The Glass Ocean(119)

            The rest. Thousands of stilled breaths there, in these boxes. Thousands of lifeless, formerly living things. And that soft sibilance: the sound of specimens breathing.

            I wonder if my grandfather, Felix Girard, the collector, the explorer, the naturalist, he whose remarkable regio frontalis, regio orbitalis, regio zygomatica, large feet, long fingers, thrusting elbows, broad back, and ginger hair I have inherited—did he ever hear the sound of his lifeless specimens, breathing?

            Maybe that was why he collected them—why he grabbed and gathered and piled up as much and as fast as he could, why he disappeared over the edge of the earth, still desperately grasping and clutching and snatching—going over—past the edge—taking my mother with him, in the end. To obtain the company of these many strange, lifeless respirations.

            To replace a single, beloved, living breath that had gone away?

            • • •

            No. He preferred these. This is hardest of all to understand. Though there is much company here, among my grandfather’s boxes. This I acknowledge.

            • • •

            Imagine the ghosts!

            I walk between them, think, what are these to me? Though the wind rattles fiercely, causing all my father’s flames to flicker. This is not a reassuring thing, when surrounded by ghosts.

            But then, of course, I have my own ghost, I take her with me everywhere. Sometimes she even speaks to me, or so it seems.

            Carlotta.

            Soft susurration of wind.

            Carlotta!

            Irritated now. Impatient. Peremptory.

            Oh angry ghost.

            Burst of wind, gust, sudden upspark of flame, tinkling, sighing, coruscation of glass. The boxes sway.

            Carlotta!

            Finally I see her, just a glimpse, between the stacks. Tangled gold gleam, pale smooth cheek, whorl of ear. Pink and white. She’s beautiful, your Ma.

            Carlotta!

            There is another fierce burst of wind and the door flies open, Harry Owen is saying, It’s a damn fine vessel!

            My father is less certain. Though Harry Owen thinks they should take advantage immediately.

            But, he says, you must make more glass. She won’t go on like this forever, you know.

            Yes.

            My father admits that this is true.

            Nobody will give money for nothing, says Harry Owen.

            I emerge then, into their company, and Harry Owen tells me that the patroness, she who has been taken, has donated a small, seaworthy vessel for their use, his and my father’s. It’s wonderful news! And a diving suit, he says, the latest thing. Rouquayrol and Denayrouse. Great excitement, expressed as bristling of beard.

            Less so for my father. I’m n-not an ex-p-plorer, Harry.

            Eyes large and dark, thin, pale gesture toward a neck. I look at him closely: he’s a stranger, too. He notices me looking. Expression turns evasive.

            I’m d-doing the best I c-can, Harry.

            This is for my benefit also.

            Anxiously rubbing one wrist against the other.

            A sensation as of sinking through black water, bubbles rushing upward, colliding, humming as of a thousand bees in my ears, or is that just the wind—

            The wind.