6: Computers and Kings
Qe.l seu bel cors, baisan, rizen,
descobra,
E qe.l remir contra.l lum de la lampa.
(And that, kissing and smiling, I uncover
(my beloved's) fair body,
And gaze upon it by the lamp-light.)
Arnaut Daniel, Doutz brais e critz
Corrado Alerami, in chainmail and surcoat, was sitting on a mud-brick staircase in the old casbah that served as the Kerak and Jerusalem sets. Rosa spotted him from a distance: not relaxed as most of the other extras were between shoots; more like a mountain lion, appearing to be at ease, but ready to spring in an instant.
"How's the surcoat bearing up?"
He glanced up from the well-thumbed paperback he was reading. "Fine."
"If you need any repairs…"
He smiled wryly. "I daresay I do - but not my surcoat! I'm probably getting too old for this."
"I wouldn't say so."
"My sword-arm feels the strain sometimes."
"Have you tried acupuncture?"
His eyes glinted. "That depends on your definition."
"Massage, then?"
"- Is that an offer?"
"It might be. - What's the book?" It was in French, and had an illustration of a knight on the cover.
"A translation of Walter Scott," he said scornfully. "More Crusades fiction!"
"Ah! The Talisman! Is it any good?"
He chuckled. "It's bullshit! Even worse than our script! God knows what gets into some writers when they tackle this era! This idiot couldn't even get people's names right!"
"Right!" shouted the director through a megaphone. "If you can all get in place! Balian, you're trying to rally the citizens - you've got to show the Patriarch who's in charge here…!"
"Oh f…" he muttered. "And we're meant to believe that?"
Rosa shook her head, despairing. He was right about the credibility of the casting…
More instructions were called out: "Señora Figueiras, can you report back to wardrobe?"
"Sorry - I must dash!"
"Can I see you later?"
She nodded. "Yes, back at the hotel. I'll call round!"
He hid the book behind an earthenware jug, and stood up, stretching. His hair gleamed golden in the sun, but despite filming in the open, his face still had that drained pallor... As she hurried away, she heard him humming a jaunty tune, Domna, pos vos ai chauzida. Someone must have mumbled something to him about it, because she caught his quick retort, "At least it's in-period!"
The shoot went on until early evening, when they were bussed back to the hotel. It was almost ten in the evening when she knocked on the door of his room.
"Who is it?"
"Me. Rosa."
She heard him approach the door; then it sounded as if he were dragging a chair away. Finally, the latch turned.
He was in civilian costume (she could not recall ever seeing him in modern dress) - a simple belted tunic - but wearing a sword.
"Come in," he said drily. "Lasciate ogni speranza..!"
She laughed. "You look as if you're expecting trouble! Did you have the chair up against the door?"
"One can never be too careful. After what happened in Lebanon…"
"Do you have a nose for trouble, then?"
"No, but trouble sometimes has a nose for me. Luckily, I'm usually very good at dealing with it - and turning it to my advantage." He smiled wickedly, and sat down on the edge of the bed.
After the warmth of the corridor, his room was cool, almost chilly: the air-conditioning must be on full, she thought. The only light came from the table lamp and the screen of a laptop (the wallpaper a manuscript illustration of knights in battle) on the bedside table.
"I wondered if you fancied coming down to the bar for a drink, maybe something to eat? I haven't had dinner yet…"
"Is that a hint?"
"Probably."
"Hm. Late dinners are sometimes a bad idea, I find... I have work to do, anyway, before I turn in."
"Oh, I'm sorry for disturbing you! Is it for the film?"
"Not exactly. I'm playing about on the computer, trying to e-mail my family… One of my nephews is very interested in what we're doing here, but…"
"Difficulties?"
He sighed. "Well, yes, to be honest! Spam-filters and such. It's embarrassing to admit, but do you find children know more about working with these damn things than we do?"
She laughed, and nodded. "Yes! My nieces and nephews certainly do! But I suppose they've grown up with them! I'm not bad at it, but they can run rings around me! How old's your nephew?"
"Under ten - and writes his own programmes! My brother-in-law's good, too, but he uses speech-recognition software."
"So what are you trying to do?"
"It's hard to explain. A kind of interactive fiction. If you like, I can show you! We're having a great deal of fun with it."
She giggled. "I didn't come here to play games."
"I know."
"Not on computer, anyway."
He flinched. "Not possible."
"What do you mean? I thought - everything…" She recalled Sibylla's lines from the script, and impersonated her voice playfully: "I'm not here because I'm bored, or wicked…"
"I know. And believe me, I like you. Under other circumstances - in another time or place…"
"But why not here? Or now? They're in and out of each others' rooms all along the corridor! It happens on film-shoots…"
He activated the screen-saver (more knights!), aware that she was leaning over him. "Don't touch me, Rosa, please."
"Is it a phobia?"
"It's my health."
"Come on! I don't think there's that much wrong with you! I saw you running around with a sword most of today, without coughing!" His evasiveness was beginning to irritate her. They'd been flirting with each other for weeks: she did not appreciate being led on and then - this. "What is it? An STD? - Or you still have a wife?"
"No, to the first, and to the second, also no! She married another man when carrying my child! Is that answer enough for you?" he snapped.
"I'm… so sorry."
He gave a slight cough, and stared sullenly at the screen of the laptop. He tapped at the keyboard, and cursed under his breath.
"But still… Corrado…?"
"That's what's on my Italian paperwork; our language comes more easily."
"Conrad, then…?"
"About the accident I was in, years ago, in Lebanon."
"What about it?"
"It was no accident."
"I had figured that out! So what?"
"Rosa," he sighed wearily, "If you get too close… I don't want you to be afraid of me."
"Afraid?" she laughed. "Of what - a few scars? I'm hardly some shrinking-violet teenager!" And half-playful, half in frustration, she sauntered over towards the bed, and, thinking to catch him by surprise, leaned down and kissed him on the mouth.
He was cold. Cold as her grandmother in her coffin, when she was a girl, and had been forced by her mother to kiss her lips... She staggered back, gasping.
"Cold as a corpse!"
"What did you expect?"
She sank down on to the chair. "I-I don't understand…"
He unlaced his tunic and pulled it down from his right shoulder and side (his body was as fine and strong and fair as she had hoped). "Look, Rosa," he said. "How can I be alive?"
The scar was faded, silvery, like the cuts on his hand, but still visible enough: a gash on his breast, as if from a deflected blow - tearing through the nipple and running off towards the side. He raised his arm a little, and she saw an indented scar from a stab-wound, deeper, surely lethal, in the side of his chest, behind the pectoral muscle. She glimpsed, too, in the opening of his tunic a fainter mark along his left collarbone, but that appeared to be the result of a graze, rather than anything life-threatening.
She clapped her hands to her mouth. "Your wounds are mortal?"
"Immortal. It happens sometimes. There's another one under my shoulder-blade."
"This is insane…" She must be hallucinating. Heat-stroke, she told herself. But no: she had kissed his clay-cold lips...
And yet she was not afraid. Seeing his hurts, she longed to reach out to him, hold him, but she could not bring herself to do so… She'd had a few unusual adventures post-divorce, but there were limits. Besides, he clearly disliked being touched and (presumably) reminded that he was dead So she held back.
"When…?" she asked, trying to stay calm.
"1192. 28 April."
"How did it happen?"
"I was returning from my cousin the Bishop's," he said matter-of-factly, as he fastened his tunic again. "I'd hoped to dine with him at his lodgings, but when I got there, he'd already eaten, so I decided to go home. I was joking about it with my squires, when two men stopped us in the street. One of them wanted to show me a letter or petition. As I reached out for it, he struck…" He raised his scarred hand. "I tried to grab one of the knives, but it was too late, and, besides, the other one had jumped up behind… My squires cut down one of the men, and captured the other, but… My lung was pierced."
"Who - what - are you?"
"Some call me the Marqués. Some, the Lord of Tyre. But I am King of Jerusalem," he said and, standing, bowed to her. "And I beseech your help, Na Rosa."
She gulped. "To be able to rest in peace?"
"What for?" He flashed his crooked-toothed smile. "No, I'd just like a hand in setting these damn Spam-filters properly!"
To be continued: Conrad puts his cards on the table…
