Concord, Chapter 4

The Commodore's garden

The story so far: Saul Klein, Second Founder of Concord, a floating libertarian city-state, is haunted by guilt, regret, and fractured memories of his lover Suzanne, who was left behind during their flight from the mainland. A chance encounter with a trio of desperate refugees forced Saul to confront the brutal machinery of the society he helped create. Now he must grapple with his place in the tightly controlled floating village. Meanwhile, he’s been drawn into the struggles of Lila, the troubled daughter of the First Founder, Saul’s old partner Marco. Her startling confession of pregnancy persuades Saul that Concord is no place for her child to be born. But how can they possibly escape when their every move is being watched?

---

Saul went home, stashed his contraband, showered, almost choked by the heat of unfamiliar feeling in his chest. His mind was filled with thoughts of Lila, his secret daughter, and the child she was carrying. He had promised to help her. He tried to imagine what that might mean, for both of them.

He went mechanically through his day at the Lyceum. Jean avoided him; Lila, he discovered, hadn’t come to school at all. The other students seemed more listless than usual; Mi-yeon, normally so attentive, put her head down on her desk and didn’t lift it until the bell rang. David’s leg never stopped jiggling. When class was over he paused in the doorway as though he wanted to say something to his teacher, but then shook his head and went out. Saul wandered the halls for a while. Was it his imagination or could none of them, students or colleagues, meet his eye? He paused outside the headmaster’s office, half expecting the door to burst open and for poor cuckolded Frank Rodefer to fly out in righteous fury, offering him bodily harm. He would have welcomed such a confrontation. But the headmaster’s office door remained closed.

They’re watching me, Saul thought. But two can play that game. Let’s see what the Commodore has to say for himself.

After work he followed a flagstone pathway forward of Walden Pond, away from the village center, past larger houses than the ones in his own neighborhood. These were the houses of the corporate officers, a Tudor manse, a brutalist townhouse, a Victorian gingerbread. All projections, of course. As Second Founder he was entitled to one of his own; he’d refused, fearing what would become of him in a large empty house. The next-to-last house was Marco’s villa, done up in Mission style. The blinds were drawn and the place looked lifeless. Was Lila inside, looking out at him? The highest floor, he knew, was where Marco lurked. When was the last time he’d been seen in public? Founder’s Day last summer, was it? Or had that been two summers ago, or even three? Maybe he’s not in there at all, Saul thought. Maybe he’s up in the Conn, or down in the understructure. He’s left her all alone. A spasm of feeling, mingled rage and guilt, made him dizzy for a moment, and he paused to lean against a lamppost, hoping no one saw.

The last house in the officers’ district stood apart from the others, a steep-roofed Georgian with a green cupola, hemmed all around by high hedges. He followed the outermost line of hedges to the rear gate. Pausing, he heard the snip-snip of shears and what sounded like humming, along with the occasional grate of gravel. He took a breath, then pushed the gate open and stepped inside.

This was the outer garden, a maze of hedgerows and topiary animals of a nautical persuasion: dolphins, orcas, a privet shrub sculpted into the shape of an octopus. Standing with his back to Saul was a young man in green coveralls, attending to a narwhal’s horn through which violets had been threaded. He had long lank hair and a slender build, and even in quarter profile Saul could see the habitually contemptuous cast of his face. He imagined rushing forward and impaling the young man on the narwhal’s horn, but instead he cleared his throat. The gardener turned, a large set of pruning shears held against his chest. It’s surprising, Saul told himself, how little he looks like his father; his mother he’d never known. Nikolai’s habitual smirk flickered for a moment; his eyes were deadly. Forcing himself to keep his voice level, hands at his sides, Saul asked, “Is he in?”

Nikolai lifted up his shears with both hands and snipped the air viciously with them, as though separating Saul from his words. “Poolside.”

The narrow hedges meant he had to brush past the younger man on his way to the back garden. He felt his scalp prickle as the shears snip-snipped again, it seemed inches from the back of his neck. He forced himself not to glance back at the snake in the Commodore’s garden.

The sun pooled and warmed the air on the patio behind the Commodore’s house, shimmering on the surface of the swimming pool beside which the great man reclined. A statue of Poseidon rose preposterously from a plinth at the pool’s center, brandishing his trident, blind eyes staring at the sky. The Commodore wore white swim trunks and a fluffy white robe, open to display his still-broad chest, tufted with white clumps of hair. Aviator sunglasses, a Greek fisherman’s cap, and a massive mustache almost entirely concealed his face. Hearing Saul’s footsteps on the gravel walk he roared, in a voice suitable for shouting down gales, “Who goes there?”

“Permission to come aboard, sir.”

“Permission granted. Take a seat.” He lifted a hand to indicate the wrought-iron armchair by his side, next to a glass-topped table upon which sweated a pitcher of lemonade. “Help yourself to a beverage if you like. Or shall I ask Nicky to get you something stronger?”

“I don’t want anything from that little shit.”

The Commodore guffawed. “He is a little shit, you’re right about that. Still, you know the old saying: keep your friends close, keep the children of your enemies even closer.”

Nikolai was the Constable’s only son. “Is Sergei your enemy, Commodore?”

“Figure of speech,” said the Commodore, waving a dismissive hand. “How’s the forehead?”

Saul touched the bandage; he’d forgotten it was still there. “Healing.”

“Glad to hear it. Cheers.”

Saul drank his lemonade. The two of them sat there for a little while listening to the fussy snip-snip of Nikolai’s pruning shears. The sky smiled blue and blameless.

“I’ll never get used to it,” Saul said. “Sitting in a garden with no bees.”

“That’s what Nicky’s for.” The Commodore called to his factotum. “Isn’t that right, Nicky?”

Nikolai grunted in answer.

“We started out with bees, didn’t we?”

“Bees?” the Commodore said roughly. “Of course we did. And many other useful species too. Ants. Hummingbirds. Earthworms. Most of them weren’t viable, not for the long haul. You know that. We've had to learn to do everything for ourselves.” He peered at Saul. “Is this a social call?”

Saul set down his empty glass. “There was an incident yesterday.”

“Another one?” The Commodore shrugged. “If it’s unrelated to Navigation, or Stores, or the structural integrity of the vessel, then it’s not my department.”

“A topside incident,” Saul said. “A hygiene incident. Sergei didn’t tell you?”

“We don’t talk that often.”

“Not even about Nikolai?”

“Especially not him.”

“What about the chain of command?” Saul asked. “If he’s holding back vital information, that a violation of the Articles.”

The Commodore waved a hand in exasperation. “Oh, I get reports,” he said. “Dozens of reports a week, hundreds a month, thousands a year. The Constabulary keeps itself busy, justifying its own existence. It’s a bureaucracy. Exactly the sort of thing we left the mainland to avoid, right? The goddamn deep state.” He snorted. “I’m sure your incident has been filed appropriately.” He lifted his head questioningly. “How did you hear about it, anyway? Were you involved?”

Saul ignored the second question. “He told me about it.”

“Damn peculiar. Any details?”

Saul shook his head.

“Curious.” The Commodore’s eyes were unreadable behind his sunglasses. “And before he told you, you knew nothing about it?”

“No,” Saul said. “I was hoping you might tell me. Once it’s been filed.”

The Commodore sat up, blowing like a walrus, and lumbered to his feet. He walked to the edge of the pool and tested the water with his toes. He made a wry expression. “Too cold.”

Saul watched as the Commodore took off his robe, folded it, then carefully set his sunglasses and cap on the pile. His face was craggy, majestic. With considerable grace the old man dived into the water and came up whooping. He swam to the pool’s edge where Saul sat and propped himself up on his arms. “What you’re asking for,” he said, “would violate that chain of command business you’re so keen about.”

“You’re the Commodore. Use your discretion.”

“Discretion.” The Commodore shook his head. “Do you think you’ve been discreet, Saul?”

Saul said, “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

The Commodore pushed away from the side of the pool and swam another lap. He paused, treading water in Poseidon’s shadow. “Can I give you some advice?” he called. “Stay on the path.”

“Stay on the path,” Saul repeated.

The Commodore shook water out of his enviably lush white curls. “Stay on the path, and stay healthy. You don’t want to get a reputation for eccentricity.”

The wide watery eyes of Dr. Moody, so much like her daughter’s, intruded on Saul’s thoughts. His nostrils were full of the stink of chlorine and the heavy scent of roses.

“We’ve built something here, Saul, all of us, together.” The Commodore pulled himself out of the pool and stood dripping before Saul with his hands on his hips. “You have built something. Something infinitely precious and infinitely fragile. A way of life. A good life. We must do everything we can to protect it. Sergei’s doing his job. You do yours.”

“A good life,” Saul echoed. “Sure.”

Behind the Commodore Nikolai knelt before a rosebush, embarked on the most delicate of his tasks: with a long little instrument like a paintbrush he caressed delicately the cups and stamens of the reddest of the Commodore’s roses. He looked like one of the playing-card gardeners from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, working methodically to paint the white roses red before the homicidal Queen of Hearts could notice his mistake.

“I’m not sure about this,” the Commodore said, drying himself with a fluffy white towel. “I don’t want any trouble. The Constable is responsible for the safety of the shareholders, and he won’t appreciate any interference. I know just how he feels.”

“I’m not asking for any interference. I don’t even want to see the report he files.”

The Commodore looked truly surprised for the first time. “You don’t?”

“I don’t,” Saul said. “I just want to know if it exists.”

The Commodore barked a laugh. “I don’t know, Saul. Either you’re losing your grip, or I am.” Saul waited. “I make no promises. I’ll see what I can do.”

“That’s all I ask.”

The Commodore wagged a finger at him. “But I want something in return.”

“What?”

“Stay out of trouble.” The Commodore’s face turned serious, even grim. “Stay away from the edge.”

Saul thought of the curtain of steel that was Concord’s hull, gray steel falling into gray water. “Are you speaking literally?” he asked. “Or figuratively?”

“Both.” The Commodore belted on his robe and slipped his feet into a pair slides. “I’ll walk you out.”

They had to pass Nikolai, still intent on his task. Gravel crunched underfoot. Saul said, “I don’t understand how you can keep him around, let him live in your house. You know what he did to the Moodys.”

“Not so loud,” the Commodore chided. After they’d walked a few steps, he said, “Nicky is my insurance policy. You ought to think about getting one yourself.”

They were at the gate. The Commodore extended his hand and Saul shook it. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Saul,” the Commodore said softly. “It’s a dangerous game. If Sergei decides you’re a threat to the community, I won’t be able to help you. Not even Marco will.”

The migraine throb, quiet all day, suddenly pressed like a dagger against the back of his right eye. Trying not to wince, Saul said, “I can take care of myself.”

“Glad to hear it.” The Commodore squeezed Saul’s shoulder. “Safe walk home, now.”

Saul watched him go into the house. Nikolai was still visible at the corner of the hedgerow, kneeling with his pollination tools before some flowering shrub. Saul wondered if he ever thought about Dawn Moody, about her grieving father or her mad mother. What kind of children are these? he wondered, not for the first time. What have we done to them? He saw the vulnerable curve of Nikolai’s neck and a throb of sorrow shook him. He swung the gate shut behind him with a bang.

Nikolai glanced after him before returning to his task, rigid with concentration, the cups of the roses upturned tenderly to his hand.