two slipped from the dais and tried to get hold of him without damaging Charity Bentham. Peregrine tossed them aside by using her body as a truncheon. He seemed increasingly desperate as he backed down the ramp, holding Charity Bentham high above him, screaming, “Don’t you see what it’s been for me? How do you think I survived? I only had one thing to live for! I lived for you! I thought you’d come back to me! When you were free of them! I thought they’d trapped you! I would have fought for you! I’ve been here! Where can I go? Why didn’t you come for me? All I ever wanted was for you to say you loved me! You didn’t have to give up anything for me! You could have kept your things! You just had to say that you loved me! But not him! I can’t stand that! How could any man take such a thing? Please, Charity, please, dear God, please! Help me!”

Peregrine stopped shaking her. He lowered her to the ramp. He hugged her to his breast. She stood there limply. Slowly she regained herself, coming to life. She reached around Peregrine as best she could—he dwarfed her,