sightlessly dark, absolutely silent but for the
sound of his own respiration, and the Merkin felt a ripple of
sadness impinge on his customary exuberance, prompted perhaps by
the loneliness of the locale, a wilderness of raiments he had once
loved, now disdained by everyone but himself.
He moved on after a little, escaped to open
air again and took a long breath of it, pungent with perfume from a
sprawling pit of towels and blankets, their orange and green and
red hues plainly disclosed by the white regard of a robed gnome
dangling overhead. He knew this place, or at least its general
location in the laundry, had used it before as a reference for
secrecy-minded excursions, mostly when he needed to write.
Clutching his play script close, he sprinted forward down a long
slope, trampling piled textiles underfoot with a skillful,
high-kneed gait that kept his legs free from entanglement by their
treacherously varying topology. He accelerated almost to a sprint,
glorying for a moment in the unwitnessed thrill of total exertion,
then slowed as the strata of blankets leveled out and lifted,
bringing him to a steep premonitory that overlooked a sodden pit of
sweaters and casual jackets and who knew what else. Water lurked
underneath.
Skirting this shadowy farrago, he followed a
greenish light angling between two great piles of cuff-flared denim
jeans to emerge in a relatively well-ordered territory of clothing
that was close to the outer boundary of actively maintained
apparel. It was still quiet, but he thought he could hear sounds of
distant labor as he strode up a long arc of neat canvas flooring to
a crossroad where one of the major thoroughfares through the
laundry bordered the hinterlands of outmoded garb. He heard a
distant giggle and instantly reestablished his customary,
self-conscious deportment. It would not do to be seen in some
undignified light by his servants. Soon he was among them.
The modern territories of the laundry were
populated by formally dressed slipper women, eyes lowered and hands
busy as etiquette specified. They were found everywhere the Merkin
required them, readying wares for his shops in the City, or finding
costumes and props for his theater, or implementing a change in
fashion for their own bodies—the Merkin regularly altered the style
of their attire to quench his ceaseless obsession with female
flesh.
At present those near him were managing an
immense bundle of freshly cleansed stockings, maneuvering it into a
sink, a flooded depression in the canvas flooring irrigated by the
water ceaselessly aggregating under the Tent. Soap bubbles wandered
everywhere, some broader than his arms could circle, shimmering
transflective orbs whorling with faint chromatic seas. The air was
redolent of various perfumes used in his detergents.
He passed a mannerman, one of a host of
special minions who walked the Tent and City streets, vigilant for
deviations from the Merkin’s standard of fashion. This constantly
shifting code specified formal clothing where his power was
strongest; the Tent, park and clothing boutiques at the City’s
center. It imposed casual garb on citizens for a wide radius around
that, and lingerie to the limit of his influence over the other
judges, near the Gnomon’s Tower and Dowser’s Club. The mannermen
were big, unsmiling fellows that dressed with intimidating skill,
and they could manifest in large numbers at need, making them a
feared power everywhere they ranged.
The Merkin trod past a
watchful doorman guarding a tubular fabric ramp called a sleeve. This one served as a major conduit to the second level of the Tent, and he strode
easily among throngs of deferential workers heading up for various
obligations of their service to him. Navigating a wide, bustling
corridor around the Tent’s perimeter, he made his way past another
wary doorman stationed at a richly draperied archway to emerge in
the theater .
An informal audience was
already in place, chattering in blithe
sound of his own respiration, and the Merkin felt a ripple of
sadness impinge on his customary exuberance, prompted perhaps by
the loneliness of the locale, a wilderness of raiments he had once
loved, now disdained by everyone but himself.
He moved on after a little, escaped to open
air again and took a long breath of it, pungent with perfume from a
sprawling pit of towels and blankets, their orange and green and
red hues plainly disclosed by the white regard of a robed gnome
dangling overhead. He knew this place, or at least its general
location in the laundry, had used it before as a reference for
secrecy-minded excursions, mostly when he needed to write.
Clutching his play script close, he sprinted forward down a long
slope, trampling piled textiles underfoot with a skillful,
high-kneed gait that kept his legs free from entanglement by their
treacherously varying topology. He accelerated almost to a sprint,
glorying for a moment in the unwitnessed thrill of total exertion,
then slowed as the strata of blankets leveled out and lifted,
bringing him to a steep premonitory that overlooked a sodden pit of
sweaters and casual jackets and who knew what else. Water lurked
underneath.
Skirting this shadowy farrago, he followed a
greenish light angling between two great piles of cuff-flared denim
jeans to emerge in a relatively well-ordered territory of clothing
that was close to the outer boundary of actively maintained
apparel. It was still quiet, but he thought he could hear sounds of
distant labor as he strode up a long arc of neat canvas flooring to
a crossroad where one of the major thoroughfares through the
laundry bordered the hinterlands of outmoded garb. He heard a
distant giggle and instantly reestablished his customary,
self-conscious deportment. It would not do to be seen in some
undignified light by his servants. Soon he was among them.
The modern territories of the laundry were
populated by formally dressed slipper women, eyes lowered and hands
busy as etiquette specified. They were found everywhere the Merkin
required them, readying wares for his shops in the City, or finding
costumes and props for his theater, or implementing a change in
fashion for their own bodies—the Merkin regularly altered the style
of their attire to quench his ceaseless obsession with female
flesh.
At present those near him were managing an
immense bundle of freshly cleansed stockings, maneuvering it into a
sink, a flooded depression in the canvas flooring irrigated by the
water ceaselessly aggregating under the Tent. Soap bubbles wandered
everywhere, some broader than his arms could circle, shimmering
transflective orbs whorling with faint chromatic seas. The air was
redolent of various perfumes used in his detergents.
He passed a mannerman, one of a host of
special minions who walked the Tent and City streets, vigilant for
deviations from the Merkin’s standard of fashion. This constantly
shifting code specified formal clothing where his power was
strongest; the Tent, park and clothing boutiques at the City’s
center. It imposed casual garb on citizens for a wide radius around
that, and lingerie to the limit of his influence over the other
judges, near the Gnomon’s Tower and Dowser’s Club. The mannermen
were big, unsmiling fellows that dressed with intimidating skill,
and they could manifest in large numbers at need, making them a
feared power everywhere they ranged.
The Merkin trod past a
watchful doorman guarding a tubular fabric ramp called a sleeve. This one served as a major conduit to the second level of the Tent, and he strode
easily among throngs of deferential workers heading up for various
obligations of their service to him. Navigating a wide, bustling
corridor around the Tent’s perimeter, he made his way past another
wary doorman stationed at a richly draperied archway to emerge in
the theater .
An informal audience was
already in place, chattering in blithe
Similar Books
