Sheri S. Tepper - Marianne, The Magus, And The Manticore.pdf

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Sheri Tepper - Marianne, The Magus, And The Manticore
DURING THE NIGHT, Marianne was awakened by a steady drumming of rain, a muffled tattoo as
from a thousand drumsticks on the flat porch roof, a splash and gurgle from the rainspout at the corner of
the house outside Mrs. Winesap's window, bubbling its music in vain to ears which did not hear. "I hear,"
whispered Marianne, speaking to the night, the rain, the comer of the living room she could see from her
bed. When she lay just so, the blanket drawn across her lips, the pillow crunched into an exact shape,
she could see the amber glow of a lamp in the living room left on to light one corner of the reupholstered
couch, the sheen of the carefully carpentered shelves above it, the responsive glow of the refinished table
below, all in a kindly shine and haze of belonging there. "Mine," said Marianne to the room. The lamplight
fell on the first corner of the apartment to be fully finished, and she left the light on so that she could see it
if she woke, a reminder of what was possible, a promise that all the rooms would be reclaimed from dust
and dilapidation. Soon the kitchen would be finished. Two more weeks at the extra work she was doing
for the library and she'd have enough money for the bright Mexican tiles she had set her heart upon.
"Mine," she said again, shutting her eyes firmly against the seductive glow. She had spent all Cloud-haired
mama's jewelry on the house. The lower floor, more recently occupied and in a better state of repair,
was rented out to Mrs. Winesap and
Mr. Larken-whose relationship Marianne often speculated upon, varyingly, as open windows admitted
sounds of argument or expostulation or as the walls transmitted the unmistakable rhythm of
bedsprings-and the shimmy part was occupied by
Marianne herself. "Not so slummy anymore," she hummed to herself in the darkness. "Not so damn
slummy."
If she had been asked, she could not have said why it had been so important to have rooms of her own,
rooms with softly glowing floorboards, rooms with carefully stripped woodwork painted a little darker
than the walls, all in a mauvey, sunset glow, cool and spacious as a view of distant mountains, where
there had been only cracked, stained plaster with bits of horsehair protruding from it to make her think
for weary months that she was trying to make a home in the corpse of some great, defunct animal. At the
time she had not known about old plaster, old stairs, old walls, nothing about splintered woodwork and
senile plumbing-either balky or incontinent.
Something in the old house had nagged at her. "Buy me, lady. You're poor. I'm poor. Buy me, and let us
live together."
Perhaps it had been the grace of the curved, beveled glass lights above the front door and the upstairs
windows. Perhaps it had been the high ceilings, cracked though they were, and the gentle slope of the
banisters leading to the second floor.
Perhaps the dim, cavelike mystery of the third floor beneath the flat roof. Perhaps even the arch of
branches in the tangled shrubbery which spoke of old, flowering things needing to be rescued from
formlessness and thistle. "Sleeping Beauty," she had said more than once. "A hundred years asleep."
Though it hadn't been a hundred years. Ten or fifteen, perhaps, since someone had put a new roof on it.
Forty, perhaps, since anyone had painted or repaired otherwise. Both times someone, anyone had run
out of money, or time, or interest, and had given up to let it stand half vacant, occupied on the lower floor
by a succession of recluses who had let the vines cover the windows and the shrubs grow into a thicket.
Perhaps it hadn't been anything unique in this particular house except that it stood only a block from the
campus. From her windows she could look across the lawns of the university to the avenue, across acres
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of orderly green setting off roseash walls of Georgian brick, a place of quiet and haven among the hard
streets. "Damn Harvey," she hummed to herself, moving toward sleep. This was part of the daily litany: at
least a decade of "mine's" and five or six "damn Harvey's."
It shouldn't have been necessary to sell all Mama's jewelry.
Harvey could have advanced her some of her own inheritanceeven loaned it to her at interest. The past
two years of niggling economies, the endless hours using the heat gun to strip paint until her ears rang with
the howl of it and her hands turned numb.... "Carpal tunnel syndrome," the doctor had said. "Quit
whatever your're doing with your hands and the swelling will stop. With what your papa left you, sweetie,
what's this passion for doing your own carpentry?" Dr. Brown was an old friendwell, an old
acquaintance-who believed his white hair gave him license to call her sweetie. Maybe he called all the
people he had once delivered as babies sweetie, no matter how old they got, but the familiar, almost
contemptuous way he said it didn't tempt her to explain.
"Look," she could have said. "Papa Zahmani was pure, oldcountry macho to the tips of his toes. He
didn't leave his little girl anything. He left it all in half-brother Harvey's hands until little Marianne either
gets married-in which case presumably her sensible husband will take care of it for her-or gets to be
thirty years old. I guess he figured if Marianne wasn't safely married by thirty, she never would be and it
would be safe to let such a hardened spinster handle her own affairs. Until men, however, Harvey
controls the lot-half-brother Harvey who treats every dime of Marianne's money as though it were a drop
of his own blood."
Anyhow, why explain? It wouldn't change anything. The truth was simply that she hadn't the money to
pay anyone to paint the walls or strip the woodwork or reupholster the furniture scrounged from
secondhand shops. "Junk shops," she reminded herself. "Not so damn junky anymore...."
"You can live on what I allow you," Harvey had said, offhandedly. "If you get a cheap room somewhere.
There's no earthly reason for you to go on to school. You are by no stretch of the imagination a serious
student, and if you're determined to live the academic life-well, you'll have to work your way through. If
you're determined to get a graduate degree-which will be useless to you-you'll spend most of your time
on campus anyhow. You don't need a nice place to live. A little student squalor goes with the academic
ambience."
Not that Harvey exposed himself to squalor of any kind.
His six-room Boston apartment took up half the upper floor of a mellow old brownstone on Beacon Hill,
and an endless skein of nubile, saponaceous Melissas and Randis and Cheryls replaced one another at
eager intervals as unpaid housekeepers, cooks, and laundresses for Harvey S. Zahmani, professor of
Oriental languages and sometime ethnologist, who had had the use of all his own inheritance and all of
Marianne's since he was twenty-six. Papa hadn't believed that women should take up space in
universities unless they "had to work," a fate evidently worse than death and far, far worse than an
unhappy marriage. "I do have to work," Marianne had said to Harvey more than once. "Do you really
expect me to live on $500 a month? Come on, Harvey, that's poverty level minus and you know it."
"It's what Papa would have done." Bland, smiling, knowing she knew he didn't give a damn what Papa
would have done, that he hadn't cared for Papa or Papa's opinions at all, giving her that twinge deep
down in her stomach that said "no fury like a man scorned," and a kind of fear, too, that the man scorned
would try something worse to get even.
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"Hell, Harvey," she whispered to herself. "I was only thirteen and you were twenty-six. I don't care if you
were drunk.
You're my half-brother, for God's sake. What did you expect me to do, just lie there and let you use me
for one of your
Randis or Cheryls because I was convenient?" It had been a frightening scene, interrupted by the
housekeeper. Neither of them had referred to it since, but Marianne remembered, and she thought
Harvey did, too. Why else this nagging enmity, this procession of little annoyances?
"You give up this graduate degree business and do something more in keeping with your position, and I'll
see about increasing your allowance...." He had sneered that polite, academic sneer, which could only
remotely be interpreted as a threat. Marianne hadn't been able to figure out what would have been more
in keeping with her position. What position did a poverty-stricken heiress have? Great expectations? She
had on occasion thought of raffling herself off on the basis of her Great Expectations.
Perhaps temporary matrimony? No. She was too stubborn. Sue?
It was possible, of course, but Marianne felt that going to the law to gain control of her money would
involve her in more of a struggle with Harvey than she had the strength for. Nope.
If Papa had been a chauvinistic Neanderthal, Marianne would play it out-all the way. But she would not
do it in squalor, not even student-style squalor. The jewelry had been given to her when Cloud-haired
mama had died. So far as anyone knew it was still in the safe-deposit box. Marianne had never worn it.
Now it had gone for fifty percent of its value to pay for three stories of dilapidated Italianate brick across
the street from the university, and Marianne spent every available hour with tools or paintbrushes in her
hands. The worst of it was done.
Even the scrappy little area out front had been sodded and fringed with daffodils for spring, with
pulmonaria and bergenia to bloom later, and astilbe waiting in the wings for midsummer.
Harvey, if he ever came to Virginia to visit her, which he never had, would find only what he could have
expected-a decently refurbished apartment in an elderly house. Not even Mrs.
Winesap or Mr. Larkin knew she owned the place. "Mine," she said for the tenth time that day, sinking at
last into sleep.
There had been a time, long before, when there had been gardens lit by daffodils fringing acres of lawn.
There had been a time when there had been many rooms, large, airy rooms with light falling into them
through gauzy curtains in misty colors of dusk and distance. Sometimes, on the verge of waking,
Marianne thought of that long-ago place. There had been a plump cook Marianne had called Tooky,
even when she was old enough to have learned to say "Mrs. Johnson." There had been an old Japanese
man and his two sons who worked in the gardens. Marianne had trotted after them in the autumn, her
pockets bulging with tulip bulbs, a bulb in each hand, fascinated by the round, solid promise of them, the
polished wood feeling of their skins, the lovely mystery of the little graves the gardener dug-what was his
name? Mr. Tanaka. And his sons. Not
Bob, not Dick. Robert and Richard. Robert digging the round holes, Marianne pitching in the handfuls of
powdery bonemeal, Robert mixing it all into a soft bed, then taking the bulbs from her one by one to set
them in an array. Then, filling in the hole, the hole so full of promise, knowing the promise would be kept.
And then, in the spring, the clumps of green stalks, the buds opening into great goblets of bloom.
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Marianne standing with Cloud-haired mama to peer into those blooms, into the bottoms of those glorious
vases where bees made belligerent little noises of ownership against the yellow bases of the petals, a
round sun glowing at the bottom of the flower to echo the great sun burning above them.
Marianne didn't even remember it, and yet when she had bought the garden supplies last fall, she had
stood in the garden shop with her hand deep in the carton of tulip bulbs, not seeing them, unaware of her
own silent presence there. When she had paid for the plants there had been tears running down her
cheeks, and the sales clerk had stared at her in perplexity, for her voice had been as calm and cheerful as
it usually was while the tears ran down her cheeks and dropped off her chin. Later, she looked into the
mirror and saw the runnels from eyes to chin and could not think what might have caused them.
Cloud-haired mama had died when Marianne was thirteen.
That was when Harvey had... well. No point in thinking about it. After that had been boarding schools,
mostly. Papa Zahmani had sold the big house with the gardens. Holidays had been here, in this city, in the
town house. Then, only a year later,
Papa Zahmani had died. The headmistress had told her in the office at school and had helped her dress
and pack and be ready for the car. Two funerals in less than a year, and no reason anyone could give for
either one. No reason for Mama to have died. No reason for Papa to have died. Dr. Brown acted
baffled and strained, with his mouth clamped shut. After that was more school, and more school, and
summer camps, and college, and more college. There had not been any home to return to, and the only
career which occurred to her was the same one Harvey had entered-ethnology. Which might be another
reason for his sniping at her. Harvey didn't like competition. As though
Marianne would be competition-though someday perhaps, when she was decades older, if she became
recognized in the field, and... Well. She tried not to think about it. It was better not to think about
Cloud-haired mama, or Papa Zahmani, or
Harvey. It was easier to live if one were not angry, and it was easier not to be angry if she did not think
about those things.
She woke in the morning to a world washed clean. Outside the window the white oak had dropped its
burden of winterdried leaves into the wind, littering them across the spring lawns which stretched away
between swatches of crocus purple and ruby walls, a syrup of emeralds, deep as an ocean under the
morning sun, glittering from every blade. Slate roofs glistened, walls shone, teary windows blinked the
sun into her face as she leaned from the window to recite the roll call of the place.
Mossy walks, present. Daffodils, granite steps, white columns, ivy slickly wet and tight as thatch, a
distant blaze of early rhododendrons. All bright and shiny-faced, pleased and yet dignified, as such a
place should be, her own slender windows fronting on it so that she might soak it in, breathe it, count it
over like beads. Yew hedge, present. Tulip tree, present. The multi-paned windows of the library across
the way; the easy fall of lawn down the slope to the side walk and street at the comer.
The street. Marianne hastily glanced away, too late. A red bus farted away from the curb in pig-stubborn
defiance of imminent collision. The shriek of crumpled metal came coincident with the library chimes, and
a flurry of Me Donalds wrappers lifted from the gutter to skulk into the shrubbery.
"Damn," she murmured, starting her daily scorecard in the endless battle between order and confusion.
"Confusion, one; order, nothing." By her own complex rules, she could not count sameness for order
points. There was nothing really new in the order of the campus, the buildings, the gardens-no lawn
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freshly mowed or tree newly planted. She made a face as she turned back to the room, hands busy
unbraiding the thick, black plait which hung halfway down her back. The room, at least, would not
contribute to confusion. Except for the Box.
It sat half under the coffee table where she had left it, unable to bear the thought of it lurking in the
darkness of some closet or completely under the table where she could not keep an eye on it. Better to
have it out where she could see it, know where it was. "Damn Harvey," she said, starting the day's tally.
If she took the Box to (he basement storage room, he might decide to come visit her. She believed,
almost superstitiously, that the act of taking the Box out of her apartment and putting it somewhere else,
no matter how safe a place that might be, would somehow stimulate a cosmic, reciprocal force. If his
presence, more than merely symbolized by the Box, were removed, some galactic accountant might
require him to be present in reality.
"Silly," she admonished herself, kicking the Box as she passed it. "Silly!" Still, she left it where it was,
decided to ignore it, turned on the television set to drown out any thought of it. Despite the bus crash, the
morning was full of favorable portents. No time to waste thinking of Professor Harvey S.
Zahmani.
"... Zahmani," the television echoed in its cheerful- pedantic news voice. "M. A. Zahmani, Prime Minister
of
Alphenlicht, guest lecturer at several American universities this spring, prior to his scheduled appearance
before the United Nations this week..."
This brought her to crouch before the tube, seeing a face altogether familiar. It was Harvey. No, it wasn't
Harvey. It looked like Harvey, but not around the mouth or eyes. The expression was totally different.
Except for that, they could be
Siamese twins. Except that Harvey was up in Boston and this man was here at the university to lecture...
on what? On
Alphenlicht, of course. She had read something about the current controversy over Alphenlicht and-what
was that other tiny country? Lubovosk. There was a Newsweek thingy on it, and she burrowed under
the table for the latest issue as the television began a breathless account of basketball scores and
piggybacked commercials in endless, morning babble.
"... Among the world's oldest principalities, the two tiny nations of Alphenlicht and Lubovosk were joined
until the nineteenth century under a single, priestly house which traced its origins back to the
semi-mythical Magi. A minor territorial skirmish in the mid-nineteenth century left the northern third of the
minuscule country under Russian control. Renamed
'Lubovosk,' the separated third now asserts legal rights to the priestly throne of Alphenlicht, a claim
stoutly opposed by Prime
Minister of Alphenlicht, Makr Avehl Zahmani...."
There was a map showing two sausage-link-shaped territories carved out of the high mountains between
Turkey and
Iraq and an inset picture of a dark, hawk-eyed woman identified as the hereditary ruler of Lubovosk.
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