The Book of the Dead (39 page)

“It’s remarkable,” Constance breathed, fascinated despite herself. “All these years I’ve stared at these faces, trying to put names and histories to them. A few of the most recent ones I could guess at, but the rest…” She shook her head.

“Great-Uncle Antoine never told you of his ancestry?”

“No. He never spoke of it.”

“I’m not surprised, really—he left the family on bad terms. As, in fact, did I.” Diogenes hesitated. “And it’s clear my brother never spoke much of the family to you, either.”

Constance took a sip from her glass in lieu of reply.

“I know a great deal about my family, Constance. I have taken pains to learn their secret histories.” He glanced at her again. “I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to be able to share this with you. I feel I can talk to you… like no other.”

She met his eyes only briefly before returning them to the portrait.

“You deserve to know it,” he continued. “Because after all, you’re a member of the family, too—in a way.”

Constance shook her head. “I’m only a ward,” she said.

“To me, you are more than that—much more.”

They had hesitated before the portrait of Augustus. Now, to break a silence that threatened to grow awkward, Diogenes said, “How do you like the cocktail?”

“Interesting. It has an initial bitterness that blossoms on the tongue into… well, something else entirely. I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

She looked at Diogenes for approval and he smiled. “Go on.”

She took another small sip. “I detect licorice and aniseed, eucalyptus, fennel perhaps—and notes of something else I can’t identify.” She lowered the glass. “What is it?”

Diogenes smiled, sipped from his own glass. “Absinthe. Hand-macerated and distilled, the finest available. I have it flown in from Paris for my personal consumption. Diluted slightly with sugar and water, as is the classic preparation. The flavor you can’t identify is thujone.”

Constance stared at the glass in surprise. “Absinthe? Made from wormwood? I thought it was illegal.”

“We should not be concerned with such trifles. It is powerful, mind-expanding: which is why great artists from Van Gogh to Monet to Hemingway made it their drink of choice.”

Constance took another, cautious sip.

“Look into it, Constance. Have you ever seen a drink of such a pure and unadulterated color? Hold it up to the light. It’s like gazing at the moon through a flawless emerald.”

For a moment, she remained motionless, as if searching for answers in the green depths of the liqueur. Then she took another, slightly less tentative sip.

“How does it make you feel?”

“Warm. Light.”

They continued slowly down the gallery.

“I find it remarkable,” she said after a moment, “that Antoine fitted up this interior into a perfect replica of the family mansion in New Orleans. Down to the last detail—including these paintings.”

“He had them re-created by a famous artist of the day. He worked with the artist for five years, reconstructing the faces from memory and a few faded engravings and drawings.”

“And the rest of the house?”

“Almost identical to the original, save for his choice of volumes in the library. The use he devoted all the sub-basement chambers to, however, was… unique, to say the least. The New Orleans mansion was effectively below sea level and so had its basements lined with sheets of lead: that wasn’t necessary here.” He sipped his drink. “After my brother took over this house, a great many changes were made. It is no longer the place Uncle Antoine called home. But then, you know that all too well.”

Constance did not reply.

They reached the end of the gallery, where a long, backless settee awaited, cushioned in plush velvet. Nearby lay an elegant English game bag by John Chapman in which Diogenes had brought the bottle of absinthe. Now he lowered himself gracefully onto the settee and motioned for Constance to do the same.

She sat down beside him, placing the glass of absinthe on a nearby salver. “And the music?” she asked, nodding as if to indicate the shimmering piano scales that freighted the air.

“Ah, yes. That is Alkan, the forgotten musical genius of the nineteenth century. You will never hear a more luxuriant, cerebral, technically challenging artist—never. When his pieces were first played—a rare event, by the way, since few pianists are up to the challenge—people thought them to be diabolically inspired. Even now Alkan’s music inspires strange behavior in listeners. Some think they smell smoke while listening; others find themselves trembling or growing faint. This piece is the Grande Sonate, ‘Les Quatre Âges.’ The Hamelin recording, of course: I’ve never heard more assured virtuosity or more commanding finger technique.” He paused, listening intently a moment. “This fugal passage, for instance: if you count the octave doublings, it has more parts than a pianist has fingers! I know you must appreciate it, Constance, as few do.”

“Antoine was never a great appreciator of music. I learned the violin entirely on my own.”

“So you can appreciate the intellectual and sensual heft of the music. Just listen to it! And thank God the greatest musical philosopher was a romantic, a decadent—not some smug Mozart with his puerile false cadences and predictable harmonies.”

Constance listened a moment in silence. “You seem to have worked rather hard to make this moment agreeable.”

Diogenes laughed lightly. “And why not? I can think of few pastimes more rewarding than to make you happy.”

“You seem to be the only one,” she said after a pause, in a very low voice.

The smile left Diogenes’s face. “Why do you say that?”

“Because of what I am.”

“You are a beautiful and brilliant young woman.”

“I’m a freak.”

Very quickly—yet with exceptional tenderness—Diogenes took her hands. “No, Constance,” he said softly and urgently. “Not at all. Not to me.”

She looked away. “You know my history.”

“Yes.”

“Then surely you, of all people, would understand. Knowing how I’ve lived—the
way
in which I’ve lived, here in this house, all these years… don’t you find it bizarre? Repugnant?” Suddenly she looked back at him, eyes blazing with strange fire. “I am an old woman, trapped in the body of a young woman. Who would ever want me?”

Diogenes drew closer. “You have acquired the gift of experience—without the awful cost of age. You are young and vibrant. It may feel a burden to you now, but it doesn’t have to be. You can be free of it anytime you choose. You can begin to live whenever you want.
Now
, if you choose.”

She looked away again.

“Constance, look at me. No one understands you—except me. You are a pearl beyond price. You have all the beauty and freshness of a woman of twenty-one, yet you have a mind refined by a lifetime… no,
lifetimes
… of intellectual hunger. But the intellect can take you only so far. You are like an unwatered seed. Lay your intellect aside and recognize your other hunger—your
sensual
hunger. The seed cries for water—and only then will it sprout, rise, and blossom.”

Constance, refusing to look back, shook her head violently.

“You have been cloistered here—shut up like a nun. You’ve read thousands of books, thought deep thoughts. But you haven’t
lived
. There is another world out there: a world of color and taste and touch. Constance, we will explore that world together. Can’t you feel the deep connection between us? Let me bring that world here, to you. Open yourself to me, Constance: I am the one who can save you. Because I’m the only person who truly understands you. Just as I am the one person who shares your pain.”

Now, abruptly, Constance tried to pull her hands away. They remained gently—but firmly—clasped in Diogenes’s own. But in the brief struggle, her sleeve drew back from her wrist, exposing several slashing scars: scars that had healed imperfectly.

Seeing this secret revealed, Constance froze: unable to move, even to breathe.

Diogenes also seemed to go very still. And then he gently released one hand and held out his own arm, sliding up the cuff from his wrist. There lay a similar scar: older but unmistakable.

Staring at it, Constance drew in a sharp breath.

“You see now,” he murmured, “how well we understand each other? It is true—we are alike, so
very
alike. I understand you. And you, Constance—you understand me.”

Slowly, gently, he released her other hand. It fell limply to her side. Now, raising his hands to her shoulders, he turned her to face him. She did not resist. He raised a hand to her cheek, stroking it very lightly with the backs of his fingers. The fingers drifted softly over her lips, then down to her chin, which he grasped gently with his fingertips. Slowly, he brought her face closer to his. He kissed her once, ever so lightly, and then again, somewhat more urgently.

With a gasp that might have been relief or despair, Constance leaned into his embrace and allowed herself to be folded into his arms.

Adroitly Diogenes shifted his position on the settee and eased her down onto the velvet cushions. One of his pale hands strayed to the lacy front of her dress, undoing a row of pearl buttons below her throat, the slender fingers gliding down, gradually exposing the swelling curve of her breasts to the dim light. As he did so, he murmured some lines in Italian:

Ei's’immerge ne la notte,

Ei's’aderge in vèr’ le stelle…

As his form moved over her, nimble as a ballet dancer, a second sigh escaped her lips and her eyes closed.

Diogenes’s eyes did not close. They remained open and fixed upon her, wet with lust and triumph—

Two eyes: one hazel, one blue.

G
erry sheathed his radio and cast a disbelieving look in Benjy’s direction. “You won’t frigging believe this.”

“What now?”

“They’re still bringing that special prisoner into yard 4 for the two o’clock exercise shift.”

Benjy stared. “Bringing him back? You’re shittin’ me.”

Gerry shook his head.

“It’s murder. And they’re doing it on our watch.”

“Tell me about it.”

“On whose orders?”

“Straight from the horse’s ass: Imhof.”

A silence gathered in the long empty hall of Herkmoor’s building C.

“Well, two o’clock is in fifteen minutes,” Benjy said at last. “We’d better get our butts in gear.”

He led the way as they exited the cellblock into the weak sunlight of yard 4. A smell of springlike decay and dampness drifted on the air. The sodden grass of the outer yards was still matted and brown, and a few bare branches could be seen rising beyond the perimeter walls. They took up positions, not on the catwalk above this time, but in the actual yard.

“I’m not going to see my corrections career get flushed down the toilet,” said Gerry darkly. “I swear, if any of Pocho’s gang makes a move toward the guy, I’ll use the Taser. I wish to hell they gave us guns.”

They took up positions on either side of the yard, waiting for the prisoners in isolation to be escorted out for their lone hour of exercise. Gerry checked his Taser, his pepper spray, adjusted his side-handle baton. He wouldn’t wait to see what happened, like he’d done last time.