The Garments of Caean

During the course of the evening he fell in with a rather strange young creature calling himself Reggae Elphis, and at length acceded to his suggestion that they adjourn to a nearby wine-tavern. Mast found it refreshing to be accepted as a companion. They sat sipping persimmon wine, which had a fine, bitter flavour. He looked across the table at the young man. Reggae wore an open-jacketed zoot-suit whose incredibly padded shoulders thrusted sharply up and out so that the pointed ends were more or less on a level with his pixie-like ears. The garment set off perfectly his almost phthisic thinness, his jerky, rapid movements. Yet Reggae, for all his youth, had a strikingly self-assured manner. His face was unusually mobile and expressive, though wasted, the skin being drawn close to the bone, the eyes at once restless yet showing a considerable power of concentration. His unhatted hair was high and oiled and combed back in a prow-like manner.

He caught Mast’s eye and smiled enigmatically. Mast looked away.

‘How do you like the place?’ Reggae asked, raising his glass in a salute, the timbre of his voice colourful but slightly off-balance. ‘Do you have taverns like this in Ziode? What’s it like there? Can you have a good time? Or is everything dull and lifeless, like they say?’

‘Oh, you can have a good time, all right,’ Mast drawled. ‘There are some differences, though.’

He started to tell his new friend about Ziode. But his story soon turned into self-pitying complaints about the life he was leading in Caean. ‘Nobody takes any notice of me,’ he said peevishly. ‘I’m just a rotten foreigner here. Everybody makes me feel it.’

Reggae jerked his pointed shoulders sinuously to the rhythm of some music coming from the other end of the tavern, moving his arms back and forth slightly at the same time. ‘You’re unhappy,’ he murmured, his eyes half-closed. ‘We’ve got ways of dealing with that.’ He leaned forward. ‘Nobody need to be a foreigner in Caean. Caean is for all mankind.’

‘Not for Ziodeans.’

‘It’s easy to find yourself with the right gear. You can really get in phase, get coherent. You just need the right sort of …’ Reggae’s voice was caressing and oddly thrilling.

Mast guessed what he was talking about. Reggae probably realized that his clothes hadn’t been made by a native sartorial. But Mast kept quiet. To tell Reggae what he thought of Caean clothing would probably insult him.

He sat back with a sigh, wondering how in the galaxy he came to be sitting in this Caeanic tavern, which even at this hour was half-filled with its weirdly caparisoned patrons and presented as alien a sight as was possible. It seemed like a dream. Sometimes he wondered if he was dreaming. It still seemed unbelievable to him, for instance, that the Little Planet could lumber openly into the Tzist Arm and actually put down in the Verrage countryside without being challenged! After landing, he and Peder had simply walked into Inxa. No one had ever questioned their presence, from that day to this.

Peder had found them a room and they had learned the language from hypno-tapes. Mast, however, had obstinately refused to wear the Caeanic clothes Peder had obtained for him to replace his quite unsuitable prison wear. ‘I’m Ziodean,’ he had said stubbornly. He had been afraid of draping himself in those seductive shapes, and spent the days skulking indoors, refusing to go out.

Peder had been patient with him in those early days, taking pity, perhaps, on his helplessness. Finally Mast had compromised. He wouldn’t wear Caeanic clothes proper, but he would wear garments made by Peder.

At first Peder had demurred at the thought of having to produce something to be worn in Caean; but then he had risen to the challenge. He had purchased tools and fabrics. He had gone to a professional sartorial for tutelage. And, by dint of effort, he had surpassed himself. The results were in fact barely up to Caeanic standards, but Mast thought them magnificent.

Reggae performed a frenetic hand-jive, his lips puckered and his face intent. He seemed miles away, yet Mast became aware that the youth’s attention was still full on him.

‘I’ll do you a favour,’ Reggae said. ‘I’ll take you to my sodality tonight. I belong to a special one … I can take you in as a guest.’ He reached across and patted Mast’s knee comfortingly.

Two more bottles of persimmon wine later Mast’s speech was more slurred and, not really resisting, he went with Reggae to a large house with shuttered windows tucked away in a back street. Within, however, the house had the inward-looking, sated atmosphere of a temple. They passed through a number of rooms, each more cushioned and quilted than the last and clad in perfumes hinting at depravity. Mast was aware of the induction process only vaguely – the murmured explanations, the searching glances in his direction, the discreet air of special privilege.