in charge. I ascended the stairs and saw Mrs. Douglas's door, which was open an inch or two, slam shut. I knocked on the door and called, Nothing to worry about, Mrs. Douglas. They're just an escort.
But then, they always were. With the time this took, McBrien and an Overguard officer and two of his men had nearly caught up to me on the stairs, and were able to enter my flat behind me as soon as I unlocked the door. They sought no invitation—they were accustomed to not needing one.
Just get dressed, McBrien said. Better take a shower or a sponge first.
The officer, who was very handsome and square-jawed, laughed. The Boss. Doesn't go for human odor.
Is it true, asked McBrien, that the palace guards shower three times a day and use Tommy Hilfiger cologne?
That's his favorite, the Overguard officer admitted.
Was he talking about Great Uncle? He certainly seemed to tell the story as if it were an illustrative and endearing quirk of someone whose power was godlike and who could make all those Praesidians scrub and sprinkle themselves according to his wishes.
I showered myself more attentively than I had since Sarah's death. I did my best to erase a certain vegetable musk which characterized my armpits—an indelible trace of my imperfect physical being. I used an aromatic stub of a deodorant to try to mask it, and I shaved thoroughly and applied an aftershave—not Tommy Hilfiger, but some birthday present bottle given to me by one of Sarah's aunts. I ensured every inch of skin was dry before I pulled my white shirt on. I had become a subject of the state again, and dressed observantly. Then my black suit, in which I had fled from Mrs. Carter, and my red tie. The red seemed to rescue the rest from seeming odd for the sort of visit McBrien and the Overguard officer were proposing.
When I emerged from the bedroom, McBrien said, Splendid, and the Overguard, who'd been sitting around, reading some of my books—as if in parody of security forces, ones with pictures, historical tracts, and accounts of archaeological digs—stood up. By the way, said the tall Overguard officer, name's Chaddock.
Pleased to meet you, Mr. Chaddock.
Lieutenant. Passport with you?
No, I said. Are we traveling somewhere?
He smiled. No. But passport's needed.
He would always prove a master of telegraphic speech. I fetched my passport from my desk and put it in my breast pocket.
Down the stairs again, past Mrs. Douglas's mute and afflicted door, and into the Overguard limousine. Lieutenant Chaddock took the front seat with the driver, McBrien and I were allotted the midcar one, and two Overguard men took the seat behind us. The officer named Chaddock turned around smiling jovially. Lights out, he announced. With that the two men behind us slung something over our heads, and I thought of the garrotings in the
Godfather
films. I shamed myself with a huge gasp, and then I realized it was not the blackness of asphyxiation but a mere blindfold, which was then tied and adjusted around my head.
McBrien had heard my fearful intake of breath. This is quite normal, he told me.
The procedure made me sure that we were about to be taken to one of Great Uncle's twenty palaces, and I became fascinated by what I might see, feeling all the more sportive since I did not really fear one of Sonny's or the Overguard's bullets, though I preferred that it came notified rather than as suddenly as my eye mask.
The journey was made faster by the Overguard's absolute right of passage at intersections. There were three palaces within roughly half an hour of my flat, but I had no means of telling how much time had passed, and all conversation had quickly, and perhaps by design, died in the vehicle. At one stage only did McBrien whisper to me, Thanks, Alan.
He probably meant, for calming down. For going along.
Our Overguard limousine paused now. I could hear conversations in remarkably discreet voices. Though Great Uncle came from a rural family, from hayseeds who liked
But then, they always were. With the time this took, McBrien and an Overguard officer and two of his men had nearly caught up to me on the stairs, and were able to enter my flat behind me as soon as I unlocked the door. They sought no invitation—they were accustomed to not needing one.
Just get dressed, McBrien said. Better take a shower or a sponge first.
The officer, who was very handsome and square-jawed, laughed. The Boss. Doesn't go for human odor.
Is it true, asked McBrien, that the palace guards shower three times a day and use Tommy Hilfiger cologne?
That's his favorite, the Overguard officer admitted.
Was he talking about Great Uncle? He certainly seemed to tell the story as if it were an illustrative and endearing quirk of someone whose power was godlike and who could make all those Praesidians scrub and sprinkle themselves according to his wishes.
I showered myself more attentively than I had since Sarah's death. I did my best to erase a certain vegetable musk which characterized my armpits—an indelible trace of my imperfect physical being. I used an aromatic stub of a deodorant to try to mask it, and I shaved thoroughly and applied an aftershave—not Tommy Hilfiger, but some birthday present bottle given to me by one of Sarah's aunts. I ensured every inch of skin was dry before I pulled my white shirt on. I had become a subject of the state again, and dressed observantly. Then my black suit, in which I had fled from Mrs. Carter, and my red tie. The red seemed to rescue the rest from seeming odd for the sort of visit McBrien and the Overguard officer were proposing.
When I emerged from the bedroom, McBrien said, Splendid, and the Overguard, who'd been sitting around, reading some of my books—as if in parody of security forces, ones with pictures, historical tracts, and accounts of archaeological digs—stood up. By the way, said the tall Overguard officer, name's Chaddock.
Pleased to meet you, Mr. Chaddock.
Lieutenant. Passport with you?
No, I said. Are we traveling somewhere?
He smiled. No. But passport's needed.
He would always prove a master of telegraphic speech. I fetched my passport from my desk and put it in my breast pocket.
Down the stairs again, past Mrs. Douglas's mute and afflicted door, and into the Overguard limousine. Lieutenant Chaddock took the front seat with the driver, McBrien and I were allotted the midcar one, and two Overguard men took the seat behind us. The officer named Chaddock turned around smiling jovially. Lights out, he announced. With that the two men behind us slung something over our heads, and I thought of the garrotings in the
Godfather
films. I shamed myself with a huge gasp, and then I realized it was not the blackness of asphyxiation but a mere blindfold, which was then tied and adjusted around my head.
McBrien had heard my fearful intake of breath. This is quite normal, he told me.
The procedure made me sure that we were about to be taken to one of Great Uncle's twenty palaces, and I became fascinated by what I might see, feeling all the more sportive since I did not really fear one of Sonny's or the Overguard's bullets, though I preferred that it came notified rather than as suddenly as my eye mask.
The journey was made faster by the Overguard's absolute right of passage at intersections. There were three palaces within roughly half an hour of my flat, but I had no means of telling how much time had passed, and all conversation had quickly, and perhaps by design, died in the vehicle. At one stage only did McBrien whisper to me, Thanks, Alan.
He probably meant, for calming down. For going along.
Our Overguard limousine paused now. I could hear conversations in remarkably discreet voices. Though Great Uncle came from a rural family, from hayseeds who liked
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