Feast of All Saints (29 page)

“I’ll ask her, Monsieur,” he said excitedly.

“Good. In an hour then?” Christophe said. “Do try to come back.”

Juliet was moving across the flags toward the back door. She came in as Christophe was adjusting his tie. And throwing up his hands, he turned it over to her, standing patiently as she quickly made it right.

“But where are you going?” she demanded.

“An errand, that’s all,” he said vaguely.

“Ah, but do this for me, now,” she said holding him. Something gleamed in the palm of her hand. To Marcel at the window it looked like a jewel. And Christophe, guiding her toward Marcel and the light, quickly tilted her head to one side and drove the small hook which held the jewel through the soft lobe of her ear. Marcel winced. It caught him unexpectedly and he felt such a surge of brutal excitement that he backed off flustered, put the coffee cup down, and murmured his farewell.

“But where are you going?” she was demanding of Christophe as he moved away. “Tell me, where!”

An hour later to the minute, Marcel found her alone as he entered, candles on the mantel, the round table set with silver, and she with folded arms and bowed head crouched by the empty grate in all this warm air as if she were cold. The new clock on the wall had stopped, and drawing out his watch, Marcel opened the glass case and adjusted the hands. He gave the pendulum a gentle touch. Blood thudded in his ears. He knew he was alone with her, and kept thinking to himself that soon this pain would pass. He would grow accustomed to her. When Christophe had said, “you are my friend,” he had known a rare and perfect happiness which he would not jeopardize for all the passion in the world.

He turned slowly, forming some conventional thing to say to her, when she shot him a glance with those strange feline eyes and said, “He’s with that man.”

“Do you think so, Madame?” he meant to treat it lightly.

“I know so,” she said. “He thinks I don’t know anything. He thinks I have no mind.”

She was looking directly at him and when she said those last
words, he had the strangest sensation. He himself had thought she had no mind.

It was a disturbing thought, for what did she have in her head if she didn’t have a mind? What was it that was so terrifying about her? Her eyes appeared nearly malevolent in the candlelight. He would have liked a good oil lamp in this room right now, perhaps even two.

“Why don’t you come here to me,” she said, “and kiss me?”

“Because, Madame, if I do that…I won’t be a gentleman with you for very long,” he said.

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” she said contemptuously. It was not her usual voice, it was a voice with some quickness and social awareness that he hadn’t heard from her before.

He was aware of his face being knotted, that he wasn’t hiding his distress. He wanted her to know how much he wanted her. If he had to refuse her, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Don’t you want me?” she asked softly.

“Yes.” he sighed. He shut his eyes. “Christophe is very likely to come in…”

“Well, then let’s do it, if it will make him come in,” she said.

She dropped back in the chair, defeated, eyes staring off.

“You’re very clever,
cher,”
she said in another vein, but he was so uncomfortably excited he hardly understood her words. “You know that man who was here?”

“I never saw him before this afternoon.”

“But was he…was he an Englishman?” she looked up.

When he said yes, her face became cold, as hard as Christophe’s face could be. “Aaahh,” she said. She rose without the aid of her hands, and clutching the backs of her arms she moved slowly yet feverishly about the room. “And he comes to this house, he comes to this house.” She turned to Marcel. “How old do you think he was,
cher?”

“I don’t know, Madame. Thirty-five, perhaps older.”

“They think I have no mind,” she whispered, her eyes narrowing. “They think I have no mind!” Her voice was trembling. “That he should dare to come into this house,” she whispered, “That he should dare to come here. What am I, mad?”

“I don’t understand,” he shook his head.

“No, you don’t understand. Well, let me tell you then. Years ago, ten years ago I sent my son to Paris…” her voice was breaking. She stopped and put her hands to her head. She appeared to be pressing hard against the sides of her head. “Oh, Christophe…” she moaned suddenly. “Not the same man.”

“But what is it?” he asked.

The house was silent around them. She stood in the shadows, far
from the candles, still pressing her hands to the sides of her head. It was as if she were trying to blot out some pain, her eyes closing, her teeth bared, for an instant white between her lips. “Christophe,” she whispered again. It had the desperation of some terrible need. Then she dropped her hands at her sides. “He disappeared from the hotel where he was, I don’t know, some family there, they were his guardians, I couldn’t read his letters and then there were no letters. He would have been fourteen then, maybe older. He was young as you are,
cher,”
she said. “And he disappeared.”

The old tale was fresh in Marcel’s mind…“And then he ran away, they said, he went wandering, all through Turkey, Egypt, Greece…”

“What happened, Madame?” he came forward.

“One day I was coming home…” she said…“I was coming home and there were letters here again. It was years after. Those men at the bank, they read them to me, he was alive, he was all right. He was alive,” she sighed. “It was years after,” she said. “But he was alive!”

“Sit down,” he said gently. And obediently, she settled in the chair. He was looking down at the nape of her neck, the soft curls there, and the thin chain that held the diamond that was over her breast. Her breasts heaved and she leaned, as if fading, to one side. “It couldn’t be that same man, he would not dare to come here!” she said. She shook her head. “Not in my house, not that same man…”

A vague dreary feeling had descended upon Marcel. It was dark as this room was dark, and all the warmth here, the sheen of the leather books in the candlelight, silver gleaming on the table, was all gone. “What do you mean, Madame?” he asked her. He was seeing the Englishman, that violent intensity with which he had confronted Christophe and Christophe so weakened by it as he had begged the man to go. “What is it, Madame, about this man?”

“They said it was an Englishman,” she whispered. “They said it was a strange Englishman who had been lodging there in that hotel with the family that kept him, at that hotel.”

It was as if a winter wind had chilled the room. Marcel his brows knit was staring at the empty hearth. It was as if his hand were on a door and something that he did not know lay beyond that door, something he had no experience of, no knowledge of, though he had always known such things were there. He shuddered. “That’s impossible,” he whispered. She was crying, and when she heard him speak she stopped.

“What did you say?” she whispered.

Antoine Lermontant might as well have been beside him in this dark place saying with a cunning smile,
“I told you there were things you did not know about this man.”

“No.” he whispered. “I don’t believe it.”

“What do you mean?” she asked. He looked down at her. He had forgotten that she was there. He wanted to speak to her and yet his lips couldn’t form words.
But you’re not really considering it, sending Richard to that school!

“It was an Englishman,” she whispered, mistaking his meaning. “They said it was. And
that
was a year after we received the word. My son was gone!” She was looking up to him, appealing to him. “It could be that man? That man? Come here, under this roof, into my house?” Her voice grew in strength with her outrage. “After he stole my son from me? After he disappeared?”

“No,” he shook his head, forcing his lips into a smile. “It must not be the same man.”

“I want you to do something for me,” she said, turned now so that she gripped the back of the chair. She was looking up into his eyes. “I want you to find that man. Go to the hotels. I don’t know where he is. Are you listening to me?”

He was looking through the open window at the rustling shapes now colorless and welded in the dark.
And what are you thinking, Monsieur? That you are my friend
. He saw that Englishman, that pain in his face, and between them that searing intensity, that struggle. “I don’t believe it,” he whispered.

“The flat in Paris is as you left it…the rooms are as you left them…your desk, your pens, it’s all still there.”

“I want you to find that man, find where he is, do you hear me, that he should dare to come to my house!” she breathed. “That man! Marcel, listen to me!”

It was the first time she had ever called him by name. He didn’t even know that she knew his name. He was staring off, barely conscious of her hand touching his hand.

“You must do it. You must find him and tell me where he is,” she said. “I will go to him.”

A door slammed somewhere, a powerful distant echo. There was the strong stride of boots down the empty hall. Marcel’s heart quickened.

He looked down at her. Her eyes were wide and dark in her pale face, distorted by this dim light so that for an instant she appeared to have the face of a skull. “No,” he shook his head. “I don’t believe it,” he whispered to the air as if he were in a trance.

“I will tell him I
know
, I know what he is!” she whispered.

Christophe clicked his heels at the door.

Marcel lowered his eyes. Juliet had not turned away from him, her eyes were still searching his face. And the blood roaring in his ears, he finally made himself face the man in the door.

Christophe stepped out of the shadows into the light. “Maman?” he looked at Juliet. His eyes held a question as he turned to Marcel. He was bright, animated, as if he had been hurrying and eager to return to them. “What is it?” he whispered. And then angrily, he said, “Maman, get my supper now please!”

She had a stunned and bowed attitude as she left.

Christophe glared at Marcel.

“Are you playing your little games with my mother right under my nose?” he demanded.

It was a sudden blow.

“What?” Marcel whispered.

“What were you doing in here!” Christophe was furious. And striding to the door he slammed it, his back to it, as if he would not let Marcel escape.

“O
mon Dieu!”
A violent shudder, passed over Marcel. He shook his head. “Monsieur, I swear!” he threw up his hands. Christophe’s face was the picture of fury. And then bowing his head, Marcel burst into tears. He loathed himself for this, and hopelessly humiliated he turned his back, his choked sobs deafening in the silence, and by an iron act of will at last became quiet.

“I’m sorry, Marcel,” Christophe said simply. He felt Christophe’s hand on his shoulder. “I keep forgetting how young you are, you’re too young really to even…” he sighed. Gently he turned Marcel around. “Be my friend in this,” he said, and guiding Marcel to the chair insisted he sit down. He leaned forward to Marcel across the table. Marcel was sick. He fixed his eyes carefully on some point between them and let the nausea in himself subside.

“I’ve tried to play this with dignity, to act the gentleman,” Christophe was saying. “But the fact is simply this, every slave on this block knew you were here that afternoon with my mother, don’t deceive yourself for an instant that they didn’t see you come, and go. And if that sassy girl of yours, Lisette, felt even the slightest affection for your mother, then your mother would know, too. And if you keep playing this little drama with my mother, my little academy will fold overnight like a bad play in competition with a spicier one at the theater upstairs.”

Marcel shook his head. He wanted to say he would never let such a thing happen, but still he was sick, and fatigued and confused. It was easier just to listen to this firm and gentle voice coming from the man opposite.

“It seems everyone is against this little enterprise of mine, my friend from Paris, my mother, this house which is falling down around me, but not you. You mustn’t be against it, not you!” He studied Marcel, his brows knit. “That first night when I came home, I was so
discouraged, you cannot imagine. But you know how my mother was. You saw this house. I almost panicked, Marcel. I almost bundled her up and took her with me right to the docks.

“But then I looked around me, really looked around. I went roaming through these rooms where I’d grown up, I went up on the rooftop and lay there for a long time alone with the stars. I had the strangest feelings welling up in me. I wanted to touch the oak branches, the magnolias, I wanted to wander through the streets, caressing the old bricks and the gas lamps, and hammering with my fist on the heavy wooden shutters, slip my fingers through the slatted blinds. I’m home, home, home, I kept thinking to myself, but it was beyond thought, it was sensation, and I wanted to see my
people
, men and women of color, Creoles like ourselves. I wanted to go out and see them in the houses I remembered, hear their curious and languid accents, and their laughter, see the light flicker in their eyes.

“I tried to envision my school as I’d seen it in Paris, tried to see it as I’d planned it…and I went downstairs then and went to see you.

“And I discovered this: you wanted me to found the school, you told me there were other boys who wanted it, my people here might already know what I planned to do and welcome it with open arms. And I realized that others saw my little school as I saw it, I felt anchored suddenly after years and years of wandering, I felt I’d come home!

“Oh, I know this is hard for you. You’re dreaming of the day when you’ll go to Europe as a young gentleman, and I’ll do my utmost to prepare you for it as your teacher in my own way. But someday I’ll explain to you what overcame me in Paris, that feeling of utter rootlessness, that confusion when I thought of all the places I’d lived, the little cottages, the crumbling villas on the Mediterranean, all those damp and sometimes beautiful rooms! I wanted to come home!

“Now I’m telling you all this because I want you to know what it means to me! What you mean to me! What all the boys here who will come to this school mean to me! You’ve made my saving dream something real.