The Birth of People's Republic of Antartica, стр. 32
The three men handed Cleopatra out, and she ran up the stone steps, followed by her brothers. We waited uneasily in Black Crane: the dogs were hungry; the Turks were mournful; I was exhausted and regretful, staring at the dried blood on my sleeve. I tried not to think of Vexbeggar. I thought of Father and what Cleopatra had said of “their scheming.”
“Grim!” called Thord from above. “Hurry, Grim!” called Earle.
“Stay with them,” I said to Goldberg, meaning the pups and the Turks, as Iceberg and I shot out of Black Crane and up to my family. Earle lifted me like a child. He seemed much slower, heavier, although still the brown bear. I turned to get a big wet kiss from Thord, who clutched me close and said, “Forgive me, if you can, please. I did not realize.”
I ignored Thord’s look of guilt—like a penitent awaiting judgment—and tried to question them as they pulled me across the quay road, past sentries and two waiting carriages, into a small stone cottage. “Are we too late? What is this place? Where’s Father?”
“He’s alive,” said Charity Bentham. She was seated on a couch in the foyer, between a very pregnant Molly Rogers and Cleopatra Furore. Babe stood like a bulbous mastodon behind his mother. I could understand his protectiveness. Charity Bentham seemed to have aged twenty years in five. She looked ruined. She started to speak to me, instead smoothed her skirt, reached out to take Cleopatra’s hand. Cleopatra moved closer to her mother in an odd way, more condescending than consoling, as if she were the senior. As I reached for Molly, Cleopatra glared.
“Well timed, eh?” said Molly, mussing my mane, patting her stomach. That was Molly’s second pregnancy; her first had ended with an abortion at twenty-four (and was much discussed in her verse). I said there was never a better time; Molly twisted her face and pulled me so close that I had to brace myself.
“Come away, now, Grim,” said Thord, pulling me back.
We went to the right, down a short hall, where a petite, beautiful young man stood beaming, beckoning me, taking my hand, saying, “Dear Grim, you are very much welcome. I have missed you. You cannot remember me. I am Radar Fiddle. Your uncle. Lamba’s brother. Your mother, you see.” He kissed my hand.
It was the first I ever heard my mother’s name. I did not have a moment to react, as Thord ushered me through sliding doors into a book-lined study. There, commanding the room, stood a gigantic Norseman, white-bearded, intense, overwhelming, his face fixed with surprise.
“It is true! Lord God, it is true!” boomed Grandfather. Iceberg stiffened; her nape hair rippled; she growled, ready for attack.
“Now keep your bargain!” shouted Israel, moving to Grandfather’s far right. He was enraged, desperate.
“Israel, it’s me,” I said.
Israel moved over and tapped me, saying, “I introduce you to your grandfather, the Reverend Mord Fiddle, leading candidate for despot of the new Sweden.”
“Easy, Izzie,” said Guy.
“He brought the karfi, not the ketch,” said Thord.
“There was a riot,” I said. “Soldiers. And they rushed us. They threw their children. I had to fight. There was a fire.”
“It’s okay, Grim,” said Guy.
“Yeah, okay, we’re getting out,” said Israel.
“Tonight,” said Guy.
“We need a ship. You said we’d have a ship,” said Lazarus. He and Orlando the Black were seated by the window.
“Is there anything?” Israel asked Thord.
“Perhaps, with time,” he said. “I can call favors, but there are so many gone.”
“We haven’t got time,” said Guy.
“Oh, Israel, please, please, forgive me,” sobbed Thord. “This is my fault. I have been idiotic.”
While my family argued among themselves, one of the black-suited men (they were seminarians) stood near Grandfather and translated the English banter. The whole confrontation was likely more disconnected than I recall—Israel’s Swedish poor and colloquial, Grandfather ignorant of English—but because I spoke both easily, I have it in my mind as of a piece.
Grandfather raised his arm and pointed at Israel. “You shall have your ship.” He spoke with such power and assurance that all turned to him, transfixed. Grandfather was too large for that room, my height and Orlando the Black’s breadth, yet massive in more than physical dimension—monumental, a pagan vision of an inexplicable god. He continued, “Leave me alone with my grandson. You shall have what you ask.”
“What ship, you murdering liar? Where? When?” demanded Israel, the veins of his temples dark blue, his cheeks puffed red and blotchy.
“Izzie, no, come on,” said Guy, reaching out.
“Damn you, Jew, do you know who I am?” said Grandfather.
“Old man,” said Israel, even-voiced and utterly contemptuous, “you forget who we are. We raised him. He is ours. What you did twenty-one, twenty-two years ago, is unforgivable, by my God, his God, any God. You degrade all faith to claim yourself a man of God. You turned out your own daughter and you abandoned your own grandson. You sicken me. I won’t pity you. No one will.”
“Izzie, we need him,” said Guy, this time gripping Israel.
“I came here to get my father. That is what I want. If we need these people, then we need them.” I paused, realizing I was over my head. “Israel, tell me what I should do.”
“What must be done right now is to establish order,” said Lazarus, walking to the center of the room. He seemed mannered, aloof, cold. We shuffled in place as Lazarus, with that measured, condescending voice of his, continued, “Now, what ship, gentlemen, and where is it?”
“We can’t trust that madman,” said Israel.
“We have to trust everyone now,” said Lazarus.
“And no one,” said Israel bitterly, starting to laugh. Lazarus smiled at that, not as if happy, rather as if amused by the gloom.
“My ship, damn you, out there!” spoke up Grandfather. “I shall sail her for you. Wherever you want to go. Anything you want. What I want is the boy. Now go and