Shades of Grey

Three Questions

“You mean,” said the Apocryphal man, once I had explained that he had been ignored only because of an arcane rule, “I’ve been walking around the town naked all these years and people saw?” “Pretty much. But since you don’t technically exist, there can’t be any embarrassment, either.”

“Oh,” he said, much relieved, “thank goodness for that.”

I stared at him for a moment. Apocrypha could be anything from the tangible, like that notoriously unlisted big bird with the long neck that was twice the size of an ostrich, to the abstract—such as a forbidden idea or taboo discussion point. But this was the first human Apocrypha I’d encountered. The thing was, he didn’t look any different from us—except for his postcode, which was truncated. He had NS-B4 scarred just below his collarbone. I was going to ask him why, but it seemed rude. Besides, he spoke first.

“That broth last night was excellent, wasn’t it?” he said.

“I’ll have to take your word for it.”

“What was for pudding?”

“Pickled onions and custard. Can I ask a question?”

“It depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“On whether you have any jam.”

“I’ve got lots,” I replied, delighted that the Apocryphal man could be bought so cheaply.

“But not any jam,” he added with a mischievous grin. “I want . . . loganberry!”

This was another matter entirely. Jam was expensive, but you could get it. Loganberry, however, was a bit like off-gamut color. It existed, but was almost impossible to get your hands on. It was the preserve of the Ultraviolets, and its manufacture was strictly controlled. The Apocryphal man saw my face fall and giggled.

“Yes, loganberry. My question-to-jam ratio is three to one. One jar, three questions. It’s a good deal.”

“One jar for five questions,” I suggested.

His face fell.

“You have loganberry?”

“Possibly.”

“Then . . . two questions and a follow-on.”

“You said three just now!”

“That was when I thought you didn’t have any.”

“Four.”

“I respect a hard bargainer,” he conceded. “Three questions, a juicy snippet and some wisdom. Final offer.”

“Okay.”

“You do have some loganberry, I take it?”

As chance would have it, I did. A jar that I’d been given many years before, just after Mother succumbed to the Mildew. I fetched it from my valise and handed it over. The Apocryphal man took the jar gratefully and, using his grubby fingers in a most revolting manner, proceeded to eat the entire pot. I watched in dismay as he devoured in a couple of minutes something that would have taken me at least six months. I stood in silence until he had scraped out the last atom of jam and licked his fingers, which were now a good deal cleaner.

“That was good,” he remarked agreeably, handing back the empty jar. “What’s the first question?”

I thought for a moment. His demi-postcode was intriguing, but there were bigger questions to ask.

“Why are you Apocryphal?”

“I’m actually a historian. Head Office always felt it would be easier to study society if those doing the studying were invisible, so that’s why I am ignored by statute. It’s just been a while, and I think I may have become muddled. But then they canceled history during one of those interminable Leapbacks, and here I am, like a cobbler in a world without feet.”

“Why did they Leapback history?” I asked.

“It was a logical extension to the deFacting,” replied the historian with a sigh, “and in a world devoted to Stasis, there’s no real need for it. After all, this week is not substantially different from last week, or next week, or a week I can remember thirty-seven years ago. Oh, no, hang on, I got married that week.

Okay, the week after that.”

“I wasn’t in the world thirty-seven years ago,” I replied, “so it was substantially different to me.”

“What was your grandfather’s name?”

“Same as mine: Eddie.”

“And his postcode?”

“Same . . . as mine. I see what you mean. But my grandfather wasn’t me.”

“He might as well have been. In the grand scheme of things, there’s no real difference. Not to the Collective as a whole, and certainly not to Head Office.”

I pondered on this for a moment. My grandfather would have used the same furniture and lived in the same house. He would have known the same facts and wanted the same things in life. He had even looked like me. The only thing different was that he would have seen less red. I mentioned this last fact to the historian.

“Stasis, but with circulation. But color, you recall, has no color. You’re not really Red—just one soul in transition, making his spiraling way through the hive—part of the Chromatic Circle.”

He was right. The circle principle was sound and embodied in Munsell’s writings: “Today a Purple, tomorrow a Grey,” I quoted. “Tomorrow a Yellow, a Blue today.”

“Simple, isn’t it? It’s not by chance the longest time anyone has been Grey is five generations.”

“In theory,” I said, since some families had “ovaled the circle” by being brightly hued for longer than was usual—the Oxbloods and the deMauves, the Cobalts and the Buttercups. In fact, the lack of Grey families was the chief reason for the overemployment problem—that and the lack of postcodes to reallocate.

The Apocryphal man shrugged.

“It’s only been going for five hundred years and might need some tweaking. Second question?”

“What happened to Robin Ochre?”

The Apocryphal man stared at me.

“Careful,” he said, “information can liberate but also imprisonate. Ochre was skittering right on the edge of the Rules and drew attention to himself.”

“You mean he was murdered?”

“They wouldn’t see it as such, and if it was murder, it was committed in a very pleasant way. I’ve not partaken of green myself, but I understand that if you have to go, the Green Room is an exceptionally agreeable way to do it.”

“Who murdered him?”

He shook his head and sighed deeply. “I blame myself. He had questions and I directed him toward the truth. But if you want answers in a world where hiding them is not only desirable but mandated, you have to take risks. I understand Zane is dead as well?”

“Yesterday at Vermillion. The Mildew.”

“It was as he expected,” he muttered. “Last question?”

“Are wheelbarrows made of bronze?”

The Apocryphal man raised an eyebrow.

“That’s it?”

I shrugged.

“Listen,” he said, “perhaps you don’t get it, but I was once a historian.

The closest thing you’ll ever get to meeting the Oracle. I can remember the days when Ford flatheads were the vehicles of choice, and Model Ts languished in museums. I’ve seen the advance of the rhododendron and the retreat of general knowledge. I’ve got more information in my head than you’ll forget in twelve lifetimes, and you ask me if wheelbarrows are made of bronze?”

“It’s been annoying me since this morning.”

The Apocryphal man tilted his head on one side and stared at me.

“Wheelbarrows aren’t made of bronze.”

“Then how did I fall on it when I trod the roadway last night? Perpetulite automatically removes all debris—except bronze, as far as I can see.”

“Be careful with all that dangerous reason,” he said after a pause. “The Collective abhors square pegs.”

“Unless the hole is meant to be square,” I said with a sudden erudition that surprised me, “in which case, all the round pegs are the ones that are wrong, and if the round hole is one that is not meant to be square, then the square ones will, no, hang on—”

“Shame,” said the historian, “and you were doing so well. Keep your head down, Edward. Those that see too much quickly find themselves seeing nothing at all.”

I didn’t really understand, but then I don’t think I was meant to.

“You’ve had your three questions. So here’s the the bonus snippet: Sally Gamboge uses Tommo for carnal relief.”

“That . . . explains quite a lot.”

“It does, doesn’t it? Being the invisible part of the Spectrum can be lonely, but one does get all the best gossip. Okay, this is the wisdom: First, time spent on reconnaissance is never wasted. Second, almost anything can be improved with the addition of bacon. And finally, there is no problem on earth that can’t be ameliorated by a hot bath and a cup of tea.”

“That’s good wisdom.”

“It was good jam. And jam is knowledge. Will you be at the Chromogentsia meeting this evening?”

I told him that I would—but as a helper and unlikely to speak.

“I always drop by. It’s quite amusing, really—and the food is generally good.”

“I’ll see you there, then.”

“No, you won’t. I’m Apocryphal, remember?”