The Book of Revelation by Rupert Thomson Page B

a tent, only it was a tent built out of the most sumptuous fabrics, crimson and violet and gold, and furnished with tropical plants, carpets of hand-woven silk, and leather cushions that had been embroidered with velvet, mirror-glass and suede. He could have been transported to a Berber dwelling high in the Atlas Mountains.
    “Well?” Gertrude said. “What do you think of it?”
    He hadn’t been expecting anything quite so elaborate, and he told her so, which seemed to please her.
    The day passed slowly. He had the strangest feeling that he was involved in the venture with them—that they were, all four of them, collaborating. . . . Towards nightfall he was taken to the bathroom. While he was there, they told him that this would be his last visit to the toilet until after the banquet. They could not afford to have any interruptions, they said. They wanted the evening to be seamless.
    On his return to the room, they spread a length of gold material over the rubber mat, then asked him to lie down on his back with his arms by his sides and his legs together, like a soldier standing to attention. This created a long, narrow trough which they then began to fill with all kinds of antipasti . They placed artichoke hearts between his ankles, then piled a selection of olives, gherkins and pickled onions on to his calves, along with carrots, sticks of celery, cherry tomatoes and green beans. On either side of his knees they put a risotto of asparagus and prawns. Along his thighs lay salads of rocket and watercress, arugula and radicchio, already dressed with a light vinaigrette. Nestling close to his testicles were wedges of fried aubergine and seared red pepper, with crescents of white onion and thick half-moons of wild garlic. On the soft bed of his pubic hair they arranged the shellfish—mussels, clams, oysters and scallops—all bought fresh that morning, so they claimed. On his belly lay a whole baked salmon, garnished with lemon and parsley. On his solar plexus the sauces and relishes were to be found: mustard, horseradish, aioli, hollandaise. His chest was decorated with medals of cold meat—salami, prosciutto, bresaola. Roast quails nested in his armpits and his collarbones, and, on his shoulders, like armour, lay overlapping slices of turkey, duck and veal. It took more than an hour to arrange the meal, and, by the end, there was scarcely a square inch of his body that was not a receptacle for one delicacy or another. Though naked, he felt strangely clothed.
    Maude left the room, returning with two candelabra, which she positioned carefully, one at his head, the other at his feet. His food-encrusted body glistened in the warm, gold light.
    “A feast,” Gertrude said. “A real feast.”
    “A work of art,” Astrid said.
    “Remember,” Gertrude said, and she was addressing him directly now, “not a word from you. Not a sound. Not unless it’s absolutely necessary. If you have to move, move slowly. Nothing sudden or violent. Is that clear?”
    He nodded.
    At that moment, from somewhere deep in the house, came the clumsy jangle of a bell. Maude leaned down and gently drew a hood over his head, a cloth hood with a drawstring round the neck. One of his hands rose involuntarily towards his face.
    “You will be able to breathe quite easily,” Gertrude said.
    “Yes,” Maude said. “I have tried it myself.”
    •
    It was a long evening—seemingly endless, in fact. So far as he could tell, ten people attended the banquet, seven women and three men. Two of the men were American, and both spoke Dutch fluently. Somebody—a woman, presumably—was wearing bangles, which were tortoiseshell, he imagined, or amber; they clicked loudly as they slid up and down her forearm. Somebody else smoked throughout the meal. He could hear the brisk rasp of a lighter in his left ear.
    At first he could feel people touching him in different places as they helped themselves to the food that was laid out in front of them. After that,