‘Perhaps not, but I find its surroundings conducive to health and long life.’
‘Remarkably long, one might say.’
Quayle acknowledged the sally with a small bow of his head. The sommelier appeared, and the wine was poured. Since the main course was to be venison, the Principal Backer had selected a Grand Cru Classé Pauillac from 1996. The wine, having already been tasted and decanted, was opening up nicely. Quayle accepted his glass of milk, and the soup quickly followed. The Principal Backer tested it, found it to his liking, and commenced eating. Quayle, by contrast, left his bowl untouched.
‘You haven’t asked why I requested this meeting,’ Quayle said.
‘There is only ever one reason for anything you do, or so I’m told: your Atlas.’
‘Not my Atlas. The Atlas.’
The Principal Backer was not about to argue articles or possessives with Quayle. He wished only for Quayle to be gone from these shores as quickly as possible, and was making no effort to hide it. But Quayle would have understood this even had the Principal Backer made a greater effort to conceal his true feelings.
‘You should be more concerned about it,’ said Quayle.
‘Why?’
‘The Atlas has changed the world – is changing the world – and will ultimately alter it permanently.’
‘I see no proof of that.’
‘You’re not looking closely enough: war, famine, flood; bigotry, hatred—’
‘Has the world not always been so?’
‘Never in such supposedly civilized times. I see regression. The Atlas is slowly having its way.’
‘So you say, but you’ve been claiming as much for generations – or so you’d have us believe.’
‘You doubt me?’
‘You’re a lawyer. I doubt you on principle.’
‘And beyond my profession?’
The Principal Backer shrugged.
‘I hear tales of a man who lives in rooms that haven’t been dusted since Queen Victoria died; who claims to have been born before the time of the Reformation; who sits waiting for a book of maps to reconstruct itself because he believes it will transfigure the nature of the world enough to permit the return of the Not-Gods, thus bringing about the end of days and freeing him to die at last. Correct me if I’m in error about any point.’
‘By your telling, it sounds almost mundane.’
‘I’ve heard stranger tales.’
‘No, you’ve just managed to convince yourself of such. And this is no tale.’
The exchange precipitated another period of silence until a waiter arrived to remove the soup bowls. The Principal Backer studied the lawyer in all his rumpled elegance, and decided that he did not resemble previous descriptions of his appearance. He was leaner; younger, even. If the rumors were true, Quayle’s longevity passed unnoticed in London because, at irregular intervals, one reclusive member of the Quayle family would pass away only to be replaced by another – a son, a nephew, a cousin – into whose possession the estate of his predecessor would pass. Thus one became many, and many became one.
On the other hand, he reasoned, Quayle might just be insane.
Two waiters entered with the venison. It was so rare as to be almost gelatinous at the core, but neither diner offered any complaint. They resumed their conversation when the door was safely closed, as though the arrival of the bloody meat had reminded them of their purpose here.
‘One might almost believe you would prefer if we did not finish our work,’ said Quayle.
‘“Our” work?’
‘Do we not have the same purpose, you and I?’
‘We do not. You serve your own masters.’
‘Of the same aspect and nature as the Buried God.’
‘Nevertheless.’
Quayle leaned forward. He had consumed a little of the venison, and its juices flecked his chin.
‘Explain your position to me,’ he said. ‘Please. I’m anxious to understand it – and you.’
The Principal Backer regarded Quayle with open hostility, even disgust.
‘Your Atlas is a contaminant,’ he replied. ‘If what you maintain is true, and it is restored, nothing will survive. The world will turn to fire and ash, and the Not-Gods will watch it burn before turning their attention to war with the Old.’
‘And in doing so will liberate the Buried God. Your god.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘You’re a fool,’ said Quayle.
The Principal Backer showed no indication of taking offense.
‘Am I?’
‘You believe you can negotiate with the Buried God. You and your confederates, generation upon generation, have accrued wealth and influence, and now you are reluctant to relinquish your position. Or are you even serious in your search for the Buried God? Perhaps you would prefer to leave it wherever it lies, and postpone indefinitely the settlement of your account.’
The Principal Backer allowed his gaze to stray across their surroundings, as though seeking strength and consolation from its dusty portraits of long-deceased members, its nineteenth-century depictions of cityscapes and scenery now so devastated by progress that the artworks bore the same relation to their subjects’ present status as a virgin might to a whore.
It was ironic, the Principal Backer mused, that many members of this club, so in thrall to rules and proper behavior when it came to the Colonial, and so protective of its reputation and environment, should have achieved their elevated station in life by conspiring in the despoliation of the world beyond its walls. This was the haunt of men and women who routinely made million-dollar donations to museums and galleries, who regarded themselves – and, indeed, were regarded by others – as benefactors to, and guardians of, the cultural heritage of the nation, yet balked at the prospect of paying a living wage to their workers, or funding the modest safeguards required to ensure that these same people and their families could enjoy breathable air and drink water untainted by bacteria and poisons. If it were indeed the case that behind every great fortune lay a great crime – and this was as true of the New World as of the Old, if not more so – then the membership records of the Colonial were a testament to criminality on a grand and continuing scale, and the Principal Backer was a greater criminal than any, because he was in league with forces that made the worst excesses of the Colonial’s members look like the actions of pickpockets and flimflam men.
Now here was Quayle, reeking of antiquity, heavy with the rot of ages, reminding him that the bill must soon come due. Who could blame the Principal Backer for seeking to defer payment?
‘Our lives are short,’ said the Principal Backer. ‘Yours are the words of a man who has lived too long.’
‘In that much, at least, we are in agreement.’
The Principal Backer tried a little more of the venison. It was good – the food at the Colonial was always good, although he sometimes found the kitchen heavy-handed with the cream – and he wasn’t about to let Quayle’s presence interfere with his enjoyment of it, so he continued eating even as his dining companion sat and watched the remainder of his own meal grow cold, with only a sliver of exposed redness to indicate that he had tasted it at all.
‘Whatever my reservations about your purpose here,’ said the Principal Backer, ‘we have offered you the assistance you sought. We gave you Giller, and he comes highly recommended. We facilitated your’ – he searched for the correct word to encapsulate the relationship of Mors to Quayle, and the variety of services she doubtless provided: ‘cumbucket’ seemed too crude, so he settled for a less pejorative term – ‘companion’s requirement of a firearm. I should have thought that a personal meeting between us was both unnecessary and, under the circumstances, a considerable risk. So I still don’t understand why I am dining with you.’