The Prospect Cards
DON TUMASONIS
Dear Mr Cathcart,
We are happy to provide, enclosed with this letter, our complete description of item no. 83 9 from our recent catalogue Twixt Hammam and Minaret: 19th and Some Early 20th Century-Travel in the Middle East, Anatolia, Nubia, etc., as requested by yourself.
You are lucky in that our former cataloguer, Mr Mokley, had, in what he thought were his spare moments, worked to achieve an extremely full description of this interesting group of what are probably unique items . Certainly no others to whom we have shown these have seen any similar, nor have been able to provide any clew as to their ultimate provenance.
They were purchased by one of our buyers on a trip to Paris, where, unusually - since everyone thinks the bouquinistes were mined out long ago - they were found in a stall on the Left Bank. Once having examined his buy later that evening, he determined to return the following day to the vendor in search of any related items. Alas, there were no others, and the grizzled old veteran running the boxes had no memory of when or where he purchased these, saying only that he had them for years, perhaps since the days of Marmier, actually having forgotten their existence until they were unearthed through the diligence of our employee. Given the circumstance of their discovery (covered with dust, stuffed in a sealed envelope tucked away in a far corner of a green tin box clamped onto a quay of the Seine, with volumes of grimy tomes in front concealing their being), we are lucky to have even these.
Bear in mind, that as an old and valued customer, you may have this lot at 10% off the catalogue price, postfree, with insurance additional, if desired.
Remaining, with very best wishes indeed. Yours most faithfully,
Basil Barnet
BARNET AND KORT,
ANTIQUARIAN TRAVEL BOOKS AND EPHEMERA
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Postal view cards, commercially produced, various manufacturers, together with a few photographs mounted on card, comprising a group of 74. Mostly sepia and black-and-white, with a few contemporary tinted, showing scenes from either Balkans, or Near or Middle East, ca. 1920-30. The untranslated captions, when they occur, are bilingual, with one script resembling Kyrillic, but not in Russian or Bulgarian; the other using the Arabic alphabet, in some language perhaps related to Turco-Uighuric.
Unusual views of as yet unidentified places and situations, with public and private buildings, baths, squares, harbours, minarets, markets, etc. Many of the prospects show crowds and individuals in the performance of divers actions and work, sometimes exotic. Several of the cards contain scenes of an erotic or disturbing nature. A number are typical touristic souvenir cards, generic products picturing exhibits from some obscure museum or collection. In spite of much expended effort, we have been unable to identify the locales shown.
Entirely unfranked, and without address, about a third of these have on their verso a holographic ink text, in a fine hand by an unidentified individual, evidently a travel diary or journal (non-continuous, with many evident lacuna:). Expert analysis would seem to indicate 1930 or slightly later as the date of writing.
Those cards with handwriting have been arranged in rough order by us, based on internal evidence, although the chronology is often unclear and the order therefore arbitrary. Only these cards - with a single exception - are described, each with a following transcription of the verso holograph text; the others, about 50 cards blank on verso, show similar scenes and objects. Our hypothetical reconstruction of the original sequence is indicated through lightly pencilled numbers at the upper right verso corner ol each card.
Condition: Waterstain across top edges, obscuring all of the few details of date and place of composition. Wear along edges and particularly at corners. A couple of cards rubbed; the others, aside from the faults already noted, mostly quite fresh and untouched.
Very Rare. In our considered opinion, the cards in themselves are likely to be unique, no others having been recorded to now; together with the unusual document they contain, they are certainly so.
Price: £1,650
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Description: A dock, in some Levantine port. A number of men and animals, mostly mules, are congregated around a moored boat with sails, from which large tonnes, evidently containing wine, labelled as such in Greek, are being either loaded or unshipped.
Text: not sculling, but rather rowing, the Regatta of ‘12, for which his brother coxswained. Those credentials were good enough for Harrison and myself, our credulity seen in retrospect as being somewhat naive, and ourselves as rather gullible; such, however, is all hindsight. For the time being, we were very happy at having met fellow countrymen - of the right sort, mind you - in this godforsaken backwater at a time when our fortunes, bluntly put, had taken a turn for much the worse. When Forsythe, looking to his partner Calquon, asked ‘George, we need the extra hands - what say I tell Jack and Charles about our plans?’ To that Calquon only raised an eyebrow, as if to say it’s your show, go and do as you think fit. Forsythe, taking that as approval, ordered another round, and launched into a little speech, which, when I think back on the events of the past weeks, had perhaps less of an unstudied quality than his seemingly impromptu delivery would have implied. Leaning forward, he drew from his breast pocket a postal view card, and placed it on the table, saying in a lowered voice, as if we were fellow conspirators being drawn in, ‘What would you think if I told you, that from here, in less than one day’s sail and a following week’s march, there is to be found something of such value, which if the knowledge of it became common, would
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Description: A view of a mountain massif, clearly quite high and rugged, seen from below at an angle, with consequent foreshortening. A fair amount of snow is sprinkled over the upper heights. A thick broken line in white, retouch work, coming from behind and around one of several summits, continues downward along and below the ridge-line before disappearing. This evidently indicates a route.
Text:—ania and Zog. Perfidious folk! Perfidious people. Luckily, our packet steamer had arrived and was ready to take us off. A night’s sailing, and the better part of the next day took us to our destination, or rather, to the start of our journey. After some difficulty in finding animals and muleteers, we loaded our supplies, hired guides, and after two difficult days, arrived at the foothills of the mountains depicted on the obverse of this card. Our lengthy and labourious route took us ultimately up these, where we followed the voie normale, the same as shown by the white hatched line. Although extremely steep and exposed, the slope was not quite sheer and we lost only one mule and no men during the 1500-yard descent. Customs - if such a name can be properly applied to such outright thieves - were rapacious, and confiscated much of what we had, including my diary and notes. Thus the continuation on these cards, which represent the only form of paper allowed for sale to the
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Description: A panorama view of a Levantine or perhaps Balkan town of moderate to large size, ringed about by snow-covered mountains in the distance. Minarets and domes are visible, as is a very large public building with columns, possibly Greco-Roman, modified to accommodate some function other than its original religious one, so that the earlier elements appear draped about with other stylistic intrusions.
Text: vista. With the sun setting, and accommodation for the men and food for the animals arranged, we were able to finally relax momentarily and give justice, if only for a short while, to the magnificence of the setting in which the old city was imbedded, like a pearl in a filigreed ring. I’ve seen a lot of landscapes, ‘round the world, and believe me, this was second to none. The intoxicating beauty of it all made it almost easy to believe the preposterous tales that inspired Calquon, and particularly Forsythe, to persuade us to join them on this tossed-together expedition. I frankly doubt that anything will come of it except our forcing another chink in the isolation which has kept this fascinating place inviolate to such a degree that few Westerners have penetrated its secrets over the many centuries since the rumoured group of Crusaders forced their
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Description: A costume photograph, half-length, of a young woman in ethnic or tribal costume, veiled. The décolletage is such that her breasts are completely exposed. Some of the embroidery and jewellery would indicate Cypriote or Anatolian influence; it is clear that she is wearing her dowry in the form of coins, filigreed earrings, necklaces, medallions, and rings. Although she is handsome, her expression is very stiff. [Not reproduced in the catalogue]
Text: Evans, who should have stuck to Bosnia and Illyria. I never thought his snake goddesses to be anything other than some Bronze Age fantast’s wild dream, if indeed the reconstructions are at all accurate. Harrison, however, has told me that this shocking - i.e. for a white woman (the locals are distinctively Caucasian: red hair, blue eyes and fair skin appearing frequently, together with traces of slight Mediterranean admixture) - déshabillé was common throughout the Eastern Ægean and Middle East until a very short while ago, when European mores got the better of the local folk, except, it seems, those here. I first encountered such dress (or undress) a week ago, the day after our late evening arrival, when out early to see the market and get my bearings, and totally engaged in examining some trays of spices in front of me, I felt suddenly bare flesh against my exposed arm, stretched out to test the quality of some turmeric. It was a woman at my side who, having come up unnoticed, had bent in front of me to obtain some root or herb. When she straightened, I realised at once that the contact had been with her bare bosom, which, I might add, was quite shapely, with nipples rouged. She was unconcerned; I must have blushed at least as much
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Description: A naos or church, on a large stepped platform, in an almost impossible mélange of styles, with elements of a Greek temple of the Corinthian order mixed in with Byzantine features and other heterogeneous effects to combine in an unusual, if not harmonious, whole. The picture, a frontal view, has been taken most probably at early morning light, since the temple steps and surrounding square are devoid of people.
Text: light and darkness, darkness and light’ Forsythe said. ‘With this form of dualism, and its rejection of the body, paradoxically, until the sacrament is administered, the believers are in fact encouraged to excess of the flesh, which is viewed as essentially evil, and ultimately, an illusion. The thought is that by indulging mightily, disdain is expressed for the ephemeral, thus granting the candidate power over the material, which is seen as standing in his or her way to salvation.’ ‘What does that have to do with your little trip of this morning?’ I remonstrated. We had agreed to meet at ten o’clock to see if we could buy manuscripts in the street of the scribes, for the collection. Paul reddened and replied ‘D’you know the large structure on the square between us and the market? I was on my way to meet you, when I happened to pass through there. It seems’ - and here he went florid again - ‘that in an effort to gain sanctity more quickly, parents, as required by the priests, are by law for two years to give over those of their daughters on the verge of womanhood to the temple each day between 10 and noon, in a ploy to quicken the transition to holiness. Any passer-by, during that time, who sees on the steps under the large parasols (set up like tents, there to protect exposed flesh) any maiden suiting his fancy, is urged to drop a coin in the bowls nearest and
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Description: A quite imperfect and puzzling picture, with mist and fog, or perhaps steam, obscuring almost all detail. What is visible are the dim outlines of two rows of faces, some veiled, others bearded.
Text: poured more water on the coals. By now it was quite hot, and I could no longer see Forsythe, but only hear his voice. The lack of visibility made it easier to concentrate on his words, with my eyes no longer focused on details I had found so distracting. ‘The incongruity of it all makes my head reel - how could they have maintained all this in the face of the changes around them? After all, a major invasion route of the past three millennia lies two valleys to the west. . .’ Nodding in unseen agreement, my attention was momentarily diverted by the sound of a new arrival entering the room, and seconds later, a smooth leg brushed for a second against mine; I assumed it was a woman, and durst not stir. ‘Not that they’ve rejected the modern at all costs - they’ve got electric generators and some lighting, a fair amount of modern goods and weaponry find their way in, there’s the museum, that Turkish photography shop, the printing press, and - oh, all the rest. But they pick and choose. And that religion of theirs! All the Jews and Muslims and Christians here are cowed completely! Why hasn’t a holy war been declared by their neighbours?’ With Paul ranting on in the obscuring darkness, I grunted in agreement, and then, shockingly, felt a small foot rub against
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Description: Costumed official, perhaps a religious leader or judge, sitting on the floor facing the camera. He is bearded, greying, with a grim set to his mouth. One hand points gracefully towards a smallish, thick codex held by the other hand. From the man’s breast depends a tall rectangular enamelled pendant of simple design, divided vertically into equal fields of black and white.
Text: Sorbonne, three years of which, I suppose, could explain a lot, as for example, his overpowering use of garlic. ‘Pseudo-Manicheeism’ he continued, ‘is solely a weak term used by the uncomprehending for what can only be described as perfection, the last word itself being a watered-out expression merely, for that which cannot be comprehended through the feeble tool of rational and sceptical thinking, which closes all doors it does not understand. Oh, I know that some of you’ - and here he eyed me suspiciously, as if I was running muckin’ Cambridge! - ‘have tried to classify our belief, using the Monophysites as opposed to the Miaphysites of your religion in an analogy that neither comprehends nor grasps the subtlety of our divinely inspired thought! As if It could be explained in Eutychian terms! Our truth is self-evident and is so clear that we allow, with certain inconsequential restrictions and provisos, those of your tribe who wish, to expound their falsehoods in the marketplace, assuming they have survived the rigours of the journey here. You were better to perceive indirectly, thinking of flashing light; the colours green, and gold; the hundred instead of the one; segmentation, instead of smoothness, as metaphors that enable one
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Card no. 8
Description: Another museum card, with several large tokens or coins depicted, which in style and shape resemble some of the dekadrachm issues of 5th century Syracuse. The motifs of the largest one shown, are, however, previously unrecorded, with a temple (see card 5) on the obverse. The reverse, with a young girl and three men, is quite frankly obscene. [Not reproduced in the catalogue]
Text: tea. I was quite struck with the wholesome appearance and modest demeanour of Mrs Fortesque, who was plainly, if neatly dressed in the style of ten years ago - evidently, they had been out of contact with Society in London since arrival! The Rev Fortesque was holding forth on how they were, as a family, compelled by local circumstance, and frankly, the threat of force, to adhere strictly to the native code of behaviour and mores when out in public, the children not being exempt from the rituals of their fellows of like age. Calquon frowned at this, and asked, ‘In every way, Reverend?’ to which the missionary sighed, ‘Unfortunately, yes - otherwise, we would not be allowed to preach at all.’ There was a small silence while we pondered the metaphysical implications of this when a young and angelically beautiful girl of about twelve entered the room. ‘Gentlemen, this is my daughter, Alicia...’ smiled Mrs Fortesque proudly, only to be interrupted in the most embarrassing fashion by the sudden sputtering and spraying of Forsythe, whom we thought had choked on his crumpet. Thwacking him on the back, until his redness of face receded and normal breathing resumed, I thought I saw an untoward smirk lightly pass over the face of the young girl. ‘What is it, old man?’ I solicitously enquired. Paul, after having swallowed several times, with the attention of the others diverted, whispered sotto voce, breathlessly, so that only I could hear ‘Yesterday - the temple
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Description: An odd view, taken at mid-distance, of a low-angled pyramidal or cone-shaped pile of stones, most fist-sized or slightly smaller, standing about one to two feet high. A number of grimacing urchins and women, the last in their distinctive public costume, stand gesticulating and grinning to either side, many of them holding stones in their hands. Given the reflection of light on the pool of dark liquid that has seeped from the pile’s front, it must be - midday.
Text: brave intervention, with dire consequence. ‘For God’s sake, Fortesque, don’t. . .’ shouted Forsythe, as I well remember, before his arms were pinned behind him, and with a callused paw like a bear’s clamped over his mouth, in much the same situation as myself, was forced helplessly to watch the inexorable and horrific grind of events. Eager hands, unaided by any tool - such is the depth of fanaticism that prevails in these parts - quickly scooped out a deep enough hole from the loose soil of the market square. The man of the cloth, who had persevered in the face of so much pagan indifference and outright hostility for over a decade, was for his troubles and valiant intervention unceremoniously divested of his clothing and dumped in the hole, which was quickly filled - there was no lack of volunteers - immobilising him in the same manner as Harrison, who was buried with his arms and upper breast free. They were just far enough apart so that their fingers could not touch, depriving them in fiendish fashion of that small consolation. I remember the odd detail that Fortesque was half-shaven - he had dropped everything when informed of Harrison’s situation. Knowing full well what was in store, he began singing ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’ in a manly, booming voice that brought tears to my eyes, whilst Harrison, I am ashamed to say, did
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Description: Group portrait, of nine men. Six stand, wearing bandoliers, pistols with chased and engraved handles protruding from the sashes round their waists, decorative daggers, etc. The edges of their vests are heavily embroidered with metallic thread in arabesque patterns. All are heavily moustachioed. A seventh companion stands, almost ceremoniously, to their right, holding like a circus tent peg driver a wooden mallet with a large head a foot or so off the ground; a position somewhat like that of a croquet player. The eighth man, wearing a long shift or kaftan, is on all fours in the centre foreground, head to the left, but facing the camera like the others. A wooden saddle of primitive type is on his back. A ninth man, dressed like the first seven, is in the saddle, as if riding the victim, who, we see, has protruding from his fundament, although discreetly draped in part by the long shift, a pole the thickness of a muscular man’s forearm.
Text: no idea, being sure that all this was misunderstanding, and could easily be cleared up with a liberal application of baksheesh. This was our mistake, as Calquon was led from the judge’s compartments, arms bound, to a small square outside, where there was a carved fountain missed by the iconoclasts of long ago (of whom there had been several waves), with crudely sculptured and rather battered lions from whose mouths water streamed into the large circular limestone basin. We followed, of course, vehemently protesting his innocence all the while, and were studiously ignored. Poor Calquon was untied, and forced onto his knees and hands in a most undignified and ludicrous position. A crowd of people had already gathered under the hot midday sun, including many women and children. Hawkers walked through the throng that gathered, offering cold water from tin tanks on their backs, each with a single glass fitted into a decorated silver holder with a handle, tied onto the vessel by a cord. I saw, lying off to the side, on the steps of the fountain, a wooden stake, bark removed from its narrow end, smoothed and sharpened to a nasty point. A fat greasy balding man wearing the red cummerbund of officialdom came out of the crowd, with a bright knife in
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Description: A market with various stalls and their owners. A wandering musician is off to the left, and a perambulating vendor of kebabs, with long brass skewers, is on the right.
Text: painful for everyone concerned, particularly George. A guard in crimson livery, decorated with gold thread, was sitting smoking his hubble-bubble a short distance away from our gloomy group, every now and then looking up from his reverie to make sure things were as they should be. Perhaps it was the smoke from the pipe, or sheer bravado - I have never known, to this day - but Calquon, poor George, asked for a cigarette, which Forsythe immediately rolled and put on his lips, lighting it, since this was impossible for our fellow, whose arms were bound. He took a puff, as cool as if he were walking down Regent Street to Piccadilly, and then, for the first time noticing the women and children seated at his feet, asked us in a parched voice what they might possibly be doing there. I shuffled my feet and looked away, while Paul told him in so many words that they were waiting for his imminent departure, for the same purpose that women in the Middle Ages would gather around criminals about to be executed, in hope of obtaining a good luck charm that was powerful magic, after the fact of summary punishment was accomplished. This, as we were afraid, enraged our unfortunate en brochette companion, who became livid as we tried to calm him. Writhing in his stationary upright position, would after all do him no good, given that out of his shoulder (from whence I noticed a tiny tendril of smoke ascending), there was already protruding
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Description: A public square, photo taken from above at a slant angle, from a considerable distance. Some sort of framework or door, detached from any structure, has been set up in one corner. A couple of dark objects, one larger than the other, appear in the middle of that door or frame which faces the viewer, obscuring what is going on behind. A large agitated crowd of men of all ages - from quite young boys to bent, aged patriarchs, all wearing the truncated local version of the fez, are milling around the rear of the upright construction. A number of local police, uniformed, are in the thick of it, evidently to maintain order.
Text: wondering what the commotion was about. I was therefore shocked to see in one tight opening the immobilised head of a young woman of about twenty-five, and in the other her right hand. Instead of the ubiquitous veil, she had some sort of black silk bandage that performed the same function, closely wrapped around her mouth and nose. She was plainly emitting a sullen glare - easily understood, given the circumstance. There was no join or seam; for the life of me, I still do not understand the construction. Every now and then the frame and the woman contained by it would violently shake and judder. The expression under her shock of unruly red hair remained stoic and unperturbed. Walking to the other side (make sure that Mildred doesn’t read this!!) I saw the crowd of men - there were about 80 to 100, including about twenty or so of the few negro slaves found in these parts - with more pouring into the square - jostling in the attempt to be next: those nearest had partially disrobed, and had taken ‘matters’ in hand, fondling themselves to arousal, for taking her in the fashion preferred here, which is of that between men and boys, from behind. Despondent as I was, I had no intention other than to continue, when I was suddenly shoved forward into the midst
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Card no. 13
Description: A view down a narrow street, with the high tenements and their overhanging wooden balconies blocking out much of the light. The photographer has done well to obtain as much detail as is shown here. A cupola or dome, and what is perhaps a minaret behind it, are just visible at the end of the lane. Three young (from the look of their figures as revealed by the traditional dress, cf card 2) women in black, each with a necklace from which hangs a single bright large pendant, stand in the middle of the way, at mid-distance. They appear to be approaching the camera. Surprisingly, for all that they are bare-headed, etc., they are wearing veils that conceal their features utterly. There are no others in the street.
Text: said to Forsythe that there was no point to it, that we would have to, at some moment, accept our losses and the futility of going any further. With the others gone, I argued, it was extremely unlikely that we could continue on our own; we should swallow our pride, and admit that we had come greatly unprepared for what we had in mind. It was best, in other words, that we make our run as soon as backs were turned. Forsythe disagreed vehemently, and meant that on the contrary, we were obliged by the sacred memory of our companions to carry on, an odd turn of phrase, considering what we had hoped to accomplish and obtain, by any means. And then he said cryptically, ‘It doesn’t matter in any case - the deed is done.’ I immediately took this as admission that the object of our expedition had been somehow achieved without my knowledge; that was the likely cause of the troubles we had experienced, and the growing agitation of the populace I had uneasily witnessed the past few days. As we discussed our dilemma outside the carpet shop, one of many lining the street, I became aware of a silence, a hush that had descended. People turned to face the wall, in fear, I thought, as I saw three females approaching. These
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Description: A poor reproduction of the second state of plate VII of Piranesi’s Carceri. In fact, the ascription is given on the verso of the card, the artist’s name (G. B. Piranesi) appearing in Latin capitals inserted amongst the Arabic and Kyrillic letters.
Text: less than the Carceri! What everyone had once thought the malarial fever dreams of a stunted, perverse genius, I saw now only to be honest reporting. I was absolutely astounded, once the dragoman, smelling of garlic and anisette, had removed the blindfold from my eyes. A lump came to my throat, and tears threatened to engulf me, when I thought of the others done away with through treachery, foul ignorance and intolerance. I suppose rumours regarding the disappearance of the sacred entity of the valley had much to do with the situation, too. Controlling my emotions - here, for a man to weep is a sign of weakness, with all the consequences such a perception entails -I saw around me. A number of individuals, male and female, nude or partly so, were being ushered along the spiral staircase wrapped around an enormous stone column down which I myself must have descended only a few minutes before. Natural light played through a number of cleverly placed oculi in the invisible ceiling, concealed by the complex bends and angles of the place. Turning,
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Description: Another crude reproduction of a Piranesi ‘Prisons’ plate, this number VIII, ascribed as above.
Text: I saw yet another vista of the Italian artist before me, and began to understand, for the first time, that the plan of all his mad, insane engravings was a coherent whole, either taken from the actuality before me, or perhaps plotted out from his prints, and converted to reality, by some unsung architectonic genius. The Venetians had been here, I knew, during the mid-1700s, when things had settled down. Perhaps one of their workmen was given the book, and told to produce, or . . . With my glance following the staircase from its beginning, flanked by gigantic military trophies, with plumed helmets much larger than any human head, I traced the turn upwards to the left, and saw, between two enormous wooden doors opening on an arch, a large rack. A series of ropes hung down from the supporting wall, and I could see the faint glow of a brazier and hear the distant screams of the poor women and men, white bodies glistening with the sweat of fear, who hung
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Description: tinted, clearly a display of gemstones, perhaps from a museum of natural history or local geology. One of the larger groups, arranged separately from the others, with green colouring obviously meant to indicate emeralds, appears to be the fragments, longitudinally shattered, of what must have been a single enormous stone.
Text: subincision being the technical expression. As you can imagine, I was wildly straining against my bonds, in fact, you could say I was struggling to the point of extreme violence, to, as it turned out, no avail. In spite of all my agitated effort, I was clamped to some sort of heavy metal framework or stand that immobilised me more or less completely. Naked, helpless, dreading whatever was in store, I saw the same three young women approach into the torchlight from the encircling darkness. Without a word, my gaolers and the others left and I was alone with the unholy trio. As if at a signal, they simultaneously removed their veils and I was momentarily stunned, almost drugged, by the sight of their incredible beauty. Remember, this was the first time I had ever seen one of the local women unmasqued - if these were representative of the rest, it would easily explain any number of puzzling local rituals and customs. In spite of my extreme situation, I could not help myself - the ravishing faces, the fulsome breasts with their shapely crimsoned nipples, the long black glistening hair
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Description: A market place, with many and various stands and displays. An ironmonger, a merchant of brass teapots, a seller of cured leather are all easily discerned. In the centre, arms like a Saint Andrew’s cross before his chest, holding a large knife in die one hand, a two-pronged fork in the other, is a seller of grilled and roasted meats. On the small portable gridiron in front of him, a number of sizable sausages are warming, split neatly lengthwise.
Text: darted out with the tip of her tongue, and then slowly extended it again. To my horror, I saw it was no tongue: it was a long razor-sharp dagger or splinter of green glass or stone; a smaragd dirk that was somehow attached or glued to the root of what remained of her tongue. The other two, kneeling close on either side of her, each reverentially held, both with two hands, the one heavy breast nearest them of their chief colleague, as if ritually weighing and supporting these at the same time. This observation was made on the abstract, detachedly, as if I were outside my own body. More mundanely, I was screaming and thrashing - or attempting uselessly to thrash. Praise to the gods that be, I passed out completely, and awoke with the foul deed done, blood running down me and pooling on the cold flagging, and the three dark sisters gone. Looking down, as my original captors reentered the chamber, I saw that the operation had been carried out, just as had been described to me by the temple priest, and I fainted once more. When
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Description: Not a postal card, but rather a half-length portrait photograph mounted on thick pasteboard, of a family group from about the 1920s. The two parents are quite young, and formally dressed: the father in a dark suit, to which is pinned an unidentified order or medal. He holds a small Bible clasped to his breast. The woman is handsome, in a white lacy blouse buttoned to the top of her graceful neck, with masses of hair piled high on her head. The young daughter is quite simply beautiful, an angel.
Text: would not have recognised, but for the signal distinctive wedding ring on her finger. ‘Mrs Fortesque,’ I blurted out, as we stood amongst the milling crowd in the shade of the souk. ‘I had no idea—’ but stopped when I saw the blush originating from beneath the missionary wife’s veil spread to her ample and attractive sun-browned bosom (a pendant black enamelled cross its sole decoration), with the attendant rush of blood turning the aureoles - modestly without cinnabar - to the precise same shade of red so favoured by the local women. I saw, at the same time, the fleshy peaks slowly stiffen and stand, that motion drawing forth a corresponding response on my part, something I hardly had conceived feasible, after the trauma of the operation of four days ago, with the insertion of the papyrus strips to prevent rejoining of the separated parts while the healing occurred. ‘I should perhaps explain myself,’ she said, regaining her composure. ‘The local rules are very strict; were I not, when attending to my public tasks and duties outside the house, to attire myself with what we consider wanton and promiscuous display, it would be here viewed as flagrant immodesty, and punishable, before the crowd, by the
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Description: An ossuary chapel, where the style of the classic Romanesque interior is partly obscured by the encrustation of thousands of skulls and skeletal parts, that form, or cover, the interior architecture. This photograph taken at the crossing, facing the nearby altar, where, instead of a crucifix or a monstrance, an enamelled or painted rectangular metal plaque stands upright, its left side white, its right black.
Text: that the crucifix was now exchanged for a small pendant medallion, half black, half white, the symbol of the local cult. The thought of Mrs Fortesque having gone, so to speak, over to the other side was shocking, and at the same time extremely piquant and arousing, with my recently acquired knowledge of what that fully entailed for the woman involved. Having just come to the rendezvous from my daily session with the local doctor, who was treating me with that disgusting metallic green and gold powder, the source of which I was loath to ponder on, I scarcely thought myself physically capable of what was to follow, given my general and peculiar state. Nonetheless, when the missionary’s widow, after furtively glancing about only to find the chapel empty - no surprise, since it was midday and most families were at home, doors shuttered for the day’s largest repast - reached for and embraced me, the last thing I had awaited, I found myself responding in a most unexpected fashion. ‘But the children - your late husband—’ I stammered, as she pushed me back against a column, so the decorative knobs of tibiae and the like bruised my spine, with her bare breasts crushed against my chest and her hot searching lips
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Card no. 20
Description: A statue, whose dimensions are given as 13 by 5 by 5 [in, it is assumed], these last representing the base. A female goddess, in flowing robes, very much gravid, standing in a bronze boat formed like the body of a duck, whose head is the prow. Within its open beak it holds a cube.
Text: certain? It’s only been a month...’ I lingered at these, my own words, astonished at the assertion. ‘Of course I am,’ she snapped back, then containing herself with difficulty, lowered her tone, and continued, ‘I’ve not been with anyone, before or since,’ she said, bitterly smiling. She was very much enceinte, astoundingly so, in a way that would have been impossible had I been responsible for her state. I kept on looking at her in bewilderment. My first thought was ‘propulsive force - perhaps; generative principle - never!!’ Still holding my hand lightly, she followed up, saying, ‘It does seem impossible, doesn’t it? Not just the time - I mean, given what had happened to you, in addition. Think, though, was anything odd done to you then, or about that time? I mean . . .’ At that, the thought of the daily calls to the doctor snapped into mind. Once I had found out the disgusting source of the gold and green powders, I had ceased from visiting him again. Had our meeting in the ossuary been before or after the ‘treatment’s’ short course? I could not remember, for the life of
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Card no. 21
Description: Another souvenir card assumed to be from the local natural history collection, exhibiting a quite large centipede of unknown type, with several interesting and anomalous features. The scale beside it a quarter-inch stick, since inches would make the creature ridiculously large.
Text: smooth and horrendously distended vulva with a disgusting plop. The three witches - I cannot think of them as being other than that -hurried to the trestle immediately, clicking the emerald daggers they had for tongues excitedly against their teeth. The multitudinous onlookers and priests held their distance. Mrs F seemed to be in a state of shock, but was still breathing with eyes closed. Horrified, I cast a look at Alicia, who stood imperturbed in her youthful nakedness, motionless, still holding the thick black candle cool as you like, as if she were in Westminster Abbey. The bloody caul and afterbirth were snipped at and cut with glassy tongues, and I saw, when the three stepped back, a foul, thick, twitching, segmented thing, snaky, glinting green and gold, thick as a moray eel, writhing between the poor woman’s bloody legs. The chief witch nodded to Alicia, who slowly moved forward, setting her candle carefully at her mother’s feet. At another signal, she picked up the glistening demonic shape, which unwound itself into a heavy, broad, segmented centipede-like beast of dimensions that left me gasping. Alicia uncoiled the slimy monster, gleaming with ichor, and draped the hellspawn ‘round her shoulders, just as if it was a feather boa. Pausing only for a moment, she turned to me with a thin leer, and asked ‘Want to hold it? It’s yours too!’ Revulsed, I turned, while she shrugged and set off on the ceremonial way, the crowd bowing to her and her half-brother, sister, or whatever, the belt of hollow birds’ eggs - her only adornment - clicking around her slim hips, brown from hours on the temple steps - as she swayed, during
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Description: A shining centipede probably of gold, coiled upon a dais of ebony, or some other dark wood, this last encrusted with bejewelled precious metal of arabesque form. The central object’s size may be inferred from the various items imbedded in it: Roman cameos, Egyptian scarabs, coins from crushed empires and forgotten kingdoms, some thousands of years old, the votive offerings of worshippers over the millennia we infer the sculpture to have existed. The object is fabulous: an utter masterwork of the goldsmith’s art rivalled only by the Cellini salt cellar and one or two other pieces. It almost seems alive.
Text: almost worth it. Calquon and Harrison are dead, what has become of Paul, who thought up all this, I have no idea. I have been subjected to the most hideous torture, and seen the most awful sights, that few can have experienced without losing their sanity. It is deeply ironic after all I have been through, that I by chance only yesterday discovered the object, hidden away in my belongings. What remains to be seen is whether I can bring it back to civilisation with myself intact. I cannot trust Alicia, who has clearly let her elevation to high priestess and chief insect-keeper go to her head. During my last interview with her, whilst she dangled her shapely foot provocatively over the arm of her golden throne, I, in a vain effort to play upon her familial bonds and old self, reminded her of her younger brother, who had not been seen for days. At that she casually let drop that he had been sold on to Zanzibar (where there is, I believe, an active slave market) to ultimately disappear into one of the harems of the Arabian peninsula (Philby may be able to inform more fully). ‘I never could stand the little pest,’ was her remark, so it would be foolish to hope for any sympathy from her quarter. I am being watched quite closely, with great suspicion. Can it be they know? If I ever leave here alive, it will be an absolute sensation. Biding my time, I cannot do anything now, but I can at least try to smuggle these surreptitiously scribbled notes out to the French vice-consul in the city where we bought the mules. He is a good fellow, though he drinks to excess at
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An additional 52 cards remain (see photo-copies), which although of great interest, bear no hand-written notes, and therefore are not described here, with the following single exception:
Card: not in sequence, i.e. unnumbered by us
Description: A photographic postal card of a large exterior wall of a stone building of enormous size. The impressive dimensions become apparent once one realises that the small specks and dots on the stereobate of the vaguely classical structure are in fact people - some alone, others in groups, these last for the most part sheltered under awnings set up on the steps. What most catches the eye, however, is the magnificent low relief work covering most of the wall, depicting, it would seem, some mythological scene whose iconographic meaning is not apparent. It is in character a harmonious mixture of several ancient traditions: one sees hints of the Hellenistic, Indo-Grecian, and traces even of South-East Asian styles. The contrasts of tone make clear that the bare stone has been brightly painted.
The relief itself: It appears a judgement is being carried out. In the background, solemn ringlet-bearded men draped in graceful robes, all in the same pose, all copies of the other. All hold a square object, somewhat in form like a hand-mirror divided into one field black and one field white, and watch with blank eyes the man before them who is strapped to a plank, while a large fabulous beast, part man, part insect, with elements of the order Scolopcndra predominating, tears at him in the fashion of the Promethean eagles, and worse. To the right, a young priestess or goddess, nude but for a chain of beads or eggs around her waist, stands contrapposto, with one arm embraced about an obscene creature, a centipedal monstrosity of roughly her own height, leaning tightly upright against her. She is pointing with her free hand towards the tortured man. The expression on her empty face has affinities with several known Khmer royal portrait sculptures. She faintly smiles, as if in ecstasy.
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Don Tumasonis, after a largely picaresque and misspent youth, settled down, he thought, to a quiet life on the outskirts of a Scandinavian capital, with a charming, if Norwegian wife; lively, if rambunctious cats; and interesting, if space-consuming books. Little did he anticipate the chain of events awaiting, forcing him into the mendicant life of a writer with little more than a bronze parachute to protect him. He has since published stories in Ghosts & Scholars, All Hallows, Supernatural Tales and the Ash-Tree Press anthology Shadows and Silence. As he explains: ’ “The Prospect Cards” draws its inspiration from many sources: stuffy booksellers’ catalogues, volumes of 18th and 19th century Levantine travel, a walk along the Seine, Kipling, Rider Haggard in his usual more perverse mode, and anthropological literature. Its mood was influenced by the books of George MacDonald Fraser, Glen Baxter and the character of John Cleese. It was meant to be humorous, but seems to have got out of hand.’