Another Faust (44 page)

Ms. LeMieux yanked the mic away from the coach. “Connor, you have shown us that unflinching diligence can be a recipe for a successful life. Congratulations.”

Half the audience groaned at her sappy words. Christian tried to fight the feeling that was welling up in his chest. He tried to push it down deep inside his body. But a part of him still wanted to run up onto the podium and steal that happy smirk off Connor’s face.

“Jealous?” a cool voice said. He turned around to see Madame Vileroy standing next to him, her hair in her signature low bun, wearing a beautiful white gown that made her stand out as the most striking woman in the room.

“No,” Christian said flatly. “I’m happy for him.”

“What’s going on in there?” She tapped him gently on the chest. “Don’t you want to be a winner? Rich? Not even now that you’ve lost? Did your heart stop crying black tears?”

Christian didn’t answer.

“You know, it’s not too late. You can still have it all. Now that you know the whole story, you and I can make another deal, Christian. I’m giving you another chance to be happy, to be a winner.” She grabbed his arm and walked him away from the crowd cheering Connor. Christian was about to tell her where she could go when a lingering doubt overtook him. Was this the time to cash in? He had probably already sold his soul. What more could she ask for? Maybe this time he could focus on being a good writer. Forget about fame and fortune.

“Christian, dear.” She bent over to whisper into his ear. “Would you like to be a writer?”

His ears perked up. “I saw that you’re helping Buddy to remember.”

She waited for a response. “We’ll do great things. I promise,” she prodded.

The lingering doubt in Christian’s mind was gone. He pictured Buddy’s personal hell. What if that happened to him?

“No. You can’t make me stay. You obviously don’t have my soul, or you wouldn’t be trying to make deals.”

Madame Vileroy straightened up. She remained as composed as ever, but her devil eye flickered with rage. “Very well, my dear. Have it your way.”

Bicé looked over at Thomas and Belle, who were in their own world, oblivious to the excitement in front of them. Bicé started marching toward them. She was determined to take Belle home no matter what anyone said. After getting Belle safely home, she would have to figure out what’s going on with Valentin. It wasn’t entirely like him to rub his writing in Christian’s face. Why had he been in such a rush to have Christian read the poem? He had never even acknowledged what Bicé and Christian had found out the night Victoria cheated Thomas at their house. He never brought it up, as if he wasn’t sure it really happened. And they had never asked him about it, afraid of what he would say. But as soon as they got home tonight, Bicé would find out everything.

Bicé tried again to make her way through the crowd. She knew what was coming. And it was coming soon. She sped up to a run, bumping into couples along the way. “Belle,” she heard herself saying, a little louder. “Belle!” Suddenly a hand reached out and grabbed her by the arm. She spun around. She didn’t have time for this. It was Christian. He had finally worked up the courage to ask Charlotte to dance when Bicé had rushed past.

“What’s going on?” said Christian.

“Belle!” said Bicé. “We have to help her. Let me go!”

The urgency in Bicé’s voice made Christian let go. Bicé ran on. Christian grabbed Charlotte’s hand and followed.

They finally reached Belle, just as Thomas was making his move, his face inches away from Belle’s. Bicé reached her hand toward her sister. She could feel Madame Vileroy moving closer behind her. But in that instant, something made Bicé stop. Something made her step back. Something made Thomas stop in his tracks — his face barely touching Belle’s — yell out, and push Belle so hard she almost hit the floor.

“Thomas? Why did you do that?” Belle said, shocked and flustered.

A room full of people stood around with their mouths hanging open, quiet as ghosts. Victoria was elated, overjoyed by the bargain she had made. She had a Cheshire-cat smile on her face. Lucy was stunned and quickly made her way to Thomas’s side. In two seconds, she had pulled him away and was whispering consoling words in his ear, pretending she had known all along. Bicé was grabbing Belle’s arm and making for the door before Belle could see for herself. But Belle already knew. In a flash, everything had changed. Her beautiful face had suddenly transformed into something else. Not her old face, but something worse. She was truly, unforgivably, indescribably ugly.

The tears rolling down her face were no help. The way the red-stained eyes, the bloated cheeks, and tousled hair of weeping starlets made them so irresistible — the way you’d want to comfort them, kiss the tears that cover them — that was not the way for Belle as she sat at her windowsill, crying ugly tears. She had gathered her crumpled dress around herself like a blanket, and now she had pressed her pimpled forehead against the glass, looking down to the street. She imagined her tears piercing the glass, falling to the curb like rain. It was as though the sky was sobbing for her. The clouds had retched in their anguish, the great unfairness of existence, the plague of consequences. She watched as Thomas Goodman-Brown — his collar unbuttoned, his flowers sagging — walked up to their door. From above, Belle scooted up, leaned even harder on the glass. Was it disappointment on his face? Rain?

Belle didn’t notice that Bicé had walked in, maybe just appeared on the other side of the door. She was staring straight down at the globe of the boy’s head. In the distance, she heard the doorbell ringing. It was muted by a thousand walls. Belle didn’t move to get it. She never could, not with her face like this. But the bell kept shouting for her. Maybe Thomas was a good man. Maybe he wasn’t disgusted with her. Maybe in the movie, she’d run out in the rain, fall into his open arms, and he’d say he loved her anyway — and the sky would be crying tears of joy. Maybe. But Belle couldn’t do it. She couldn’t stand it.

She imagined that after the happy ending, after the credits were finished, Thomas would put her down, breathe out, and do his best to look into her dull eyes. He’d be good enough to accept the promise he’d made. He’d take her home with people glancing at them. They could get married in a courthouse, and he wouldn’t ever tell her, but he’d always remember the way her hair had been as glossy as a magazine cover, her cheeks as smooth as melon flesh. She’d always know — in the unexcited way he’d take her to dinner, his secret requests to be seated in the corners — his self-sacrifice for a promise he made when he was just too young.

Belle caught a glimpse of her own profile in a shadow on the floor. She shuddered at the lumbering indelicacy of it, her nose growing bigger by the hour, her jaw losing its refined lines. After her face had changed for an instant at the dance, the rest of her had gradually gone back to what it should look like. Her height and stature were the same as Bicé’s now; she was no longer a tall and willowy statuette. Her face, on the other hand, was a far far cry from Bicé’s sweet face. Thomas probably didn’t even want her. Maybe he just wanted to see, out of curiosity, and then leave. After all, this was no movie, no fairy tale.

Belle cried harder, listening as Thomas kept ringing. He was so determined. Her skin was as pockmarked as a melon rind. She had been masked all this time with Madame Vileroy’s own face, that gorgeous face. And all that time she had been rotting on the inside, becoming rancid. She had imagined making the world addicted to her. In the end, she was the addict. She had imagined herself with an intoxicating presence, and even that was nothing more than the smell of the rotting Belle inside the mask. And now, with the mask removed, she was uglier than she had ever been. A perfect match to the heart she had made for herself. She’d never see him again.

“You should see him again.”

Belle turned around. Bicé was standing behind her. Belle hadn’t noticed Bicé’s hand on her shoulder. “He wants to see you,” she said.

“No.”

“He likes you for the real you.”

“This
is
the real me.”

“I know.”

Belle instinctively put her head on Bicé’s shoulder. Bicé cradled it like a baby. Belle hadn’t realized how much she missed her sister, ever since that night when Thomas had come over, and yesterday at the tournament, when Bicé had helped her. But now that Belle really needed her, Bicé wasn’t so mad. Belle wet her shirt with her tears. Bicé hummed gently and rocked her back and forth. She tried to make jokes to cheer her up, but nothing worked. She said, “Don’t worry, Belle. Vic and Lucy will get into another fight in a few days and everyone will forget this.” Belle laughed for a second. After another wave of tears, Belle calmed, whimpering with her face still on Bicé’s shoulder. Bicé said, “I know it seems important. I don’t want to play it down. But do you remember when we were little? When we looked the same?”

Belle nodded, remembering how much she used to hate her face then, Bicé’s face. And now she’d give anything to have it back.

“I don’t remember who said this, but it was something I used to think about a lot. Maybe it was Vileroy. No, I don’t think it was. It couldn’t have been. But I remember thinking it a lot. It was something like,
Do you know what makes someone beautiful?
”

“I remember that,” said Belle, her throat hoarse.

“Confidence. You don’t have to have this shape eyes or that shape lips. No one seems to be able to decide which shape is best anyway. You can have every kind of blemish. It’s confidence that attracts people. That’s what everybody’s looking for. It’s what no potion can really give you. And believe me, Belle, you’ve got it. You’ve got it if you want it.”

Belle spoke up. “It’s believing that somebody loves you already, unconditionally.”

“Yeah, how’d you know what I was going to say?”

“Mom used to say that . . . whenever I felt ugly or you felt sad,” said Belle, sounding resigned, as if she no longer had reason to keep secrets.

Bicé’s eyes widened. Her mouth opened, but there was no sound.

The door slammed open. Bicé was trying to understand. Victoria came in. She was furious, like a thunderclap. She was always furious. “You idiot!”

Belle looked up. Bicé turned around. “You ruin everything, you stupid, stupid idiot.”

The two of them weren’t sure to whom she was talking.

“See what you’ve made me do? Do you have any idea how much work some of us did? We have to leave here now, you know that? We can’t just have one of us stop showing up and pretend you never existed. We can’t just erase you from the picture! Ughh!”